You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and five time champion of the North High Quiz Bowl. Your manly scent is the number-one cause of cock addiction amongst nukige heroines.
 
As usual, you get dragged from angelic dreams of Fatalpulse doujins yet-to-be by your bitch of an older sister. She wakes you up with a hard rap of her knuckles against your forehead.
 
"It's almost 8:00," Cerise says. "You're gonna be late."
 
There's no worse way to start the morning than seeing her slutty dog choker and unkempt bedhead. You can practically taste last night's beer fumes puttering like exhaust from her every pore. Trying not to gag, you sit up and rub your forehead where she hit you. "Why don't you worry about your own business? At least I've got things to be late to. Shouldn't you be job searching right now?"
 
Cerise folds her arms. "It's a bad economy! There aren't any jobs out there!"
 
You sigh, throw your covers off, and stand. After a few seconds of groping around the clothes-strewn floor, you grab a pair of crumpled and stale-smelling jeans from the pile. You pull them on over your boxers. "I cannot wait until mom and dad kick you out," you say.
 
"They'll kick you out before they kick me out. They actually love me." In the silence that follows as you finish getting dressed, Cerise glances around your sty of a bedroom. "It stinks like cum in here."
 
"Are you sure it's not just you? I know you've been itching to graduate from your cam show to literal prostitution."
 
"It's that," Cerise says, pointing at the trash bin next to your computer desk overflowing with tissues. "Did you spend your *entire* summer jerking off?"
 
"At least I wasn't doing it in front of strangers for money."
 
"As if anyone would want to see you tugging on your pencil dick. Your only hope in life is if the supreme court legalizes cartoon marriage."
 
"They are NOT cartoo--" you stop yourself, shake your head, and massage your eyes. You don't have time to get roped into this debate again. Being late on your first day of class might make bitch-pigs swoon in the anime realm -- but it's not going to win you any points with Mr. Langley, your homeroom teacher and Quiz Bowl coach. You need to skedaddle.
 
You grab your backpack and push past Cerise. "Don't molest anyone today, you little creep!" she calls after you as you run downstairs.
 
In the kitchen, you grab a piece of toast but don't have any time to butter it. Shoving it haphazardly into your open maw, you head for the foyer. But standing in your way at the front door is your mom.
 
"Where do you think you're going?" she asks, staring down the bridge of her nose.
 
"School. Obviously."
 
"I can see that, you brat. But you need to take some lunch." She holds out a brown paper bag stuffed so full of food it's about to burst. You grab it from her unceremoniously.
 
She huffs. "Aren't you even going to thank me?"
 
You swallow a bite of toast and grumble. "Yeah. Thanks."
 
"Don't get the wrong idea, now. I don't care if you have anything to eat, but I can't let the school administration find out I'm not feeding you and decide I'm some kind of negligent parent."
 
"Oh, no. Of course not. You'll make mother of the year at this rate."
 
Just like with Cerise, you push past your mom, thinking about how the rotten apple never falls far from the tree.
 
"And don't buy anything out of those godawful vending machines they have on campus," she says as you go. "Not that I care if you eat healthy, I just don't want you spending any of my hard-earned money!"
 
Out in the drive, your childhood friend Whitney is waiting. Well-- it might be more apt to call her a "childhood hanger-on." Why she insists on following you around like a lost puppy remains beyond your comprehension. There's no way she could be attracted to you, because you're 99% certain she's a rug muncher.
 
"Ally!" She calls. She's decked out in her usual late-summer attire of spats and a tank. She doesn't even wear a bra, the harlot. Her darkly tanned skin glistens with morning sweat. "I was about to give up on you ever coming out of your spank-cave."
 
"I wish you would have," you grouse as you walk by. She spins on her heels to follow your brisk pace. "So what remedial courses are you taking this year?" you ask her over your shoulder, by way of making small talk.
 
"Algebra, chemistry, English... oh, and they let me into auto shop."
 
"That's nice. Learning a trade is important for people who can't go to college."
 
"I was worried they wouldn't, because of that thing last year..."
 
She means the time an assistant principal caught her toking up behind the bleachers of the gym. Imitating the school's shop-teacher-slash-baseball-coach, she continues in a faux baritone: "being a student in auto shop is a position of trust! Not just anyone can do it!"
 
"That's awful. If you keep getting away with your rampant drug use, you'll never learn."
 
"Oh stop being such a dweeb you dweeb. It was the first time I ever did the stuff."
 
"Pretty soon you'll be fellating homeless men for heroin."
 
"You are so gross! I don't do drugs. You can't play soccer with smoker's lung."
 
"You can't play soccer with a 1.3 grade point average, either."
 
"Actually-- that's sorta what I wanted to ask you about..."
 
You stop and look at her.
 
"Algebra this semester is gonna be super duper hard. Like, who even needs that crap? It's gay as shit. But if I can't solve for X or whatever, they're gonna kick me off the team. Can you tutor me this year?"
 
[ ] Ok.
[X] Ok... if you pay me.
[ ] No way.
 
"Why would I waste precious mental energy on you? You're a lost cause. Focus on learning how to turn wrenches. You should be able to grasp that."
 
"You're such a jerk!"
 
Before you can make a comeback, she kicks you in the shins. You stumble backward with a howl and gawk at her. When she charges forward with hate in her eyes, you kick back out of pure instinct. The two of you end up in a spastic back-and-forth jig of below the belt kicks. Of course, Whitney is far more coordinated. Eventually she lands a hard blow to your upper thigh, flooring you. You singe your palms on the sun-baked concrete sidewalk.
 
She looms over you to deliver even more kicks. You clamber to your knees and hold out a hand to stop her. "You're an animal," you cry, standing again on uncertain legs. "I could press charges if I wanted to. You belong in a reformatory."
 
"You belong on the moon!" she screams. When Whitney gets really angry, her insults become complete nonsense. You decide to let it pass.
 
"If it means that much to you, then you'll have to pay me for my services. My time isn't just yours to fritter away."
 
"Fritter? What the hell does that even mean?" She gives you another sharp kick to the shin that nearly bowls you over again. You give her a hard shove in retaliation.
 
"If you want my tutelage, I charge $15 an hour. And that's far below the fair market price. A courtesy because we're technically friends."
 
"You're such a shit. I don't even know why I hang out with you."
 
"Me either."
 
"I'll pay you. But I better get an A, or I'm taking all my money back." She grabs you by the collar. "And I mean it."
 
You wrench yourself free and straighten your shirt. "I'm sure you do. The lower classes always get het up about their pocket change, don't they?"
 
You continue the trek to school, your walk now a pained limp. Sullenly, Whitney follows a few paces behind. You try not to pay attention to her.
 
As you round a corner just a few blocks from school, you bump head first into a girl who looks like she came straight from the early 1900s. She wears a prim black dress with a skirt that's positively matronly, and enormous round eyeglasses. She looks so pale she might be anemic, and carries a parasol.
 
"Watch where you're walking," you snap at her.
 
She regards you for a few seconds, casting a glance at Whitney as well. "Are you Alabaster Soliloquy?"
 
"What? How do you know me?"
 
The girl smiles. "That's not what I thought at all. How disappointing. Oh well." She steps off the curb, turning her back to you, and begins down the crosswalk.
 
You look back at Whtiney. She shrugs.
 
[ ] Follow the girl.
[X] Forget it.
 
"Guess I have a stalker," you say to Whitney.
 
"Fah," she says, stretching her back. "If you catch her rummaging through your trash or anything else shady, just let me know. I'll take care of her." She winks. "But-- it'll cost you a week of tutoring fees."
 
Like most of your arguments, Whitney's anger over this latest one hasn't lasted long. She makes inane small talk at you the rest of the way to school. You try to be as civil as possible, but you couldn't care less about her problems.
 
The campus is already packed with students when you get there. Teenagers laughing, smiling, making out like depraved monkeys in public. You suppress a shudder. You suppress an even harder shudder when your friend Naruto Stackleford sidles up to you.
 
Whatever his first name is, you've long forgotten it, because there's only one that he'll respond to. As usual, he wears his construction-zone-orange pussy deflector.
 
"Sup nigger?" he lisps. "How was summer?"
 
That you ever tolerated this lumbering golem's presence is a travesty. You met in sixth grade, when your tastes were much the same; but he never graduated from Adult Swim and wouldn't be able to tell a Nichijou from a Meguca. You, on the other hand, have only become more refined -- like a good Bordeaux.
 
"Summer was fine..." you say, trying to beat a straight vector to your homeroom, and as quickly as possible. You give a short wave to Whitney and hurry off, but Stackleford follows like a bad odor.
 
"You gonna join anime club this year, man?"
 
"I already told you, those morons are beneath me. Besides, I'm preoccupied with Quiz Bowl. When was the last time you brushed your teeth?"
 
"We've got a new president this year! It'll be great!"
 
"I'm sure. Look, you're blocking my way. I'm sure you get that one a lot, but try to understand. Please let me through."
 
"Well, think about it at least."
 
"Uh huh."
 
You hurry into homeroom.
 
Inside homeroom, your heart stops. Sitting near the window, right behind your seat of choice, is none other than that girl from before. But that's not possible -- this an advanced senior course, and she looked like a middle schooler. There's no way she's a senior. She looks at you with that wry smile of hers.
 
"Come on, come on," Mr. Langely says over the din of students, calling the class to order. "I know you're all still in summer mode, but let's try to get back into the swing of things."
 
He writes his name on the board and introduces himself, and his credentials. He also gives a quick plug for the Quiz Bowl, announcing that tryouts will be in room 201 directly after school. "Alabaster is our star player," he says, indicating you. "He's been carrying us for three years. And-- we have other potential members in the room as well."
 
He looks in the parasol girl's direction. Your heart stops for a second time. This can't be happening.
 
"Now, why don't we do some introductions. We'll go around the room. Stand up, tell us who you are and what your interests are. Let's get to know each other."
 
[ ] Give your introduction; intimidate the girl.
[X] Blow it off.
 
As the whores and mansluts that make up your fellow classmates deliver their boring monologues about "really liking music" and "being into skateboarding," you steal some glances at this mysterious newcomer. She looks so plain in her giant spectacles, so how does she project such an icy and imposing demeanor?
 
If she wants on the team, it can't be helped. But you won't let her get to you. And class introductions are lame anyway. You decide to play it cool. When your turn comes, you decline to speak.
 
"Don't be shy," Mr. Langley says. "Tell us at least a little something about yourself."
 
You sigh. Without standing, you mumble: "well like you said, I'm on Quiz Bowl. I guess that makes me the smartest guy here or something. No big deal."
 
The rest of the class stifles some laughter. The introductions continue, moving to the next person beside you in your row. It isn't for a few moments that the introductions snake back around to the parasol girl, who's the last to speak.
 
The girl stands, holding her hands demurely in front of her. "My name is Vivian Darkbloom. I am 13." She waits for the confused whispers that this revelation incites to subside. "Certain people whom I will not name labor under the belief that they are the smartest ones here. They are sadly mistaken. I am the smartest. I will graduate from North High at the end of this year and matriculate at UC Berkley, where I will double major in theoretical physics and European literature. My interests include quantum chromodynamics, cryptography, and the works of Marcel Proust."
 
The room has fallen deathly silent now. She continues. "I would say that I look forward to the coming school year, but that would be a lie. Every second I spend amongst the assorted dross of the public school system is like a screaming eternity in the stygian void of imbecility's embrace. You hardly deserve my presence. Thank you."
 
She sits.
 
[ ] Respond to this.
[X] No. Stand your ground. Don't let her get to you.
 
This Vivian girl has more or less called you out in front of the entire class. Worse yet, everyone knows it. They cast expectant stares your way. But what can you do? Leap to your feet and shout down a 13 year old girl? That would just make you look worse.
 
Like it or not, she won this round. So you decide not to let it bother you. But you'll have your revenge.
 
"Well then," Mr. Langley says. He laughs nervously. "That sure was... something. It's nice to have you, Vivian. And everyone else. Now, the syllabus..."
 
The first half of the day passes tortuously. Every class you have, Vivian has as well. And she always makes a point of sitting near you. Not just near you -- behind you. What's her game? By fourth period calculus, you know well enough to sit in the very back. But she merely pulls a chair out of the neatly-arranged grid and sets it behind the back row.
 
You hate her already. Her eyes boring into the back of your skull start to make you sweat, even in the A/C. When the bell for lunch rings, you bolt from the room and down the quickly-filling hall. Even as you jog you sense Vivian slowly following behind you -- is this just paranoia? -- and in a fit of panic you take a strange route that leads you out a pair of double-doors to a parking lot near the track. On the distance, you see that Whitney is using her lunch period to run laps. As expected.
 
[X] Go say hi.
[ ] Go eat your lunch.
 
Usually you wouldn't bother, but somehow you feel like you need a second pair of friendly eyes looking out for you. And let's face it, you're not in the best of shape: you honestly doubt your prospects even against a 13 year old. But with Whitney on your side? No sweat.
 
You trudge down the hill leading to the oval track. As Whitney passes by, she notices you and waves, but doesn't break her pace.
 
"Hey!" you call. "Wanna go eat?"
 
"No way," Whitney replies, her voice sounding distant from across the flattop. "I still have to pass tryouts, you know!"
 
You -- very, very briefly -- consider joining her on the track. And then you laugh. Yeah, no. Running can go screw itself.
 
Instead, you sit down in the grass and watch her. Even though she's complete dykebait, you can't help but admire her well toned legs and bouncing breasts -- tiny though they are. The way her sweat makes her practically shine like a strobe light in this sun is a little off-putting though. And you know she can't be smelling like roses or fresh laundry now. Maybe it's for the best that you're carrying on your conversation at a distance.
 
"How's classes?" she asks in her typically ungrammatical way.
 
"Awful," you say in between wolfish bites of your mom's homemade shortcake. You don't know what it is about her desserts that makes them so addictive -- all she'll ever tell you is that the secret ingredient is her love. Although, of course, she insists that she didn't make them for you; there was just extra left over.
 
You put that out of mind. "I think I really do have a stalker," you say.
 
Whitney throws her head back and laughs, baring perfect white teeth. She doesn't slow down even a little bit -- how she keeps it up is baffling. "That goth chick?" she asks.
 
"I don't know what she is. Some kind of loli genius."
 
"Don't call her a loli," Whitney chides.
 
You blush. One nice thing about Whitney is that she keeps a lid on your power level for you when you forget. And stress like this can really make you forget.
 
"She's young, though. 13. I think she wants to join Quiz Bowl."
 
Whitney skids to a stop right in front of you. She closes the distance and you can almost feel the warmth of her body heat emanating from her as she -- only now -- starts to heave.
 
"Are you scared of the competition?" She asks.
 
[ ] Yeah.
[X] No!
 
In a repeat of this morning's fight, you kick at Whtiney's feet from where you sit. But instead of retaliating, she simply avoids it with a spritely step.
 
"Why would I be scared of a little girl?" you say. "I know you have a hard time with basic reasoning skills, but don't be ridiculous, now."
 
Whitney shrugs. "I think you're sca-aa-rred~" she chants in a sing-song voice, waving her index finger in a circle at you. "Is that why you came all this way? You never visit me at lunch. Do you need some muscle to keep you safe, Ally?"
 
"I don't need anything from you," comes your limp reply. You feel your cheeks flushing.
 
Whitney's mouth rounds into a smug laugh. "Oh no, he's mad!"
 
"Look, she's following me around everywhere I go. I'm not worried she can beat me in Quiz Bowl, but it's only natural to be weirded out."
 
"Oh, of course. That's to expected, right? Stalkers can be dangerous. One second you're walking down the street and then all of a sudden you're getting stabbed by an umbrella that turns into a sword. If you need my protection, just say so."
 
You grimace.
 
"Of course-- I do charge $15 an hour for bodyguard services..."
 
[X] I get it. Fine.
[ ] Not on your life.
 
You pull a few blades of grass from the earth and scatter them to the wind, avoiding eye contact. Whitney watches you like a hawk. This is the second time today you've been outclassed by a woman... what's happening to you?
 
"I'd just-- I'd feel safer on a buddy system right now," you admit. "That's all."
 
"Of course, pardner!" She snaps to and gives a mock salute. "You can count on me. I'm gonna go full-on bruiser mode if I see that bitch again. I'll break some bones!"
 
"Don't do that--" you caution. "I don't you want to make a scene. I mean, she goes to this school, so of course we'll be seeing her all the time. Just stick close by and make sure she doesn't do anything crazy."
 
Whitney puts a finger to her chin contemplatively. "You said she's joining the Quiz Bowl... they still meet Mondays and Fridays?"
 
"Yeah."
 
"I have practice on both days. Does that mean you expect me drop out of soccer and join the Quiz Bowl team? Or-- ooh! Maybe you can join the soccer team! Or at least come to my practices for a while..."
 
Whitney on the Quiz Bowl team would be like watching the Titanic sink every Monday and Friday. But you on the soccer team would be worse.
 
[ ] I'll deal with Vivian at Quiz Bowl practice, nothing has to change.
[ ] I'm already tutoring you, I can help you on Quiz Bowl.
[X] I guess I could stand to get /fit/.

Quiz Bowl has been your pride and joy for three years. You're not going to give it up just because some loli bitch joined the team. Mr. Langley has a quiz-boner for you and your place on the team is secure. You don't need to go to practice. Missing them will hurt, but you can still perform at competitions.

"Is soccer very hard?" you ask tentatively.

Whitney practically swoons she's so excited. "It's hard! It's the hardest thing ever! It'll make you sore and tired and cranky! You'll totally love it!"

You're not exactly sold. Whitney runs over and grabs your hands and jumps up and down. Her palms are slick with sweat. You try not to dry heave.

"I don't think I'll join the team," you caution. "Just watch the practices a bit and maybe try to get a little fitter. That's all."

Whether Whitney hears this in her rapture is hard to say. In any case, she doesn't respond through her peals of laughter. The bell rings for class and you excuse yourself.
 
Fifth period biology is a return to the new normal. Without thinking, you take a seat in the second to last row. Like clockwork, Vivian sits at the black-top bench just behind you.
 
Five minutes pass, then ten. The class is growing antsy and people start throwing out the old misnomer that class is dismissed if the teacher is more than fifteen minutes late. But at the last second in saunters Ms. Carte.
 
All of the boys and a few of the girls find themselves staring at her buxom form. You included. Vivian, too.
 
Most people don't know about the rumors -- but via Whitney you've heard... things, about this woman. You can believe it. Who stays single at 30 without a reason?
 
"Good afternoon, boys and girls," she says, her voice like silk. "If you're not here for AP Biology, then you're in the wrong place. Please go."
 
She waits, but no one leaves. If there was a person in the wrong room and they decided not to go after seeing her, you wouldn't blame them.
 
"All right," she says. "Obviously, we focus on biology. I hope after coming through this class you all know much, much more about the subject." She smiles a pointy smile. "I expect you all to score well on the AP exam. Please see me for out of class help if you're struggling...
 
"Now before we get started, I need to assign a couple roles. First, I need someone tall who can help me in the storage room on experiment days... a boy, preferably."
 
[ ] Me! Me!
[X] Let some other lug do it.
 
The things you've heard about Ms. Carte make you think twice. She'll be the top story on CNN someday, you figure. Best to stay away from that trainwreck waiting to happen.
 
Besides, the competition for being her "helper" is fierce. Most of the boys volunteer, including a lot who you've never seen be proactive about anything. Ms. Carte licks her lips like a fat kid promoted to the head of the cake police. Surveying her smorgasboard, she chews on the end of her pen and finally chooses one of the school's football players.
 
"You'll do," she says. "I can't wait to work with you."
 
Class proceeds normally; Ms. Carte assigns other roles. You end up being her "computer technician," which basically means you'll help her if her powerpoint presentations get messed up during class for some reason. Easy peasy.
 
The rest of the day proceeds without incident. Predicatbly, Vivian follows you to English as well. The only time you get away from her is in final period PE class, which is of course gender-segregated.
 
The sky is a grey-black blob by the time PE comes into session and a storm is obviously brewing. The coach holds class in the auditorium, and you wonder what's going to happen with soccer practice. At the end of class, you dutifully head to the soccer field, but no one's there. You start to feel antsy and exposed -- also wet. It's raining.
 
"Oh... hey..." you hear behind you. It's Whitney. She's soaked to the bone, her hair stuck to her face, and shivering. "Let's go inside, huh? Soccer practice got canceled..."
 
You trudge into the emptying school halls and do your best not to stare at the way Whitney's tank clings to her otherwise naked breasts. Why doesn't this slut wear a bra?
 
In the hallway you see Mr. Langley. You try to duck behind a corner to dodge him, but he sees you before you can. "Alabaster!" He calls. "Where have you been? We're doing tryouts..."
 
"Sorry," you shrug. "I'm-- tutoring Whitney. I don't think I'll be coming to Quiz Bowl tryouts this semester... at least for the immediate future."
 
Mr. Langley's face is heartbreaking. "You're leaving the team?"
 
"No, no... just the practices."
 
"Don't tell me Vivian intimidates you."
 
"No! God..."
 
Whitney chortles to herself.
 
"Well, she's trying out now. Why don't you come in and match wits against her? She was saying how she wanted to a bit earlier."
 
[ ] Time to shine. But once I beat her, I'm gone.
[X] No thanks. I think I have, like, an anime club meeting to go to? ...
 
You wince at the lameness of your excuse, but there's nothing else you can think of. Mr. Langley frowns. "I expected so much more of you, Alabaster." He puts a hand on your shoulder like a priest blessing a condemned prisoner. "At this rate, Vivian will be the new star player..."
 
He turns and leaves. You want to lie down and die.
 
"Aww," Whitney pouts. "You should have shown that little twerp who was boss. You know everything! She'd never stand a chance."
 
"Of course. But I don't want to deal with such annoying people."
 
The truth is, you're really not sure if you could beat her.
 
"Should we go home?" Whitney asks.
 
"In this weather? What, are you stupid?"
 
Whitney scowls. "You're such a fucking jerk. ... Well, I do already have homework in algebra. So we could find a room and you could help me with-- oh geez!" She pulls her backpack around to her front. It's dripping with rainwater.
 
"We have lockers for a reason," you say.
 
"Everything's ruined..." she says, on the verge of tears. "My homework, too..."
 
"Doesn't your teacher post his assignments on a course website? We can just print it out again from the library...
 
[X] ...Of course, maybe we should get changed first.
[ ] ...Even if we're sopping wet, there's no one in the library this time of day to care.
 
You shrug and ask, "You have a spare set of clothes in the locker room, right?"
 
"Of course... I can't walk around in my pitstained gym clothes all day. But what about you?"
 
You... actually hadn't thought of this. You don't have anything but what you're wearing now.
 
"That's fine," Whtiney says before you even need to reply. "We have some spare soccer uniforms in the girl's locker room you could borrow."
 
"I know you're only a few IQ points away from being on the shortbus, but in case you forgot, I'm a guy."
 
"It's no big deal. Those soccer uniforms are basically unisex. Just some spats and a tee. You'd fit just fine in one of the bigger ones..."
 
[ ] Forget it. Girl's clothes are girl's clothes. You can change, but I'll stay wet.
[X] Fine.
 
You're wet and you're cold, now isn't the time to enforce the patriarchal gender binary.
 
You follow Whitney to the locker rooms. Even though there's no one around, there's still a certain taboo to entering that holds you back.
 
"Don't be a pussy," Whitney scolds. "What would your anime heroes do, huh? The only difference between locker rooms is one has blue tile and the other has pink."
 
It's hard to argue. Whitney steps past the threshold and you follow.
 
What she said seems true enough. It's a normal locker room: rows of lockers, with showers at one end, and an office for the girls' soccer coach.
 
"The spares should be in that bin," Whitney says. She's already stepping out of her dripping spats as she heads toward her locker. You divert your gaze until you're sure she's disappeared around a corner.
 
You dig through the hamper full of uniforms, red and black in the school's colors. They don't look exactly feminine, but even the largest ones you can find are a bit small. Especially the spats. Could you fit into these?
 
You glance around. There's another issue. Where can you change that's relatively private? You try not to let your thoughts linger on the fact that Whitney is probably naked at this very moment just a few feet away.
 
As if on cue, you see Whtiney's panties go parasailing over the arched roof of the lockers and land next to your feet with a wet flop.
 
"Ugh," Whitney groans, perhaps to herself. You think you hear the sound of her fanning herself with paper. "What a relief... those spats cut off circulation, you know."
 
 "Do you have to throw your underwear around like some kind of stripper?" you grouse, pulling off your shirt. You poke the sodden white cotton with one toe of your shoe as if you really can't believe she'd do that. If her aim was a little worse they could have landed on your head.
 
You kick your shoes and pants off. Should the boxers go too? Nah. You decide to make the heroic effort of pulling on the spats even with the extra fabric making it harder.
 
First one leg... then the other... you tug... no progress. You hop up and down and pull at the waistband, but the constriction is unbelievable.
 
"Are you decent yet?" Whitney calls out.
 
"No..." you say. "Jesus, give me a second."
 
You tug and hop some more, and end up falling back against the wall, banging your head on the brick with a wham. You feel woozy.
 
Despite your warning, Whitney appears in front of you from her row of lockers. She looks worried at first, but then sees your predicament and snorts. "Are they really that tight?" she says.
 
"What are you doing, you mongoloid? Go away!"
 
She takes a step forward.
 
"You're a complete dweeb. One hundred percent dorkapus. You can't even put on a pair of pants... here..."
 
She puts a hand on your back and eases you away from the wall. You'd kick at her-- but-- well.
 
"You have to relax your muscles, you know?" She circles behind you, her chin against your shoulder. Her wet hair is directly against your ear, and it tickles. Drops of water run down your chest.
 
"Take your hands away," she coos. "Come on, I'll help. Here--" she puts one hand on either hip and gently tugs up. "You have to be slow. It doesn't work if you do it all at once."
 
"Whitney-- this isn't--"
 
The fabric of the spats makes its transit slowly up your thighs. Her cold wet palms feel slippery against the warmth of your legs. Her breath against your cheeks is slow and steady.
 
"Wha-aa-t's this~" she hums when she hits some resistance. "I wonder..."
 
You choke on whatever it is you think you're about to say and go tumbling forward, but Whitney doesn't let you out of her grip. You fall on your face, knees down and ass up. Whitney is lying atop you in a spooning position.
 
"All your muscles have to be relaxed, Ally~"
 
You'd groan or cry out in protest, but your face is buried directly in the sopping panties she threw at your feet. Every time you try to speak, your nostrils fill with a tangy scent that makes you feel even woozier. With Whitney pressing down on you -- is she doing this on purpose? -- the cotton hugs your mouth and nose.
 
Her hands are rubbing you, slowly, through your boxers. You can't help but wag your hips in response, and Whitney laughs. You feel her arm muscles around your waist, her legs wrapped around yours, her belly against your back. Her whole musculature tenses with every giggle of hers. "Relax, relax..." she says. "We'll never get them on if you're not relaxed... isn't this nice?..."
 
Her palms tense and release with every laugh, too. They're still cold, but warming rapidly around you. You grit your teeth as if to fight these feelings, but all that does is catch some of that wet cotton between your teeth wringing out an acrid spurt of liquid on your tongue.
 
"Come on, come--" her voice is a little crazed now, a little ragged. "Relax, let it all out-- it'll feel okay once it's over, right? You like it-- oh-- look at that, are you smelling those things? You're such a fucking pervert, huh?"
 
Suddenly you find the strength to throw your head back. But too late. She's on you like a rider on a horse, and won't let up. She leans down, neck over yours, and bites your shoulder hard. And then -- sweet release. You collapse on your belly, and Whitney is still lying on top of you as your vision blurs and you try to catch your breath.
 
Lying on the pink tile floor of a girl's locker room with a pair of spats half pulled-up around you, leaking fluids into your boxers, you can't help but feel violated. This battles with the feelings of relief in your mind and makes you more than a bit confused. You've never had another person's hands on you before. Not like that.
 
You're even more confused when, finally dismounting, Whitney kneels beside you and whispers, "I came, too."
 
She reaches under your chin and pulls her panties away. You don't even fight it when she pulls your spats off and your boxers too.
 
"These are all ruined, I guess," she says. "I'll just throw them in my locker for now. Hey, are you listening?"
 
"Uh huh."
 
You stumble to your feet and brace yourself against the wall. When you're sure you won't faint, you pull on your old, wet jeans. From somewhere behind, you think you hear the sound of Whitney deeply inhaling before she slams the locker door shut.
 
"Guess we're kind of bust for today as far as studying goes, huh?" she calls out. "How about tomorrow?"
 
END OF EPISODE 1.
 
GIRLS FUCKED
0/6
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, anime hymen demolition expert and survivor of molestation. You are one of North America's foremost aficionados of mindbreak, but after getting fondled by your tomboyish childhood friend in a girl's locker room -- while wearing girl's clothes, no less -- you can't help feeling like you were the one who got mindbroken.
 
It wasn't until past 1 AM that evening when you dozed off. Even then, it had taken a couple hours on the panda to blow off the day's lingering stress. Between that insane loli who seems to be stalking you at every turn and your childhood friend Whitney's bold actions that afternoon, your mind needed those comforting images of male domination to remind itself that the universe really does have order.
 
You wake with a start in the dim glow of your PC's monitor, the rest of the bedroom swathed in pitch blackness. You were passed out, pants and boxers down, head leaned back in your desk chair, your jaw wide open. As you regain your senses and wipe the drool from the corners of your mouth, you become suddenly aware of two things: first, an odd buzzing, and second, a shadow in your periphery.
 
"Hey, asshole. Phone."
 
It's Cerise, your older sister. She bops you over the head with your own cell.
 
"It's been ringing nonstop for the past two hours. For a while I thought you stole one of my vibrators, but I realized there's no way you could have that kind of stamina. I'm losing sleep with all this noise."
 
You swivel around in your chair and grab the phone from her. "Now you know how I feel," you sneer. "I have to wear earmuffs on sybian Saturdays."
 
You become dimly conscious of the fact that you're facing your own sister with your pants around your ankles and your legs akimbo, but let's be real: this is far from the most compromising position one has found the other in. And you're too dazed from the lingering exhaustion of interrupted REM cycles to make yourself decent. "Besides, what do you need sleep for? You sleep all day anyway."
 
Cerise puts a hand on her hip and shifts her weight to one foot. "Pff. No wonder the sound didn't wake you up. You're absolutely vile, do you know that?" She leans in to glimpse your monitor and the last page you finished on before passing out. She grimaces. "Jesus. What happened to missionary?"
 
"Get out already. Don't you have some cirrhosis to be contracting?"
 
"You need therapy, you fucking weirdo. And start answering your phone when it rings."
 
She slams the door on her way out. You grumble curses at her as you accept the incoming call and draw the receiver to your ear.
 
"Alabaster Soliloquy."
 
Your eyes widen. That cool, self-assured voice is unmistakble. It's Vivian Darkbloom -- child prodigy, stalker -- rival.
 
"What do you want?" you hiss, leaping from your chair and spastically tugging your pants up with your free hand. Somehow, even over the phone, talking to Vivian half-naked makes you feel dangerously exposed. Plus -- there's always the possibility that the call could be coming from inside the house. You stoop down and glance around frantically like a jewel thief dodging security.
 
"You didn't come to Quiz Bowl on Monday."
 
"So what? Why are you calling me at--" you squint your eyes to check the time on your PC's taskbar. "--at 3:37 AM? How did you get this number?"
 
"I was working late with my PhD adviser."
 
"What do you need a PhD adviser for? You're in high school for fuck's sake."
 
"Unlike you, I prefer to be proactive about things."
 
You Solid-Snake your way to your window and peek between the venetian blinds. Sweeping your view right to left across the streetlight-illuminated cul-de-sac, you can't see any movement or other signs of human presence.
 
"I want my face-off, Alabaster Soliloquy. Today. After school."
 
You spin around and kneel on your haunches so your head is underneath the windowpane, as if you're hiding from an active shooter. "You're crazy. If you're so confident that you're the smartest, why do you need to test yourself against me?"
 
"It's not enough that I should succeed. Others should fail."
 
You remember hearing that saying before, but you don't know where. Right now all you can think of is that Vivian Darkbloom is completely out of her tree. No -- she's out of her goddamn forest.
 
[ ] I'll be there. But after it's over, you need to leave me alone.
[X] Forget it. You're insane.
 
"You belong in an asylum. Stay the hell away from me, you psycho."
 
"I thought you were a man, Alabaster. And yet you're too afraid to confront a little girl. Pathetic. You're not a man at all. You're a worm."
 
"Where did you get this number?"
 
"You of all people should know the breadth of things you can find on the internet."
 
...What's that supposed to mean? You shiver. "I'm hanging up now."
 
"I saw you with Whitney yesterday."
 
Your thumb freezes on the disconnect button. She can't mean... but no, she was in Quiz Bowl during the locker room incident. Wasn't she?
 
"If you think that lesbian can protect you, you are wrong. This is not the end of our relationship. I am going to hunt you down, Alabaster. I am going to break you like a wild horse. I am going to burn you to embers. I am going to bend you over and make you my bitch."
 
*click*
 
You look down at the LCD screen and listen to slow thrum of the dialtone. Getting an idea, you scroll through the call log and store Vivian's number in your contacts. It's not much, but having that gives you the feeling of having at least a small edge. Now you both have each other's numbers.
 
There is someone who could help you with this... but ugh. You feel your dinner rise in your esophagus just thinking about it. But Naruto Stackleford, your bandana-wearing hamplanet of a friend, didn't spend 6 months in juvenile detention for aggravated stalking without knowing a few tricks of the trade. He could trace this number.
 
[X] Call him.
[ ] Nope.  
 
Desperate times, etc. You grit your teeth and dial him up. The phone rings five times and you're just about to throw in the towel when his stupid lispy voice picks up.
 
"Hey nigger. You're interrupting InuYasha. This better be good."
 
You can actually hear his fucking headband over the phone. "How many times do you have to watch that asinine show? It's the same show every time, you congenital idiot."
 
"Okay yeah, whatever. Bye."
 
"Wait! Wait--"
 
"I watch Inuyasha because Kagome is my waifu, bro."
 
You cringe.
 
"...Get it? See, 'waifu' is a joke on the four chan. You ever go there? It's a pretty dangerous place--"
 
"Stackleford. Listen to me. I have a stalker."
 
"Oh yeah? Lucky. I wish I had a stalker."
 
"No you fucking don't. This chick is off her rocker. 100% angus-certified crazymeat. She called me just now and I need you to trace her number."
 
You hear his labored breathing take a dithering tone. "Ah-- I mean, I don't know anything about stuff like that..."
 
"Come off. You know how to stalk someone. You went to juvie for a reason."
 
"..."
 
"I need to know as much about her as you can find out, and soon."
 
"Well-- I'd be violating my parole, you know? What's in it for me?"
 
"I have money."
 
"So do I. I just bought a sweet katana at the flea market. They fold the steel--"
 
"Goddamn it, Stackleford."
 
"How's this. Join anime club. Then I'll help."
 
[X] Fine. Whatever.
[ ] Fuck off.
 
"I'm not joining your stupid weeaboo club. Christ. I'm already in Quiz Bowl and now I'm involved with soccer, too."
 
"Soccer? Soccer's for fags, man."
 
"I'll pay you. $500. And not a dime more."
 
"No deal. Anime club or bust."
 
You sigh deeply as he continues to goad you. And then you say words you know you'll come to regret. "You meet tomorrow, right?"
 
"We meet every day of the school week now. It's great!"
 
"What are you guys watching?"
 
"Hmm? Oh, I dunno, something weird. I never heard of it, the title's something long and Japanese. Our new President doesn't even let us watch it in English. Maybe with you around we can outvote her. That's the main reason I wanted you there, to get something good on again."
 
You furrow your brow. That doesn't sound like the North High Anime Club you know at all. "One meeting," you say. "ONE. That's all I promise."
 
"Tomorrow?"
 
"You mean today?"
 
"No, I mean tomorrow."
 
"It's 3:40 AM."
 
"Well, not tomorrow tomorrow. I mean like... tomorrow."
 
"Goddamn it, Stackleford. Fine, whatever. I'll be there. Now write this number down."
 
You give him Vivian's number and hang up.
 
You try to sleep, but can't make yourself feel tired. Instead you find yourself sitting bleary-eyed at your computer listening to your favorite podcast: Sofia Sant-Elizabeth's Illuminati Report.
 
IR: Your eye on world domination, mind control, and government conspiracy.
 
"--And let me tell you something else! All this manufactured pop glurge from the heart of Hollyweird? Full of illuminati symbology! Wake up, sheeple!" Even when Sofia rants and raves, her voice's shaky cadence is somehow soothing. "You're being hoodwinked. You're all being hoodwinked. Nuke the flyover states already, they're the ones who're to blame. When the Jesuit rape squads come knocking, don't tell me I didn't warn you!! Pope Francis is a known rapist!"
 
You listen to the entirety of her 2-hour dissection of Justin Timberlake's FutureSex/LoveSounds. Sometime near dawn you actually find yourself in that weird penumbra between sleeping and waking. If you weren't so drowsy, you'd be worried that Sofia's words are starting to make real sense to you.
 
Unfortunately, you don't catch any real shuteye. Your cellphone buzzes just as the first beams of sunlight poke through your blinds. You swipe your hands through your hair to knock away the headphones and answer the call. It's Whitney.
 
"Ally~" she cries, without a hint of yesterday's awkwardness in her voice. "Are you up or are you up? Or are you up?"
 
"Whuh?"
 
"It's 5:30, silly. We gotta run laps!"
 
"Oh, screw that. What is wrong with you? Who gets up at dawn to jog?"
 
"That's how it works, kiddo. Soccer is work. You can't expect to get fit by sitting around and watching tentacle rape all day."
 
"I don't need to run. I'm not even really in soccer club--"
 
"You're in soccer club." Whitney's voice is a little bit menacing now. "You promised me."
 
[X] Okay, okay. I'm coming.
[ ] Let me sleep. I'm tired.
 
After that conversation with Vivian, you're more convinced than ever that you need Whitney's protection. That means keeping her happy. As for what happened yesterday afternoon-- if she doesn't want to talk about it, you can ignore it, too.
 
"We have to do double-time to make up for missing practice yesterday, you know?"
 
"Whatever. Don't expect me to do much running."
 
You hang up, stand, and stretch. If Whitney was a pain before, it's only going to be worse now. Is predawn jogging going to be a daily ritual?
 
You search your warzone of a bedroom for clothes that are least semi-wearable. A pair of jeans with only one mustard stain and a barely-crumpled tee will have to do.
 
Down in the kitchen, your mom is cooking breakfast for your dad, who sits at the table, hidden behind a newspaper's broadside. Your mom wears an apron and hums lowly to herself as she fries eggs.
 
It would look just like something from Leave it to Beaver or Father Knows Best -- if your mom was wearing anything else besdies the apron.
 
She turns and looks at you. Far from looking embarrassed, she simply casts an appraising look up and down, from your wrinkled jeans to your baggy eyes.
 
"You look like shit," she says. "Eggs?"
 
"God. You wanna put some clothes on?"
 
"Not really. What are you doing up at this hour? Are you fleeing from an imminent FBI raid?"
 
"Dad, tell her to put some clothes on."
 
No reply. He just flips the page.
 
"Look," your mom says, "if you don't eat these eggs, they'll go to waste. Which is fine, I guess. I don't care either way. It's no skin off my back if you don't want to eat my home cooking that I spent so much time on. I mean, it's not like I care or anything."
 
[ ] I guess I have time.
[X] See ya.  
 
"I am not going to stay here and be traumatized by your weird breakfast sex play with dad." You cast an accusing glance in the direction of the newspaper broadside but gauge no reaction from the other end.
 
"I live in a family of sick animals," you complain to no one in particular. As you go, you see your mom practically fuming.
 
Outside, the coolness of nighttime has not quite worn off. In the morning's mist, you're surprised to spy Whitney jogging up from the end of the street. You walk out to meet her halfway.
 
"I thought we were going to meet at the track," you say.
 
"I didn't trust you to get up," Whitney says, jogging in place. "But you totally did! That's great, you're showing real initiative."
 
You shrug. "Vivian called me last night," you tell her, keeping you voice low as if someone might overhear.
 
"Who?"
 
"Try to keep up," you sigh. "My stalker. The one you're supposed to be protecting me from."
 
"Oh, her name is Vivian? How lame is that?" She turns so her back is to you. "Okay! Last one to school owes the other one lunch!"
 
She takes off at a breakneck pace. "Stop!" You call. "Hey! Why the hell are you running to where we'll be running? You're defeating the point--"
 
"It's fun!" She's already near the end of the street.
 
"This is just evidence of your addictive personality! Hey! Slow down! Don't you want to hear the sick things Vivian said?" You start after her but it's like running through cement. She's out of sight within moments.
 
You haven't even gotten to Cherry Street, two blocks away, before you're huffing air. You stop to lean against a light pole. Whitney texts you:
 
"yo slowpoke. you owe me lunch now~~~"
 
In the time it took you to get two blocks, she made it nearly 3/4 of a mile. Wincing, you pull away from the lightpost and decide to walk the rest of the way. If you try to run it, then the actual experience on the track is going to be impossible. And this isn't even the hard part. Eventually a soccer ball comes into the mix.
 
"What took you?" Whitney asks as you limp onto the track. "I've already done three laps."
 
You clutch your knees, still out of breath. "You're the fastest woman alive," you gasp. "Oh my god. I've never seen someone so minmaxed."
 
"You're the one who's maxminned. You need to shape up if you've got reverse pedophiles trying to murder you. Come on, get running."
 
On wobbly legs, you do your best to make a respectable showing. But you can't even jog for half a lap before you need to stop and walk a little bit -- running to school sapped you of all your energy before you even started. Every time Whitney laps you, she gives you a playful shove that makes you want to punch her. You remind yourself that you need her, and therefore can't anger her.
 
"How long-- does this-- last?" you wheeze. "Is this forever? Is this-- my life now?"
 
"Run until you can't run anymore."
 
"I can't run. I can't--"
 
She passes you and gives you a shove. "Pussy. You can run."
 
You check the time on your cellphone. Class starts in an hour. If you have any hope of being even a little presentable by the time the bell for first period rings, you need to go rest a bit now. Bowing your head half in shame and half from exhaustion, you break away from the track and go up the hill. Only when she sees that you've truly given up does Whitney join you. She's barely out of breath.
 
"Guess we've got a lot of work ahead of us," Whitney says.
 
"You are--" you stop, suddenly nauesous, and puke all over the ground.
 
Whitney pats you on the back and saunters off. "See you at lunch. I'll buy it for you even though you owe me... looks like you'll need it."
 
In the boy's locker room, you shower and change -- thank god you had the foresight to bring a spare this time. When you're done, it's nearly time for class. After all of this, you completely don't want to attend today. Plus, the thought of seeing Vivian in person makes your skin crawl. You could always skip until it's time for Anime Club.
 
[X] Skip
[ ] Go
 
You're going to lose what little sanity you have left if you force yourself through class, as tired and paranoid as you are. You need to have a little time to yourself.
 
Luckily, you're used to this. You know a few good spots on campus where you can blow off class and woo 2D bitches on your smartphone. Today, you figure you'll use the perpetually under-construction boy's bathroom by the gym. It's been blocked off by caution tape for two years, but the interior is perfectly usable. You step in, take the stall near the back, and settle into the romantic storyline of "Suck My Dick or Die!"
 
As usual when you're with your true passion, you fall into a seeming timewarp. Bells ring every once in a while, marking the passage of the day, but you barely pay attention. You're too busy committing atrocities against civilians -- and doing other things.
 
But just as one plot reaches its climax, get tossed from the throes of euphoria by a sudden clatter near the entrance. Out of well-practiced instinct, you put the phone into sleep mode and jam it in your pocket, even though you're in a stall. Simultaneously, you pull up your jeans. You listen close. Nothing.
 
[X] Step out and investigate
[ ] Stay still
 
Your heart is thumping so much that all you can hear is the rush of blood in your temples, but if this is who you think it is --
 
There is no escape. You gulp, close your eyes, and open the stall door.
 
"Oi! What are you doin in 'ere?"
 
You open your eyes. It's just Damon, the school's British janitor.
 
"I asked you a question, mate. What are you doin' in 'ere?"
 
You shrug. "Poopin'."
 
"Don't you see the tape? Under construction, wanker. Pinch logs somewhere else."
 
You shake your head and leave the bathroom. Guess you'll have to find somewhere else to enjoy your alone time.
 
As you step out of the gymnasium and into the quad, you fiddle with your phone. This keeps you distracted, and you almost bump into someone. It's Stackleford. The quad is empty except for the two of you.
 
"Jesus," you cry. "Where did you come from?"
 
"Thank god," he says, grabbing you by the shoulder with clammy hams. "That Vivian bitch who you sent me after has been following ME now. Last night when I traced her number, some... some thug called my house and said not to mess with her again. Then today when you don't show up for class... she starts interrogating me on where you are."
 
You stare at him. He continues. "I thought you must be jerking to your anime games on campus like usual, so I sent Damon in to flush you out."
 
"You couldn't come after me yourself?"
 
"Confined spaces scare me, man. It's why I can't shit anywhere but at home. Jesus lord almighty. How did you get this person after you? She's nuts."
 
"I don't know. I wish I knew. Look, we should get out of here. How do you know she isn't watching you right now?"
 
"I don't!" He looks around nervously. "Where can we go?"
 
[ ] The theater.
[X] The auto shop.
[ ] Anime club room.
[ ] Custom?
 
You lead Stackleford practically by the hand across campus, toward the garage where auto shop holds class. One of the buildings at the perimeter of the quad has a mezzanine that overlooks it, and as you pass underneath, you think you catch a glimpse of Vivian's parasol. When you look back, it's gone.
 
Inside the garage, you smell the cloying stink of diesel and hear the incessant whir of pneumatic tools. Menial professions like this are beneath you, but your hand is forced. Whitney has class here right now, and you're better off under her wing.
 
Whitney is on her back underneath an old beater, doing something or other to the underside. You prod her leg with her toe.
 
"Huh?" She jerks upward and you hear a muffled thud. "Ow!!"
 
She crawls out from underneath the car, rubbing her forehead. When she stands and sees you, she slugs you in the shoulder. "Never startle someone who's under a car!"
 
"I'm sorry I'm not familiar with the etiquette of blue collar drudgery. Believe me, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't serious."
 
Whitney looks from you to the beet-red, sweat-covered face of Stackleford and then frowns.
 
"H-hi, Whitney," Stackleford says, swiping underneath his pussy deflector with a hand the size of a dinner platter. His crush on Whitney is ancient and 100% hopeless. "Alabaster, you didn't say we were going to see Whitney."
 
"Yeah..." Whitney says. "You didn't say you were coming to see me..."
 
"We just need to hang out here until class ends," you say. "It's last period anyway. Then we can all go home."
 
"What about anime club?" Stackleford whines.
 
There's a pause and then Whitney's mouth curls into a grin of realization. "No way, Ally!" she laughs in genuine-sounding disbelief. "You're in anime club now too?" She walks to the sink to wash her blackened hands with gritty soap. "I thought you hated those losers."
 
"Hey, I'm in anime club," Stackleford says.
 
"Yeah," Whitney says, clearly to you. "I thought you hated those losers."
 
"It's in exchange for some help... the same way I'm dipping my wick into soccer for protection, I'm going to an anime club meeting for info on Vivian." Your eyes light up with a sudden realization.
 
"Hey," you say to Stackleford. "You didn't help at all, did you? In fact, you made it worse. I should have expected that from a degenerate like you. The deal's off."
 
"Wait," Stackleford says, his face gleaming with polyunsaturated pride. "I actually found out a whole lot about Vivian. I can tell you, but only if you hold up your end of the bargain."
 
You glance to Whitney. She gives a laugh that says this is all your perogative. "Fine," you say. "What do you know?"
 
"Vivian is loaded. Super loaded. Like, her dad's some kind of silicon valley billionaire. Until this year she was being tutored by this Swedish super-genius who specializes in homeschooling child prodigies. She could be in Berkley right now, but all of a sudden she decided she wanted to finish her schooling in dinky-ass North High."
 
Even Whitney's quick enough on the uptake to see the obvious implication. "She came here for you," Whitney breathes.
 
You shudder. You had a suspicion this might be the case, but having confirmation still makes your heart sink.
 
"She takes an actual helicopter to school," Stackleford says. "Comes here from Palo motherfraggin' Alto every day and lands on a helipad like five miles away, then gets chauffeured the rest of the way. Total. Balls. Insanity."
 
"Get a restraining order," Whitney suggests.
 
"Did I mention she's loaded?" Stackleford says. "I mean, uh, no offense, great idea Whitney, really... but it won't work. She's definitely got like, Johnny Cochraine or someone on the payroll. It'd never stick."
 
"What can I do?" You ask.
 
Stackleford rolls his oxlike shoulders. This is where his helpfulness ends, it seems.
 
The rest of the period passes somberly. Stackleford sits on a milk crate that bulges under his considerable weight and plays Pokemon. Whitney goes back to work on her car, although it looks beyond saving -- the repair work is strictly a pedagogic tool, it seems. And for your part, you just lean against the cold concrete wall of the garage and feel very, very small.
 
What can you do against a schizo billionaire-loli with an obsession and goddamn helicopters at her disposal?
 
Visions flash through your brain of Vivian standing over you, dissecting your guts with a butcher knife and peals of sadistic glee. You've seen it happen more than enough times. Have you already thrown your own death flag? Was there a way to avoid this? Why didn't you see it?
 
Don't be defeatist. Don't be defeatist.
 
Life is not some harem VN. There's a way out.
 
Flee to Mexico and change your name?
 
You rub your face with the heels of your palms. The bell rings to dismiss class. Stackleford stands with a fart he pretends not to notice and says: "boo-yah, niggas. Anime time."
 
Whitney snorts. "Uh, have fun, Ally. I guess."
 
[ ] No way. You're suffering through this, too.
[X] You're not heartless enough to subject her to this ordeal. Ask her to wait outside the club room.
 
"No prob," Whitney says. "As long as the BO doesn't make it out into the hallway. And of course, you'll owe me..."
 
"Yeah, yeah," you grouse.
 
The three of you steal away to the anime clubroom like assassins in the dead of night, trying to avoid unwanted detection. Vivian might be anywhere. And yet as you cross the quad and see a helicopter pass overhead, you get the strange sensation, however irrational, that it's Vivian going home for the day.
 
The anime clubroom is precisely what you remember of it. Formerly under the purview of Mr. McMichael the home ec teacher, anime club was -- you figured until yesterday -- disbanded when he got busted for certain felonies over the summer. His home ec class is still strewn with insipid meme-based anime posters and student-made fanart that would look more at home on Deviant Art.
 
There are already about a dozen other students here: Earl the guy with a bowl cut and a facial tic; Connor the dude who wears a trenchcoat and fingerless gloves no matter the forecast; Kyle the guy who you're 90% sure has downs; Kimberly the girl who writes slashfic about Mr. Langley and Mr. James the chem teacher; and Fartin' Franklin, whose nickname was not his choice but nonetheless apt. Amongst others.
 
Stepping into this writhing mass of human failure, you gird yourself make self-promises that this is only once.
 
Stackleford, blessedly, leaves you alone to talk with Kimberly, the only half-attractive person in attendance. This leaves you to sit in the back and hate your life in peace. But the wait becomes wearying. You ask Stackleford when the President is going to show up.
 
"She was late yesterday, too," he says nasally. "Guess it'll be a habit. I think she's a drunk or something?"
 
You don't have time to formulate a response before the door of the clubroom opens and someone walks in.
 
"Oh. There she is now," he says. It's your sister.
 
The reaction is nearly instantaneous. You leap to your feet and begin to shout something; Cerise bounds across the room and grabs you by the collar before you can get one syllable out. She drags you away. The peanut gallery hoots and cheers, not understanding what's going on, but entertained anyway.
 
She tosses you like a sack of potatoes into the hallway. Whitney watches with interest but doesn't intervene.
 
"What are you doing here?" Cerise hisses.
 
"What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here?" You stop and sniff at the air. "How drunk are you, anyway?"
 
"You're a fucking, asshole," she says with a strange pause between curses. "You're supposed to be at your stupid Jeopardy thing right now."
 
"You're supposed to be looking for gainful employment." You pace back and forth, disbelieving. "Why are you here? You graduated two years ago. And at the fucking anime club of all places?"
 
"They needed an adviser to fill the gap or they'd be disbanded. No one on faculty wanted to do it."
 
"Why would you?--" you pause, feeling the mental cogs spin into place. The unexplained post-school disappearances of hers when she was a student here... you always just assumed that she was out having sex with bikers or something. But...
 
"Anyway," Cerise huffs, "I'm getting paid to be here. So there."
 
"Yeah? How much?"
 
"The amount isn't important. What's important is that I'm working again."
 
"Pocky isn't currency the last time I checked. This is not a real job, you hose beast."
 
"Get fucked. Why are you hanging out in the anime club? You never had anything but insults for our members."
 
"Because you epitomize everything that's wrong and degenerate and evil about anime fandom. God. I knew you were the enemy, but I never expected THIS."
 
"I'm fixing it!" Cerise yells. "And I don't need you perving up my work in progress with your stupid moe bullshit. Go rape 2D kids somewhere else, you little scumsucker."
 
[X] Not on your life.
[ ] I don't need this. Whitney, let's get out of here.
 
"I am not going to let you corrupt the morals of these students any longer," you say. "And I'm sure whatever you have them watching is hopelessly pedestrian."
 
"Morals! Big words for someone who was jerking off to Radiohead last night!"
 
"Oh, trying to take the moral high ground after you've been caught whoring yourself out to the underaged? Ha."
 
"Fuck this. Don't you dare come back into this clubroom. I'm warning you."
 
You take a step forward as if to test her. She sidesteps to block your way. You feint to the left, and she lunges for you, but her alcoholic stupor has made her easy pickings. You dodge to the right and run for the door.
 
At the threshold, she jumps on your back, latching on like a crazed cat. Together you go windmilling around into the clubroom proper. You fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs.
 
"Epic glomp!" Kimberly calls.
 
"Oh, fuuuck you, Kimberly" Cerise moans from the ground. Kimberly audibly winces.
 
You right yourself and dust yourself off. Cerise stands, wobbling, and braces herself against the desk at the front of the room.
 
"Today," she says, making a point not to address you but rather the rest of the club. "Is episode 3-5 of Watashi wa Watashi no Onee-sama ga Kyūketsuki Hantā Dhirimasendeshita, or NeeKyu for short." Her Japanese is flawless even despite the inebriation. "This is a seminal work of horror and won a lot of awards in Japan. The first arc really heats up today. Episode 5 has a big twist. I hope you enjoy it."
 
"Can we watch Bleach?" Comes Connor's voice from the back as he raises his gloved hand.
 
"I can pour bleach down your fucking throat," Cerise counter-offers. Connor puts his hand down.
 
"You know, this is dubbed," Stackleford offers. "I think we'd rather watch it that way." Murmurs of agreement at this.
 
"I think I'd rather watch you get hit by a truck, doublestuff" Cerise says airly, booting up her computer. The anime club looks around at one another uneasily. You can't help but grin.
 
You take a seat in the front row as Cerise scrolls through her laptop's messy folders. Whitney pokes her head into the clubroom and surveys the scene.
 
"Is everything all right?" she whispers. You give a thumbs-up. She looks uncertainly at Cerise for a few moments and retracts back into the hallway.
 
"Still hanging out with that lesbo?" Cerise slurs while she hooks the laptop to a projector. "What are you, dense? She doesn't want your cock."
 
You start to say something, but get interrupted. "Uh, Cerise?" Fartin' Franklin asks. "I was meaning to ask. Is this pirated?"
 
"Of course it is."
 
"Well, I mean, that's illegal..."
 
Cerise does not dignify this with a response. As she opens MPC and the show's death-rock OP starts to blares, Stackleford comes up and sits next to you. The chair he sits in groans at the applied pressure. You smell garlic.
 
"See?" he whispers. "She's a total Hitler. She's ruining anime club."
 
[X] "She's my sister."
[ ] Say nothing.
 
"She's my sister," you say folding your arms and not taking your eyes from the projector screen. "And actually, I think she's doing okay."
 
You feel the need to whisper this; but sitting not far off, Cerise may still have heard. If she did, she gives no reaction. She just watches the show's action on her laptop screen.
 
Stackleford looks from you to Cerise and back again. "Awww man," he says, and his crestfallen whine would be perfectly accompanied by a gameshow's outro music. Only now does he realize what a colossal mistake he made in seeking you out as an ally. Whatever your differences with Cerise are outside, there's a common enemy here.
 
This show has been in your backlog for a while now but you haven't gotten around to it. Dropped into the middle of the plot, you find it hard to catch up. Something about a guy who comes from a family with a long line of female vampire hunters. When he finds himself being targeted by the world's deadliest-slash-most-beautiful vampire, his long-lost sister swoops in to save him. Honestly, it seems kind of stupid. First of all, the only character who's even close to being a loli is the vampire, and she sucks.
 
Still, you watch with interest. You figured the only thing Cerise used her laptop for was prostituting herself to random basement dwellers, so seeing a hobby like this is a whole new angle. Of course, you're still repulsed by her. She slams back two beers during the first episode. When Kyle points out that alcohol isn't allowed on campus, Cerise throws one of the empty cans at him.
 
But you also find yourself annoyed when the other club members begin to whisper to one another and play on their cellphones instead of paying attention to the show.
 
Your bout of annoyance is interrupted by your own cellphone buzzing. Hypocritically, you check it. It's a text from an unknown number.
 
"You cannot run forever. See you tomorrow, Alabaster Soliloquy."
 
END OF EPISODE 2.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, America's #1 purveyor of the public_use tag and victim of the most dedicated stalking campaign ever conducted by an adolescent girl. After seeking refuge from her in an anime clubroom, you've received some revelations about how your NEET onee-sama spends her time. You can't believe your older sister is this drunk.
 
Going home from anime club, your older sister Cerise walks a few paces ahead of both you and your childhood friend Whitney. "I cannot believe you're still hanging out with Stackleford," Cerise fumes. "That faggot is a twinkie and a big gulp away from diabetic shock."
 
"You're hanging out with him too," you point out. "And all the other weebs in that club. At least I'm not associating with them by choice. You have an acne fetish now or something?"
 
"Please," Cerise says. "As if Stackleford forced you to come to the club. You can't even admit what you want. It's pathetic."
 
"He really did force Ally to come," Whitney offers, trying to be helpful. "In exchange for info on Ally's stalker."
 
Cerise stops and turns around, glowering with suspicion. You sigh deeply.
 
"You didn't tell her?" Whitney asks.
 
"It doesn't concern her."
 
"Well excuse the fuck out of me for thinking you might seek comfort with your family. I forgot what losers you all are."
 
"She's hardly family," you say, as if Cerise isn't standing right there. "More like a streetwalker who just happens to sleep in the next bedroom over."
 
"So you've got yourself a stalker," Cerise says. She folds her arms in gloating. "Some half-ton genetic aberration, I'm sure."
 
You give her a half-cocked smile. Now that the secret's out, you may as well go for full disclosure.
 
"Vivian Darkbloom?" Cerise repeats, aghast, after you finish the story. "You can't be serious. Any relation to David Darkbloom?"
 
You shrug. "Who?"
 
"David Darkbloom! Darkbloom Enterprises? Are you stupid? How do you not know who he is? You of all people--"
 
You gawk; Whitney looks like she's just been asked to solve a partial differential equation. "Stackleford did say she's the daughter of some silicon valley tech whiz," you offer.
 
"Christ on a bicycle," Cerise groans. "You guys are retarded."
 
Even though she barges into your room on the regular, you rarely enter Cerise's. You prefer it that way: walking into her room is like stepping into a foggy swamp of fuck-mist. You often make the suggestion that she use at least a little bit of the money from her cam show to buy a dehumidifier.
 
"Your room is so cool!" Whitney says to Cerise as the three of you step inside. She takes a few deep breaths.
 
You glance at Cerise's bookshelves, which she always keeps draped with an opaque sheet. Whenever you go near them, she freaks out. You had always assumed they hid some unimaginable perversity. But now looking at that sheet, you see pokes and bulges in it that might be from plastic figurines and other merchandise. Stranger things are possible -- you're not discounting anything now. Only a closet weeaboo could speak moon as well as she did in the club meeting.
 
"Let me show you guys what I'm talking about," Cerise says, sitting down at her PC. Firefox is already open but minimized to the taskbar. She seems about to restore the window -- but then, glancing back at you and Whitney, thinks better of it. She opens Chrome instead and navigates to Youtube.
 
The video shows a cute blonde anime girl on a tablet's touch-screen. There's some passing resemblance to Hatsune Miku, but not enough for litigation. A mostly off-screen man holds an index finger in front of the girl's face, sweeping his hand back and forth as if performing an eye exam. Her head makes exaggerated bobs to follow the movement. He snaps his fingers loudly and she winces at the sound.
 
"Hello, Viv-tan," the man booms.
 
"Mastah!!" the avatar cries with such saccharine joy that your heart could melt.
 
"The technology is still in its infancy," Cerise narrates. "But it's evolving quick. With Darkbloom's billions behind it, we'll have realistic VR in less than five years." She turns to face you. "Your stalker's dad is the man who's going to make anime real."
 
"Why is his daughter such a bitch though?" Whitney asks, peering over your shoulder. None of you have an answer. Whitney throws her arms wide, spins on her heels, and falls onto Cerise's bed. "What a mess," she drawls.
 
While the three of you sit contemplating, a loud banging emerges from downstairs. "Dinnertime, you assholes!" comes your lovely mother's voice.
 
You trudge downstairs with the other two. Seeing Whitney, your mom throws a dishrag over her shoulder and sneers. "I never said you could invite this sapphic hussy over." Then, after a brief pause: "not that I care what kind of sluts you hang around with, but I don't want my home turning into some kind of libertine harem."
 
"Hi, Mrs. Soliloquy," Whitney says, taking a seat at the dinner table. No matter what insults your mother throws at her, Whitney knows she'll be fed if she sticks around; just like everyone else. You and Cerise sit down too, you directly opposite your father -- hidden as always behind his newspaper.
 
"You leave the house before dawn and don't come back until sunset, and with yet another teen slut in tow," your mom says as she serves. "What am I to think?"
 
"I left to go running with Whitney. I'm trying to get in shape. Maybe you should try it yourself, you cow."
 
"Don't speak to our mother that way!" Cerise shrieks, playing indignant. She's always Ms. Manners around mom, the golden child who can do no wrong. Of course, all she really cares about is continuing to live here rent-free.
 
"At least one of my children respects me. Thank you, Cerise."
 
"You're quite welcome, mother."
 
Tonight's dinner is some kind of roast, cooked to a crisp and served with a gravy that's more like paste. Mom does dessert better than a five-star chef but her entrees leave a lot to be desired.
 
While you pick at your food and count the seconds until she serves up tonight's cake, a sickening realization crosses your mind.
 
"Wait a second," you saw slowly. "You said I had *another* slut in tow? What does that mean? Whitney's the only person I came home with besides Cerise."
 
"You sleep around so much you can't even remember them anymore? God, Alabaster. Did you forget about that little anemic girl you seduced? She can't be older than 10. It's a travesty."
 
You drop your fork. "When was she here?"
 
"This afternoon. She said she had some homework to drop off for you. I'm sure it was a lie. She was probably looking for your sex toys so you could do depraved things to her. I quiver just thinking about it."
 
Even Cerise is too weirded out by this news to put up her facade. You, her, and Whitney exchange horrified looks. Then in unison, you race upstairs.
 
Your bedroom has been turned upside-down -- err, hasn't it? It definitely seems messier than you left it. You look around carefully like an inspector at a crime scene as Cerise and Whitney watch from the threshold.
 
"Do you notice anything missing?" You ask Cerise. "You're in here almost as much as I am."
 
She shakes her head. But then: "Wait-- that." The trashbin next to your computer is empty. More important, though less creepy, the thumb drives you keep next to your monitor are also gone. Aside from a lot of sensitive data, they had your Quiz Bowl practice programs on them.
 
"Cheating bitch," you mumble.
 
[X] We have to get my shit back.
[ ] If she wants them, she can have them. They won't help her.
 
"Okay, but how?" Whitney asks. "She lives in Palo, uh, 'motherfraggin' Alto -- according to Stackleford. Isn't that like 100 miles away?"
 
"Cerise, you have a driver's license, right?"
 
"Uh..."
 
"Seriously?"
 
"Mom always drives me if I need to go somewhere far away."
 
"Jesus Christ, Cerise. Time to cut the fucking cord, don't you think?"
 
"Yeah? What about you? You're not much younger than me."
 
"Don't change the subject!"
 
At some point the two of you have leaned in so close to argue that your noses are practically booping, and you're yelling in one another's face. Whitney puts her hands between the the two of you to break you up.
 
"I can drive," she says.
 
"Do you have a car?" you ask.
 
"Err-- no... but I have the keys to the auto shop."
 
[ ] Too risky. It could get us expelled. We need some other plan.
[X] Let's do it.
 
"Whoa," Whitney says in a small voice. Her and Cerise gawk at you like they're visiting a zoo exhibit.
 
"What?" you ask defensively.
 
"It's just-- I don't know," Whitney shrugs. "I've never seen you be so -- decisive, about things like this. I guess I'm used to you being a pussy, is all."
 
"Of course he's decisive about this," Cerise says. "Someone stole his porn."
 
Climbing over the gates of North High in the dead of night, you feel like a bunch of hooligans. The quad is eerily dark and deserted. You hurry to the auto shop, where Whitney unlocks the garage and pulls the retracting metal door up.
 
"I guess our best bet is the '88 Thunderbird," she says, flipping on the fluorescent lights. "The struts are shot but it should get us there. I just changed its fluids out today." She rifles through the key rings hung on some corkboard near the back before finding the right one. "Here!" she says triumphantly. "Last chance to back out..."
 
You shake your head. "We're gonna do this. But-- we also have to be smart about it. We don't even know where she exactly lives."
 
Which means a call to Stackleford. Ugh.
 
"Road trip?!" he grunts through a mouthful of what must be donuts or cake. "Fucking sick! I wanna see where this Vivian bitch lives, too. You gotta take me, niggers. I won't give you the address if you don't."
 
[X] No way, you stupid shit. Give me the address.
[ ] Fuck. Whatever. We'll pick you up.
 
"Nope!" Stackleford says, and you can just envision him beaming like a smug idiot on the other end of the line.
 
"I will shove my fist so far down your throat that I can punch you in the dick from the inside."
 
"You don't have to be mean about it..."
 
"I'll teach your mom how to search your internet history."
 
There's a long pause.
 
"43819 Poe Road, Palo Alto. I'll text you google maps directions."
 
As you hang up, you turn to see that Whitney and Cerise have already gotten in the car. Cerise took shotgun. You bicker with her for a few moments over it, but Whitney calls it off. "She can sit up front. Stop being such a baby, Ally."
 
You groan and get in the backseat. Whitney fires the car up -- which groans even louder and almost doesn't want to start. As she pulls out of the garage, she flips on the headlights -- just in time to illuminate the silhouette of a man passing by. Whitney doesn't react quick enough and hits him at the breakneck speed of about 8 miles an hour. There's a loud thud and the car creaks to a halt as Whitney applies the brakes.
 
"Oof! Me fookin back!"
 
It's Damon, the school's britbong janitor. You look out the window and watch him writhing in pain on the ground, his janitor's cart tipped over.
 
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" Whitney screams, banging her fists on the steering column. She rolls down her window too and screams to the injured man: "what's your problem? Goddamn it!"
 
"You wankers broke my siatic muscle!" he complains incoherently. "I'm dyin'!"
 
[X] He's seen us. We gotta help him.
[ ] Beat it.
 
You get out of the car and offer him a hand while he writhes and wails. "Come on, it's not that bad--"
 
"I'm dyyyyin! I'm dyyyyin!" He clutches his face theatrically, turning side to side. You try to haul him up but he's like dead weight in your hands.
 
Cerise gets out of the car, moving swiftly. She walks over and kicks him in the back of the head.
 
"'Ey!" He calls, springing to his feet, apparently out of instinct. He looks around, realizing his mistake.
 
"Your 'siatic muscle,' huh." Cerise says flatly.
 
"Wot're you turds doin' here this time 'a night?" He asks, trying to parlay into a new power dynamic. "And stealin' you's a car no less."
 
Whitney steps out, leaning against the door as if it's a shield against Damon's repulsiveness. "We're not stealing anything. I'm just taking this out for a test drive."
 
"Bullshit," Damon says. "I heard your conversation through the door. Din think ol' Damon was so clever did ya?"
 
You share worried looks with Whitney and your sister.
 
"Well if you want to stalk that little Vivian cunt, that's fine by me." He rights his cart and starts putting his supplies away. "I usedta work for her father. Groundskeepin', you know. I steal one pair of her panties and all of a sudden the rich trollop's gettin' her dad to fire me. Ain't right."
 
"When I saw her on campus," he continues, "I just about had a heart attack. Guess she's a student now. She could do with having the lights scared outta her too..."
 
You start to feel uneasy. And then, as you expected, the hammer drops. "Course, that don't mean my silence comes cheap... you'll have ta do somethin' for me, too."
 
[X] As long as you don't report this, we can work something out.
[ ] I don't feel comfortable about this. I'm going home. Right now it's your word against ours; you can't prove anything.
 
"You want another pair of panties? Got it."
 
Damon takes two quick steps back and stares at you like he just saw a ghost.
 
"Ow'd... ow'd you know wot I was after fore I said it? You psychic or summin?"
 
Cerise huffs. "Of course not, you limey piece of shit."
 
"We'll get you some panties," you say. "Fresh and dirty."
 
"But you won't breathe a word of this to anyone!" Whitney adds. "That's the deal!"
 
"Course not, course not..." Damon laughs. "I scratch your back, you scratch mine."
 
The three of you pile into the car again. But before you pull off and Whitney can roll up the window, Damon jams his claw in empty pane, his gleaming face popping into view like a movie monster's. "You get me those knickers, ya hear? You'll be sorry if you don't."
 
Whitney says nothing; none of you do. She rolls the window slowly up until Damon has to pull his filthy hand away. He steps back and watches as you drive off.
 
And away you go.
 
Neon billboards and rumbling semi trucks whiz by on the highway. Whitney drives at a conservative five-over, and you can't blame her -- best not to catch a cop's attention. But it was 10 PM before you pulled out of the school, and at this rate it'll be almost 2 AM before you pull up the half-mile drive that leads to Vivian's mansion. You still don't have a clear plan of what you intend to do when you get there.
 
"You know," Cerise says after long silence. "The more I think about this, the stupider it seems."
 
"Where's your sense of adventure?" Whitney chides. You feel like a little kid watching your parents argue in the front seat.
 
"We need to be looking for more than the thumb drives," Cerise says. "Whatever Vivian thinks she's planning, it has to be bigger than that."
 
"How are we even going to get inside her house?" you ask. "Her dad must have security."
 
"I've been thinking about that," Whitney says. "I say we don't sneak in. We drive right up and let her dad know we're there."
 
"This is a new low even for you," you say. "And I once heard you ask if Paris is a country, so the bar is pretty low as it is."
 
"Think about it, you whiny bitch," Whitney says. "If she can use the 'stopping by to visit friends' gambit, so can we. What's she going to say if she sees us, 'those aren't my friends, those are the people I'm stalking'?"
 
"Maybe..." you say. "But who visits a friend at 2 AM?"
 
"We could pull over and sleep for the night," Cerise says.
 
"Won't they notice the car missing back at school?" you ask.
 
Whitney chews her lip. "Wednesdays the auto shop meets in room 201 for a weekly lecture... the class doesn't go to the garage. If we get the car back before, say... lunch? That's when Coach Kevin eats lunch in the garage. We should be okay."
 
"Well I'm not sleeping in a car," you announce. "I'm above that kind of thing."
 
You pass a billboard that advertises a motor lodge on the next exit. You look at one another and shrug. By now it's 1:30 -- you're all exhausted.
 
Bleary-eyed, the three of you stumble into the lobby of Comfy King Motor Lodge, which advertises a nightly as well as an hourly rate. More importantly, the sign outside says No ID's are required.
 
It's not the cleanest place you've ever seen: a roach skitters by on the grimy tile floor as you step inside. An unbelievably rotund specimen of a man sits at the faux wood check-in counter.
 
"Wait," you say. "You guys have any money?"
 
"No," Cerise says. "Don't you?"
 
"God, you're so useless," you cry. "If you're going to whore yourself out, the least you can do is keep a little pocket change around."
 
"Get bent. I didn't expect to have to shell out for a motel room when we left. And what kind of guy walks around without a wallet?"
 
"Will you two assholes cram it?" Whitney says. She pulls a velcro wallet from her back pocket. "I've got a little cash..." she counts it and then looks sheepishly up at you. "Uh, I guess two of us are gonna have to share a room."
 
[ ] I'll bunk with Whitney.
[ ] I'll bunk with Cerise.
[ ] I want to sleep alone because I'm literally that fucking retarded.
[X] TIE VOTE
 
"Why waste the money?" Cerise asks before you can decide. "We can all three sleep in the same room." She calls out to the fat man at the counter. "Hey, lardo! You got any triples open?"
 
"Singles only," the fat man grunts, scratching his stomach.
 
"We'll figure it out, I guess," Whitney says.
 
Unit J01 is a corner room at the back of complex. As you approach, you can hear dogs barking on the distance. Hundreds of moths flutter in the lights hanging on the stucco walls outside. The interior isn't any more promising: a single twin bed with a busted coin-operated vibration mode, and a busted TV. The paneling is yellowed with age. You could just about touch opposing walls with your arms spread out.
 
At your request, the fatass bellhop gave you two extra comforters and some extra pillows, but there's still the question to settle of who gets the bed.
 
"Not me," Whitney yawns, stretching her back luxuriously. "I don't want scabies. You two clowns can fight over it."
 
Rock-paper-scissors is always a joke when you play with Cerise. No matter how many times you throw, you always tie. You play rock, she plays rock. You play paper, she plays paper. It's like some kind of eerie telepathy. Tonight is no different.
 
After a few minutes of this, Whitney groans in protest. "Shut up already. Hanging out with you guys is such a drag. Ally, just give your sister the bed you assmunch. What about chivalry, huh?"
 
Cerise crawls into the bed before you can agree to this, rubbing her temples. "I need a drink..." she grumbles to no one.
 
"This is shit," you complain. "Why do you always take Cerise's side? You hardly even know her."
 
Cerise has already kicked off her shoes and is underneath the covers, halfway to sleep. "Here," Whitney says in conciliatory tone, fluffing her pillow and sliding it a little to the side. "We can share beddings. It'll be more comfortable that way."
 
You look down at her lying on the floor and see a glint in her eyes you're not used to seeing. The remembrance of what happened in the locker room two days ago plays through your mind's eye.
 
"Come o-o-on, Ally~" she mews, patting the ground. Slowly, you put your blanket down next to her.
 
It's hard to sleep with Whitney cuddled up beside you, you soon find. You didn't ask her to do this -- you figured you'd keep to your own sides -- but as soon as you lied down, she turned over and wrapped her arms around you, complaining that she was chilly. Her breaths are slow and measured against your chest, and you can feel the warmth of them even through your cotton tee. You try to doze but every time you open your eyes, she's just staring up at you in the dark.
 
"Jesus, that's creepy," you finally say, just to break the silence. "What are you looking at?"
 
Whitney's legs wrapped around yours squirm a little. Her well toned calf muscles tense against yours, giving you a weird sensation of supple firmness. "I dunno," she says. "I'm just excited. We're on an adventure."
 
"Don't be stupid," you manage, sounding really stupid. Whitney gives you a playful slug on the hip.
 
"You were cute in those spats," Whitney says, her voice suddenly silken. You feel a jolt of adrenaline. "They fit you. I mean, they didn't fit you-- that's what made them fit."
 
You feel yourself flush and hope she can't see it in the dark. Trying to keep your voice from shaking, you say: "I don't get it. I thought you were a dyke."
 
Whitney laughs, burying her face in your chest so the sound is muffled. The vibration of it tickles you and makes you writhe around, but not uncomfortably. When the laughter subsides, Whitney looks up, her eyes two bright orbs in the dark. "It's complicated."
 
You mull that over for a few moments. Whitney goes still in your arms, but then she wiggles herself up onto her elbows in order to see you better.
 
"You know," she says, "I thought all that time training on your video games taught you how to handle a situation like this a little bit better."
 
"What?"
 
"You're a fucking stupid jerk is what," she says, and kisses you wetly. You don't know how to respond: your tongue lies dead in your mouth while hers probes and prods hungrily. She pulls back, a thin strand of saliva joining you.
 
"You suck at this," she says. "I'm going to have to teach you everything, huh?"
 
"What about my sister?" you say, dazed.
 
"Who gives a clumpy fuck?" Whitney hisses.
 
A red heat rises from your core and you grab Whitney by the shoulders, flipping her over so you're on top.
 
"Oooh, scary~" Whitney hums, her wrists pinned.
 
"You want me to fuck you?"
 
"No, I want you to paint me green."
 
You reach under the covers and pull her shorts partway down. She isn't wearing panties. You look back at her with disbelief, and in that moment Whitney must sense an advantage: she latches onto your mouth again, drawing you into another kiss. This time you move your tongue, but you keep bumping it against her teeth. You squeeze her face with both hands and redouble your efforts as if more force will make you better.
 
Her hands now free, Whitney reaches down and unzips your pants. When she pulls you already rock-hard out of your boxers, her back arches and she moans -- involuntarily? -- directly into your mouth. The hum travels down your throat like a ripple. You feel Whitney's feet kicking frantically as she snakes her way out of her shorts just far enough to permit entry.
 
You wag your hips a little, trying to find your way. Pulling back from her wanton mouth, you groan: "am I in?"
 
"No. Christ." She runs her hands through your hair with frustrated anxiousness.
 
"Now?"
 
Whitney sighs and wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you around in a split-second reversal of position. Now you're the one who's pinned.
 
"You're hopeless," she moans. She pulls off her shirt, grabs your hands, and guides them to her tits. The heat of them alone makes you shiver. Her nipples are already pert and prominent.
 
Reaching between you, Whitney grabs your cock and guides it home. She lowers herself into a kind of reverse missionary position and slides back onto you. You grit your teeth at the sudden sensation.
 
"NOW you're in," she coos. She grinds her pubis against your own, her deepest parts contracting and relaxing in a rhythm that feels like being milked.
 
"Is this your first time?" She asks tenderly. You don't reply. She stops moving; the milking motions stop. "Is this your first time?" she demands, voice low, not so tender now.
 
"Y-yes," you groan. "God. Yes."
 
She kisses you again. Her tongue is practically raping your mouth and you have no way to counter. She starts humping at a frantic pace, her lower half moving parallel with your bodies to maintain this topsy-turvy missionary position.
 
"Perfect," she whispers in your ear. "I knew you were a virgin. Tell me, is it better than your hand?"
 
"What? Of course it is--" you stop, hearing noise further back in the room. "Whitney," you whisper.
 
"Fuck me!" Whitney pleads. "Come on, move your fucking hips, you little pervert!"
 
"Whitney, my sister--"
 
There's definitely some kind of movement in the shadows by Cerise's bed now. You hear the soft squeal of bedsprings. Whether Whitney doesn't notice or just doesn't care, you can't tell.
 
"You can cum inside, Ally~" she says, and licks your chest. "Pour it all inside me, okay? As much as you can!"
 
There's a loud hiss from the bed like someone gasping through their teeth. The squeaking springs, soft at first, are now louder than the slapping noises of your copulation. There's no way Whitney can't hear it.
 
"Jesus," you say, sweating, mauling Whitney's tiny breasts with both hands, feeling the inevitable about to happen. "Are you safe? Is this safe?" you plead, suddenly growing panicked.
 
"Not at all!" Whitney cries, like she just won the lottery. "It's completely, 100% not safe!"
 
The squeaking from the bed gets louder, if such a thing is possible. You try to send the emergency signal to your arms to push Whitney off of you before it happens, but your body is no longer your own. Your hips move to meet Whitney's thrusts without your conscious effort.
 
"Whitney, really-- I'm gonna-- I can't hold--"
 
"Do it! Do it! I don't care!"
 
With a wet, far-off sounding splash and a guttural moan, you let go, and paint Whitney's womb with your cum. Whitney howls and collapses against you -- and there's another voice in the room howling now, too.
 
GIRLS FUCKED: 1/6
 
You wake up a little bit after 8 AM to Whitney cursing.
 
"Fuck, we're late! Oh god! We'll never make it there and back in time!"
 
You sit up groggily and look around. Whitney is stumbling around the tiny room, pulling on her shirt and shoes at the same time, panicking.
 
"We'll get expelled for sure!" she says.
 
You look over at the bed. Cerise is asleep in exactly the position she passed out in: spread eagled, arms splayed wide, with her panties around her ankles. You divert your eyes and pretend you have no idea how she ended up this way.
 
After a lot of confusion and flung obscenities, the three of you are up, dressed, and on the road again by 8:30.
 
"We've come too far," you say when Whitney wonders aloud whether you should all turn back now. "We have to at least scope the place out. Just hurry back. We can make it to garage again before noon."
 
Poe Road has exactly one property: why the address number is so high, you can't fathom. It sits ominously at the top of a hill at the end of along, winding gravel road.
 
Obstacle number 1: A security gate. A disinterested looking man in a rent-a-cop uniform sits in a tollbooth-looking construction on the other side. He speaks to you through an intercom, demanding to know who you are.
 
"Let me handle this," Whitney says, and rolls down the window. "We're Vivian's friends. We just came by to visit her!" Whitney says.
 
"Vivian's at school," the security guard says flatly.
 
So... that was a bust. Whitney slumps her head.
 
Before any of you can formulate Plan B to gain entry, deus ex machina helps you out.
 
"Let them in," you hear a deep voice boom over the guard's walkie-talkie. "They're here to see me, too."
 
The gates open, and Whitney drives through. The crunch of gravel underneath the tires is somehow ominous, reminiscent of bones shattering.
 
The front of the house is composed of a long colonnade with marble tiling leading to the entryway. All alabaster, ironically enough. In front of this is an enormous fountain. Walking out to meet you is a tall, dapper-looking man who walks with a commanding air.
 
"David Darkbloom," Cerise says.
 
Whitney parks at the head of the drive. There's a carport off to the side, about a quarter of a mile away, but you know you won't be here long.
 
"I think you're looking for these," Darkbloom says. He hands you your missing thumb drives. "I'm sorry you had to come all this way to get them. Vivian can be difficult sometimes... as for the other things-- I don't think you'll mind to hear I threw them out."
 
"You know she's stalking me?" you say.
 
"What he means is--" Whitney starts, trying to be diplomatic, but Darkbloom holds up a hand to silence her.
 
"Vivian is difficult, like I said. She's been in a rebellious phase recently. Trying to be an... individual. Well, it's one of those teenage things all children go through."
 
"She's nuts," Cerise says.
 
"I take full responsibility," Darkbloom says in a way that sounds remorseful but also says it really isn't at all. "I push her too hard."
 
"Why me?" you ask.
 
Darkbloom laughs. "Childhood infatuation. That's all it is. You wouldn't believe it if I told you. I will put more restraints on her behavior, I promise."
 
"Pull her out of that school," you say. "She doesn't need it."
 
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Darkbloom says. "There's a lot at stake here. And the psychological trauma would be considerable..."
 
He reaches out and grasps both of your shoulders. "What we need, Alabaster Soliloquy," -- referring to you by your full name is a heritable trait, apparently -- "what I need is for you to stay on the Quiz Bowl and perform to your very best. With Vivian on the team, you'll make nationals."
 
The ride home is awkward. Not just because of last night's strange incident.
 
"You told him yes," Cerise groans. "You told that richie rich fucker yes."
 
"What was I supposed to do?" you ask. It's hard to say no to a man on the Forbes 500, especially when he promises to deposit $1 million in your bank account at the end of the school year.
 
"You probably could have talked that tight-ass up a bit," Whitney says.
 
"Nothing changes," you say. "I never agreed to go to practices. Just the competitions. The only thing different now is I'm a millionaire."
 
"Theoretically," Whitney says.
 
"And you call me a whore," Cerise fumes.
 
"We've got a bigger problem anyway," Whitney says, pulling over 90 to get back to school in time. "What about Damon's blackmail?"
 
"Fuck it," Cerise says. "Give him mine. He won't be able to tell the difference. Panties are panties."
 
Internally, you applaud Cerise for taking one for the team. But she didn't have to pull them off and give them to you right there. You take them like something radioactive and set them beside you in the car. It's 11 AM.
 
You speed back into the auto shop's garage just before the bell for lunch rings. Luckily, the quad is empty and no one sees you pulling in.
 
You say brief goodbyes and scatter to the four winds: Cerise walks home, Whitney heads for the track, and you go to seek out Damon to deliver his prize. Cerise's wadded up panties in your front pocket feel like they're buzzing, it's so awkward to carry them around.
 
Before you find Damon, you decide to grab your backpack out of your locker. You've been awake this long, you may as well stick around for the last half of school today. You hate to be in the same room as Vivian, but you have to learn to confront her eventually--
 
You hear a loud bang behind you and turn around. It's Vivian herself. She has her arms extended, pinning you in the corner where your locker sits. You curse your rotten luck.
 
"You've been avoiding me," she says simply.
 
"Of course I have, you schizo."
 
"You went to see my *father*?" she half-shouts. "Without telling me?"
 
"You were in my HOUSE," you counter. "You stole things out of my room!"
 
She slumps her head, and then looks up at you. She barely comes up to your neck. Her nose brushes up against your sternum as she says in a low tone: "I'll leave you alone. If that's really what you want. Just one thing first."
 
Vivian's breath is hot against the crook of your neck. She has to stand on her tiptoes to look you in the eye.
 
"I need six milliliters of your essence. No later than tomorrow afternoon."
 
You try to shove her away, but she maintains her splayed-armed posture with strange ferocity. She won't budge. "Have you considered electro-shock therapy?" you ask. "It's not as cheap as stealing cum rags but I hear the results are usually pretty good."
 
"I am loath to debase myself by asking for your help, but the fate of nations may hang upon this."
 
"What nations? I mean specifically. Is Vanuatu going to sink if you don't get six mils of my jizz?"
 
Vivian reaches into a pocket inside her clouse and produces a vial.
 
"How much is six milliliters, anyway?" you ask. Vivian indicates with her index finger how much she needs.
 
"What do I look like," you breathe, "a horse?"
 
"My father stole the backup supply. It can't be helped."
 
"Uh huh. Can I go now?"
 
"Do I have your promise that you will deliver the supply?"
 
"I'm not gonna j/o in a vial for you. Sorry. I have better places to cum inside."
 
Vivian winces with naked disgust. "Suit yourself," she drawls. "I have other means at my disposal."
 
"What is that supposed to mean?"
 
"Now--" and here, Christ, you could swear she darts her tongue out and licks your neck. But it happens so quickly you doubt yourself. "--About the Quiz Bowl. You have been avoiding me. This will not stand. You must come to practice on Friday."
 
"I'm not going. Hey, you wanna hear a fun Alabaster-fact? I just got done fucking someone way cuter than you."
 
Vivian's right eye twitches. After a lengthy pause, she says: "If you won't face me, then admit you're afraid of me."
 
"Excuse me?"
 
"I want to hear it from your mouth. That is all. I want to hear you say the words: 'I , Alabaster Solilioquy, am afraid of a little girl. I am afraid of her because I know she is smarter than me.' Say it. And then I will be out of your life forever."
 
[X] Say it.
[ ] Refuse.
 
"I, Alabaster Solilioquy, am afraid of a little girl. I am afraid of her because I know she is smarter than me."
 
Vivian's eyes dart around inside her impossibly tiny skull as she surveys every part of your face. She leans in, as if trying to get a better look. When she's satisfied, she pushes herself away from the wall.
 
"I don't believe you," she says.
 
Whether she means that she literally doesn't believe you, or that you're jusst a fucking faggot -- as in i.e. "you're unbelievable" -- you can't tell.
 
She turns as if to go but stops herself short. "Oh yes," she purrs. "Those ersatz undergarments you were thinking of pawning off on Damon as my own -- you cannot be serious. Damon will know you cheated him. The size difference alone will give it away."
 
She snakes a hand underneath the hem of her skirt. Stooping over in the middle of the hall, in broad daylight, she tugs her underwear down and steps out of them daintily. They're black and lacy but nonetheless quite conservative -- as expected.
 
"A gift," she says, "to save you from getting yourself expelled before the real fun can begin." She tosses the panties into the air. They describe a perfect arc, landing squarely on your head. You're so flabbergasted that you don't pull them away and shove them into your pocket for several moments. By then, Vivian is gone. And somehow, in less than an hour, you've acquired two pairs of used panties.
 
Damon is ecstatic when you make the delivery. "Mother 'o' god!" he says, burying his nose in the crotch. "It's 'ers! After all these years, ol' Damon can still tell!"
 
You leave him to his little reunion.
 
The rest of the day passes as an undifferentiated blur. You haven't slept or eaten anything in over a day, which contributes. There's also the burning presence of your own sister's panties in your front pocket, which you haven't had the chance to ditch. Every time you stand, you become paranoid that all the others can tell what you're carrying around.
 
Vivian doesn't come to any of your classes after lunch.
 
When the bell rings to dismiss class for the day, Whitney texts almost immediately: "soccer practice today!!" But you're not in the mood for extended physical exertion. You'd rather pass out and sleep for a few decades.
 
[ ] Man up: soccer practice with Whitney.
[X] Stop by anime club with Cerise.
[ ] Go home.
 
You step into the old Home Ec room to find a peculiar scene. The entire anime club is sitting in a circle of chairs. At the center, on the floor, is Kimberly.
 
"This is a circle of shame," Cerise says. "You're being shamed right now."
 
"Whyyyy?" Kimberly grovels, loudly snorting back mucus, her face bright red and slick with tears.
 
"Who wants to tell Kimberly why she's being shamed?" Cerise asks.
 
Fartin' Franklin raises his hand meekly. "She used the word 'fail' as a noun."
 
"Can anyone tell me why what Kimberly did was wrong?"
 
Stackleford offers a response, like a sullen child repeating things learned by rote: "only faggots and weeaboos talk that way."
 
"Thank you, Stackleford. I hope all of us are learning valuable lessons. Anime club is a growth experience."
 
Stepping stealthily behind her, you pull Cerise's panties from your pocket and hold them against her back so that no one else in the club can see them. "I think these are yours," you say.
 
Cerise's eyes bulge. "Put those away," she says in a low voice. "If they see those-- I swear to god, you little ass goblin--" The other club members gawk at her.
 
"We need to talk," you tell her. "I figured this would get your attention."
 
Slowly, awkwardly, Cerise stands from her seat so that the panties remain concealed from view between your bodies. You lead her out into the hall like someone being held at gunpoint. "Be right back, you guys!" Cerise chirps, uncharacteristically cheery.
 
In the hall, Cerise wheels around and grabs for the soiled undergarments. You jerk them back out of her reach.
 
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Cerise demands. "And why didn't you give those to Damon? Are you trying to get expelled?"
 
"I got a pair of Vivian's panties to give him instead," you say. You let that sink in with Cerise. She shakes her head mutely, unable to comprehend, and you decline to explain further.
 
"Do you know what those weebs would do if they saw a pair of my panties?" Cerise hisses. "I'd be done for. I'd never hear the end of it."
 
"Guess the circle of shame works both ways, then."
 
"I will shit in your eyesockets! I swear to god, Alabaster!"
 
She grabs again for the panties but you pivot and feint right. She falls for it every time.
 
"Goddamn it," she says. "What the hell do you want? Spit it out if it's so important."
 
[ ] I want to join anime club.
[ ] Since when are you an otaku?
[X] What was up with last night?
 
Cerise looks at you like you just sprouted feathers. When she finally manages to speak, all the anger drops out of her voice. The emotion that replaces it is much harder to peg.
 
"I don't know," she says, looking away. "you fucked your slut girlfriend right in front of me. What kind of person has sex in front of their older sister?"
 
"Were you--"
 
"I wasn't doing anything! So what if I was?" Cerise shouts, almost incoherent. So it's confirmed, then. "And anyway, since when is that little scissor sister hot for dick?"
 
You laugh. "Since she got a look at mine."
 
Cerise is back to her old self again. She catches you off guard and clutches onto her panties, but you keep your grip tight on the other end.
 
"Give those back, you fucking sperger!" she cries.
 
You get into tug of war that sends you spinning laterally down the hall like two ends of a fan blade.
 
"Why?" you yell, growing dizzy. "So you can flick your bean into them some more?"
 
"They're mine to do with as I see fit! Don't you have enough cum rags of your own? Or do you have a thing for crossdressing now?"
 
Tumbling, shouting, a pair of soiled panties stretched taut between you, you and Cerise crash into a girl leading what looks like a delegation of teenage librarians. It's the student council. You just bowled down their president.
 
A pair of khaki-wearing toadies appear at either side of the President and help her to her feet. No such aid comes for you or Cerise.
 
"Motherfuuuucker," Cerise groans from beside you, rubbing her head. "I did not need to whang my face on tile today..."
 
"Are you all right?" one of the student council members asks the President. Her earnestness could make you puke.
 
"I'm just fine, thank you," the President says, dusting herself off. "Just a little bump. Nothing's hurt, thank goodness."
 
You stand, swaying, and stare at the girl until your vision uncrosses and you can get a better look. She wears a plain beige outfit like the rest of the council, Hitler Youth-esque, long pleated skirt and heels, conservative blouse, old-lady glasses. Yet despite this frumpy getup, she's a bombshell.
 
It's Rose Mallory, the youngest student council president in North High history. Barely a sophomore now, she got elected to the position last year through relentless campaigning and cronyism. At five foot zilch, she looks like a fleshier, compacted version of a taller girl. Come to think of it, she could pass for Vivian Darkbloom's doppelganger from an alternate timeline.
 
"What are those doing here?" Rose asks with distaste in her voice, pointing at the panties on the floor. Next to the panties is a clipboard she dropped in the scuffle. She picks it up and begins making a series of ominous sounding ticks as Cerise finally rights herself.
 
Gravely, Rose says, "I was checking in on all the student-run organizations to see how they operate... there are some changes in policy coming down the turnpike. This is-- let's see-- the... ah-nee-may club? You're Cerise Solilioquy, faculty adviser?" Cerise nods dumbly. "I don't imagine I have to explain how unbecoming this appears," Rose says.
 
"It's this little pervert's fault," Cerise grunts, pointing at you. "He needs to have his teeth kicked in."
 
"Please don't speak like that," Rose says. "Some people may find such language triggering."
 
Cerise, having graduated before Rose's reign or terror, has no clue who she's dealing with. But you do. Before you can give Cerise a whispered warning, more bad timing strikes. Whitney comes marching down the hallway.
 
"Alabaster, Alabaster, lazy lazy bastard~" she chants in sing-song as she goosesteps down the hall. When she finally sees Rose and the student council, she freezes.
 
"Oh, hello, Whitney," Rose says.
 
"Hi," Whitney says back, her voice now icy.
 
"Keeping up the grade point average?" Rose asks, examining her nails. "We don't want to lose our soccer team's star player."
 
"I'm doing fine," Whitney glowers.
 
"Keep it that way." Rose turns to Cerise. "Ms. Soliloquy, speaking on behalf of the student council, I'd like you to please step aside for a private conversation. Now I'll cut right to the chase. There have been some... allegations."
 
Rose walks with Cerise down the hall where you can't overhear. Whitney gives you a look that says she would rather be anywhere else on Earth than right here. You can't help but agree.
 
[ ] The soccer field
[X] The school rooftop
 
Whitney goes for the soccer field to return to the practice currently in session. You decline to follow. But when you break away from her to trudge upstairs, she calls after you.
 
"Ally!~"
 
You don't respond.
 
"Hey! The soccer field's through here! Aren't you coming to practice?"
 
"I'm not a soccer player," you say, entering the stairwell. "I never was." Whitney trots quickly behind you up the stairs.
 
"Of course you are. That's the deal, remember?"
 
"The deal for what? For being my bodyguard? You've been the worst guard possible. Vivian cornered me today. I could have been killed."
 
"Stop being such a drama queen," Whitney says. But then, almost as an addendum and sounding worried: "what did she do?"
 
"She gave me her panties."
 
You step out onto the roof. Whitney is dazed, but after a few moments the realization washes over her face. "For Damon," she says.
 
"Can't slip anything past you."
 
Whitney slugs you in the shoulder. You let the force of it push you back but otherwise don't respond. "Geez," Whitney says. "Who pissed in your cereal?"
 
You lie down on the gravel. "I'm just tired," you say.
 
Whitney sits down cross-legged next to you. She picks at the pebbles for a few moments and everything is quiet. Then out of the blew, she purrs: "That was hot... last night, I mean. Don't you think?"
 
"It was rape," you say.
 
Whitney groans like she just heard a bad joke. "Please," she says. "You wanted it just as bad as me."
 
"You're a crazed rapist who needs to be removed from society."
 
"You consented to it, assmunch. You splattered your consent all over my insides. I'm still trailing your consent down my legs." She rolls over so that she's lying on top of you, just like last night. She sticks her tongue out playfully.
 
You glower. "Maybe I should rape you back, to show you how it feels."
 
"Maybe you should~"
 
You huff.
 
"Are you worried about pregnancy?" Whitney asks, with no teasing in her voice now. "I used my lunch period to get some Plan B over at the Costco. Isn't medical science wonderful? -- I even took two in case it was twins."
 
Sometimes, you wonder how Whitney is capable of dressing herself in the morning.
 
"Thanks for consulting me."
 
"Maybe I won't next time. Maybe I'll let the fucker gestate. Hmm?"
 
She kisses you and you do your best not to return it, but can't help yourself. The idea of what she just said is -- not unpleasant.
 
"My sister saw everything," you tell her.
 
"I know," she said. "Wasn't it wild? She was playing with her cunt like it was the end of the world."
 
"You're demented."
 
"Let's be demented together."
 
"--Excuse me?"
 
"You have to take responsibility for me. You were my first too, you know. We're ruined for marriage."
 
"Not me. It doesn't count if it's rape."
 
"Ally~" her voice is silken. She trails kisses up and down your neck, stopping to suckle on your earlobe. "That's fine. You belong to me now. I'm keeping you as my rape slave, if that's how you want to be."
 
"Get off of me."
 
"Never."
 
"Whitney--"
 
"Let's fuck your sister, Ally."
 
"What."
 
"Let's fuck her. You and me. It's not cheating if we do it together. That'll be rule one. We can do whatever we want if it's together."
 
"I agree to nothing."
 
"Then it's settled."
 
A cloud passes over the sun and you wonder what you've gotten yourself into.
 
END OF EPISODE 3.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Goro in a gaijin's body and target of tomboy-perpetrated sexual violence. Compared to yesterday, the amount of sex you're having has increased by ∞%. There's definite room for improvement here.
 
Whitney fucks you again, the same way she did in the motel room, practically using you as a masturbation device more than a sexual partner. She just wraps her arms around your neck and humps you right there on the school rooftop in broad daylight, her shorts around her ankles, your hips smacking together lewdly. She leaves a spattering of cream on the front of you pants. You have to sheepishly cover it by holding your backpack over it as you limp home.
 
At home, your sister Cerise is watching television in the living room -- some insipid reality show. She wears an XXL tee like a long dress that you seriously doubt has anything beneath it. Your father is sitting in his leather recliner reading the sports section.
 
"Where were you?" Cerise interrogates from the couch as you pass by.
 
"None of your business," you say, exhausted.
 
Cerise sniffs at the air between you. "Were you boinking that dumb broad again?"
 
"What are you, some kind of cum-sniffing hound?" you sneer. Your father turns the page of his newspaper to the lifestyle section.
 
"It's pretty fucking obvious," Cerise says. "You smell like a French whorehouse. Don't you have any shame?"
 
You head upstairs, too tired to deal with her, but she follows close behind. Sensing that a conversation is inevitable, you try to steer it in a direction you prefer. "What happened with Rose?" you ask.
 
"The bitch wants me to come to a review panel this Saturday to decide if anime club is 'in line with North High codes of conduct and decorum.' Whatever the hell that means."
 
"And since when are you a weeaboo, anyway? I've been meaning to ask."
 
"I'm not a weeaboo, you mongoloid." She slams her palm flat against the wall and stares you down, face just centimeters away. "And that's why I need to talk to you. No one can know about this. Especially mom and dad."
 
"Of course not," you say. "Mom's opinion of you would go down the drain if she found out you like the same Chinese rape cartoons her failure of a son does."
 
"I'm serious. Unlike you, I have a reputation to uphold."
 
"Is this where you ask me for life counseling?" Cerise jams a foot on your toes. "Oof-- Christ. What reputation do you need to worry about, exactly? You lie around the house drunk all day. As far as I can tell your only friends are those other weebs in anime club."
 
"You are such a worthless cocksucker."
 
You pull away from her and bound into her room, feeling somehow emboldened. "So what's the big secret with this shelf?" you ask, tugging at the sheet that covers Cerise's closely-guarded bookcase. As she dashes into the room behind you, her eyes bulge.
 
The sheet falls away. Sitting on it is -- a collection of anime merch? Impossibly perverted sexual paraphenalia? Neither. It's just a bunch of electrical components. Simple circuits and breadboards, wire, various tools; the parts appear to be pulled mostly from children's toys, some of which lie splayed open and augmented like plastic Frankenstein's monsters. One Furby has been skinned and a whole transforming station's worth of wire is spooling from its black plastic casing.
 
"...Should I even ask?" you ask.
 
"No," Cerise confirms. She picks the sheet up and covers the bookcase again.
 
You turn to face each other.
 
"Look," Cerise says. "I hate to ask you -- of all people. But you're honestly the best candidate. I need a student to represent the anime club at my review panel."
 
"Don't even think about it," you stop her. "I went to anime club more as an atrocity tourist than as a real member."
 
"Please," Cerise says. It's the first time you can recall her ever saying this word to you and meaning it. "Don't make me ask Stackleford."
 
[ ] I'll do it.
[X] Beg for it.
[ ] Nope.
 
You shrug, laughing cruelly. "If it means so much to you, then beg for it."
 
Cerise stares at you, uncomprehending. "What."
 
"On your knees, preferably."
 
"You're sick. You don't even realize how sick you are."
 
"Well-- suit yourself. I know I wouldn't want Stackleford being my advocate."
 
Cerise takes an empty can of Pringles from her computer desk and throws it at you, whanging you on the head. "I'd rather choke to death on Stackleford's greasy dick than beg you for anything!"
 
You leave Cerise's room, nursing a bump on the head and a wounded ego.
 
Dinner is some kind of pork concoction, the specifics of which you'd rather not know anything about.
 
"When are you going to get a job?" your mother asks as she serves. "Your sister already has one doing volunteer work at the school."
 
Cerise kicks you under the table as a way of pre-warning you not to let anything slip. You grin at her, knowing full well you hold all the cards.
 
"A job is the opposite of volunteer work," you say, spinning your fork lazily through lumpy potatoes. "I know you don't do much reading, but your vocabulary needs some work."
 
"Alabaster!" Cerise says in faux shock, holding a hand to her mouth. "That's our mother you're speaking to!"
 
"He's a mean little twerp," your mother says. "I wouldn't even let him eat if there wasn't so much food. I always make too much." She glances over to where dad is reading the movie reviews in front of his untouched plate. "Dear, it's going to get cold."
 
Cerise gives you the tiniest hint of a smile across the table -- her way, perhaps, of thanking you for not hinting what her "volunteer" work entails, or that it may soon end.
 
"You stink like cum," mom observes over a bite of food. Why is every woman in this family such a hose beast?
 
 
You sleep uneasily that night.
 
Whitney calls you at 5:30 AM to go running, which you blow off. A little after dawn, it's Whitney who barges into your room to wake you instead of Cerise.
 
"Come on, dick-for-brains~" she sings.
 
"I told you yesterday," you groan, rolling over and burying your head into your pillow. "I'm done with soccer."
 
"No-o-o, you're not," Whitney insists, shaking you by the shoulder. You undulate back and forth like someone out at sea. When Whitney actually starts to sing the "good morning" song, you can't take it anymore.
 
You sit up. "Where do you get all this energy from?" you ask. Then: "wait a second, why are you in my room?"
 
"A girl can't be in her boyfriend's bedroom?" she pouts.
 
You massage the bridge of your nose. "You can rape me all you like, but you can't force me to be your boyfriend. I have standards."
 
Whitney grabs your hand away from your face and pins it to the headboard. When you try to use your other hand to pull her away, she pins that one, too.
 
"Can you get away from me?" she asks.
 
You pull, but her muscles flex and keep you firmly in place. You give a couple more half-hearted tugs but realize it's useless.
 
Whitney leans in close, her breath smelling of peppermint and hot against your ear. "Looks like I can force you to do anything I want, then."
 
[ ] Fine, you win. I'll go running if you fuck me first.
[ ] Go away, will you?
[X] Custom: Go away/Assert dominance
 
"Go away, will you?"
 
"Ally, you seem upset. Was Cerise mistreating you again last night? I think you need some sex-u-al healing. Now, don't you want a nice hard locker room fucking with your old pal Whitney?"
 
"No--"
 
"Just think about it. Our sore and sweaty bodies slamming up against each other, your dick pumping me full of--"
 
"I don't want you using me like a dildo that just happens to be attached to someone's body."
 
"Whine, whine, wine," Whitney hums. "It won't save you."
 
You haul back and -- without realizing what you're about to do -- headbutt her. Whitney goes tumbling down, falling to your floor with a thud.
 
"Owww! What the FUCK, Ally?" She stands up. You leap out of bed so that you face one another from opposing sides. The two of you circle and strafe a bit, like two feral animals in a death battle.
 
"You're frisky today~"
 
"You want to fuck me? Then we fuck on my schedule," you say. "Not yours."
 
"Such fire! Such passion! I can tell you really believe that!"
 
Whitney lunges across the bed for you and you dodge her deftly. She lands in a pile of ratty t-shirts.
 
"I'm not running today," you tell her. "Let me sleep. If you're horny, you can wait."
 
Whitney stands again and approaches you slowly. Her hips -- if you can call those things hips -- sway. You try not to wilt under her penetrating gaze. She wraps her arms around you, making sure you can feel the strength hidden in them, and smiles.
 
"I can wait," she says lowly. "But not for long..." She licks the entire length of your face as you squirm and try to turn away in her grip. And then she goes.
 
The school day passes with something resembling normalcy. Cerise even wakes you up the second time around. Whether she heard the commotion with Whitney, you can't tell. She treats you the way she always does when she wakes you up: like dog shit.
 
In class, Vivian sits far away from you. She doesn't even glance in your direction. She just stares out the window, chin resting in her palm, looking pensive. Was she serious about her promise to leave you alone? It's hard to imagine. Maybe David has more control over her than you imagined he might.
 
After home room, Mr. Langley the Quiz Bowl coach corners you. "The second practice is tomorrow. Are you going to come?" He has the tone of a father concerned about his son's recent bad behavior.
 
"I'll be at the competition next week," you say, dodging the question.
 
"Alabaster, your skills are going to wither up and die if you don't practice. Practice is the key to success. What has gotten into you? I won't lie -- Vivian is great, but she has holes in certain categories that you always excelled in. The team needs both of you. Please say you'll come."
 
[X] Yeah. Sure.
[ ] Not if Vivian's there.
 
Mr. Langley actually hugs you. It's weird.
 
At lunch, Whitney texts you:
 
>"I want to smell you cum in your pants."
 
You avoid anywhere you think she might be today.
 
In biology, Ms. Carte is almost 20 minutes late, which has become a ritual for her. Her assistant, Spancer -- not Spencer, Spancer, the fucker's name is actually Spancer -- sits next to you. He starts quaking like a little girl at the sight of Ms. Carte. He's over six feet and 250 pounds, but he seems genuinely afraid of her.
 
Moreover, you think he has a black eye that's been hastily covered with makeup -- but that could just be from football practice, right? And yet, why would he cover up a sports injury with makeup?
 
Stackleford has this class with you -- unfortunately. He sits on your other side. Bored enough to make small talk with him, you lean in and whisper: "what's up with Spancer?"
 
"Dunno," Stackleford says. "Nigger's been all weird around Ms. Carte ever since she took him on as an assistant."
 
"Could she be abusing him? Did Whitney ever tell you about how Ms. Carte is--"
 
"Those rumors? I don't believe all that stuff. Someone says 'oh no, here comes a pedophile' and then you turn around and see a woman... it's like, what is this, the WNBA?"
 
"Then what's got Spancer so traumatized?"
 
"No clue. Do you think sex with that goddess would traumatize YOU? I'd give anything to get all up in that sweet-ass pussy."
 
Ms. Carte raps her knuckles on your desk. You turn, abashed. "Is there something you two would like to share with the class?" she asks.
 
You shake your head no. Ms. Carte frowns. "Then let's try to pay attention, okay?"
 
She goes back to her seat and starts lecturing again. "Now-- where were we. Ah, yes. The black widow spider. What you know of as black widows are actually the female of the species. The males are much smaller and weaker. After sex, the female kills him..."
 
You let her voice become part of the background and drift off into daydreams.
 
After class, Ms. Carte stops you on your way out. "Alabaster," she says. "I need to speak to you."
 
You gulp. Thankfully, Stackleford sticks around too.
 
Now there's a sentence you never thought you'd say.
 
"I'll cut to the chase," Ms. Carte says. "I know you stole a car from school the other night."
 
You start to deny it, but Ms. Carte cuts you off. "Damon told me everything."
 
"Ooooh," Stackleford chants like an accusing child. "You're in troooo-oouble."
 
"I'll cut to the chase a second time," Ms. Carte says. "I think you're in danger. Stackleford -- you too."
 
You and Stackleford glance at each other warily.
 
"Vivian is a dangerous girl," Ms. Carte continues. "I should know."
 
So that's it, then. Like Rome, all roads lead back to Vivian.
 
"Boys, there's a change to school policy coming and so I'm starting an after school club to help make the transition. I think you'd be safest if you stayed near me as much as possible. Join the club."
 
[X] Okay... tentatively.
[ ] No.
 
"Excellent," she says. Did she just lick her lips? "Here's an information flyer to let you know what it's about. The club activities are actually quite interesting. We meet five days a week."
 
The flyer has a series of questions on it:
 
>-Have you ever wondered if the human body could be... something more?
>-Something better?
>-Something other than merely human?
 
>If so, join North High's Transhumanism Club! Your AP Biology teacher, Renee Denise Carte, MD, PhD, presiding. Dr. Carte has ten years of experience as a researcher in the field and brings that expertise to bear on club discussions, projects, and other activities. By the end of the school year, you'll even have a simple augmentation! (pending doctor's approval and parental permission if a minor). Do not need to be a student in AP Biology to join. All students welcome.
 
The flyer has other miscellaneous info and pictures in it, including one of a much younger Ms. Carte from her days as a researcher, adding some brightly colored chemicals through an eyedropper to a vial full of white liquid. Other pictures on the flyer include stock photos of hear devices, bionic limbs, etc. It's actually kind of a low-rent design; obviously something she threw together herself.
 
"See you there," Ms. Carte purrs.
 
"Maybe," you add.
 
You leave the room not sure what to think.
 
You couldn't avoid her forever. Whitney catches up with you after school, still stinking like gasoline from her last-period auto shop. She wears an oil-stained tank and spats. "So glad to be out of that garage," she says. "It's like an oven in there during the afternoon."
 
She pushes you up against the wall, raising one knee to fondle your crotch. "Have you thought some more about what we talked about on the roof?"
 
"What do you mean?" you play dumb.
 
"Your sisterrrr," she says, frustrated, nuzzling your neck. "All I could think about all day was watching your cum dripping out of her."
 
"Jesus Christ," you say. "What's gotten into you?"
 
"I don't know," Whitney admits. "That night in the motel room changed the way I looked at her, you know?"
 
"I really don't. Your psychotic mind is inscrutable."
 
"I want to make her eat me out while you rim her."
 
"Don't you have soccer practice to be going to?"
 
"Not today." She pulls back to look you in the eye. "And actually, my algebra assignment is due tomorrow. You were supposed to help me."
 
[X] Yes.
[ ] No.
 
You take her to the library. You may be a douche, but you're a man of your word nonetheless. Plus -- anything to get her mind off sex. Or at least off sex with Cerise.
 
You and Cerise may be relatively shameless around one another, but she's still your older sister. You're not sure if can deal with the idea of fucking her. And with Whitney joining in, no less? ...
 
Things are moving too quickly. You need to find a way to distract Whitney from Cerise before she does something that can't be taken back.
 
"Over here," Whitney directs, leading you by the hand to a small desk in the back of the library.
 
Surprisingly enough, the study session goes smoothly. For the most part. Whitney is mindbendingly dumb, after all -- she can't wrap her head around the fact that a negative times a negative makes a positive. She also seems to be laboring under the impression that imaginary numbers are variously "fake," "gay," or "fucking fake and gay" -- depending on when you ask. In any case, she refuses to work with them.
 
"Try to keep up," you chide as she chews on her pencil's eraser. "Your arithmatic is great but you can't solve an algebraic expression to save your life. Are you sure you graduated elementary school?"
 
"Shut up," Whitney says. "It's like I said before, who needs this shit?"
 
"Not you," you admit. "You're on a fairly straight vector to a life in the service industry."
 
It's actually a pretty normal interaction with her, for once. But as you finish up the assignment, Whitney leans in and whispers: "I think we're alone, Ally."
 
Whitney reaches underneath the desk to molest you through your jeans.
 
"We're in public," you say. "Even you can't be this stupid. What if we get caught?"
 
"Everyone's gone for the day."
 
You reach under the desk to pull her hand away, but she swats at you. You get into a blind, uncoordinated hand-slapping match underneath the desk that feels more like playing patty-cake than fighting to maintain your purity.
 
"Oh stop being such a baby about it," Whitney says. "I'm going to jerk you off and you're going to like it."
 
"I'm going home."
 
"Your mouth says no, but your body..." It's true. She lays a hand on your erection. It strains against the denim of your pants, throbbing painfully. "Did you get my text?" she asks.
 
"We're going to wind up as registered sex offenders at this rate."
 
Her ministrations continue undeterred. In fact, they seem to speed up. You're not fighting it anymore.
 
"We'll have to alert the neighbors whenever we move somewhere new," you say.
 
"When we move somewhere together, you mean?" Whitney purrs.
 
"What? No-- not together, I mean separately--"
 
You grit your teeth as Whitney unzips your jeans. "Have you lost your mind?" you hiss. But Whitney has already disappeared underneath the desk.
 
You feel the cool library air around your cock as she frees it. Then the sensation of rushing air as she buries her nose against your glans and inhales as deeply as she can.
 
"I feel a little dizzy..." comes her muffled voice.
 
You can't help yourself: you scoot your chair back to look down at what she's doing. The chair makes a loud squeak on the floor that you wince at. You look around, helpless, trying to see if anyone was alerted. You see no one else around.
 
"Cum on my face, Ally."
 
You close your eyes and shiver. Whitney uses both hands to massage you. Her grip is a little bit too soft, like she thinks she might break it, which just makes it all the more maddening. Her hands are callused, yet smooth, and searingly hot. She stares at your cock like it's a religious relic.
 
You try to say something, but all that comes out are breathy gasps. "Are you close?" Whitney asks. "Are you going to blow?"
 
"God, Whitney--"
 
You feel a thrill in your gut. Whitney's palm clasps around the head of your dick as you erupt, trapping the load between her fingers. She stands, leaving you to fumble frantically and zip yourself back up.
 
The fun over, reality hits you again. "What if someone saw?" you ask.
 
"I told you," Whitney says, tipping her head back and letting your cum ooze slowly onto her tongue in ropes. "We were alone. You're too paranoid."
 
She licks her fingers clean and then kisses you on the lips.
 
"Thanks for the help, Ally." She gathers her things and goes.
 
You sit in the library for a long time, trying to think of a way to control Whitney's increasingly erratic behavior.
 
An idea begins to form in your head. It's pure insanity, but --
 
--And plus, who would deserve something like that?--
 
It could work, though. With the right person. Vivian? Not an option for various reasons -- her father's money chief amongst them. You decide to put the concept on the back burner while you try to keep Whitney sated in other ways.
 
---
 
"That limey bastard ratted us out?" Cerise screams back at home when you tell her the news.
 
"Only to Ms. Carte. I dunno, she probably beat it out of him or something."
 
"I'll murder him," Cerise says. Then: "I'll murder you too, for dragging me into this bullshit."
 
"I just thought you should know," you say, turning to leave her room. "With your review panel coming up and all. I don't want you to have any surprises. Sorry for doing you a favor."
 
"Thanks," Cerise harrumphs, turning her attention back to her PC monitor. "Oh, and the next time you blow a load in your boxers, have the decency to change them. They can smell you in Beijing."
 
The next morning, there's a mandatory pep rally in the gymnasium. After 30 stultifying minutes of the band's off-key brass section assaulting your ears, followed by the cheerleading squad's inept gyrations -- how the hell did someone like Kimberly become a cheerleader? -- the student council takes the dais. Rose is the keynote speaker, surrounded by her retinue of samefaced cronies.
 
"Quiet!" Rose bellows in a voice that barely sounds human. All sound gets sucked from the room like someone vacuumed it out. "Thank you," she says, smiling, her voice honey-sweet again.
 
"As some of you know," Rose says, "there are changes coming to school policy." She outlines a few of these -- stricter dress code, more nutritious lunches -- while you steal glances at Vivian, just a few seats away. You'll have to face her at Quiz Bowl in just a few hours. Will she maintain her facade of disinterest? IS it just a facade?
 
You try not to think about it.
 
"Moreover," Rose's voice echoes over the microphone. "We are changing how student-run organizations operate. We want to foster an environment of inclusion and trust. To that end, certain... problematic... organizations will be disbanded, pending review." She looks in your direction.
 
"And we are also making participation in after-school clubs mandatory. All students must join at least one club, and attend club meetings every day of the school week." There's a chorus of groans to this. "SILENCE!" Rose bellows again, and gets the silence she wants.
 
"This is for your own good, you know. The change takes effect on Monday. You must sign up for clubs today. There will be a posting board outside the cafeteria during lunch time that you can peruse at your leisure. There are many new clubs forming to help this policy work. Let's all thank our hard-working teachers for making it possible and volunteering to be faculty advisers."
 
Over in the teachers' section, the teachers look as unenthusiastic as the students. All except Ms. Carte.
 
That afternoon is the moment of truth. You take a few deep breaths outside of the Quiz Bowl practice room, knowing what awaits you inside. Whitney offered to come, but you declined -- you don't want her making this into any more of a sepctacle, and you need to face Vivian alone.
 
Inside, it's worse than you expected. Not only is Vivian there, sitting at a long table in front of one of the red Quiz Bowl buzzers -- Rose is sitting along the far wall, clipboard in hand.
 
"This is our star player!" Mr. Langley shouts to Rose, leaping to his feet and grabbing you by the shoulder.
 
"We're acquainted," Rose says, calling to mind the incident with Cerise's panties the other day.
 
"Why is she here?" you ask.
 
"I'm just observing this club. I hear it's quite prestigious. Don't mind me -- I'm just a fly on the wall."
 
"Sit down, sit down," Mr. Langley ushers, directing you to a chair. The other Quiz Bowl members are here too: Tad, the math whiz; Gary, who still thinks mohawks are cool; Paula who looks more like a mouse than a person, and likes Jesus a little too much; and Hank, who's just Hank, seven feet and built like a brick shithouse. All of them sit in front of their own buzzer. You take a seat next to Hank, as far from Vivian as you can mange.
 
Quiz Bowl practice is simple. For two hours, Mr. Langley rattles off questions, and team members buzz in. The first to buzz in answers. Questions are worth 100-500 points, depending on difficulty, and if you get a question wrong, you lose points.
 
"Let's begin," Mr. Langley says.
 
[ ] Second thoughts.
[X] Let's do it.
 
"We can start with a few easy ones to warm up. Some of you have been out of practice for a little while." He gives you an accusing look.
 
"For 100 points: who was the only president to serve non-consecutive terms?"
 
You know this, and buzz in. But Vivian's buzzer is the one that sounds out -- she was faster.
 
"Grover Cleveland," she says.
 
"Correct!" Mr. Langley goes to the whiteboard and writes down "VIVIAN - 100".
 
"It was like this on Monday, too," Hank whispers. "She knows frickin' everything."
 
"For 100 points: members of the ursidae family are more commonly known as...?"
 
Vivian is quicker once again. "Bears," comes her instant reply.
 
"Correct!" Mr. Langley changes the score to VIVIAN - 200.
 
"For 100 points: how many times is Peter said to have denied Jesus?"
 
Not even Paula can beat Vivian to the buzzer. "Thrice," Vivian says.
 
"Correct!"
 
This is going to be a long day. After ten minutes, the score is VIVIAN - 1100, everyone else - 0. Mr. Langley looks at you uncertainly, flipping through some of his index cards.
 
"Ooh, here's a good one. For 500 points: which cartoon, created by Osamu Tezuka in 1952, became a national icon in Japanese culture?"
 
You buzz in. "Astro Boy," you say.
 
"Correct!"
 
Vivian yawns. "I don't know much about cartoons," she says. "Cartoons are for children."
 
This remains the only 500 points you score all day. By the end of Quiz Bowl, the score is VIVIAN - 10,300; ALABASTER - 500.
 
Near the end, Mr. Langley offers a math question worth 500 points: "What is the derivative of f(x) = x^x d/dy?"
 
He hands out slips of paper for you to write on, and everyone has thirty seconds. You write frantically, working it out as quickly as possible. Vivian doesn't even touch her paper. You buzz in first.
 
"x^x times quantity natural log of x plus one," you say triumphantly."
 
"Incorrect," Mr. Langley says. He erases your score.
 
Vivian buzzes in instantly. "Zero," she says.
 
"Correct!"
 
Vivian smiles at you in a way that says: "I knew you would fuck it up, and I let you."
 
"Well..." Mr. Langley says. "I think that's all for today."
 
Behind you, Rose is scribbling something on her clipboard. You wish you could die.
 
You leave the Quiz Bowl room before anyone has a chance to speak to you -- least of all Vivian. But she catches up to you in the next hallway over.
 
"I won," she says simply.
 
"I let you win," you lie. "Are you happy now?"
 
"You failed to deliver your essence yesterday. I was forced to resort to alternate means."
 
"I don't even know what you're talking about. You need to go on risperdal or something."
 
"I'm glad I was able to show you my superiority. I wish you had been more of a challenge."
 
You're surprised at how even-headed she is about this. "Why me?" you ask.
 
"It's of no importance anymore. It turned out that you're worse than worthless. You're basically not human. You certainly don't have the intelligence of one. Where is Alabaster I knew three years ago?"
 
"Three years ago? I never met you before the first day of class, when you started to go fucking schizo on me."
 
"Will you admit now, and truthfully, that you are nothing compared to me?"
 
"Ahem--" comes a voice from behind. You turn. It's Rose.
 
Vivian turns too, giving Rose an appraising glance, sizing her up. They stand at the exact same height: Vivian pale and frail, Rose peachy and healthy.
 
"Are you menacing this poor boy?" Rose asks, her hands clasped neatly in front of her.
 
"This is none of your concern. Go play bureaucrat somewhere else."
 
"Micro-aggression like this fosters an environment of fear. I will not tolerate that on school grounds. Cease and desist at once."
 
Vivian pokes Rose in the forehead. "You are nothing to me. Just some low-class drone with delusions of grandeur. I can crush you like an ant if I want."
 
Rose smiles warmly, her face registering no shock and certainly no fear. Vivian starts to say something else, but her voice gets cut off in a choking gasp when Rose grabs her by the throat and pins her against the lockers.
 
There is no loud bang or other sounds of scuffle -- the couple of students passing by don't even notice what has happened -- but there is no mistaking that Rose has, with one swift motion, overpowered Vivian. Her hand grips Vivian's lily-white neck dangerously tight.
 
"Your billions will not help you here," Rose says. "This is my turf. I make the rules. Stay away from Alabaster."
 
Rose steps back, and Vivian falls to all fours. She clutches at her neck and coughs.
 
Rose looks up at you, as if expecting you to say something. "I don't know what to say," you admit.
 
"You'll have time to thank me later," Rose says. Her cheshire grin makes you shudder. She goes, her heels echoing down the hall.
 
That night, you have trouble sleeping. Whitney hasn't contacted you all day, which you find worrying -- what is she planning? And the humiliation at Quiz Bowl is another matter. You feel like you could vomit.
 
As you lie tossing and turning in bed, you hear your door open softly. It isn't the usual boisterousness with which Cerise breaks into your room, but when you steal a glance toward the threshold, you can see from her silhouette in the light of the hallway that it's her.
 
You pretend to be asleep as she shuts the door behind her. She walks gently over to your bed and sits down.
 
"Alabaster," she says. You don't reply. "Alabaster."
 
She sighs. There's a long pause, then: "I'm begging you."
 
"What?" You say instantly, unable to stop yourself.
 
"I'm begging you. Okay? I tried to call Stackleford to ask him to come to my review panel tomorrow morning. But I could smell him over the fucking phone. He can't represent the club. He says the word nigger like a normal person says hello. So I'm out of options. I don't want anime club disbanded. Please help me. If you get off on knowing that I'm begging you, then fine. This club is all I have."
 
[X] Okay.
[ ] No.
 
"Welll-- if you beg a little more..."
 
Cerise slugs you in the dark.
 
"Fine, fine," you say. "Let me sleep, then, instead of assaulting me. When do we have to be there?"
 
"10 AM," Cerise says. "And your ass better be up and ready by 9. And for the love of God, wear something clean for once in your life."
 
She stands and goes, but stops herself at the threshold. "Thank you," she says in a soft voice, as if she doesn't really want you to hear, and then shuts the door behind her.

--------

The review panel is in the gym. You wait outside with Cerise while another club defends their existence. At 10 AM, as the Napping Club files out with their heads bowed low, you can tell the news probably isn't great.

A polo-wearing student council thug pokes his head out of the gymnasium doors. "Next," he grunts. "Anime Club. Let's go, we don't want to keep Rose waiting."

You walk in.
 
The panel is set up like a courtroom, the student council sitting at high benches surmounted by pedestals, with Rose sitting like a queen on the throne at the center. The council flips through notes and exchanges files with one another while you and Cerise stand before them.
 
"Ah-nee-may Club," Rose says, looking at her files. "Tell me a little about yourselves."
 
Cerise gives it the best spin possible: appreciating Japanese culture through the viewing of animated television shows and film.
 
"Points for diversity," says one of the student council members.
 
Rose frowns.
 
"I've been doing some research into ahh-ne-may," Rose says. "Let's set aside your imprudent hijinks during club hours with... soiled undergarments."
 
You wince.
 
"These-- Japanese cartoons, are they not prime exemplars of R-word culture?"
 
You wince again.
 
"Do they not portray a world where men reign supreme, and women are at their every beck and call? Do they not portray women and girls as weak, submissive, even childlike in comparison to the dominant male?"
 
Nods of approval from the rest of the council. They all look very serious.
 
"That's not true," Cerise insists. "In fact, the show we're watching now is just the opposite of that! NeeKyu is about a main character who can't do anything right on his own, and needs his sister to come save him. The male lead is incompetent, and surrounded by capable women!"
 
"And yet," Rose says, flipping through her notes, "at the end of this series, the male lead has intercourse with more than one of the girls?"
 
"Explicitly so," one of the female council members chimes in.
 
"Well yes, but--" Cerise starts.
 
"So is not the message here that even strong-willed, independent women are nonetheless powerless to resist any man -- even an incompetent, ineffectual, weak-willed dog like Nee-kee-you's main character?"
 
"That's not it at all," Cerise fumes. "You don't understand..."
 
[X] Make your impassioned defense.
[ ] Wait.
 
"If I can speak--" you start, stepping forward.
 
"Please do," Rose says. "I'd like to hear from a club member."
 
"I know some series can seem a little seamy," you admit. "After all, a lot of anime is just for teenage boys to find sexy. A lot of these shows, they're fantasy worlds for inexperienced teenagers-- for losers who don't get any real social interaction-- losers sort of like me, I guess."
 
Cerise and Rose both look at you strangely.
 
"And you know me, Rose," you continue. "I'm harmless, right? Fantasy is all it amounts to."
 
"Dangerous fantasies," Rose says.
 
"--But a lot of shows can be progressive, too. NeeKyu isn't the best example. Maybe you should watch the films of Miyazaki -- so many of those are about young girls finding inner strength and succeeding in a dangerous world -- or NGE, where the heroines are brave and strong, and the males are variously evil or stupid, and not one of them gets fu-- I mean, there isn't any explicit sex-- and shows like Monster offer mature, serious depictions of popular genres like film noir, comparable to any well-produced movie-- and..."
 
You continue like this for several minutes, listing as many mainstream, socially acceptable examples as you can ramble off the top of your head. Cerise looks both impressed at your argumentative abilities and your conviction.
 
At the end, you ask: "and as for you-- all of you, have *any* of you seen *any* of these shows?"
 
"I used to watch Pokemon," one of the student council members offers. Rose gives him a displeased look.
 
"Then how can you condemn us? Instead, please come to anime club on Monday. We can show you what we're all about. Right, Cerise?"
 
"Yes. Yes, that sounds good," Cerise agrees. "Drop in and observe us."
 
Rose appears to think for a few moments.
 
"Perhaps," is all she will say, but something in her voice seems changed. "Now please go. We will deliberate your case with due haste. Expect to hear from us on Monday."
 
Cerise spends the night on the phone with every member of the anime club, telling them how important it is that they be on best behavior come Monday.
 
"That means no fucking cosplay, or glomping, or fedoras--" a pause as she listens to the other end-- "No, Connor, you can't wear your fedora. No. No. Fuck you. I will burn it if I see it."
 
You sit on Cerise's bed and help her on particularly difficult calls. When she can't deal with Stackleford, she hands the phone to you. "Goddamn it, Stackleford. It's not okay to say nigger just because you went to the MLK memorial. I don't care if I'm 'crimping your style!' No, you can't say nigga, either! Shut up. Jesus. Shut up. I can still teach your mom how to search your internet history, you know."
 
And so it goes. By 10 PM, you're both wiped. After the last call, you fall back on Cerise's bed and sigh. "Why am I even doing this?" you wonder aloud.
 
"I guess your hatred of Rose outweighs your hatred of me," Cerise offers.
 
"I don't hate you." It came out so fast that you couldn't stop it. Cerise blinks. "I mean," you add, "just because you're family. So all I'm allowed is a baseline level of strong dislike."
 
"I strongly dislike you, too," Cerise says.
 
Somehow that feels like progress. Progress for what? You wonder.
 
END OF EPISODE 4
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, ahegao conjurer and ace attorney. After grandstanding in front of the student council president and (possibly) saving anime club, you've received a much-needed injection of self-confidence. But your trials are far from over.
 
That Sunday, you wake up to the sound of birds chirping as sunlight streams through the window. You're not used to your curtains letting so much light in. You swipe at your face and blink in post-sleep confusion.
 
That's when you realize you're lying in your sister's bed.
 
As if she had been waiting for you to wake up first, Cerise comes to as well. She flutters her eyelashes and writhes around a bit, stretching luxuriously. You watch her, heart stopped, frozen in place.
 
Finally, sensing a presence beside her, Cerise turns her head to face you. Her eyes are blurred and unfocused for a few seconds as she stares at you uncomprehendingly. Then the realization hits her, too.
 
The two of you leap from bed at the same time as if a bomb went off.
 
"What are you doing in my room?" Cerise shrieks. "You little pervert!"
 
"You knocked me out! You drugged me, didn't you! What sick, depraved things did you do to me?"
 
"Get out! Get out!"
 
"Whore of Babylon!" you cry as she pushes you toward her door. "Slattern harlot!"
 
She slams the door and locks it.
 
The truth of what happened is a lot less lurid than it first appeared. As you head downstairs, your memory of it slowly returns.
 
After your marathon session of calling the anime club members to warn them against acting spergy during Rose's visit, you and Cerise were both exhausted. You launched into a strategy meeting with her on what you should air this Monday, to give Rose the best impression of the club. A google search of "Spirited Away + feminism" indicated that you might get a good result from that or some other Miyazaki film. You and Cerise both memorized a few talking points to use on Rose during the movie.
 
With that settled, it was only natural to start making plans for the future of anime club -- even if that future was still in question. "We need to show something better than NeeKyu," you insisted. Of course, Cerise angrily shot down your suggestions to show Loli Baseball, Loli Bank Robbers, and Loli Convicts. It was like she had no capability to appreciate good plot.
 
Instead, you settled on some compromise choices. Salt&Fox was the show you were both the most enthusiastic about, so you scheduled that for the next slot in the lineup. Actually, it turned out that you and Cerise share more tastes in common than you thought -- her bias against moe notwithstanding. Somehow you ended up in an involved discussion on the state of the industry itself, and at some point you must have drifted off.
 
There's something else you and Cerise share in common too: slothfulness. It's 1 PM when you shuffle into the kitchen.
 
Today is a notorious ritual in the Soliloquy household: dessert-for-dinner Sunday. It's the day when mom goes all out and makes nothing but luscious cakes, decadent pies, chewy cookies -- and everyone in the house flirts with diabetic shock. Cerise is supposed to help her in the kitchen today like usual, but she doesn't come down. When you knock on her door, she won't answer.
 
"Is she sick or something?" Mom asks from the foot of the stairs, concerned.
 
You shrug. Whatever the case, it doesn't look like Cerise is coming out anytime soon.
 
"But how am I supposed to finish all of this on time?" Mom wonders out loud. "I need Cerise!"
 
[X] It can't be helped. I'll take Cerise's place in the kitchen today.
[ ] Gee, that sounds tough. Do your best.
 
Spending time with with kaa-san dearest isn't something you jump for joy to think about, but dessert-for-dinner Sunday is the highlight of your week. It's time to take one for the team.
 
"I guess I could help you out today, or something," you say -- and actually whistle a little bit to sound as nonchalant as possible.
 
Mom stares at you, obviously unconvinced. "Are you trying to tease me or something? Even for you, that's lame."
 
"I'm serious," you say. "I mean-- it's not like I like cooking with you, I just don't want to miss tonight's dinner."
 
The two of you stand in the foyer with your arms folded, unable to even look at each other for several minutes.
 
"W-well, if you insist," Mom says. "But you better not break anything!"
 
You follow her into the kitchen. She grabs an apron from the little coat rack next to the cupboard, tying it up over her sweater and jeans. "You take one too," she says.
 
The only apron left is a pink monstrosity with lacy embroidering that says "kiss the cook." You feel like a total girl wearing this thing.
 
Mom starts grabbing ingredients out of the cabinet. "I need you to make some fondue," she says, pulling out mixers and other implements. "I'll get started on the crusts."
 
You shake your head dumbly.
 
"A fondue. Don't you know how to make something so simple?" Your mom sighs. "I guess I'll have to teach you. It's such a pain to work with an idiot like you..."
 
"Don't call me an idiot, you pig. I'm not the one who dropped out of college."
 
"I did it for love! Something you obviously know nothing about!"
 
Things are off to a splendid start.
 
"Give me the chocolate, Alabaster."
 
You hand Mom a few boxes of semisweet chocolate. She adds it to the pan and lets it melt down, slowly stirring. "And with just a little cream, it becomes completely delicious," she says, summing it up. "Even a dullard like you should be able to make something this simple." She pours in the heavy cream.
 
Next, she rolls out some pie crusts, and you busy yourself with flipping through her recipe books to find the kind of pie that you'd prefer tonight. "I'm making three, so I'll let you choose one," Mom says. "But only one! And-- only because I can't decide..."
 
"This white chocolate meringue sounds good," you say.
 
Mom smiles to herself as she works the rolling pin. "That's my favorite," she hums. "Hey, do you know that Alabaster means 'white'?"
 
"Of course I know that. I'm the one with an actual education here."
 
She grimaces. "Excuse me for trying to make conversation with you! You won't catch me making that mistake again!"
 
She grabs some cubes of white chocolate from the cabinet. "White chocolate always makes me think of you," she says. Then, realizing herself, she quickly adds: "--which is why I usually don't make it..."
 
It continues like this for several hours. By evening, you actually have a pretty solid understanding of some simple cooking techniques. "We'll make a marriageable husband out of you yet," Mom says. "I'm sure there's some girl out there who'd be stupid enough to let you have them, as long as you learn a few basic skills..."
 
At 6 PM, like clockwork, the doorbell rings. It's Whitney. She never fails to show on dessert-for-dinner Sundays to mooch off of your mother's begrudging hospitality.
 
"Hey, assface~" Whitney says when you open the door. She looks at your flour- and chocolate-stained apron that says "kiss the cook." She shrugs, throws her arms around your neck, and kisses you wetly.
 
"Your parents are still starving you, I see," you say, pushing back after a few moments of lewdly mingling tongues. "So you've come here to steal off my table again?"
 
"You were helping your bitch mom cook tonight?" Whitney asks. "That's so sweet, Ally! You better learn a lot because I suck at cooking. We can't feed our kids McDonald's every night!"
 
"You're going to make me physically ill. I'd rather have children with a feral possum."
 
"Oh-- if it isn't the world's biggest hussy," comes Mom's voice behind you. She stares Whitney down.
 
"Hi Mrs. Soliloquy. I brought you a little gift tonight!"
 
She has. She hands Mom a bouquet of flowers. "They're just like you. They're full of thorns but they smell really sweet when you get up close!"
 
"These are horrid," Mom says. She goes into the kitchen and you hear the sound of something being tossed in the garbage. She comes back with the bouquet and an empty vase. "You're lucky I had an empty vase lying around to put these in," she says.
 
Only when dinner is served does Cerise finally come down from her room to eat. She sits next to you. Directly across from you is Whitney, and next to her, Dad -- absorbed as always in current events. And like usual, Mom sits at the head of the table.
 
"Thanks for dinner, Mrs. Soliloquy," Whitney says, digging into the meringue. "This is great."
 
Cerise picks at hers, looking pensive. What's gotten into her?
 
You spend much of dinner with a sick worry in your gut, wondering when Whitney is going to start acting lewdly. You know the looks she sometimes throws Cerise's way aren't wholesome. But the hammer never drops. It's just a normal dinner at the Soliloquy household -- except for Whitney kicking off one of her running shoes and rubbing your crotch under the table. She winks at you slyly but doesn't take it any further than that. After a couple minutes, she pulls her foot away.
 
"So what delinquency have you been involved in recently?" Mom asks Whitney.
 
Whitney laces her fingers behind her head, stretching her back. "Ohhh, you know-- same old, same old."
 
Cerise puts down her fork. "She's fucking Alabaster," she says. "Like a couple of animals, those two." Mom quirks an eyebrow at you.
 
[X] Yeah, she's fucking me.
[ ] Deny.
 
"Yeah. She's fucking me. Would you pass the fondue boat?"
 
Mom stares at you for several long moments and it's hard to read anything in her stony expression.
 
"Well?" you prompt. "Are you going to pass the fondue or not?"
 
She hands you the dish. "And here I thought you still had some decency left," she says. "Giving your virginity away to some skank, just like that..."
 
Whitney takes hold of your hand across the table. "Don't be like that, Mrs. Soliloquy. We really care about each other. Right, Ally?"
 
[X] Yeah.
[ ] Nah.
 
"I guess," you say. "Err-- it's not like I don't care about her at all. I'm not some low class philistine who has sex with just anyone. So I do care about her. But we're keeping our options open. Right, Whitney?"
 
She obviously didn't expect to have this thrown back onto her in this way. But after a couple surprised blinks, she smiles smoothly. "Yeah," she says. "It's what you might call an open relationship."
 
"Humph," Mom says, folding her arms and looking away. Cerise clicks her tongue against her teeth in disgust.
 
The only sound for the next few minutes is dad's paper ruffling as he slowly turns pages.
 
"A-anyway..." Mom says, breaking the long silence. "Cerise, how is work?"
 
"Oh, it's fine," Cerise says breezily. "I love working with the students. Sometimes they can be difficult, but showing them the proper way is rewarding..."
 
The rest of dinner passes normally. Or as normally as it can in the Soliloquy household.
 
Whitney calls you bright and early to run laps, as expected; you let it go to voicemail. Hopefully she'll take the hint -- if you want to meet up, you'll call her.
 
Cerise is the one who wakes you again at 8:00. She seems back to her old self. "I don't need you walking around like a fucking zombie at anime club today," she says. "So get up. And be ready for anything. I'm supposed to hear back from Rose at lunch..."
 
Class is a chore to get through. In home room, you see Mr. Langley your Quiz Bowl coach laughing and joking around with Vivian, the way he used to with you. It feels like being NTR'd. You try not to watch them.
 
Thankfully, Vivian stays away from you. Her neck is still deeply bruised where Rose held her.
 
Whitney sends you a text at lunch:
 
>"Coming to practice today??"
 
You don't reply. You have somewhere else to be. When you text Cerise to ask what the verdict is on anime club, there is no response.
 
You hurry to anime club after the final bell rings.
 
Everyone is in attendance, and they seem to be relatively well-behaved. Your phone calls on Saturday must have put the fear of God in them. You sit at the head of the room and wait nervously for Rose to arrive.
 
Cerise is late. You silently curse her, and worry that Rose will get here first. A tardy faculty adviser is not going to help your cause. The other club members start to whisper.
 
20 minutes after the official start of club time, Cerise finally shows. The club falls silent at her arrival, afraid of drawing her ire. She strolls to the center of the room and claps her hands together enthusiastically, as if she's about to announce a club trip to Comiket.
 
"Anime club is disbanded," Cerise says.
 
Worried sighs and murmurs at this. Cerise says nothing else. You stare at her in disbelief. Finally, Connor raises a gloved hand and asks, "why?"
 
"Apparently, one of you little shits tattled on me for showing pirated episodes," she sneers. She gives Fartin' Franklin an accusing look. "So the panel said they had no choice."
 
"The good news," Cerise continues, "is that Rose threw us a bone. If we become a cultural appreciation club, we can still operate. We'll be able to watch anime during club time, but we'll also have to take part in the school's culture fair. Also, we have to learn the language."
 
"That's great!" Kimberly offers. "I always wanted to learn nihongo!"
 
"Hmm?" Cerise asks, confused. Then: "Oh yeah. There's already a Japanese culturual appreciation club, and they hate our fucking guts. So, that's out."
 
She hauls a heavy cardboard box from underneath the desk, plopping it down on top with a heave. "Here's a bunch of Turkish-to-English dictionaries. Everybody take one, you're gonna need them. Welcome to Turkish Cultural Appreciation Club."
 
...This probably explains the presence of Fazil, North High's Turkish exchange student, in the back of the club room today. He fiddles with the tassle on his fez.
 
"I mean, who gives a shit about Turkey?" you ask Cerise after club time, strolling down the empty halls with her.
 
"Nobody," Cerise says. "That's the point. Nobody new is going to join the club expecting actual appreciation of Turkish culture."
 
"There's Fazil," you point out.
 
Cerise rubs the back of her head and laughs. "Yeah, I didn't know about him. It's too late to change the club now. He'll give us some legitimacy, though. We have to make Turkish food and shit for the culture fair in Spring. He can help us."
 
"He seemed awfully confused about what Spirited Away has to do with Turkey."
 
"He'll get used to it.Tomorrow we start NeeKyu again, since Rose and the nazis on student council are gonna leave us alone now."
 
Your heart sinks when you see Whitney round the corner. She runs up to you and Cerise. But far from making any untoward advances, she actually seems to be in a normal mood today.
 
"Sup, fuckface?" she asks. "Did you guys save nerd club?"
 
"Sort of," you say.
 
"Does that mean you can finally dedicate yourself to soccer?"
 
"Watching Alabaster try to play soccer would be flat depressing," Cerise says idly.
 
"Yeah. The answer is still no, Whitney."
 
Whitney wilts. "Ally, you promised..."
 
Cerise gives you a little shove. "Is that true? You promised her?"
 
"She was supposed to protect me from Vivian. That was the deal."
 
Cerise visors her brow with a flattened palm and pretends to search on the distance. "I don't see any Vivians around," she says. "You look pretty safe to me."
 
You check the time on your cell. Transhumanism club is still in session...
 
[ ] Fine, fine. You win; soccer with Whitney.
[X] I think I have another club meeting to get to.
 
You shake your head. "Ms. Carte has a new club I was thinking of joining. I'll catch you guys later."
 
Whitney looks positively heartbroken as you speed off. Cerise shrugs.
 
Inside Ms. Carte's AP Biology room, she's in the middle of a demonstration with a life-sized plastic statue of a skeleton. Some of the joints are outfitted with metal prostheses, which she indicates, each in turn. "This is the inception of transhumanism in a nutshell," she says. "Augmenting the human body with artificial parts to make it perform beyond its normal capabilities--" She notices you striding in and taking your seat.
 
"Alabaster," she says warmly. "I'm so glad you could make it. These first few meetings, we're having some very general discussions of the history and ethics of transhumanism before we begin our semester project."
 
She turns from the skeleton toward her desk, where there's a plastic kennel holding a brown rabbit.
 
"Alabaster -- since you weren't here at the beginning, let me introduce you to Smatters, the club's rabbit. By the end of the semester, she's going to be a bionic bunny." She puts her face against the plastic enclosure to look Smatters in the face. "Aren't you, Smatters? You fluffy little wuffy ball of--" she turns to face the club, looking suddenly abashed.
 
"Ahem. Right," she says, standing straight. "Then the second semester, we start augmenting ourselves. We're in for a wild ride." She hands you a pink slip. "So then. Go to your physician and get that signed as soon as possible. And also -- are you 18?"
 
"Yeah," you say.
 
"Wonderful," she purrs. "That means you don't need parental consent..."
 
The club isn't as exciting as Ms. Carte's flyer made it sound. She has an open forum for questions, which she answers with calm ease.
 
"No, Paula, I don't think Jesus would be against transhumanism at all... yes, Ryan, that's very perceptive -- it is sort of like a superhero movie. When I was a researcher..."
 
You're impressed at how much she knows. How did such an amazing scientist become a lousy public high school teacher?
 
You raise your hand and ask: "where did you research?"
 
"I went to school for biomedical engineering at CalTech," she says. "And did a residency at Johns Hopkins in Maryland. After that, I came back to California to do private research with David Darkbloom at Darkbloom Enterprises." You gulp. "He fired me after we had a... difference of opinion..." She gives you a very serious look that seems to be saying: take this openness as a token of trust -- trust me.
 
After club time is over, the students file out. You're first amongst them. But Ms. Carte holds you back.
 
"Alabaster," she says. "I need to speak with you."
 
You look around uneasily. There's no Stackleford to save you now.
 
"Fine. You want my time? I want answers," you tell her flatly, trying to sound tough. "I don't know what to think anymore. Everyhwere I go, Darkbloom's name turns up."
 
Ms. Carte folds her arms and leans against the desk. "I understand," she says. "All of this is happening so quickly, isn't it?"
 
"How is Vivian connected to all of this? How am I?"
 
Ms. Carte closes her eyes and appears lost in contemplation. "If I told you," she says finally, "David Darkbloom would have to kill you."
 
"Bullshit."
 
"You know-- I have to keep my guard up 24/7, and I haven't even been involved with him in four years. He knows how to hold a grudge. He still sends thugs my way every once in a while to rough me up, find out if I'm still 'getting in the way'. Poor Spancer took such a beating last Tuesday..."
 
Gears begin to spin in your head. "All those jocks you hang out with..."
 
"Protection when I need it," Ms. Carte confirms. "They're free and Darkbloom can't trace them like he could a bodyguard, can't get to them -- it's the best option."
 
She reaches into her desk and pulls out a case. Flipping open the lid, she produces a hypodermic needle.
 
"I'm sorry for this," she says. "I need a blood sample from you, and you can't ask any questions."
 
[X] Yes.
[ ] No.
 
You roll up your sleeve and offer your arm to her. Ms. Carte is taken aback.
 
"Well?" You say.
 
"I'm sorry," Ms. Carte says, shaking her head quickly. "I expected you to say no, is all. Right then. Come with me."
 
You follow her through a door at the back of the room which leads to a short hallway of some anterooms reserved for storage. In one of these rooms, Ms. Carte has a doctor's office set up. Spancer is standing guard outside, white as a sheet. He lets the two of you through, and you begin to have second thoughts.
 
Ms. Carte shuts the door behind her and flips on the fluorescent lights. She beckons for you to sit on the metal exam table. She sits down on a rolling stool and slides over.
 
"Take off your shirt, please," she says.
 
You look at her skeptically.
 
"Alabaster, please. There isn't much time."
 
"I'll give you all the samples you want as long as you promise to tell me what's going on. I don't care if you think it'll put me in danger. I'm in danger anyway, right?"
 
Ms. Carte nods. You pull off your shirt and lean back. The cold of the metal table against your back makes you gasp through your teeth.
 
"Arms like this," Ms. Carte says, holding her hands up to indicate. You follow orders. Ms. Carte slides a hand under her stool and presses a button. Suddenly your hands and legs are trapped in metal braces.
 
"I'm sorry," she says, putting down the needle as you struggle helplessly. "It's really not a blood sample I need... this is awful, but... I'll make sure it feels good, all right?"
 
Ms. Carte slowly unbuckles your belt and pulls down your pants. "Unhand me!" is all you can manage.
 
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry--" is all Ms. Carte can manage, and it's maybe to her credit that she seems genuinely remorseful.
 
She tugs your jeans down so they're bunched up around your ankles, leaving you only in your boxers.
 
"Do you want to keep those on or off?" she asks tenderly. "I'll let you decide."
 
"I want all my clothes back on!" you hiss.
 
"I'm sorry, but you really have no choice--" Ms. Carte stops, interrupted by a sudden commotion outside. You hear thudding, then what sounds like Spancer shrieking in a high pitched voice.
 
"Oh God," Ms. Carte says, gulping.
 
The door opens. Spancer is lying in a bloodied heap in the hallway, crying. Standing in the threshold is Vivian.
 
Ms. Carte reacts instantly, grabbing the hypodermic needle and charging Vivian. Vivian throws up one hand and deflects the attack. She grabs Ms. Carte and slams her to the floor. She leans over before Ms. Carte can get up and pinches a nerve in her neck. Ms. Carte goes out like a light.
 
Standing, Vivian walks over to you.
 
"Don't you dare," you say. "Don't you dare!"
 
"Alabaster Soliloquy, I just want to save you. I want to make you the man you were three years ago. I want you to live up to the promise of what you can be."
 
"Don't you dare!" you repeat as she draws closer.
 
But something else stops her short. You hear the click of heels rapidly approaching. Vivian turns around to see Rose standing in the doorway. Rose leaps forward and smacks Vivian savagely with her clipboard, knocking her back.
 
As Vivian gains her bearings again, Rose pulls a rag from her blouse pocket and intercepts Vivian's charge by holding the rag to Vivian's face. Vivian's eyes bulge with indignation and shock, then the lids droop as she passes out.
 
Rose steps aside and lets Vivian fall to the ground with a wet thunk.
 
"Goodness," Rose says, straightening her blouse and surveying the three unconscious bodies in the vicinity. She looks over at you. "What strange things you get into."
 
You stare at her in disbelief.
 
"I think we're alone now?" Rose says.
 
"I need help," you plead, half-incoherent. "Please. Get me out of here."
 
"Oh, sure. Sure thing," Rose says. "I'll get right on that, Alabaster. Don't worry." She comes close. Somehow you don't think she intends to help.
 
Rose watches you intently before seeming to decide something. She swings her legs across your chest, straddling you, butt to belly. She leans against your solar plexus with balled-up fists so she can stare down her nose at you. Her weight on top of you makes it hard to breathe. Your lungs feel constricted.
 
"Are you feeling all right?" she asks with false concern. She speaks as if this is the most normal conversation in the world. "Are you being bullied? I take bullying very seriously."
 
"Get off of me," you wheeze, growing panicked as your shallow breaths fail to supply enough oxygen.
 
"If you want to lodge a complaint, rest assured you will remain completely anonymous."
 
For reasons you can't fathom, Rose kicks off first one heel then the other, leaving her feet clad in only long black stockings.
 
"You're a victim, aren't you?" Rose asks, stroking your cheek. You shake your head no.
 
"So traumatized that you can't even admit it," she says, grinning. "That's hot."
 
"What?"
 
"You're the biggest loser I've ever seen," she says. "Even by your own admission you're a loser." She laughs cruelly as you think back to your words at the review panel. It's true: you called yourself a loser.
 
"Bullied by a little girl, tied down by your own teacher..." Rose bows her head down and nips at your cheek. "...Letting your dyke friend force you to cum in the library..." You wince. "You're absolutely pathetic, Alabaster."
 
Rose sits up and pulls her feet onto the table. Leaning back and bracing herself against either edge, she brings her knees together and smashes the soles of her feet into your face. The acrid reek of well-worn socks invades your brain and makes your vision blur.
 
"Stopfff," you try to protest, your speech almost indistinguishable from a wordless grunt.
 
"Make me," she says, her voice low with triumph. She kneads her toes like she's using her feet to roll out dough. Whole droplets of grimy sweat ooze from the fabric, smearing all over your forehead, cheeks, lips, and chin.
 
You pull at your restraints, but can't free yourself. Rose reaches back and fondles you through your boxers. Inevitably, your body responds.
 
"You're a fucking pig," Rose coos. "Getting an erection from something so sick. No wonder you're a victim. You're so cute when you're being victimized."
 
In the brief glimpses of her that you catch in between the soles of her feet as she smashes them against your face, you see that Rose has a hand snaked under her skirt. You can feel her wetness dripping onto your chest.
 
She stops, pulling her feet away. You gasp for fresh air, face slick with sweat.
 
"Why," you ask. "For the love of Christ."
 
Rose is lost in her own world now. She spins around to look down at your tented boxers. She pokes and prods at it with her toes, giggling. "What a nasty thing," she says. "To carry something like that around all day-- it's indecent..." she's babbling now. Not good.
 
Rose hikes her skirt up as she leans forward. Her puckered bud and her sopping pussy are all you can see. "Look at my asshole while I rape you with my mouth," she moans.
 
She frees your cock and wraps it between her plump lips, moaning wantonly. She sucks, dragging her tongue across its length a few times, before pulling back.
 
"I love this," she breathes. "I love doing this to you." She lies flat on her belly and puts her feet in your face again. "Are you looking at my asshole? You fucking little worm..."
 
You shake you head and whine.
 
"I want to traumatize you," she says. "I want you to be triggered every time you see a pair of socks..."
 
She takes your entire length into the recesses of her throat now, gagging herself. Her viscous drool runs all over your balls as she fondles them with dainty fingers. The heat is unbelievable and the sounds coming from her mouth sound barely human. All the while she jabs her filthy feet directly into your nose. You pull and strain at your shackles, but it's no use.
 
You feel the familiar thrill in your gut -- but when your balls tense up in Rose's hand, she stops immediately. She pulls herself off of you and stands.
 
You feel actual pain coursing through you. "I-I didn't finish," you complain.
 
"I know," Rose says as if you're mentally challenged.. "Why would I let you finish? That's disgusting. Men are garbage. I don't want to see your filthy cum anywhere near me."
 
You moan and let your head fall back onto the table with a thud. Rose grabs hold of Vivian by the arms and drags her out into the hallway. Ms. Carte follows.
 
The idea you had put on hold the other day comes back to you.
 
"Now, if I release you... you can't rape me, of course. That would be a crime. The authorities take rape very seriously..."
 
You nod sullenly.
 
"Where is the release mechanism?" she asks.
 
"Under the chair."
 
"I like you, Alabaster. And I know if I tell you to come to the band room after school tomorrow, you'll come, right? Even though you know I'm going to rape you again. Because I have all the power. Right?"
 
"Of course."
 
She releases you.
 
You gather your clothes and limp away, stepping over the unconscious bodies in the hallway. She winks as you go. "I'm going to have so much paperwork over this mess..." she sighs.
 
As you leave, your erection is throbbing and you have one thought on your mind.
 
Whitney is right where you expected her to be: sitting under the bleachers by the soccer field, cooling off from practice in the shade.
 
"Jerk," she grumbles as you approach, turning away from you in a huff.
 
You stand over her. Looking up, she says: "Where have you been? Huh? All day, I wait for you and--"
 
You grab her by the shoulders and pull her to the ground, turning her on her side. Whitney goes bug-eyed as you pull at the waistband of her spats.
 
"Ally, what are you doing?"
 
She gasps as you pull your dick out and press it against the warmth of her sweaty body. "Ally... Ally, is that you?" You bite her neck and drive yourself home to the hilt. Whitney makes a shuddering gasp.
 
"We can't do this out here--" Whitney protests.
 
"Why not?" you ask with plain disinterest as you establish a steady pace inside of her.
 
"We're outside, you fucking ass! People might see--"
 
"You didn't care about that in the motel, you say." You smash your hipbone against her ass as you fuck into her deepest parts. "You didn't care in the library." You slam into her again.
 
Whitney claws at the grass in front of her, her muscles flexing, as if half of her wants to pull away and half wants to stay with you. Her inner walls contract around your dick in tune with your fucking.
 
"Ally, stop-- stop--"
 
"I'm going to cum," you say.
 
Whitney tenses up. She spins her head to look back at you with panic in her eyes. "Wait! I'm out of money-- I can't afford another morning after pill--"
 
You sit upright, pulling her into your lap so that she's facing you. You grab her by the waist and fuck her up and down on your shaft like she's just an onahole. You kiss her deeply -- she wraps her legs around your torso and her arms around your neck even as she whines and pleads for you to stop.
 
"Please don't, not today," Whitney says, fucking back onto you.
 
You stop. She looks at you in surprise.
 
"You don't want me to cum inside," you say flatly.
 
Whitney shakes her head. "You can finish-- just not inside."
 
You lift her hips up and jam her back on your cock, just once, and hard. She shivers as you hold her still again.
 
"So I can only cum inside you when you decide you want to rape me."
 
"That isn't it..." she wags herself on your cock, frustrated at the lack of motion, her wetness seeping over you. She squirms her hips in your lap and claws at your back helplessly.
 
"Well," you say. "This is where I want to cum. So fucking deal with it."
 
You tighten your grip and hammer her as hard as you can. She throws her head back and lets it happen, tongue lolling out. She goes limp in your arms and you blow your cum directly into her womb. Whitney cries out, in exhilaration and despair.
 
As you lie in the cool grass, panting and still mated together, you nuzzle her.
 
"You're an asshole," Whitney coos as your juices pool between you.
 
"Mmhmm," you say, trailing kisses up and down her shoulders, neck, and face.
 
"There's no way you didn't fuck me pregnant just now..."
 
"Mmmhmm."
 
"I can't wait to do this with Cerise," Whitney says. You feel her cunt contract around you at those words.
 
You stop your nuzzling her, grab her chin in hand and turn her face to look her in the eye.
 
"What do you think of Rose Mallory?" you ask.
 
"Hmm? Kind of a bitch," Whitney says airly.
 
"Do you think she's hot?"
 
"Oh, yeah. Too bad she's got a stick the size of Texas up her ass."
 
"Let's fuck her," you say.
 
This is the moment of truth. Is Whitney going to reject your proposal?
 
Whitney stares at you. Her eyes glimmer. Slowly, a grin spreads across her lips. "But-- what if she doesn't want to?"
 
"What if she doesn't?" you ask in a way that suggests: "who cares?"
 
Whitney sighs. She contracts around you again. "Ally, I didn't know you were..." she loses the train of thought and instead kisses you deeply. Pulling back, a strand of saliva between you, she says: "That's so fucking hot. If that's what you want, that's what I want. Let's fuck Rose Mallory."
 
You feel yourself hardening again and decide on a second round with Whitney before you go home.
 
If you're going to die, you may as well enjoy what time you have left. Let Vivian, Ms. Carte, David Darkbloom do whatever they want. You've already won.
 
END OF EPISODE 5.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, defiler of bishoujos and casualty in the war for social justice.
 
You walk home just a little after sunset, drenched in sweat and exhausted, feeling like some kind of half-human fuck-golem. You really need a shower.
 
You left Whitney lying naked and totally fucked-out in the grass under the bleachers, babbling something inaudible, cum pooling underneath her. Rose had left you with enough pent-up sexual need to go four times with Whitney -- but that was your limit. You're not superman.
 
Of all the rooms in your house that don't have locks and really should, the upstairs bathroom ranks first. You swing open the door to find your older sister Cerise sitting on the toilet, chin on fist.
 
"Get the fuck out," she says, nonchalant. "Occupied."
 
You ignore her and look yourself over in the mirror above the sink. Your face is caked with grime from Rose's dirty socks. You look like you did a bad job of scrubbing away blackface.
 
"You smell like foot cheese and pussy," Cerise says.
 
"A person with a bedroom like yours shouldn't be complaining about that" you say, running a wet washcloth over your face. "Glass houses and such."
 
"Seriously, Alabaster. I'm on the toilet. Can you wait half a fucking minute to use the sink?"
 
"Nope." You glance over at her for a moment and then resume wiping off your face. "Anyway, why the sudden modesty? I'm surprised you're not streaming this live on the internet. You show them everything else you do."
 
"I'd just prefer it if you didn't wave the results of your latest perverted experiment with Whitney right under my nose," Cerise says.
 
You step away from the sink and take off your shirt, throwing it in a nearby hamper. "This one wasn't with Whitney," you say, winking. "It was with Rose."
 
"What."
 
You unbuckle your pants and pull them down. "Rose fucked me. She has some weird thing with feet. Crazy girl, that one."
 
"You fucked ROSE?" Cerise is more upset over this than your sudden disrobing.
 
"No. Rose fucked me. Try to pay attention. I didn't ask her to do it." You kick off your boxers. Naked, you kneel down and turn on the faucet of the bathtub. You hold a hand underneath the stream to monitor the temperature. "And plus, it was just a blowjay."
 
"Rose Mallory is the devil," Cerise says. "You fucked the devil. I can't believe you!" She grabs a hairbrush from the nearby countertop and chucks it at you. You deflect it, turning your face away. When you look back, she chucks a can of hairspray at you. You bat this away as well.
 
"Fucking chillax," you say. "I'm a victim of rape here. What I need right now is support and understanding."
 
"Like fuck you are! What you need right now is to get your dick kicked in!" She tosses a can of Axe body spray at you.
 
You pull the mechanism in the tub to activate the shower. Cerise finally stops throwing things at you, realizing for the first time that you intend to bathe right now. She quickly grabs a wad of tissue and wipes her pussy, flushing. She jumps to her feet, trying to tug her pants and her shirt off at the same time.
 
The result of this spastic haste is to send her tumbling face-first into the wall opposite the toilet. She lands with a concussion-worthy thud.
 
"Whoa there, cowpoke."
 
"Oooof-- fffff--" Cerise fights against gravity to stand, using the wall for support, pants still around her feet. She steps out of them and rubs her forehead where she banged it. "I have dibs on the shower, you skeezy scum-fucker. You'll have to wait."
 
"No way--" you say. Cerise cuts you off by kicking you in the shin, forcing you to jump back.
 
She pulls her shirt off next. Big surprise: she's not wearing a bra. Now she's as naked as you.
 
Fights over who gets to use the shower have happened since time immemorial in the Soliloquy house. The water heater supplies maybe 10 good minutes of hot water. For the next hour after that, anyone who wants to shower has to do so in ice until the heater catches back up.
 
Cerise's kick was a brilliant maneuver in the war for shower-control. With her path cleared, she leaps into the tub and pulls the pebble glass door shut behind her.
 
[ ] Fine. Let her have the shower if she wants it.
[X] Sho ga nai. We'll have to shower together.
 
You grab the shower door's handle. Cerise tries desperately to hold it closed from the inside, but with nothing for her to grip on her end, it's a losing battle. The door slides open past her flattened palms with the squeak of glass against wet flesh.
 
She stomps her feet, sending her tits jiggling. "God! You are such a little shit!"
 
You step into the shower over her protests and shut the door again.
 
This is far from the first time you've shared the shower, but it's been a few years. It feels a little strange.
 
You stand underneath the showerhead, staring at nothing in particular -- but from Cerise's perspective, you realize, it must look like you're staring directly at her naked body.
 
"Face forward, asshole," Cerise says.
 
"Oh, please," you groan. "As if I haven't seen everything you've got to offer." Cerise puts her hands on your shoulders and bodily guides you through a 180 so that you face the wall. You sneer. "You're about due for another waxing, by the way."
 
"I don't want to hear about it from you. Ever hear of manscaping? It's not just for gay guys anymore. And you're a faggot anyway, so."
 
You glance down at the rim of the tub on your end. There isn't any body wash or shampoo. You try to turn around to grab the bottles from where they sit on the rim at the back, but Cerise forces you forward again.
 
"How am I supposed to clean myself?" you complain.
 
"Christ. You're absolutely hopeless."
 
You hear the clack of an opening shampoo lid and the splurt of Cerise dispensing it into her hands. Wordlessly, she starts lathering your hair from behind.
 
"Did you go mental?" you ask. "I'm not one of your--"
 
"Shut up. When was the last time you washed your hair properly?"
 
All ten of her fingers massaging your scalp feel weirdly soothing. As if they're working in tandem and yet separately. You close your eyes and decide to roll with it. She tilts your head under the stream and rinses your hair for you, too.
 
You bask in the steam and warmth all around you. The intimate contact makes the shower feel somehow more comforting, even if the person standing behind you is your own sister. Your mind is beginning to feel fuzzy.
 
When Cerise dispenses a handful of body wash and starts soaping your back, you don't protest. She doesn't say anything, either.
 
And when she snakes her arms under yours to soap your front, you still don't protest, but you become acutely aware of three facts.
 
One: her breasts are directly against your back, the nipples poking your shoulder blades.
 
Two: you're harder than you've been at any point in recent memory.
 
Three: there's no way she's not aware of these previous two facts as well.
 
Cerise's hands start high, around your collarbone, and slowly work their way down, tracing lazy ellipses. She rests a chin on your shoulder. Involuntarily, the two of you sway a little, like two dancers holding each other in reverse.
 
"I really can't believe you're fucking Rose."
 
"I was telling the truth when I said it wasn't consensual."
 
There's a long pause as Cerise lathers you more than is strictly necessary. Her wandering hands are to your ribs now.
 
"What you have with Whitney is consensual, though."
 
"Sort of."
 
"I thought you'd be a virgin forever. How does a loser like you get so many girls after him?"
 
You force a laugh that sounds fake even to you. "Well, I couldn't let you out-slut me."
 
"Fuck you. And don't come crying to me when you get the clap."
 
You bicker like this even now, but there's no force behind it. Cerise's hands are at the bottom of your stomach. She could brush her fingertips against your erection with a simple re-angling of her wrist. It suddenly occurs to you that you've been staring into each other's eyes intently for at least the past few minutes.
 
[X] Kiss her.
[ ] Do nothing.
 
You do it without thinking. You just close your eyes and lean into it.
 
For how long -- ten seconds, a minute, three? -- Cerise returns your kiss.
 
She tastes like cherry, fittingly.
 
Your tongues slip over one another and explore the other's mouth. You feel her whimper into you, and you breathe it deeply.
 
But then Cerise's eyes bulge open with the realization of what the two of you are doing. She shoves you forward, off of her, flings the shower door open and flees. Her wet feet patter across the bathroom tile and escape down the hall. You hear the muffled sound of her bedroom door slamming.
 
You can't think straight -- you're half delirious. Your vision is blurred with lust. You fall to your haunches and jerk yourself off underneath the running water, your orgasm mind-bending and toe-curling even though you left four loads inside Whitney less than an hour ago.
 
Just a few seconds later, the water heater's 10-minute supply gives out. For a minute or so you sit in the rushing, freezing water, your skin tightening up and turning to gooseflesh, every trace of Cerise's warmth leaving.
 
You shut the water off and weakly stand. You shuffle out of the bathroom without even bothering to towel yourself off.
 
In the hall, you knock on Cerise's door. No answer. "Cerise," you say softly. No answer. You try the handle but it's locked. "Cerise!" you call again, leaning your forehead against the jamb. No answer.
 
You head for your room, still stark naked. Passing by, Mom happens to see you from the bottom of the staircase. "Alabaster!" she cries, hand to her mouth. You ignore her as you slip into your bedroom.
 
You collapse in bed. But sleep won't come. You toss and turn for hours. The steady buzz of Cerise's most powerful vibrator lasts all night and deep into the early hours of morning.
 
Needless to say, Cerise doesn't burst through your door that morning to get you up. Instead, it's Whitney throwing pebbles against your window that finally rouses you from the interstitial space between waking and sleep. You glumly clothe yourself and go outside to meet her.
 
"Yesterday was amazing, Ally~" Whitney says, pecking you on the cheek. "I'll be scooping your jizz out of my pussy for the next week."
 
"Yeah," you mumble.
 
Whitney looks a little uncertain, as if she can't reconcile your insatiable appetite yesterday with your zombie-like disinterest today.
 
The commute to school is made even worse by twin appearances.
 
First comes Stackleford to complain about his tumultuous home life. He follows a couple paces behind you and Whitney, huffing and puffing, trying to catch up. "So my fucking parental units got Obamacare and-- huh huh huh--" he gasps to catch his breath. "So these fucking fascist doctors want to tell me I'm like, prediabetic or-- huh huh -- or something? Fucking nignog president, I swear to god..."
 
"I don't think Obama made you diabetic," Whitney observes. Shockingly astute today.
 
"PRE diabetic," Stackleford corrects indignantly. "Anyway, how am I-- huh huh huh -- how am I supposed to stop drinking soda?"
 
You consider whether a jury would hold you liable for pushing him into traffic if you recorded this conversation.
 
You come out of this reverie as you round the corner of the school and step onto campus. Because then comes unfortunate appearance number two: Rose Mallory and her consort of preppy student council thugs. She smirks at you knowingly.
 
"Good morning, Alabaster," Rose says in her typical honey-sweet voice. "I think you three are a little late to your first class."
 
You check the time on your cell. She's right: the bell for home room rang five minutes ago.
 
Rose tsks. She actually fucking tsks at you. "I'm afraid we'll have to give you all citations for that. Cody?"
 
Rose snaps her fingers and one of the wimpier looking student councilmen starts filling out pink slips.
 
Whitney kicks at the dirt and glowers. "Do you have to be in cunt-mode all the time? We're like two seconds late. Cut us a break."
 
Rose smiles. "Don't use such language. It's objectifying and demeaning."
 
Cody, the little poofter, starts handing you your slips.
 
"This is balls," Stackleford pouts. "Total balls."
 
"You really should watch yourself," Rose says to Whitney, ignoring Stackleford. "You're on a razor-thin line here. You could be kicked from the soccer team if there's anymore disciplinary problems."
 
The corner of Whitney's mouth twitches, but she doesn't reply.
 
Rose looks to you now. "I trust our arrangement is still on? You'll be coming to the band room after school?" The rest of the student council share anxious, knowing glances with one another at this. They hurry off, abashed. Rose waits expectantly for her answer. Her smile now is more than a little wolfish.
 
"Sure," you say, playing it cool.
 
"Wonderful," Rose beams. "Now -- you three hurry along."
 
She goes.
 
A few moments later, Stackleford splits off from you and Whitney to head for his first class. Now alone, Whitney grabs you by the wrist in an empty hall.
 
"What was that crap about coming to the band room?"
 
You shrug, and decide honesty is the best approach. You tell her everything about Rose's hijinks yesterday.
 
"So that's why..." Whitney breathes. "You want to get even with her."
 
"Sorry about breaking rule 1," you say.
 
"It's not your fault," Whitney says. "We can--" she looks around to make sure no one is looking. She's still holding your wrist. "We can move our schedule for that up to today. Let's do her today, after school."
 
Whitney kisses you before you can reply, and her tongue has this odd way of breaking down any protests you might have to such intimate affection.
 
"I have to get a few things from home," Whitney says. "This is going to be great! Meet me at lunch. We need to plan."
 
You watch her jog away, her tight ass bouncing in her spats.
 
[ ] Scope Rose's movements out.
[X] Play it safe -- go to class.
 
Your instinct tells you that Rose is up to something, but she has a preternatural sense of your own movements on campus, and eyes everywhere in the form of other council members. There's no way you can win a game of espionage.
 
You attend classes normally, the very model of punctuality and attentiveness. You don't need her getting suspicious in the eleventh hour.
 
During lunch, you leave campus with Whitney for a 50s-style hamburger joint up the road from North High. You share a large malted shake with two flexy straws, Whitney leaning across the table to siphon her share. It's the picturesque image of teen romance in America -- except that you're discussing how to rape someone.
 
"It's like spy vs. spy," Whitney explains. "Rapist vs. rapist. You gotta out-rape her or you're done for."
 
You shrug. "She's a lot stronger than she looks. We need to make sure we get the jump on her. That's the key."
 
"Forget about strength. That's the least of our problems. What sketches *me* out is that she's got a leg up on experience. She wouldn't carry around chloroform rags if she hadn't been to the rape rodeo a couple-three times."
 
"I wonder how many other people she's done it to..."
 
Whitney slurps at the shake. She sits back in her seat and stretches, thinking. "The whole student council, definitely-- that's a given. The way they suck up to her, there's no way she doesn't have them on a solid schedule of sexual violation. Probably a few of the teachers... have you seen how weirded out Mr. Danmore gets around her? Like he's having some kind of epileptic fit anytime she comes near. Now we know why. Just think of all the disgusting, fucked-up shit she's done to him..." Whitney's voice is a little too wistful for your liking here.
 
You shake your head in appalled admiration, staring out the diner's enormous windows, watching the steady flow of traffic outside. Who could imagine that such depravity lurked in the mind of North High's most respectable student?
 
"Here," Whitney says. She grabs her bag from underneath the table and sets it on the formica. "I brought something for you."
 
You unlatch the bag's front strap and look inside, rifling around. It's a skirt, a whorish fishnet haltertop, lace panties, and a blonde wig.
 
"I don't follow," you say.
 
"It's for you. To wear."
 
"...Explain further."
 
"You know, when you go to meet her in the band room. It's, like, bait. Or something."
 
"...You lost me."
 
Whitney rolls her eyes and raps her knuckles on the tabletop. "I used to think Rose was this prim and proper bitch, right? I mean, everyone does. But now I have a read on her. I understand her. I understand how she thinks. I LIKE how she thinks."
 
You eye Whitney skeptically.
 
"The point is, if she sees you waiting for her in the band room with that outfit on, she's gonna fucking swoon. Game over, man. Hook, line, and sinker. She'll be yours for the taking. She won't know what hit her."
 
"Can you mix a few more metaphors in there?"
 
"She'll think it's fucking HOT. That's the point. And that makes victory all the better." Whitney leans in close and strokes your arm, purring. "Plus... it *would* be hot, wouldn't it? Seeing you violate her while wearing something like that..."
 
[ ] I'll wear it.
[X] No thanks.
 
You toss the bag across the table, beaning Whitney in the face. "Fuck that," you say. "I'm not gay."
 
"Since when is having sex with a girl gay?" Whitney pouts. "You're such a fag..."
 
Whitney reaches into the bag's back pouch and opens it just enough for you to peer inside. "I brought a few other... tools," she says, winking. "Things to make sure she melts like butter when the time is right."
 
You look in the bag. Dildos, vibrators, anal beads -- Whitney stocked a whole sex shop's worth of novelty devices for today.
 
"You're insane," you say, sitting back. "Has anyone told you that?"
 
Whitney lightly slaps your wrist. "You love it, you man-whore~"
 
You check the time. "I think we should be getting back to class."
 
"Oh sure, sure," Whitney says, sliding out from her booth and standing. She slings her tote bag of rape devices over her shoulder as if it's nothing. "You'll pay?"
 
"Of course. What would a lunch with you be without you mooching off my hospitality like the parasite you are?"
 
"Your fault. I wouldn't have made you pay if you were a girl..."
 
Whitney spins on her heels and leaves with a playful bounce to her step. This girl is going to kill you. When did she become such a beast?
 
In biology, Ms. Carte is subdued, and Vivian is absent. So is Spancer.
 
After 50 listless minutes of discussing haploid groups, Ms. Carte dismisses the class five minutes early, stopping abruptly in the middle of the lecture. "Just go," she says, waving her hand. "Who even gives a shit."
 
The students look around at one another, not certain they heard her correctly, but apparently she's serious. She plops down in her rolling chair and students begin to file out.
 
As you leave, Ms. Carte stops you. This is beginning to become an unwelcome ritual for 4th period.
 
"I don't have time," you say tersely, blowing her off.
 
"I'm sorry," Ms. Carte says. Her voice is small and weak. It's enough to give you pause as the last stragglers exit the room.
 
Now it's just you and her. You can't help feeling uneasy.
 
Ms. Carte opens the top drawer of her desk and takes out a mostly-empty bottle of Jack Daniels. She pours the rest in a tumbler and downs it, grimacing. "I lost several years of research yesterday," she says. "All gone. Down the drain."
 
"Great," you say. "Serves you right."
 
"What I did to you was wrong. Worse, it was pointless. When I got home, my apartment was destroyed. Everything I've been working for..."
 
Ms. Carte looks at you with the sunken-eyed expression of a war's last survivor. "It's over. Darkbloom won."
 
You shake your head. "Which one?"
 
Ms. Carte pulls a fresh bottle of Jack from another drawer. "Does it matter?" she asks, removing the cap. She eschews the tumbler to drink straight from the bottle.
 
"And now--" Ms. Carte motions at you with the bottle, laughing bitterly. "On top of everything else, that Rose Mallory twerp thinks she's got something to blackmail me over. Ha. Isn't that just delicious? That bitch is raping half the male faculty and she wants to cry impropriety at me."
 
You shrug.
 
"It's over, it's over," Ms. Carte repeats, bowing her head. "You want answers? Okay. Fine. Come to my apartment after school. Whenever you like. 119 Evergreen Road, Apartment 23. The door will be unlocked. Lock's broken."
 
You start to protest, but Ms. Carte stops you. "Here--" she says, and tosses something at you. You fumble to catch it. "That's a taser. Go test it, it works. If it makes you feel safer after what I did, you can keep it. Maybe it'll help you with Rose too. I think she has some kind of fixation on you-- well, it would make sense, anyway."
 
"I'm not coming to your house, you wanton harlot."
 
"Suit yourself," Ms. Carte says, and knocks back an enormous gulp. She stifles a belch and says nothing more, simply keeps her gaze fixed on the desk in front of her. You slip quietly out.
 
"Condoms?" you ask, looking through Whitney's bag of goodies. You and Whitney stand together in the empty band room just a few minutes before the last bell rings. The gloomy shadows of large brass instruments give the room an ominous ambiance.
 
"Ugh. Rule two," Whitney says, with the tone of someone issuing an important proclamation. "No protection. Ever. Rose needs to learn the joy of a raw dick. Everyone else we fuck, too. Raw dick or no dick!"
 
"I don't know about this," you say, suddenly timid. "This is crazy. This whole thing."
 
Whitney steps forward, invading your personal space. "Don't back out now," she moans, running a hand through your hair and nuzzling your crotch with her knee. "We've got a zapper now and everything..." She holds up Ms. Carte's taser and clicks the button, letting it arc for a few seconds to underline her point. "Rose is finished."
 
"We could go to jail."
 
"She'll never report it. How could she? Her reputation would be ruined."
 
You close your eyes and gulp.
 
"Don't you want this?" Whitney asks. "Didn't you ask for this?"
 
"Sure," you say. "But-- like this?"
 
"Come on, this is what you want. Say it. Say, 'I want to rape Rose Mallory.'"
 
"I want to... rape Rose Mallory," you say.
 
Whitney makes a fluttery gasp of exhilaration.
 
"I want to rape her too," Whitney murmurs lowly, as if confessing to a priest. She runs suckling kisses up and down your neck and whispers hotly in your ear. "I want to sit on her fucking face. I want to make her suck my cunt while you blow cum inside her. I want to make out with you while we use her to get ourselves off."
 
Whitney leans back and eyes you. All you can do in reply to these obscene words is stammer awkwardly. Whitney strokes your hand. "Of course, I'm getting ahead of myself. Strategy is your call. Rose is *your* meathole, you chose her. I don't have to join in if you don't want me to."
 
[ ] Go in solo.
[X] Tag team.
[ ] I'm sorry. I can't do it.
 
"Is this necessary?" you ask, turning your head to look in the general direction of where Whitney has concealed herself amongst the drum section. You yank at the handcuff keeping you tethered to conductor's podium, which is in turn tethered to the floor.
 
"It's all about verisimilitude!" Whitney hisses.
 
"Where did you learn that word?" you hiss back. "You're not smart enough to talk so fancy!"
 
"Shut the fuck up, dick-for-brains! You're gonna blow my cover!"
 
You sigh and face forward again, sitting cross legged against the podium. This feels a lot like how the condemned must feel waiting for execution.
 
And then you hear it. The tell-tale sound of Rose's heels clacking on the tile in the hall outside. They approach at a steady pace. And then the darkened room is lit up from the hall's fluorescents as the door squeals open. Rose's silhouetted form enters.
 
Rose shuts the door and saunters over to you. She quickly assesses the situation.
 
"My..." she breathes, hand daintily covering her mouth. "Did you do that to yourself?"
 
You yank again at the handcuffs. "This is what you like, right?"
 
Rose looks like she's about to faint from the excitement. But she composes herself, slowly swiping a hand down her blouse as if to straighten it. She kneels down and cups your face in her hands.
 
"That's *exactly* what I like, Alabaster," she says. "You're going to make such a wonderful pet. The best pet."
 
She stands again, smug. "Would it please you to know I'm not wearing any panties?"
 
You play the part and nod your head.
 
"Disgusting," Rose sneers. "Men are all the same. Even wimps like you."
 
Rose kicks off her shoes. It's clear that she's wearing the same socks from yesterday -- and who knows how many days she's worn them before that.
 
You cast nervous glances in your periphery, wondering when Whitney is going to come out. She wasn't supposed to let this escalate.
 
Rose grabs you by the chin, squeezing your cheeks and forcing you to look away from the drum section, up at her, in her eyes.
 
She spits -- a long slow blob of drool that descends viscously from her mouth before landing on your upturned face. At the same time, she rubs your crotch with her foot, applying more pressure than is comfortable. You involuntarily whimper.
 
"Is piggy scared?" Rose asks in a childish voice.
 
You say nothing.
 
Rose steps back. "Your girlfriend can come out from where she's hiding now."
 
Your heart sinks. Hearing Rose's words, Whitney leaps to her feet and charges madly, knocking over drum sets and cymbals in her wake. Amidst the horrible crashing noises of metal and percussives, Rose deftly sidesteps the attack. She grabs Whitney by the wrist and wrenches her arm behind her back.
 
Rose uses her free hand to yank at Whtiney's hair. Whitney is bent back into a limbo position by Rose's death grip, seemingly incapacitated. But Whitney grits her teeth and with a savage grunt she pulls her trump card out: Ms. Carte's taser. She jabs the taser into Rose's side, scoring a hit right to the kidneys.
 
There's the sickening "clvvvvv--" of Rose losing control of her vocal muscles. Her body tenses, and she falls on her back.
 
Now free, Whitney stumbles fully upright again and gives Rose two more zaps for good measure, this time to Rose's tummy. Rose convulses, foaming at the mouth. A foul-smelling puddle issues from her skirt: she's wetting herself.
 
"Bitch," Whitney breathes, running a palm through her hair. She stumbles over to you and unlocks your handcuffs.
 
"What the fuck was that?" You yell. "Why did you wait so long?"
 
"I was waiting for an opening!" Whitney says. "And look how close we came to really fucking this up. It's a good thing we had the taser."
 
You want to argue more, but your eyes fall upon Rose, her head turning back and forth as she writhes in delirious pain on the ground. The sight of this makes you forget the squabble.
 
Whitney winks at you. She grabs some nylon rope from her bag and hauls Rose's half-conscious body to the podium, where -- just a few moments ago -- you yourself were chained.
 
Working quickly, she secures Rose's hands to the podium, behind her back.
 
Rose blinks slowly, looking back and forth between you and Whitney. Her mind is slow to register this.
 
"Didn't know about the taser, huh?" Whitney gloats.
 
"Youuuu--" Rose slurs.
 
Whitney laughs. It's a laugh that says: the day is young, and there's so much left to do.
 
While you disrobe, Whitney has a little fun with the new acquisition. She slaps Rose in the face a few times, not very hard, but enough to make some satisfying thwacks.
 
"Come on, snap out of it," Whitney says. Rose stares at her through slitted eyes.
 
Even though she's still barely conscious, Rose's expression conveys pure, black hatred.
 
Whitney falls to hands and knees and holds her face centimeters from Rose's. "Wake up~" she says in a sing-song voice. "Wake up, you cunt~~"
 
Rose hauls back and spits in Whitney's face. Whitney is completely unfazed. She just laughs and spits right back. "We can do this all day," Whitney tells her. "I love it."
 
Rose slumps, her head lolling to one side. "Youuu will pay-- for thissh--" she groans.
 
You step forward, naked and throbbing. "She spat on me too," you tell Whitney. "Guess it's one of her things."
 
"Let's punish her," Whitney says. She holds you lightly by your erection, ushering you to stand directly in front of Rose's face.
 
Rose eyes your cock from the corner of her eye.
 
"Suck it," Whitney hisses. "Just like you did yesterday. Go on, you piece of fuckmeat."
 
"Fuck you," Rose moans, defiant even through her delirium.
 
Whitney grabs a handful of Rose's hair and rubs Rose's face in your crotch, trailing your dick leak all over Rose's sniveling face.
 
This wakes Rose up enough to send her yelling ,half-incoherently.
 
"Help!!" she cries. "Rape!! Rape!!!"
 
Whitney grimaces and stands up. She kicks Rose in the side to quiet her. Then she steps quickly out of her spats and panties. Bending down again, she wrenches Rose's jaw open and shoves the panties inside.
 
Whitney falls onto her naked butt, admiring her handiwork, rubbing her pussy furiously. "Isn't that better?" she asks you. "No more fucking noise."
 
She slips a couple fingers inside herself. She looks at Rose and says: "how does my cunt taste? Huh? Ohhh--" She shivers and mashes her thighs together as an orgasm courses through her.
 
You bend over and tug Rose's skirt off. You toss the sodden garment aside.
 
Rose's body is deliciously filled-out for a girl of only 15. She has fat thighs that give way admiringly to your touch. You grope her ass, and feel like your hand could get lost in all the smooth, supple flesh. You give her backside a sharp smack just for the hell of it and then tug Rose forward so you have better access to her lower holes.
 
"Which one first? Which one first?" Whitney asks with the enthusiasm of a child.
 
"Pussy first."
 
Whitney slithers up to watch the moment of entry from as close as she can get. One hand still works rapidly inside herself, making wet squelching noises. "Rape her!" she says, an insane lilt in her voice. "Fuck her up! Fill her belly with your cum!"
 
Rose goes bugeyed with some mixture of fear and hatred. She kicks weakly, but you hold her firmly by the ankles and shove yourself forward. Rose throws her head back and cries out through her gag, her every muscle straining against you. Her head turns wildly back and forth. She starts to cry.
 
You look down and notice a trickle of red on your cock. Whitney seems to notice it at the same time. She bucks her hips wildly with another orgasm. Then, clambering to her knees, she grabs hold of Rose's face and says: "how does it feel to get your virginity raped away? How does it feel to have a man's cock inside you for the first time?"
 
You saw in and out, establishing a rhythm, grinning evilly. Whitney has control and you let her run this show: this is great. She grabs for her bag and retrieves a really mean-looking flesh-colored dildo. She smacks Rose across the face with it to get her attention and then pulls the panties from Rose's mouth.
 
"I'll fucking kill you!!!" Rose screams in the brief moment she has to do so. But her protests are quickly drowned as Whitney jams the dildo down her throat as far as it will go. Rose's neck bulges from the foreign object's swift intrusion. She makes truly inhuman gagging sounds around the rubber dick.
 
"Choke on it, you fucking sow," Whitney says through gritted teeth. Whitney holds Rose's face steady so she's forced to watch you fucking her.
 
Rose is fleshy, but she's also quite small. If someone walked into the room, they would only see you humping, and not be able to tell there's a person underneath you. You hold Rose's shoulders and let the feeling of total dominance course through your veins. You can do anything you want. Rose is yours to use.
 
As you surge forward, a final bit of resistance breaks and you seat yourself as deep as you can go. The oozing tip of your cock brushes up against something hard and Rose whinnies, trying to squirm away.
 
"Oh my god," you groan. "I think I can reach her cervix."
 
Whitney cackles, fully demented and high on the adrenaline. "Ruin her," she growls. "Fuck her to death!"
 
You pick up the pace, making sure to bottom out inside Rose with every forward thrust. Her head bangs cruelly against the podium from the force of it. Every time you bottom out, you hit her cervix and smack the back of her head against the wood. She goes limp and pliant in your arms, her hot broken cunt nothing more than a hole for you to use to your heart's content.
 
Whitney pulls the dildo from Rose's mouth with a wet slurp. She straddles Rose's face and forces Rose's mouth forward. "Suck my asshole, you fucking cum rag!" Whitney says. She jams the slobbery dildo inside herself as she hunches forward and sits on Rose's face.
 
When Rose is apparently non-compliant, Whitney punches Rose in the kidney. Rose gags and a tiny trickle of piss squirts from her cunt. Then you hear the unmistakable sound of Rose lapping at Whitney's ass, wetly, like a dog.
 
"Fucking whore," Whitney says, masturbating. "What a fucking tongue. So wet and hot..."
 
You moan.
 
"Are you close, baby?" Whitney asks you. You nod. "Cum inside her!" Whitney goads. "Pump her full of fucking scum!"
 
Whitney falls forward awkwardly, trying to simultaneously maintain Rose's suckling mouth on her asshole while also kissing you. Just like she wanted. You return the kiss and paint Rose's womb with thick slime. Rose shudders with her entire body and howls insanely, the sound muffled by Whitney's ass. Rose's cunt convulses around you, milking you off. The three of you fall prone at the same time, a sweaty tangle of limbs.
 
GIRLS FUCKED: 2/6
 
While you get slowly dressed, Whitney lies on the ground with the fucked-out Rose beside her. Whitney busies herself by lazily testing various implements in various of Rose's holes. Rose just lies there, a dead look in her eyes.
 
"I think this will do," Whitney coos, shoving a small vibrating bullet into Rose's reddened, puffy hole.
 
"Hmm?" you ask. You see what Whitney is doing and smile. "Oh, you still want to do that?"
 
"Of course," Whitney says. "This is the best part."
 
"Rose," Whitney says softly. "You're going to wear this vibrator to school tomorrow. Okay? Ally will have the controller for it."
 
"Never," Rose says in a monotone voice. "I'm never going to submit to you psychotic rapists."
 
Whitney, still naked from the waist down, stands. She spreads her pussy lips and lets a little dribble of piss splash on Rose's face. Rose winces but has no other reaction.
 
"You can do what we say--" you tell her as Whitney pisses on her, "--or, you can deal with this being spread around campus..." You take Whitney's cellphone from her tote bag and snap some pictures of Rose, creampied and getting splashed with urine.
 
Rose simmers with barely-concealed rage but says nothing more. You and Whitney finish getting dressed and leave her like that, lying in a puddle of filth, stuffed with the vibrating bullet. You feel confident she'll follow orders.
 
The evening is just settling when you break away from Whitney and start for home.
 
You check your cell. There are texts from three people here.
 
First, an obviously drunk Ms. Carte:
>arre yuou coming over toniht? whatever i dont care
 
Then from Stackleford:
>suppp nigger?!!!? working on the bio project tonight, want 2 help????
 
And finally, several from your mom:
>Making white chocolate meringue again tonight.
>Not that I care if you have any.
>Cerise won't come down from her room and I have no one to help me.
>I'm not asking for your help.
>I won't even care if you don't come home tonight at all.
>Probably sleeping with some hussy who has diseases.
>Do whatever you want.
>I certainly don't care if you help me or not.
>So forget I even texted.
>Just to remind you, I'm making white chocolate meringue tonight.
 
You're tired, but you have time for at least onem ore engagement...
 
[ ] Ms. Carte.
[ ] Stackleford.
[ ] Mom.
[X] TIE VOTE: Ms. Carte/Mom
 
Ms. Carte's apartment complex is somehow shabbier than you imagined it. The gravel pathway that winds between units has random pieces of litter in it, and the community barbeques are mostly broken. Children play unattended, getting into fights.
 
You climb the stairs to Ms. Carte's apartment, #23. You knock, and the door opens on its own from the force of your knocking. You glance down at the jamb and see the mechanism meant to hold the door in place is busted in a mess of splinters.
 
"Come on in," Ms. Carte calls from her couch. "Not like I can stop you anyway..."
 
She has her heels kicked up on the table, knocking back a bottle of Jack that probably isn't the same one from class. She hiccups.
 
Ms. Carte's apartment smells faintly of lemon disinfectant and latex, the kind used in medical gloves. Her kitchen is immaculate, save for a mess of turned-over and broken glassware lying on the floor: the remains of vials, petri dishes, test tubes, syringes.
 
The living room is another story. It's full of clutter, stacks of papers and manilla folders, piled practically into mountains. It's hard to navigate as you shut the door and step closer.
 
To your surprise, Ms. Carte is watching "Jeopardy!"
 
"This river in China is commonly called one of the four cradles of civilization," Alex Trebek says.
 
"What is the Yellow River," Ms. Carte mumbles drunkenly.
 
You know she's right before a contestant on-screen buzzes in with the same response. Ms. Carte winks at you over another swig. "You aren't the only quiz bowl nerd around here," she says.
 
 "Well?" Ms. Carte says, throwing her arms wide. "Make yourself at home. We're all dead anyway. We can at least be comfortable."
 
She swipes a pile of documents from the cushion beside her to make room for you. You sit down awkwardly next to her.
 
"Hey," Ms. Carte says conspiratorially. "You want to know what's a shit? Life. That's what's a shit." She pokes you in the chest. "I work SO hard to do the right thing, and what do I get? A reputation as a bitch and my life's work shot to hell. Teacher at a public school. Shit. It's all shit."
 
You lay a hand on Ms. Carte's bottle and take it from her. She struggles a bit to keep it but ultimately lets you have it.
 
"You said you'd give me answers," you say.
 
"Oh sure. Of course. Answeeers," Ms. Carte slurs. "Okay then, where do you want me to start, oh inquisitor?"
 
"What is Vivian?" you ask.
 
"A right cunt," Ms. Carte says.
 
"Is she-- human?"
 
"Fully, 100%. I've seen the video of her birth. David made me watch it, sick bastard. Then he asked me to marry him." She cackles like she's telling a favorite joke.
 
"Is she augmented?"
 
"Completely. Did it myself. She came out of that car wreck looking sort of like a cube. Or maybe a rhomboid, I don't know. Geometry. Fuck it." She takes a swig.
 
"I told David, can't do it-- the technology isn't tested. He said, if you don't then she'll die. I said, she's dead anyway. What you'll get isn't the Vivian who got in that car this morning. Well, lookie. I was right."
 
You slump your head.
 
"Why me?" you ask. "Why is Vivian so fixated on me?"
 
Ms. Carte laughs again. "It's completely retarded. I mean, honestly. You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
 
"That's what her dad said too."
 
"Well, look at that. We still agree on something." Ms. Carte grabs for the bottle, trying to clamber over you to get at it, but you keep it out of her reach. You push her back.
 
"What's the deal?" she pouts. "I can't drink to reconciliation and brotherhood?"
 
"Focus. Why me?"
 
"She wants to be like you. That's it."
 
"Huh?"
 
"Most girls her age want to be a Disney princess, or maybe a sports star, some Venus Williams type or something. But then there was 10 year old Vivian Darkbloom, recovering from literal fucking death in a hospital bed with nothing to watch but PBS broadcasts of the local quiz bowl championship. And so she decided you, Alabaster FUCKING Soliloquy, were some kind of bronzed god. It's absurd. You're the biggest loser probably in all of history. I mean, Jesus. Look at you. You stink like cum."
 
You're getting tired of all these girls in your life with noses like bloodhounds.
 
"That's it? She saw me in quiz bowl?"
 
Ms. Carte begins to go all droopy and tired. She seems to be nodding off. "That'ssh it--" she says, swaying. She leans against your chest for support. "--That's it. She can't reconcile the image in her head of you as the quiz god and you as the big fucking loser you actually are. Hence the insanity. So fucking David-- in his INFINITE wisdom... he startsssh dosh... he startshh..."
 
"Starts what?" you ask, trying to shake her awake. But she's quickly losing consciousness.
 
[X] Help her to bed.
[ ] Go home.
 
You do your best to guide Ms. Carte to her feet, but it's more like hauling dead weight. And she might be comely and buxom and all those wonderful things, but it means there's a lot of dead weight to haul.
 
It doesn't help that you have to fight your way through several skyscrapers of documents and printouts to get her there in one piece.
 
Ms. Carte's room is spartan. A bare bedside table, a bed with a simple white comforter, and nothing else but the closet. You lie her down slowly. She goes limp as she falls to the mattress.
 
"Alabaster..." she murmurs through the haze of sleep. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry for yesterday."
 
"Whatever. Don't go around raping people. Rape is wrong."
 
"I just wanted to save..." She trails off.
 
Then snores loudly. You grimace.
 
The snore apparently wakes her. Her eyes shoot open and come into focus as if seeing you for the first time. "Alabaster," she says. "You're not safe. You have to let me protect you, okay? And then you can protect me, too. Quid pro-- quid pro..." she starts to doze off again.
 
"Quid pro quo?" you say.
 
"Yeah... quid pro quo..."
 
[X] Quid pro quo.
[ ] More like quid pro no. #rekt
 
Ms. Carte smiles and then rolls over.
 
And snores again.
 
You leave her to her rest.
 
As you walk through the foyer, Mom blindsides you, swatting you in the face with a dishrag. Other than the humiliation, it doesn't really hurt.
 
"You're late," she says.
 
"I thought you didn't care if I came home at all."
 
Mom's right eye twitches. You decide to cut her off before she can launch into a tirade. "Are we still on for the meringue or what?" you ask, stretching your back. "I could... uh... help, if you want... I mean--"
 
"It's already done. I finished making it myself. Not that you would even care, of course."
 
You stare at your feet. A few days ago, you wouldn't have cared that she had to do it alone. Why do you feel a little ashamed now?
 
She stares you down hands on hips, but then her expression softens. "At least you can help me eat it," she says. "I'd never be able to finish it on my own."
 
You look up at her. "What about dad and Cerise?"
 
Mom shrugs. "They won't come out of their bedrooms. Your father is reading at his desk and I guess Cerise is still sick."
 
You crane your neck and look into the empty dining room.
 
There's two places meticulously set with silverware and china, and the only lighting is from scented candles. The pie sits in the middle of the table waiting to be served.
 
"But you weren't waiting for me," you say flatly, grinning.
 
"Of course not. I-- just felt like lighting some candles. That's all." She folds her arms and harrumphs.
 
You shrug. What could go wrong? Today's been crazy enough. You could go for a quiet dessert.
 
Mom pulls your chair out for you to sit before she seats herself. Call it reverse-chivalry.
 
"What IS that scent?" you ask, almost gagging on the perfume-y smell of the candles.
 
Mom serves you up a slice of the meringue. "I think it's supposed to be called sex on the beach?"
 
"It doesn't smell like any sex I've ever had."
 
Mom slugs you. You reel back. "That's child abuse," you say. "You just abused me. I could call Child Protective Services."
 
"You're not supposed to know about sex," she says, "if you're such an innocent child."
 
"Your continual abuse obviously caused me such psychic agony that I had to seek out carnal fulfillment with droves of anonymous women--"
 
She slugs you again.
 
"I'm going to sue you for emancipation," you say.
 
"You're 18. If you want to leave, there's the door."
 
"Maybe I will." You take a luscious bite of the pie and savor it.
 
Mom rests her chin on her hands and watches you for several long moments. She doesn't even touch her own plate. You wolf yours down hungrily and she serves you a second helping.
 
"I noticed that you and Cerise seem to be closer," she says finally.
 
You almost choke on your food.
 
"Don't be so embarrassed. I'm glad to see you two getting along for once. It's good for siblings to be close."
 
You try to shrug it off. "She's obnoxious. I mean, we're not even that close..."
 
Mom rests her hand on yours. "Cerise doesn't have a lot going on in her life. Please be nice to her."
 
You blush and concentrate on your food.
 
"I was thinking about a vacation," Mom continues after a lengthy silence. "Your father wants to cash his vacation time in this March. We could go to the Bahamas. How does that sound?" There's a pause, then: "--uh, not that I'm going to base this decision in any way on your input..."
 
"It sounds lame," you say. Mom looks a little deflated at this, so you add: "but it's probably not as lame as this house is, anyway... so-- whatever."
 
Mom smiles. She gives you thirds.
 
You eat, your mind wandering through various daydreams. These include a few too many mental images of Cerise in bikini for your liking. The white chocolate melts like cotton candy on your tongue. It's so rich that it almost makes you pucker, but you can't stop chewing.
 
"Is it good?" Mom asks. The question comes apropos of nothing, and you can't piece together what she means. "Is it good?" she repeats. "The meringue, I mean. I worked really hard on it."
 
[ ] It's great.
[ ] It's shit.
[X] Custom: You're great.
 
"Huh?" You drawl drowsily through a bite of food. "Oh. It's fine, I guess."
 
"Just fine?" she questions. She sounds hurt.
 
For once in your life, you decide to be nice to her. And at the worst possible moment: when you're too exhausted to speak clearly.
 
"No-- not just fine," you say, sighing. "You're great."
 
There's an awkward pause while your over-tired mind processes what you've just said. Finally catching yourself, you append: "I mean-- it's great. IT'S. The pie. Err-- not you-- I mean, not NOT you-- but-- the pie..."
 
She cups her cheeks in her palms to hide her blush and widening smile as you dig yourself deeper into this weird syntactical hole.
 
"It," you repeat, limply. "It. It's great. That's all."
 
She almost seems to be shaking as she gapes at you, but the ambiguity of candlelight makes it hard to tell.
 
"Well I guess you're okay, too..." you say, trailing off.
 
Mentally, you cringe and punch yourself in the face at the same time.
 
"I-- I have to go clean the dishes..." Mom says, excusing herself.
 
She practically dashes out of the room.
 
Then from the kitchen, over the sound of running water and banging pots: "not that I even cared what your opinion was in the first place! I was just making small talk!"
 
You roll your eyes, sigh, and lean back in your chair.
 
How weird your life has become. You can hardly believe it.
 
Reflecting on this, it isn't long before you doze off.
 
You have no idea how much later it is when mom comes back into the dining room and blows out the candles. This wakes you up briefly, but you pretend to still be asleep. The house is swathed in darkness, lit only dimly by street lamps shining through the curtained windows. Mom covers you with a quilt from the linen closet.
 
"You're great too..." she whispers. "...when you're not being such an idiot..."
 
It's a good thing she turns and heads for her bedroom when she does, because you can't stop yourself from smiling.
 
END OF EPISODE 6.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, vexillologist and meringue aficionado.
 
You wake up just after 10 PM. Bleary-eyed, you leave the dining room and head for your bedroom, where you remember that you've got something vitally important to do.
 
A Certain Highly-Anticipated H-OVA has just hit the internet. And no matter how much poon you get nowadays -- consensual and non-consensual -- you wouldn't miss j/o-ing to this for anything. Waiting for this OVA to come out has been the highlight of your year so far.
 
You strip naked and bust out the good lube, excited for some self-loving. But to your dismay, you soon discover there's only 3 seeders and 20,000 leechers for the file.
 
You can't take being blueballed like this -- and you really don't want to give Whitney a booty call. What's a guy to do?
 
You sit at your computer desk, swinging your feet and mumbling curses under your breath. Your erection is rapidly flagging.
 
Seed, goddamn it!
 
No dice. Not happening.
 
Out of sheer desperation, you grab your laptop and get dressed again. Perhaps being in the living room or the dining room will strengthen the wifi connection? Then you can get the file from the seeders faster... somehow... right?
 
Completely absurd, but you have no options remaining. Your dick demands satisfaction.
 
You sit down at the dining room table again. The lights are on and your father is here now. You figure Mom must have been feeling a little sore over his decision to skip dinner and ousted him from the bedroom in retribution. As always, he reads the newspaper, his face concealed by the broadside.
 
Your luck down here is no different than your luck upstairs. The fact is, when 20,000 people are trying to download a 1 GB .mkv from only 3 people, it's going to take a while.
 
You throw your head back and groan. Torture is what this is. Now you know how the prisoners at Guantanamo feel. George Walker Bush is a murderer.
 
So of course, in your hour of greatest need, it's none other than your older sister Cerise who comes down from her room to menace you further.
 
"Lookie here," Cerise says sarcastically. "Mr. Magorium finally came out of his Masturbatorium."
 
"As opposed to your bedroom, which is the very model of nunlike chastity."
 
Cerise grabs a beer from the fridge and yawns. She scratches her ass. "Forget it. I was just under the impression that you kept to your room when you weren't out getting diddled by lesbians or being stalked by quiz nerds. Guess I was wrong."
 
"Of course you were. I have friends, unlike you. In fact, I have an immensely rich social life that includes not only-- hey! What the fuck are you doing?" you try to slam the laptop's monitor shut, but too late: Cerise leans over and sees your torrent client.
 
She smirks. "And this rich social life includes A Certain Highly-Anticipated H-OVA?"
 
"That's an invasion of privacy, what you just did. I could technically have you arrested by the FBI for hacking."
 
"That thing came out, what, 12 hours ago? You must be feeling pretty blueballed right now." Cerise snickers.
 
"And just how would you know the release schedule for A Certain Highly Anticipated H-OVA?" you say accusingly. "Is this karmic retribution, maybe? Maybe you're feeling blueballed, too."
 
"Who, me?" Cerise says with an exaggerated lilt, pressing her fingertips to her chest. "Not at all. My download finished five minutes ago. I was about to kick back and enjoy some quality me-time."
 
You gape at her. "You're lying," you say. "No one has it yet. There's only three seeders."
 
"You're the liar in this family, not me. I'm just the innocent babe."
 
Your dad turns the page of his paper.
 
"Like hell," you say. "If you have the download, then put it on a flash drive for me."
 
Cerise wags a finger. "Distributing pirated materials carries a much heftier penalty than merely downloading them. I don't want to risk it after all your FBI talk. I don't deal with snitches."
 
"If you're seeding, you're already distributing it. I could call the FBI anyway."
 
"I never seed. What do I look like, some fucking goody-goody?"
 
You pound your fist against the table in frustration. Cerise laughs cruelly.
 
"I'll tell you what, little brother. Just this once, you can come up to my room and watch it with me. I'll be watching it anyway, so what's one more? Call it -- family movie night."
 
"You can't be serious. Why would I watch hentai with my own sister?"
 
"Well, suit yourself," Cerise says, shrugging. She turns on her heels and heads in the direction of the stairs. "Just trying to do my good deed for the day. But sit around waiting for the next six hours if you want. Let your balls turn cyan for all I care."
 
[ ] I have all the time in the world. I don't need your charity.
[X] Wait! I'll watch it with you.
 
Cerise wasn't lying. She has a full subbed copy of the OVA:
 
>[LastRail] A_Certain_Highly-Anticipated_H-OVA_-_01 [AC1233CH]
 
How she got her hands on it is beyond you. Is she involved with the subgroup somehow?
 
You wheel your chair into Cerise's room and sit down next to her at her desk as she opens the file.
 
Neither of you speak through the opening credits. In fact, neither of you speak at all -- period. You feel your heart going doki-doki: now you finally understand the onomatopoeia.
 
Why did you agree to this?
 
Too late to back out now. The movie starts in earnest: straight to the good bits.
 
Frankly, this OVA isn't what you had hoped for -- the tank was way better. The animation is horrendous, even by hentai standards, and the action isn't as enthralling as it could have been. Maybe the only redeeming quality is the subject matter: still mind-meltingly erotic after all these years.
 
Then of course there's the added awkwardness of watching this with Cerise at your side. You try to ignore her completely and focus on the OVA. But you can't stop stealing sideways glances at her, her pale face bathed in blue light from the screen. Her jaw hangs partly slack the entire time she watches, like a little little kid seeing a magician for the first time.
 
It's terribly fucking weird to watch your sister's delighted face while listening to the wet flapping of hardcore sex.
 
What's the protocol, exactly, for watching porn with your sister?
 
And what if less than 24 hours ago, you made out with her in the shower? What's the protocol, then?
 
These are questions you can't readily answer, but you know they make you feel a strange subdermal warmth all over and a freefall sensation in your gut. It's a raw, on-edge intensity that watching porn alone never incites, no matter how raunchy. Your dick strains painfully against your jeans.
 
Maybe Cerise is feeling some of these emotions too; or maybe she's just really into the OVA. Either way, her breathing becomes uneven and huffy, her skin flushed. She leans in so close to the monitor that her nose just about touches the screen.
 
Cerise's slender hands paw at the fabric of the chair in front of her, flexing and unflexing, as if itching to be employed to some other use.
 
This continues for a few minutes, Cerise's impatience clearly growing all the while. She huffs and claws at her chair like she's going insane. Then finally she can't take any more and her hands start roaming around her body.
 
She crosses her arms and hugs her shoulders, as if cold. Then tiring of this, she runs her fingertips sensually up and down her sides and belly. She holds a palm to her chin and gnaws her lower lip. Her breathing is almost as loud as the OVA. She never takes her eyes from the screen.
 
With a moan, she starts massaging her full and fleshy breasts through her tee. It becomes clear to you that she's not wearing a bra -- typical Cerise. She squeezes her thighs together in a long, slow, masturbatory rhythm that you can tell has all her force behind it. Her leg muscles strain and flex.
 
It's because of these lewd little movements-- definitely more than the movie-- that you're achingly hard and leaking like a broken faucet in your underwear. At some point, you kind of stopped watching the movie entirely.
 
Without forewarning, Cerise stands and kicks her jeans off. Her skin is the color of milk and as smooth as porcelain in the glow of the monitor. She wiggles out of her panties next, but only pulls them to her ankles before falling back into her seat to glue her eyes on the action again.
 
You can see her genitals and she makes no attempt to hide them from your leering view. Her pussy is sopping wet and the lips are engorged. You can smell her excitement -- not entirely unlike sweat perhaps, a bit acrid and tangy, but utterly intoxicating. You feel dizzy.
 
Cerise grabs a vibrator from her desk and clicks it on with zero shame or heistation. The buzz all but drowns out the moaning bitch on-screen. Cerise holds the vibrator to her clit and slinks forward in her seat, bucking her hips lightly against the toy. She writhes and chews her lip so hard you think she'll bleed.
 
Cerise throws her head wildly from side to side. Finally she lets it slump back completely and wrenches her eyes shut, basking in the feelings coming from her cunt. With a free hand, she pulls up her shirt, baring her tits, and pinches one of her nipples.
 
You're not in any frame of mind to hold back and decide that if Cerise can be shameless, you can be, too. Feeling so simultaneously anxious and aroused you could almost faint, you stand on shaky knees just long enough to tug your jeans to the ground. Sitting down, you pull your cock free through the fly in your boxers. There's so much precum that your masturbation makes a wet schlicking noise to match Cerise's. Your strokes even sync up.
 
"Ahn~" Cerise moans. And that's exactly what it sounds like: a tiny, breathy, involuntary gasp, like the result of an electric jolt passed through her body.
 
She lifts her ass from the seat. You can see the dark stain of her wetness in the fabric of her chair, and -- with a sick thrill -- you even see a strand of her juices seeping directly from her hole. It glints obscenely in the monitor's light.
 
You wonder silently what it tastes like, Cerise's excitement. Now you can't stop thinking about diving forward and burying your face in her cunt, and damn all taboos. Your entire body aches to have her on your tongue. It would be searing hot, like the forehead of someone with a fever, and sweeter than sugar -- you could drink it forever and ever, you think.
 
You masturbate, openly and unreservedly, so fast your hand is a blur. You think about how many times Cerise must have sat in that chair and came, soiling it with her juices just like she is now. The fabric must be soaked through with her filth. In your half-crazed state, you sketch plans to sneak in while she's away and rub your face against the seat, breathing it in: the next best thing to the genuine article.
 
Cerise's little "ahn~" noises come steadily now, like the clicking of a Geiger counter approaching the detonation site: "ahn~ --- ahn~ -- ahn~, ahn~ ahn~" She twists and pulls at her nipples, alternating between them rapidly. Her meaty inner thighs glisten with her lust.
 
Then Cerise's mouth gapes in a silent scream. She puts her fingers in her mouth and pulls at her lower jaw as if trying to wrench her mouth open even further. Her spine arches so severely that it goes nearly perpendicular to the chair back. Her clamping pussy is on full display, well-lit by monitor. You can actually see it convulsing-- you can see her entire body convulsing. Her cum runs sloppily down her legs and ass.
 
Cerise cries out, a high-pitched squeal, yet almost inaudibly low in volume: "Ahhhh--- fuuuuuuuck!!! Fuck!!!"
 
You gulp and close your eyes, grunting. The sight of your sister cumming herself stupid burns in the back of your eyelids like the after-image of a nuclear bomb. You shudder and feel yourself pass the point of no return. You're about to cum, too.
 
"Fuck, fuck!" Cerise cries -- not in sexual ecstasy this time, but sudden panic. You open your eyes in time to see her grabbing several wads of tissue from her desktop.
 
"Stop! Don't cum in my bedroom!" she yells. You shake your head frantically but can't even vocalize any kind of warning -- you're too close to stop. You stare at her with your legs spread wide and jerk your cock as fast as you can.
 
"Goddamn it!" Cerise says.
 
She quickly palms the tissue and presses it to the head of your pulsing cock. Feeling her touch you, even through all those layers of paper, is enough. You grip your cock around the base and let yourself blow to your heart's content, rope after rope of semen pouring into Cerise's hand. You push your hips against her, reveling in the pressure of her open palm against your cockhead. You cum so hard you think you might lose your mind forever.
 
"Cerise!" you moan. "Cerise, Cerise!"
 
When you're done cumming, you can't do anything at all but slump back in your chair, exhausted.
 
Cerise tosses the used tissue on the desk with a sneer. "I told you that you could watch it with me," she says. "I didn't give you permission to start squirting cum all over my room like some kind of fucking animal."
 
You pant and heave. Your mouth is too dry to speak; your mind is too frazzled to formulate a snippy response.
 
Your cock is still hard.
 
Cerise stands up and disappears from the room. Vaguely, you're aware of the sound of her rummaging through your bedroom, but the post-orgasm high still hasn't worn off and you don't care to investigate.
 
She returns a moment later, still naked from the waist down, carrying your favorite onahole and your supply of KY jelly.
 
"I didn't know you knew about those..." you murmur, delirious. You're too far gone to care about this new invasion of privacy.
 
Cerise clacks the lid of the KY open and spurts some of it into the onahole. She rubs it around the inside rim with two of her fingers. She drops the onahole in your lap.
 
"That thing has a closed end," Cerise says. "So I won't have to worry about you making such a fucking mess. Cum inside that thing all you want."
 
"It's a little late for this, don't you think?"
 
"Don't be stupid," Cerise says, sitting down. "This is family movie night. Aren't you up for a marathon?"
 
You glance dazedly down at the onahole, taking it in one hand and considering it. Cerise grabs her still-buzzing vibrator from the desk.
 
"Sure," you say. "Marathon it is."
 
Cerise opens another video file. You seat yourself balls-deep in the onahole with a satisfied, sensual groan. Cerise rubs the vibrator against her clit.
 
The evening is still very young.
 
MEANWHILE...
 
Walking home, disheveled and cum-splattered, all Rose can think about is how her loved ones would react if anyone saw her like this and word got out.
 
She would become a laughingstock. All her prestige and power at North High... gone, just like that.
 
So she walks home only after night descends, traveling nearly five miles, keeping to back alleys and side streets.
 
Arriving at her gated suburban community, she sneaks into her house through the maid's entrance a bit after 11 PM.
 
Thankfully, her parents -- attorneys by trade -- are morning people. They believed her text message that she was staying late to work on a project, and they're already asleep by the time she comes in.
 
Rose hurries up the marble staircase to her ivory-carpeted bedroom. She tears her soiled clothes from her body and sets her bathroom's shower to scalding.
 
She sits down at the back of the tub, legs splayed apart, as the shower runs at full blast. Her entire body aches and throbs from the violence earlier today. She has a migraine; her wrists are bruised; her back is sore.
 
On the verge of vomiting, she sets to the revolting work of scooping Alabaster's cum from her still-reddened pussy.
 
Under the bathroom's warm amber light, Rose holds her palm in front of her face. She spreads her fingers and watches intently as Alabaster's jizz spidewebs between her knuckles.
 
These are the viscous, odorous strands of filth that just sullied her. She gawks at them -- examines them -- entranced and horrified.
 
/I'm ruined/, Rose thinks to herself. She closes her eyes. /I let a man dominate me. I let him use my body. I let him squirt his filthy seed inside me.../
 
And even still, she can't help but feel something strange, something other than disgust, as she breathes in the stench of Alabaster's seed -- this stench that's been cloying at her brain all night, ever since Alabaster and his crazed rapist girlfriend left her sobbing on the floor of the band room.
 
/What's happening to me?/
 
She opens her eyes and stares again at the ropes of cum hanging between her fingers.
 
/I wonder.../
 
She draws her hand slowly closer.
 
/I... I wonder what it.../
 
She sticks out her tongue -- daintily, just the tip -- and then, leaning toward her waiting palm--!!
 
She stops short. With a grimace, she holds her hand underneath the shower stream to wash the cum away for good.
 
/Get ahold of yourself./
 
She waits for her breathing to return to normal. Only now does she realize she's been panting.
 
/This isn't over./
 
Rose scoots forward and lets the shower's scalding water wash over her body. She draws her knees up to her chest, hugging them.
 
/I'm going to get him back for this./
 
/I won't submit to some fucking man. I don't care who he is./
 
Rose rests a cheek on her kneecaps and looks at the pile of ruined clothes on the bathroom floor beside the tub. Hundreds of dollars down the drain. That outfit was brand new. She can never wear it again.
 
Sitting on top of the pile is the vibrating egg they instructed her to wear to school tomorrow. It's metallic pink and shines in the light. It looks so innocuous, so cute -- in another context it would have titillated her. Now it taunts her.
 
/I won't/, she decides. /I won't do it. I'm not going to be their toy./
 
But then she imagines the expressions of her fellow council members, the faculty, the student body -- mom and dad -- when they see the photos Alabaster took of her.
 
/Just once/, she appends to her vow. /Just this once./
 
She holds her face between her knees and stares down at her abused pussy.
 
"I'm sorry," she murmurs aloud. To whom, for what, she has no idea.
 
Then, to herself, a thought that makes her want to vomit yet refuses to be repressed:
 
/I wonder what it would have tasted like./
 
END OF INTERLEWD 1.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, anime rapist and real-life rapist. Barely two weeks into your senior year of high school, you've acquired quite the circle of admirers, hangers-on, and other interested girls. The harem grows, but are you man enough to maintain it?
 
You wake up with morning wood, your dick still mated to your onahole. With a groan, you sit up straight. Your sweaty cotton tee peels away from the skin on your back, giving a satisfying sensation of coolness.
 
You've got a kink in your neck. All this time spent sleeping in chairs has been pretty hard on your spine.
 
Cerise sits in her computer chair as well, still naked from the waist down. Her posture is a bit hunched and sloppy, one cheek on the back of her hand and her elbow on the desktop. One leg is folded under her butt and the other swings free under her. She's reading some kind of news article online.
 
Cerise's vibrator sits still-buzzing on the floor in front of her. At some point in your marathon of hentai-watching last night, she dragged out various other vibrating wands and dildos too, which now also lie on the floor, forming a rough semicircle all around the chair, each one coated with her juices.
 
"Wow," Cerise says sarcastically, not taking her eyes from the screen. "Look who finally decided to wake up."
 
"What time is it?" you ask groggily.
 
"Little after 9:00. You're later than Whitney's period."
 
"Oh god," you say. "Don't even joke about that. I've been giving her money for birth control."
 
"Mmhmm."
 
There's an awkward silence, then finally you say: "So... what happens now?"
 
"What happens now is you get the fuck out of my bedroom without spilling any of your splooge on anything." She finally looks at you. "Go to school, Alabaster."
 
[ ] Can we do this again sometime?
[ ] You. Me. Again. Tonight.
[ ] Ok.
[X] TIE VOTE: Can we do this again sometime/You. Me. Again. Tonight.
 
"Can we do this again sometime?"
 
Cerise ignores the question, scrolling through the article on her screen.
 
"Did you hear the news?" she says. "David Darkbloom bought Facebook. Apparently he did it just to liquidate all their assets and use them to fund his VR research."
 
You shrug.
 
Cerise rolls her eyes. "You're an idiot. Can't you see what it means? This moves the timetable way up. He could have production models out in less than two years."
 
"Production models of what, exactly?"
 
"Well that's the question now, isn't it."
 
"Forget about that. I asked you a question just now." You stand up, holding the onahole to your dick to keep from spilling any of the copious fluid trapped within.
 
"I'm not running a charity here," Cerise says. "Find your own jerk material."
 
"Do you have to work to be this much of a bitch or are you some kind of savant?"
 
"I have to work as hard at it as you do to be such a fucking gaylord. I could barely sleep with you snoring and reeking of jizz beside me, you know. So let me get some rest already."
 
You head for the door, but stop yourself short. Grinning, you pull the toy from your dick and let it slowly dribble onto the carpet.
 
Cerise spins in her chair and her eyes bulge. "What the fuck, Alabaster! Get out!"
 
You shrug again. "It's because of you that I came so much. The mess is your fault."
 
Cerise goes very still and quiet.
 
"And I think it's because of ME that YOU came so much too," you say.
 
She doesn't reply.
 
"Tonight, okay? You go ahead and let me know when you're ready. I'll be waiting."
 
You leave.
 
When you open your front door to leave for school, you see something surprising.
 
"...Spancer?"
 
"Alabaster," he says. "My name is Spancer Jardan. You may have seen me in your classes--"
 
"I know who you are, Spancer. Chirst. I just said your name."
 
"You may have seen me in your classes."
 
You frown. Jocks have a reputation for being dull-witted, but this is beyond the pale. Spancer's voice is oddly empty and hollow-sounding, like there's no real mind resting behind his eyes.
 
"What do you want, Spancer?"
 
"Ms. Carte sent me here to be your bodyguard."
 
"Oh yeah. Great. I always wanted a guy who gets beaten up by little girls as my muscle."
 
"I'm better now," Spancer says. "Look."
 
He pulls a small steel I-beam from his pocket. Six or seven inches long, you estimate, and about half as thick.
 
He takes either end in his hands and bends the I-beam into an S shape.
 
He hands you the twisted hunk of metal so you can verify that this isn't some sort of parlor trick. The steel has turned almost white where he bent it. You turn it over in your hand, disbelieving. You stare back at him wildly.
 
"Come with me if you want to live," Spancer says.
 
[X] Sure.
[ ] No thanks.
 
"Just, uh, don't get in the way or anything," you say. Frankly, you're a bit terrified to refuse him.
 
"I am required to follow your orders," Spancer says. "Tell me what you'd like to do."
 
You stare at him, half waiting for him to burst into laughter and reveal this is all some kind of practical joke. But the other shoe never drops. "Uh," you stammer. "Well, let's go to school. How does that sound?"
 
Spancer nods once in assent.
 
You start down the drive and off toward school, and he follows. You walk with him two-abreast. As you walk, he mechanically swivels his head this way and that as if scoping the surroundings for threats, but nothing out of the ordinary happens.
 
You arrive at school to find the student council has called another mandatory assembly. The gymnasium murmurs with a thousand conversations as everyone waits for Rose to come to the dais and begin.
 
You make your way through the crowd and sit down next to Whitney. Stackleford is on the other side of her, talking her ear off.
 
"...to harness my chi energy, you know? There was a paper published in Japan that says with enough chi, you can actually throw energy blasts like they do in--"
 
Whitney's face lights up, going from boredom to joy when she sees you. "Ally!" she says, throwing her arms around you. Stackleford glares.
 
You sit. Spancer sits down on your other side. "Why are you hanging out with Spancer Jar-head all of a sudden?" Whitney asks, a bit disgusted.
 
"I'll explain later. What's going on?" you ask. "Why is there an assembly today?"
 
Stackleford answers. "Rose is officially announcing her candidacy for reelection. That's the real reason."
 
"Of course that's not what she *says* the reason is," Whitney adds. "She says the real reason is to announce special events for Homecoming."
 
"Which just happen to include the student council elections..." Stackleford says.
 
"Cheating bitch," Whitney says. "She's using this as a campaigning event."
 
"Is anyone even running against her?" you ask.
 
"Pfft. Who knows?" Whitney says. "The student council made the rules for campaigning so strict that if someone else *was* running, you'd never know."
 
Whitney leans in close so Stackleford can't hear. She cups her hand over her mouth. "Did you bring the remote?" she asks.
 
"It's in my pocket," you confirm. Then, playing coy: "What are you thinking about?"
 
"You know exactly what I'm thinking about, cockbreath. We can make her announcement really... interesting."
 
[X] Let's do it.
[ ] Let's spare her for now.
 
You wink. Whitney laughs evilly.
 
"So anyway," Stackleford says when Whitney faces forward again. "With enough chi--"
 
"Stackleford," Whitney says, her voice very level and polite. "Shut the fuck up."
 
Stackleford stops talking.
 
About two minutes later, Rose steps onto the stage. She approaches the dais, adjusts the microphone to her level, and calmly clears her throat.
 
"SILENCE!!" she bellows. The gym falls instantly quiet. Rose smiles warmly. "Thank you."
 
She gives the signal to someone off-stage to lower the lights. The vast room is washed in dimness, and a spotlight clicks on over Rose.
 
Rose sweeps her view across the assembled student body. Like a hawk finding prey, her eyes fall directly upon you -- but it's pretty clear who the real prey here is. She slits her eyes and frowns with contempt. Smiling back, you pull the remote from your pocket and hold it up. You shake it side to side tauntingly.
 
The look of panic that sweeps over Rose's face lasts only a split second, but it's unmistakable. She wore the vibrator today. Now she's at your mercy.
 
Rose composes herself and clears her throat again. "Well--" she says, flipping through her notes. The catch of fear is plainly audible in her voice. "We've got a lot to go over, but I'll try to get you all back to your classes as quickly as possible..."
 
"Do it," Whitney whispers. "But start her off slow."
 
"I know what I'm doing," you hiss back. "I've played enough ero games, haven't I?"
 
"Homecoming is fast approaching, as you know," Rose says. She takes a handkerchief and wipes her sweating forehead. "Which means there's a lot to do! ... The Sadie Hawkins dance is next week... girls, this is your chance to rein the takes-- um, take the reins... where was I..."
 
You haven't even turned the vibrator on, but she's already losing it. This is too delicious.
 
"Right. The North High Bobcats play the Verdun High Bruins this Thursday in varsity football... tickets are $2 and you can purchase them through the canteen, the dean's office, or the student council office. Let's all wish them the best..."
 
Muted applause at this.
 
Rose continues. "Our quiz team has their first match this Saturday. Team captain Alabaster Soliloquy will lead us against--"
 
You decide this is a good moment to flip the remote on. You set the dial to 1 out of 10.
 
Despite what must be almost imperceptible vibration, Rose's spine goes rigid. Her knuckles clutch the dais tightly.
 
She continues, her voice now strangled-sounding. "--will lead us against Centennial High." She looks at you with eyes full of hatred, but takes a few moments to compose herself. She loosens her grip on the lectern and her voice returns to normal.
 
"Our boys' and girls' soccer team will be playing an exhibition match against one another this afternoon," Rose says. "You can pay however much you like for tickets. Proceeds will go to the student org fund..."
 
You move the dial to 2. Rose whimpers, almost inaudibly.
 
"--On a more personal note..." Rose says. Is she trembling?
 
"Student council elections will be held next Monday. That means w-we only have a w-week to go--" She leans forward a little.
 
"And I have wonder-- wonderful news," Rose says. She's starting to sound breathless. "I p-plan to run for a-another--"
 
You click the dial to 3.
 
"--anotherrr-- terrrmmmmm" Rose leans forward even further, her massive tits squeezing against the podium. She closes her eyes. You think you see some drool at the corners of her mouth.
 
"Another termmm as presssssident-- mhhhh" Her head slumps and her lips touch the microphone. Her sensual groan of pleasure morphs into hideously shrill mic feedback that makes everyone -- you included -- cover your ears in discomfort. When the interference abruptly ends, Rose is still a hot mess. One of the student council members approaches her uncertainly and the assembled students begin to whisper to each other.
 
Over the microphone, you hear the other student council member whisper "are you okay?"
 
"I'm fine-- I'm--" Rose's eyes shoot open as if she's been injected with speed. She takes in the room before her, jaw slackened.
 
"This is hot..." Whitney whispers to you. You glance over at her. In the darkness, it's hard to see clearly, but you can tell she has one hand inside the waistband of her spats. And the way her shoulder moves leaves no room for mistaking what she's up to. "Look at that slut squirm up there," she says.
 
Rose gulps hard several times, as if fighting for air. "There's so much to do-- so I w-want you all to d-do your best this Homecoming," she says. "G-g-go Bobcatsss! YES! FUCK YESSSSS!!! YES! YES!!!"
 
She stumbles backward and falls with a hard thud. The microphone whistles momentarily with some kind of phantom interference and then goes silent. The student council mobs Rose, some of them fanning her with papers, others trying to help her to her feet.
 
Principal Armstrong quickly glides to the podium. "Ah-- I think that's all for today," he says. "Everyone-- go back to class. Now."
 
You chuckle as students begin to file out. They rubberneck and gawk at Rose, whispering and wondering. Rumors will be swirling in no time.
 
"That was only setting 3," you say to Whitney.
 
"Fuck," Whitney says. "How high does it go, again?"
 
"10."
 
"This is way too erotic... I'm getting dizzy, too."
 
"Don't faint now."
 
"Are you going to leave it on?"
 
[ ] Leave it on all day.
[X] Turn it off for now. Torment her sporadically, at random intervals.
 
You turn the vibrator off. "You've got a lot to learn," you tell Whitney. "Half the fun is the torment of never knowing when it'll switch on again... besides, if I let it run all day, she'd probably just go numb or something."
 
Whitney nods earnestly, like a student taking mental notes on an important subject.
 
When she stands, she leans and whispers in your ear: "after school, Ally. Let's fuck. I'll be in the A/V clubroom."
 
Stackleford cuts the whispered conversation off before you can reply. "Move it, move it," he says, trying to squeeze his way past you, Whitney, and Spancer. Apparently he's still sore over Whitney's rudeness.
 
Whitney kisses you on the cheek and goes. Seeing this, Stackleford sighs his typically hammy sigh.
 
Given his unrequited crush on Whitney, it's hard to blame him.
 
In third period history, the teacher makes a point of announcing that Rose is feeling much better and that she's back in class again. You give him thanks for unknowingly granting you the all-clear to start your torment in earnest.
 
You spend rest of the period randomly twisting the dial between 1 and 5. You leave it off for five minutes, then turn it to 3 for two minutes -- turn it off for one minute then crank it up to 5 again for eight minutes -- rinse and repeat.
 
It's not as fun without being able to see her react, but the knowledge that she certainly IS reacting turns you on nonetheless. You can just picture her hunched over her desk in class, thighs pushed together, a stupid grin on her face, while everyone watches her cum. It's enough to make you want to cum, too.
 
When the lunch bell rings, Vivian approaches you outside of class. It's the first conversation you've had in several days. With Spancer at your side, you feel a little more confident around her. He regards Vivian and doesn't appear perturbed by her presence. He stands to the side while you speak with her, watching vigilantly.
 
"You said you were going to leave me alone," you tell her.
 
"Will you be at the quiz competition this Saturday?"
 
"What does it matter to you? I'll be there if I want to be. I'm not looking for your opinion on the issue."
 
"Mm. It's cruel what you're doing to Rose," Vivian says, apropos of nothing.
 
You stare at her coldly. Right now, the remote in your pocket is set to 4.
 
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say.
 
"Don't take that as criticism," Vivian says. "It's a good thing. Rose deserves it. In point of fact, I have a favor to ask of you. Will you grant me access to the remote? I'll return it at the end of the day."
 
You shake your head. "Vivian--"
 
"I want take revenge for what she did to me the other day. What difference does it make if it's you or me at the controls? She'll get hers all the same. That I promise you."
 
[ ] Give it to her.
[X] Keep it.
 
Vivian obviously isn't used to being refused. She clicks her tongue against her palate.
 
"It's like you said," you tell her. "What difference does it make who controls it? You know what's happening-- apparently-- so just be grateful I'm doing something about Rose. One of us had to."
 
Vivian considers this.
 
"Make her suffer," she says finally. "A lot."
 
She turns and goes, opening her parasol and stepping outside. For someone so proper, she has a real sadistic streak.
 
In the lunchroom, you and Whitney keep one eye peeled on Rose's table. She sits with her head cradled in one hand like she has a migraine. Every time you click the vibrator on, she jerks in place as if being electrified. Her student council cronies surround her, rubbing her back, fanning her, asking her if she's okay. She doesn't respond.
 
Whitney sits with her legs wrapped around yours, stroking your arms. "I fucking love this so much," she says. "You're breaking her..."
 
You and Whitney kiss. She gropes you underneath the table.
 
The rest of the day passes as a beige smear in your mind. You creep the vibrator steadily up, taking it to 6, 7, and 8 at various intervals. Wherever Rose is right now, she must be a fucking wreck at this point. You've been toying with her for the better part of five hours.
 
Walking in between 5th and 6th period, you crank the vibrator from the off position all the way to 9. You hear Rose's shrill shrieking from an adjacent hallway. There's a commotion as people rush toward the source of the voice to see what's wrong. You turn the vibrator back to 0 and laugh.
 
Throughout the rest of the day, Vivian watches you intently. Whenever your hands go to your pocket, she smiles at you wanly. You lock eyes several times and she often gives you an encouraging nod or two. You still think she's creepy, but it's nice to find common ground.
 
After class is out for the day, Stackleford corners you.
 
"Sup nigger? You going to the soccer match?"
 
You shrug. "I don't know. Maybe. It's not for another two hours anyway."
 
"I know! Plenty of time to hit up anime club before that," he says. His face glistens with some kind of greasy residue. You suppress a shudder.
 
"I've got things to do," you tell him. "Look, just-- I don't know, meet me outside the A/V clubroom in an hour. We'll talk then." You're really itching to get rid of him.
 
"Fuckin' sweet," Stackleford says. "I'll bring some food, too. Pregame snack!"
 
"Yeah. You go ahead and do that."
 
He waddles away. You check the time on your cellphone -- Whitney is probably waiting for you right now, ready and raring to be fucked. You hurry down the hall.
 
As you head for the exit, Rose pops out from around a corner. Her face is beet red and shiny with a day's worth of perspiration. Her eyeliner runs a little in rivulets down her face and her hair is all mussed like she just got plowed by every jock ay North High. Her right eye twitches pretty much continuously.
 
Clearly, she hasn't had an easy time of it.
 
"A-Alabaster--" she says, her voice fluttering and catching. "My records s-show you haven't officially signed up for any clubs yet, d-despite taking part in certain club activities."
 
"...What?" you say.
 
She pauses to run a hand through her hair. She takes a wild step backward, nearly falling over, like she's literally drunk on the sensations coming from her cunt.
 
"I-it's a requirement of all students to please join a club all right. Okay." She holds out a generic club application form, gripping it around the middle in her balled up fist, so tight her knuckles are drained of color. Her hand is trembling. You grab hold of the application and it takes Rose several long seconds to register this before she lets it go.
 
You pretend to read the crinkled application form, but instead you focus on Rose from the corner of your eye. Her whole body is vibrating.
 
Surreptitiously, you reach into your pocket and kick the remote control up to its final, highest setting: 10/10.
 
The reaction is nearly instant. Rose gasps and falls to her butt, knees splayed akimbo. She leans forward, supporting her weight on her palms, while an orgasm ravages her entire body.
 
"Aw geez," you say with false concern. "Are you feeling all right? Do you need some help?"
 
"I'mmmm--- I'm finnnnnne," she says, cumming her brains out. "I'm not-- I'm not-- I'm not-- cummmmminggggg---!!!" She rocks back and forth, her mouth agape in a silent howl. A puddle forms on the linoleum underneath her. She paws at her tits.
 
You turn to go, but she grabs your pant leg, stopping you. She looks up at you with pleading eyes.
 
You frown at her. "You're a real fucking mess, you know that? Absolutely fucking disgusting."
 
"I did what you asked. T-the school day is over. Please, PLEASE, let me take this out. Please..."
 
[X] Good girl. You can take it out -- if you admit you're a slut.
[ ] I think you should go to bed with it tonight.
 
You turn the vibrator off.
 
"I'll let you take it out," you tell her. "Just one thing..."
 
Rose's lips tremble.
 
"Here," you say. You grab Rose by the back of the head and force her face against your crotch. She struggles and pushes at your knees, but in her weakened state, she can't do anything to stop you.
 
"Look at me," you say. "Hey."
 
Rose stares up at you. Her nose is buried in your denim jeans directly against your balls and leaking cock.
 
"Say you're a slut," you tell her.
 
"No," Rose mumbles into your crotch. Her eyes simmer with defiance.
 
You run your thumb across the remote's dial, bringing it randomly up and down the scale. Rose goes rigid and tries to pull away again; you hold her in place.
 
You turn the vibrator off and let Rose fall away from you. She curls up on the ground.
 
"Say it. Say: I, Rose Mallory, and a cum-pig."
 
"There are still people on campus, you psycho... we could be seen..."
 
You crank the vibrator up to ten. Rose writhes side-to-side, pulling at her hair like she's going insane. You can actually smell her pussy creaming itself at this point.
 
"Call me your master."
 
"Never-- I'll neverrr-- ghhhh-- fuuuuuck!!!" Her back arches and she cries out in orgasm, hands and legs spasmodically flapping.
 
"We can do this all day if you want."
 
Rose pants for breath. "Stop-- fine-- stop, please!"
 
You turn the remote to 0. Rose clambers to her knees and looks up at you.
 
"I, Rose--"
 
"Call me master first."
 
Rose's body shakes with revulsion and contempt. "Master--" she says through gritted teeth.
 
"Say, master, please accept me as your willing cum-pig."
 
"M-master-- please accept me as your willing cum-pig..."
 
"Say, please use me as your cumdump whenever you like."
 
Rose closes her eyes and bows her head. "Please... please..."
 
She goes quiet for a long time. Then finally, in a very small voice: "please use me as your cumdump whenever you like. I exist to drink your filthy cum, master."
 
You arch your eyebrows appreciatively. You never told her to say that last part.
 
"All right," you say. "Good job." You push her shoulder gently so she lies down on her back. You guide her to her side using the tip of your shoe.
 
Kneeling down, you yank her panties to her ankles. Rose claws helplessly at the tile, panicking.
 
"No--" she says. "No-- I did everything you asked--!"
 
"Calm down," you say. You yank the vibrating egg from her sodden cunt and drop it next to her.
 
"Enjoy the rest of the day, Rose. Wear it again tomorrow."
 
You turn to go. Rose quickly pulls her underwear up and crawls forward on all fours to stop you.
 
"That's-- that's it?" she asks.
 
"What? Of course."
 
She stares at you, blinking. It's almost as if she's disappointed.
 
As you head off, Rose has parting words.
 
"Alabaster..." she looks at you with a weird mixture of hatred and revolted lust. "You s-should consider joining the student council... I think you could go far..."
 
Your route to the A/V club room takes you past the posting board for student orgs. You take a moment to look them over.
 
>STUDENT COUNCIL
>Faculty Adviser: Principal Armstrong
>President: Rose Mallory
>The student council wants you! We are dedicated to improving student-faculty relations and fostering student involvement. We hold general meetings Monday thru Saturday. All are welcome to attend.
 
>TURKISH CULTURAL APPRECIATION CLUB
>Faculty Adviser - in absentia: Cerise Soliloquy
>President: Kimberly Manlove
>Um, we really like Turkey? We all want to learn a whole lot about Turkey. Special viewing of culturally relevant shows and movies every weekday, Monday through Friday.
 
>INTRAMURAL SOCCER
>Coach: Ms. Powers (female), Mr. Hill (male)
>Captain: Whitney Price (female), R. A. Netor (male)
>Soccer isn't just for Europeans anymore. It is a game that hones your body and mind to work as one. Our girls' team has made all-state twice in the past four years and our boys' team has also done well. We breed excellence. Inquire with the coaches today.
 
>TRANSHUMANISM CLUB
>Faculty Adviser: Dr. Carte
>President: (election to be held)
>If you've ever wanted your body to be more than the sum of its components, this is the club for you. We investigate the ways in which technology can be used to improve the human condition: physically, mentally, and even spiritually. We meet M-F.
 
>MINDBREAKERS -- QUIZ BOWL
>Faculty Adviser: Mr. Langley
>Captain: Alabaster Soliloquy
>Test your wits against the best! Quiz Bowl offers you the chance to hone your mind in a team environment. Our team has made the state championship for five consecutive semesters. Whether you're interested in playing at competitions or just taking part in our practices, come on over! Practices held every Monday and Friday.
 
You have to join one officially. You can join up to two, according to school rules.
 
[ ] Join 1
[X] Join 2
 
[ ] Student Council
[X] TCAC
[ ] Intramural Soccer
[ ] Transhumanism Club
[X] Quiz Bowl
 
You make your selections and hurry to the A/V room.
 
"Fucking FINALLY," Whitney says, her frustration plain. "What took you so long?"
 
She's already naked. She falls instantly to all fours, face down and ass up, wagging her hips at you. Her pussy is drooling.
 
How can you resist?
 
You fuck her savagely, taking out the day's pent-up excitement on her. She fucks you back just as hard, her ass slamming against your hips.
 
"And then she came all over herself," you tell Whitney, finishing up your account of the incident in the hallway. "I made her call me master."
 
Whitney looks at you over her shoulder, never breaking her animalistic pace. Her eyes glint mischievously. "You made her call you master? That's awesome... did she do it?"
 
"Of course she did it. She was out of her fucking mind. She practically begged me to fuck her right there in the hallway."
 
"Unff-- fuckkk," Whitney says. Her cunt milks your dick as she orgasms and she throws her head back, drowning in decadence. "We should go find her and fuck her... right now..."
 
"Not yet," you grunt. The feeling of Whitney's innermost parts on your raw dick is starting to get the best of you. You're close to popping off. "She didn't actually beg me. I'll fuck her again, but not until she begs."
 
"You're so evil, Ally~" Whitney says. "I love it! I love YOU!"
 
That does it. You groan and pump Whitney full of hot cum. She mewls with joy and her arms give out underneath her. Even though she bangs her chin on the tile floor hard enough that you hear her teeth clack, her cunt still clamps rythmatically around your spewing cock. Some of it overflows and dribbles lewdly down her thighs.
 
"Sup sup SUP, my nig-gaaas!" comes a familiar voice from the doorway. It's Stackleford. He enters with a pushcart stacked full of food.
 
[ ] Try to hide.
[X] No hiding. Assert dominance.
 
"Time for some calzone, niggers!" Stackleford says. The pushcart he has with him has been clearly hijacked from the cafeteria.
 
"They were going to throw this buffet of hot deliciousness out, can you believe--"
 
Stackleford stops mid-sentence when he finally sees the scene before him.
 
His eyes roam over Whitney's ass, your chest; Whitney's sex-matted hair, your straining neck; the place where you and Whitney are still mated wetly together.
 
Well, he's seen everything. No use covering it up or trying to pretend it didn't happen.
 
You dismount Whitney. Your commingled fluids drip from your still semi-turgid cock. Whitney rolls to a supine position, resting the back of her palm on her forehead and panting for breath with that delirious look of post-sex euphoria.
 
Stackleford snivels. He seems close to losing it completely and bawling as you approach the stolen food cart. You grab a calzone from it, smiling at him warmly, and take a bite. It's pepperoni -- your favorite.
 
"You're right," you say, looking him directly in the eye. "This is delicious."
 
You turn back to Whitney. "You want some calzone?"
 
Whitney pants and heaves for a few seconds. She licks her lips a couple times before she can draw the energy to answer. "Pepperoni?" she asks.
 
"Yep," you say. "It's the best, isn't it?"
 
Whitney pants and heaves some more. "All right then--" she says, then gulps for air again-- "You don't mind, right Stackleford?"
 
"No..." Stackleford says, his voice pinched. "No... that's fine... take as much as you like. I-- I think I have to go... over here... to..."
 
Stackleford doesn't finish this thought. He just turns and goes, leaving the cart behind. Half a minute later you hear the far-off sound of his vomiting at the end of the hall. You shrug and wolf down the rest of your calzone, then another. Sex makes you really hungry.
 
Whitney sits up and pulls her shirt on. "That was awesome, Ally, but I've got to get going."
 
"Yeah," you agree, putting on your pants. "You have that game today, right?"
 
"Uh-huh! I've got to show the school that us girls can match up against the guys in sports. The team needs me." She pulls her panties on, not even bothering to clean out your cum.
 
She stands up and wraps her arms around your neck. She nuzzles you tenderly. "I know you think soccer's really boring, but if you want to come... you're welcome to..."
 
[X] Go to the game.
[ ] Sorry, I've got other business.
 
"I have a little bit of time," you say, shrugging. "I guess I could come."
 
Whitney kisses you on the chin, making a loud pwah. "Thanks, Ally~" she says. "You're the best." She pauses, then makes a fake pouty face. "Even if you are a dick-for-brains jerk sometimes."
 
Out in the hall, Spancer stands with his hands neatly folded in front of him, waiting for you. He's remarkably docile and good at following orders, you've found. You snap your fingers. "Come on," you tell him. "Soccer field." He follows you and Whitney without question.
 
One of Rose's StuCo thugs mans the ticket booth outside the field. He hands you and Spancer two tickets. "How much would you like to pay?" he chirps. "All donations go directly to--"
 
"Nothing," you say. "The price I'd like to pay is nothing."
 
The student council thug blinks, looking dejected and confused. "This is a charity event. Y-you're the first person who's opted not to pay--"
 
"First time for everything," you say, blowing him off. Spancer is close behind.
 
You take a seat near the back of the bleachers. The stands are pretty full; there's been a lot of interest in the lead-up to this match. Rose set the whole thing up -- well aware that the girls' team competitively outclasses the boys' team in every way -- and she herself was supposed to officiate.
 
She doesn't show up, though. People whisper to one other, wondering why. You smile with the secret knowledge that she must be at home right now, masturbating herself into orgasmic oblivion. You left her in such awful need. You can picture her rubbing her clit and hating you with every fiber of her being, but at the same time needing your dick more than anything on Earth. Perfect.
 
The teams assemble on the grass: girls in red, boys in blue. The girls win the coin toss and take the kickoff.
 
Whitney has the ball almost instantly, and runs down the field with it. You don't have all the SOCCER WORDS to comprehend exactly what's happening, but it soon becomes clear that the boys can't keep up. Whitney has a nearly supernatural sense of where they are at all times, even when they're behind her.
 
At one point, their team captain, a boy standing almost 6'5" and wearing a mean-looking buzz-cut, attempts to gain on her from the back. Whitney fakes him out, suddenly stopping. He trips over himself as he overshoots his mark and tumbles to the grass face-first
 
Of course, Whitney was 100% correct in her assessment of you: you hate sports of all stripes, and soccer is no exception. Not long through the first half, you're beginning to feel drowsy.
 
The whole competition is a joke, anyway -- a total rout. The girls are up 3-0 without breaking a sweat (Whitney scores two of these); the boys are wheezing and clutching at their knees between plays.
 
Fir her part, Whitney is still full of pep. She takes the time between plays to turn to wave at you, jumping up and down and smiling. You wave back disinterestedly.
 
The boys begin to use underhanded tactics. Even you, with no expertise in soccer whatsoever, can pick out several instances where one of the boys maliciously fouls one of the girls. The refs throw cards where they see infractions, but they can't keep track of them all; several go unpunished.
 
The boys' team captain trips Whitney so hard that she scrapes her knee. She sits on the grass after the play and clutches it, wincing a little.
 
"Spancer," you say out of the corner of your mouth, watching Whitney. She gets up and goes back to playing with no apparent long-term harm done, but that's not the point. "Can you beat Ryan Netor half to death tonight?" you ask.
 
"Affirmative."
 
"Hm. Actually, make it three-quarters to death. No, seven-eighths."
 
"Understood."
 
Between halves, Whitney meets you in the stands.
 
"That fucking asshole tripped me..." she pouts.
 
"I saw."
 
"Don't you care?"
 
"Don't worry about it."
 
Whitney growls with playful frustration.
 
With the first half now over, the score is 6-0. Several of the boys have already been red-carded. It's obvious that the game is going to end early when there aren't enough boys left to play.
 
"I think I'm gonna head out," you tell Whitney. "I'm leaving Spancer with you, all right?"
 
"So what's the deal?" Whitney asks. "Ms. Carte made him into a robot or some shit?"
 
You both look at Spancer. Spancer stares placidly ahead at nothing.
 
"She did something to him, anyway," you say.
 
"Weird..." Whitney breathes. She pokes Spancer's cheek a couple times. He has no reaction.
 
"Okay," you say. "I'll see you tomorrow."
 
"See ya, Alla-alla," Whitney says. She pecks you on the lips. "Love ya."
 
[ ] Love you, too.
[ ] (say nothing)
[X] Custom: Love you, too/Smack her ass.
 
Sometimes you just can't stop yourself in time. Your tongue works faster than your brain at inopportune moments. Worse, you're not sure if it's a genuinely-felt response or if you said it automatically, the same way you'd tell someone "have a nice day."
 
Either way, Whitney breaks into a broad grin. You've said it, and you can't take it back. She kisses you again. This time you mingle your tongues a bit.
 
"Don't get too excited," you say, pulling back. You look away, blushing. "You're still the biggest fucking moron I've ever met, you know."
 
"And you're still the biggest fucking cockweasel I've ever met," Whitney says. "But I'm YOUR fucking moron, and you're MY fucking cockweasel."
 
"Yeah, yeah."
 
You kiss her again. She leans into it with a delighted mewl, and on sudden impulse you smack her ass. Her ass is warm and moist with sweat. The brief burst of aggression startles her.
 
"Cockweasel..." she coos as she pulls back. "Don't think I won't remember that~"
 
"You love it, you little tramp."
 
"Maybe~"
 
You stand and leave. The ref blows on his whistle and Whitney returns to the field, a spring in her step.
 
You cut through the faculty parking lot on your way off campus. As you pass through, you notice a red corvette lurching and sputtering. It doesn't seem to be making much progress. You approach it cautiously.
 
It turns out to be Ms. Carte's. She sits in the driver's seat, a bottle of Jack in one hand, her other one battling with the stick-shift.
 
"Fucking clutch..." she shouts, her voice muffled from inside the car. "Dammit, dammit..."
 
The car shakes violently for a few moments like some kind of mechanical bull, then stalls out again. Looking up, Ms. Carte notices you standing there and watching her. She rolls her window down.
 
"Hey you! Alabaster! Where's Spancer?"
 
"He's--"
 
"Screw it! Get the fuck in!"
 
"Ms. Carte...?"
 
She jams on the horn a couple times. "Toot toot, fucker! Last train to pound town!"
 
"Ms. Carte, are you drunk?"
 
"Pffft-- yeah, probably. Are you hungry?"
 
[ ] Yeah. Let's walk somewhere.
[X] Yeah. I'll drive.
[ ] No.
 
You reach through her window and confiscate the alcohol.
 
"Hey!" she protests. "What are you doing?"
 
"Scoot over," you say.
 
"Like hell. Do you know how much this car cost David Darkbloom? I'm gonna drive it into the ground."
 
"You're going to drive it into a divider," you say. "What's your BAC right now, a trillion? Scoot over."
 
Ms. Carte grimaces but complies. Uncoordinated and struggling, she heaves herself into the bucket seat on the passenger side. You sit down in the driver's seat.
 
...This is probably a mistake. You don't know how to drive an automatic, nevermind a stick.
 
Start in first, then... huh? The engine won't turn over.
 
"Foot on the clutch, moron," Ms. Carte says. "That pedal next to the brake ... no ... put the clutch all the way down ..." The car goes bucking like a mechanical bull again.
 
"Christ but you're hopeless," Ms. Carte says. Then she cackles. "This has got to be the most pathetic driver's ed class in history..."
 
"Stop backseat driving."
 
"You're terrible. You don't know how to engage the clutch, you don't know how to use your stick properly--"
 
The car bucks wildly again. Ms. Carte leans against the dashboard for support. "Jesus," she says. "I'm gonna puke if you keep that up."
 
"Whatever," you say, taking the keys from the ignition. You pocket them. "As long as you're not driving drunk. I'll drop these off at your place later on."
 
"Huh?" Ms. Carte says. "I thought we were going somewhere to eat."
 
"Why the hell would I want to go on a date with my bio teacher?"
 
"It's not a date, you douchebag. You're supposed to protect me. And anyway--" she hiccups. "I've got a billionaire after me. I could have a hit squad on my ass at any time. I can't die a v-- I can't die single!"
 
"Go to MadScientistsMeet.com. I'm sure you'll find someone."
 
"Oh, fuuuck you. Give me my Jack and screw off if you're going to be like that to the only person actively trying to save your life."
 
[ ] Here.
[X] How does a sub shop sound?
 
Ms. Carte eyes you as if skeptical. "You... like subs?"
 
"P'yeah," you say. "They're pretty much my favorite food."
 
Ms. Carte grabs your arm. "Why? Why do you have such not-awful tastes? You're not supposed to have good taste!"
 
"...Should you be on medication right now or something? You're creeping me out."
 
Ms. Carte lets go of you. She opens her glove box and a pile of menus fall out into her lap.
 
They're all for sub shops.
 
"I have a map of every shop in the metro area," she says, beaming. She pulls just such a map from the back of her glove compartment and unfolds it. The city is dotted with little X's in various colors that you figure must correspond to some arcane system of organization.
 
"There's Jim's on 5th, they make a-maaazing lamb gyros-- and That-a-Sub on Franklin, their roast chicken marinara will make you cum from your fucking tastebuds--"
 
"Uh, I was thinking we could eat at Subway or something."
 
Ms. Carte gives you the stinkeye. "Subway? What are you, a faggot?"
 
You shrug.
 
"No. Fuck Subway. There's this Vietnamese place on Arroyo that makes Banh-mi. Have you ever had it? It's like an asian sub. A weeaboo like you is bound to love something like that. They use fresh pineapple and amazing pulled pork in this one sandwich, with all these really spicy seasonings-- and red peppers--"
 
"You're way too into this."
 
"--or we could eat at Kosher Deli on 3rd. Have you ever had Pastrami made by real Jews? Those guys know their fucking pastrami. And the brown dijon mustard..."
 
"Good lord. Whatever. We can go wherever you like. Just remember that we're walking, and you're paying."
 
Ms. Carte puts a finger to her chin. "Hmm... all right, then. I know just the place."
 
Ms. Carte takes you to Tankōbon Sandwiches on Mansard Ave.
 
Actually, it might be more accurate to say that you take HER, guiding her with her arm slung over your shoulder, while she drunkenly slurs directions.
 
Directions that turn out to be not entirely accurate. You get lost for the better part of 45 minutes before you find the right street.
 
You stumble through the door into a small receiving area lit by paper lanterns. A tiny Japanese man in round glasses bows deeply as you enter. You feel a little abashed, worried Ms. Carte is making a scene with her drunkenness, but apparently the man knows her.
 
"Ah, Doctah Carte-o," he says. "Same-a booth as usual?"
 
"You know it, chingchong," she says.
 
He just smiles at the racist comment. "This-a way, please."
 
He seats you in a corner booth at the back. The restaurant is mostly empty, which probably explains why he's so solicitous with his regulars.
 
"Menus?" he asks.
 
Ms. Carte waves him off. "Same as always," she says. "Only make it two."
 
The host eyes you uncertainly. "Sake, also for the young man?" he asks.
 
"You know it."
 
"He looks a little-- ah, young--"
 
Ms. Carte gives the host a truly menacing glare, so he skitters off without anymore protest.
 
"What is this place?" you ask.
 
"Pan-asian bistro. They make a lot of shit, but-- they make yakisoba pan," she tells you. "Which is the important thing. Now you've seen that in your gay little cartoons, right? Well, now you get to experience it firsthand."
 
You sigh and look around nervously.
 
The host returns with your order. It's a moist, greasy nightmare, like nothing from your 'gay little cartoons.' Ms. Carte takes hers in both hands and starts wolfing on it without shame. Simultaneously, she pours herself a little cup of sake.
 
Slurping up a few errant noodles, she says with a full mouth: "what's the matter? Eat!"
 
You take it up and stare at it. You grimace. "It's just-- it just looks a little..."
 
Ms. Carte leans over the table and smacks lightly you in the back of the head.
 
"Hey!"
 
"I didn't pay five bucks for you not to eat it! So eat!"
 
You sigh, close your eyes, and take a bite.
 
It's... not bad.
 
Actually, really good.
 
Somehow, the bread compliments the noodles. And despite being soggy, the texture isn't unpleasant. You begin to eat in earnest.
 
"Sake too, sake too," Ms. Carte says. "Gotta have the full weeb package going on--" she pours some for you.
 
She holds her cup up as if to toast. "Here's to our last days on Earth! Woo!"
 
You don't return her toast. "Why do you keep saying that we're going to die?"
 
"Because," she says. "a) it's true, b) we're fucked, and c) ... well I forget c, but whatever. Let's get hammered."
 
"You're already hammered."
 
"You're the biggest buzzkill on the planet," Ms. Carte pouts.
 
You knock back your sake in a single gulp. Big mistake. It's not nearly as mellow as you thought it would be. You sputter and gag. Ms. Carte laughs cruelly.
 
"First timer?" she asks.
 
"No," you lie.
 
A silence descends as you both eat your food.
 
"You know," Ms. Carte says. "I had Rose in my anatomy class today. Fifth period. She seemed to be a little..." she pauses, thinking. "A little cum-addled. That's a good way of saying it. You wouldn't know anything about that, now would you?"
 
"No," you lie.
 
"Mmhmm. Do you know you have the world's biggest tell?"
 
"What?"
 
"Every time you lie, you look up and to the left. You'd be a horrible poker player."
 
You don't respond. For a drunkard, she's alarmingly astute. Ms. Carte cradles her chin on interlaced fingers and smiles at you.
 
"Darkbloom wants you in quiz bowl," she says. "I bet he offered you a few million, huh."
 
"One million," you admit.
 
"Only one? You got raped, Alabaster. You could have talked him up to 50 if you wanted to."
 
You shrug.
 
"I could--" she starts. "No... nevermind. It's pointless."
 
"Huh?"
 
"Listen, this place has karaoke, too. You want to get a booth?"
 
[X] All right.
[ ] Nah.
 
This may have been the week's worst mistake.
 
>Craaaazyyyyy~...
 
Ms. Carte's singing voice is like a dying cat.
 
>Craaaazyyy, for feeling... so loooonelllyyyyy~
 
Like a dying cat being beaten with a stick.
 
>Crazyyyyy for feeling so bluuueeeee~
 
While being lit on fire.
 
>I knew that you'd love me as long aaaassss you waaaanted~
 
And being mauled by feral racoons.
 
>And then, soooome daaaay~
 
And also Urkel is there, somehow. Yodeling.
 
>You'd leeeeve me for... some-body neeeewwwwww~~~
 
She smiles at you with such earnestness that you'd feel like an asshole for not returning it. You give her a limp thumbs up and quietly thank god when the song is over.
 
"Another one!" Ms. Carte says, scrolling through the machine's catalog. "Ooh- Total Eclipse of the Heart!--"
 
"Ah--" you say, sitting forward and stopping her. "How about we just... talk, for a little bit?"
 
Ms. Carte cocks her head. "What's wrong?"
 
"Nothing. I'm just not in a singing mood, is all."
 
Ms. Carte sits down beside you on the plush loveseat in the cramped booth. "All right. Fire away."
 
"You're so cynical," you say. "Always with this 'we're about to die' shit. What's your deal? Tell me the truth."
 
"I'm sorry," Ms. Carte says. "I'm just depressed, is all. For what it's worth, they probably won't kill you. Just me."
 
"For God's sake, why?"
 
"Here's why. I was working to bring Darkbloom Enterprises down. Plain and simple. I tried to stop that bastard, so now he wants revenge.
 
"But then my plan with the podcast fell through... and they destroyed my life's work... and now that Darkbloom has you, there's no reason to risk keeping me around at all..."
 
"Podcast?" you ask, the gears in your head turning.
 
Ms. Carte laughs bitterly. "It's so silly. I was trying to recruit people, you know, as bodyguards and muscle... trying to build an army, maybe... but only crazy people actually believe what Darkbloom is doing. So I set up this stupid Illuminati Report podcast, to attract as many schizos off their meds as I could.
 
"I mean-- if they're willing to believe that Hollywood is brainwashing people with symbols in Nic Cage movies, they'll believe that Darkbloom wants to control the economy with an army of robo-wives... that was the logic, at least."
 
"YOU'RE Sofia Sant-Elizabeth?" You breathe.
 
"One and only," she says. She holds a pinky to her lips and strikes a pose. Her voice adopts the shaky timbre of the girl from the podcast you've been listening to for past year and a half: "Wake up, sheeple!! You're being hoodwinked!!!"
 
No denying it. That's Sofia's voice, all right.
 
"I love that podcast," you say. "I mean-- ironically. I always thought you were fucking bonkers. I had no idea."
 
Ms. Carte's cute pose deflates. "Maybe I am bonkers," she says. "I turned my apartment complex into a circus of unmedicated crazies... what did it get me? Nothing. And the jocks I've been relying on for help aren't much better. The truth is, I'm screwed."
 
[X] No you're not. Let's take down Darkbloom together.
[ ] Let's forget our problems for now and have fun.
 
"You're an idiot," Ms. Carte says.
 
She says it with such conviction that you're actually taken aback. Silence descends.
 
"Listen..." she says finally. "You need some help in quiz bowl, right? I could be your supplemental coach."
 
"What does that have to do with Darkbloom?"
 
"Nothing, Really. Err, well-- it's *maybe* an inroad to Vivian. That's all. But more importantly, it's what you want to do too, right? You'd like to make nationals."
 
"Really, I don't care about quiz bowl anymore..."
 
"Bull fuckin' shit," Ms. Carte laughs. She swings around so she sits in your lap, facing you. "I was at least as much of a hopeless dork as you were in high school, and I know making nationals was MY dream. You can't bullshit a bullshitter, Alabaster."
 
You stare at each other for seconds stretching into minutes.
 
"We'd make a great team," she says. "The best, maybe."
 
"Supplemental coach?" you ask, considering it. "How?"
 
"Just come to my apartment after school. How does Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday sound? 6 PM to 10 PM. We'll drill nonstop for hours on end."
 
[X] Deal.
[ ] No deal.
 
It's only kosher to seal this kind of arrangement with a kiss, right?
 
You're not sure who moves first, to be honest. But you know that all of a sudden, Ms. Carte's rum-filled breath is wafting through your mouth while you run your hands through her silky hair.
 
She squirms on your lap, and you realize for the first time that she's actually smaller than you. For some reason it had always seemed to be the reverse.
 
"Goddamn it," Ms. Carte says, pulling away. She lightly pounds your chest. "You, of all people-- why you..."
 
You pull her away from her doubting words and back into the kiss. She moans and bites your lower lip, gripping you by the shoulders. Her tongue seems weirdly inexperienced, even to your own relatively inexperienced lips. But what she lacks in finesse she makes up for in eagerness. Her hands roam your neck and face as she sucks at your tongue.
 
Delicately, you begin to unbutton her blouse. She reaches down for your pants.
 
And then she falls off of you, vomiting.
 
"BLEHHHH---"
 
"Oh, Jesus. Ms. Carte--?"
 
"BLEEEEHHHHHHHHHH---"
 
You grimace as Ms. Carte goes to all fours, puking up what seems like gallons of bile. You do the gentlemanly thing and pull her hair back for her while she soils the tiny karaoke booth.
 
"BLAAAAARGGGGG--"
 
It smells disturbingly like the yakisoba you just ate.
 
"Let's get you home," you say when she finished.
 
As you leave the restaurant, Ms. Carte leaning on you for support, you flag the little Japanese host down. "Mess in booth 4," you tell him, quickly leaving.
 
Getting her back to her place is a Herculean struggle. You leave Ms. Carte dozing soundly in bed, still drunk off her ass.
 
You walk home, feeling pensive. You're just glad she didn't get any of the upchuck on you, to be honest.
 
So much for sex...
 
Well, there's still tonight's marathon with your sister to look forward to.
 
It's a little after 8PM when you walk through your front door. Evening has already descended. You hurry upstairs, impatient. You've got so much pent-up sexual frustration from the incident in the karaoke booth that you're hoping Cerise will assent to another marathon viewing right away.
 
But as you approach her bedroom, you hear a weird lumbering noise, like a herd of elephants thudding around.
 
"Cerise...?" you ask. You crack open her door.
 
"Yeah, over there--" Cerise says from her bed, directing someone. You open the door all the way to see who she's talking to.
 
It's Stackleford.
 
He's moving boxes around, organizing things on Cerise's shelves and in her closet.
 
"What the hell?" you ask.
 
"Hmm?" Cerise says. "Oh, guess you finally decided to come home. ...Are you drunk? You smell like rum."
 
Stackleford drops a particularly heavy box. He stands up straight, huffing, his face ruddy. "Where do you want these books?" he asks.
 
"That shelf," Cerise says. "Organize them alphabetically."
 
"What the fuck is Stacklefuck doing in your room!" you snap.
 
"He offered to help me organize my shit," Cerise says, indignant. "Not like I was ever going to get help from anyone else..." she stares at you accusingly.
 
You stand at the threshold of her door and tremble with rage that doesn't feel exactly rational.
 
"But... he's Stackleford..." you mumble.
 
"He works, and he works for free," Cerise shrugs.
 
This is true. Stackleford is hard at work organizing Cerise's books.
 
"What about family movie night?" you ask.
 
"It can wait," Cerise says. She falls back on her bed, splaying her arms. She's only wearing a t-shirt and panties.
 
Stackleford walks to the door, grinning.
 
"Yeah, *Alabaster*," he says. His voice drips with malice. "It can wait."
 
He shuts the door in your face.
 
His expression as he does so is not one you'll soon forget.
 
MEANWHILE...
 
Ms. Carte tosses and turns in bed, deep in a drunken delirium between wakefulness and sleep.
 
"I barfed..." she mutters to herself. "God, I'm such a moron... kill me now..."
 
Her hand works furiously on her genitals as she squeezes her thighs luxuriously. Even through her embarrassment, this embarrassment that feels like it will never go away, she can't stop herself. She's so fucking hot right now.
 
"I was so close..." she whines. "I almost had him..."
 
It happens. "Fuck-- uggh!" She curls up into the fetal position, her every muscle tensing as an orgasm tears through her without warning. Images of Alabaster flash through her head: what he must look like naked, pale but weirdly manly -- his back muscles, his ass muscles, flexing as he pounds her and squirts his seed deep inside -- how hot and hard his cock must be--!!
 
She grits her teeth and shudders.
 
When her cum passes, she rolls onto her back and stretches out. Her rotating desk fan doesn't do much at all to abate the late-summer heat. Her body is sticky with sweat and need.
 
"Why do I care so much..." she sighs. "He's just a stupid kid... and what would he want with an old hag like me..."
 
She puts a hand to her chest and closes her eyes.
 
"Next time," she promises herself. "Next time."
 
END OF EPISODE 7.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, moeblob connoisseur and owner of a lonely heart.
 
Later that evening, you hear Stackleford departing. It's not exactly daring espionage: it would be almost impossible NOT to hear him departing, between his heavy steps and labored breathing. The whole house shakes when he lumbers down the stairs.
 
And then there's his lispy voice, rising to your room muffled from the foyer: "bye, Cerise. Bye, Mrs. Soliloquy. Hope to see you soon!"
 
"Bye Stackleford!" comes Cerise's reply. "You can come anytime!"
 
You lie on your bed with your hands laced behind your head and fight the urge to vomit. The gloom of early evening is turning to night and your room is quickly darkening. You consider turning in for bed early. Perhaps it could help you forget the day's awful ending. But the soft patter of your sister's feet approaches your door, and with a sigh you realize that the day isn't over yet. She knocks twice.
 
Knowing her, she'll probably burst in whether you answer the door or not, but there are matters of principle at stake, too. After the stunt she just pulled, you're not sure you want to acknowledge her at all.
 
[X] Let her in.
[ ] Don't respond.
 
"Door's open," you call.
 
Cerise steps in. "Hey asshole," she says playfully. "Why weren't you hanging out the young Turks today? We're about to finish NeeKyu."
 
You shrug. You're not in the mood for banter.
 
"Fine, be a dick. Now, where did I put that--"
 
She kneels and goes digging around underneath your bed without warning. You bolt upright and throw your desk lamp on. "What are you doing?"
 
"Just getting this--" she says, hauling a cardboard box out. "Sensitive materials and such."
 
You peer in the box. It's stuffed full of Cerise's vibrators, dildos, lubes, and other perverse implements. The amount is truly staggering, way beyond what you had imagined. She could have funded the development of a small African nation with the money she must have spent on this collection.
 
"Couldn't let Stackle-faggot see my toys. Is that kid the most annoying twat who ever lived or what?"
 
You gawk at Cerise. Her behavior isn't squaring with her words -- what gives?
 
Cerise rifles around her box of toys a bit, frowning. "You didn't stick any of these in your butt, did you? I don't want your butt diseases."
 
"I didn't even know they were here. But it explains why my room smelled like a clam bake for the past hour."
 
"As if you could smell it over all the rancid jizz you're always spraying everywhere. I had to use a whole can of febreeze on that little present you left in my room, you cunt."
 
"Carry a lot of febreeze? Guess it helps freshen you up after a hard night of turning tricks."
 
You don't know how she ropes you into it. Here you are, bantering like always.
 
"Anyway," Cerise says. "I'll be in my room. I have something to do first, but how does 11 PM sound?"
 
"...Sound for what?"
 
"Family movie night, you little dork."
 
She doesn't wait for your response. She steadies the box against her shapely hip and leaves.
 
But something nags at you. And you don't want to wait for 11 PM.
 
Now it's your turn to stand outside Cerise's room.
 
You go to knock, but stop yourself short when you hear Cerise's voice from inside.
 
"Heyyy everyone! Sorry I'm late today..." Her voice is peppy and cheerful the way it never is when she speaks to you.
 
This would be the beginning of Cerise's cam show.
 
Your heart sinks further in your chest than it did when you saw Stackleford, and you feel a sudden itching all over your scalp. As if today could get worse.
 
Why is Cerise's personal life so maddening to you now? She's been doing this show for years and you never had a problem with it before. Now, thinking about all the perverted things she's doing for strangers online, you want to punch something.
 
From Cerise's PC speakers comes the dinging noise that signals when a viewer of her show has tipped her PayPal account.
 
"Already?" Cerise laughs. "I haven't even started yet! You guys are too nice. Tonight's show will be great!"
 
Your breath is short and your lips are trembling. You've never seen what she does on the other side of that door during her show, and you don't know if you want to.
 
[X] Go inside.
[ ] Leave.
 
You open the door.
 
Cerise is sitting at her computer desk in an outfit you've never seen before: a full French maid costume, a pair of cat ears, and large round glasses. She's never needed corrective lenses in her life.
 
Stranger yet, she sits hunched over with some kind of electrical implement in her hand -- a soldering iron? Little sparks arc from the desktop as she works, deep in concentration. She chews her lower lip. She appears to modifying the broken remains of a Furby doll.
 
Her webcam's little red light beeps steadily: she's definitely on-air right now.
 
Finally, Cerise notices you. She wigs out. She quickly disconnects her webcam and starts gathering the electronic components on her desk. She sweeps them into a plastic bag and tosses her glasses in as well.
 
"I... I don't..." you stammer. Cerise looks at you guiltily. "--This is your webcam show?"
 
Cerise bows her head, too embarrassed to be indignant. "Don't tell mom, okay?"
 
"I just-- I thought your show was about putting things in your butt or something."
 
Cerise grimaces. "It's called circuit-bending fetish."
 
You shake your head dumbly, so she continues. "I dress up in this maid costume and fuck around with consumer electronics. Toys, mostly... make them do weird shit. Guys jerk off to it and send me money. Beer, too. Lots of beer."
 
You lean in to glance at Cerise's monitor. The window is divided into a pane for the cam feed -- which is now a black screen that says "OFF AIR" -- and a pane for the chat feed. You read some lines from the chat:
 
>Benderman1840: oh yeaaah baby fuck that furby up
>iodine__: use the soldering iron
>tom_servo: thats so hot i wish i had a wife like you
>janis12: i love the way you bite your lip when your concentrating
>purple_people_eater: huh? what just happened?
>Benderman1840: whered she go?
>kylereese: interrupted??
>DavidDB: Looks like someone walked in on her. How disappointing. I was approaching climax.
>pupacious: Probably her faggot brother -_-
 
You look at Cerise in disbelief. "What do you mean when you say you make the toys do weird shit?"
 
"It's-- hard to explain... here, just look."
 
Cerise pulls the Frankenstein-Furby out of the bag and sets it on the desktop. It's connected to a mess of networked wires and simple circuits, plus a few capacitors and transistors. It has no skin except its hard black plastic casing. But the really creepy thing is that it still has eyelashes and a beak -- a fluffy tail, too. You feel like you're looking at something from a Saw movie.
 
Cerise flips the 'on' switch underneath the Furby. Its eyes open and its beak wordlessly flaps for a few seconds while Cerise fucks with a few of the transistors hanging from the Furby's ass. Suddenly, the Furby speaks.
 
"Hail satan. Hail satan. Hail satan. Hail-- hail-- hhhhhhhh. Aaaa-choo. Worry."
 
You blink. "It's like if Mengele worked for Hasbro," you breathe.
 
"Hail hail hail RMMMMMMMMMMMMMM--" The Furby's beak gets caught in a gaping-open position and produces nothing but the horrible screech of plastic gears grinding on each other. Cerise turns it off.
 
"This is a sex thing?" You ask.
 
"For some people."
 
"...For you?"
 
"It pays. That's all it is for me."
 
[ ] Well... have fun with that.
[X] Let me watch you perform.
[ ] We need to talk about what happened earlier.
 
You sit on the end of Cerise's bed and motion for her to continue. "Don't let me stop you," you say.
 
"Alabaster, get the fuck out."
 
"No way. I want to witness this circuit-bending thing first-hand. How will I ever know if I'm a circuit-bending fetishist if I don't get the chance to see it?"
 
"Alabaster--"
 
"Stop oppressing me, Cerise. Geez. Hasn't Rose taught you anything?"
 
Cerise closes her eyes and sighs deeply. "At least scoot over," she says. "I don't want you on cam when I go back on air. Having another man in the room would lose me half my viewers. These guys are totally obsessed with purity..."
 
You oblige the request. Cerise puts her prop glasses back on and organizes her implements on the desktop. She types something into the chat and then activates the webcam again.
 
To be perfectly honest, it's a bit disturbing. There's something brutal and transfixingly horrid about Cerise's ability to manipulate the Furby's components. Her almost endless skill in making it do things it was never meant to. It calls to mind other fetishes: awful videos glimpsed in the dead of night, of women stomping on helpless animals, women torturing men's genitals.
 
Is that the same basic principle at work here? An urge to see something beautiful wield such destructive power?
 
--Ugh. Did you just think of Cerise as beautiful?
 
You look at her, her face front-lit by her own swiveling desk lamp. Her skin is milky white -- pale and smooth from a life spent shirking physical activity. Yet she's got a woman's body: pear hips, well-endowed chest, angular face. If you were posting online, anonymously, you'd call her an old hag; you'd pretend to find her disgusting. But the truth is she stirs a primal instinct in you, some urge in some obscure part of your hindbrain too evolutionarily primitive to check her against the incest taboo.
 
Cerise connects the Furby to her PC's tower. With a few mouse clicks, she makes the Furby belt out a few lines of Dethklok, interspersed with its pre-programmed "I'm a little teapot" song. This new absurdity is enough to derail your train of thought, for now.
 
But for a moment there...
 
Your stomach drops.
 
Oh god.
 
You want to fuck your sister.
 
And judging by the steady ding of Cerise's electronic tip jar, a lot of other people want to fuck her, too.
 
"Not on your life, fuckers..." you mumble, clenching and unclenching your fist. "I was here first."
 
Cerise mutes the cam long enough to hiss: "Shut the fuck up, assjerk. God."
 
You smile to yourself as Cerise resumes the show. For you, this broadcast of hers is yet another new angle to her, something you never could have guessed. And you may not be a circuit-bending fetishist after all, but tonight you've learned something equally important: you have a complex of your own.
 
After the show, Cerise kicks back in her chair, propping her feet on the desk. She cracks open a beer and slugs back a few gulps, still wearing her maid costume. It's a strange contrast.
 
"Well?" she asks. "Was it everything you hopes for? Are you a circuit-bending fetishist?"
 
"Apparently not," you say. "The way you take advantage of these men is low, even for you. You should stop the show."
 
"Like hell," Cerise says. "It's paying the bills."
 
"I'm a millionaire," you say flatly.
 
"Yeah, and I'm Abe Lincoln."
 
"No, I'm serious. Darkbloom offered me a million dollars to compete in quiz bowl. He's giving it to me at the end of school year."
 
Cerise stares at you.
 
"So I guess what I'm saying is, you don't have to do this anymore. We're pretty much set for cash."
 
"A million dollars is nothing these days," Cerise says, rather lamely, as if looking for excuses. "Anyway... I like doing this. It's fun."
 
You feel that old jealousy from earlier rear its head. Why would she willingly choose to prostitute herself for strange men? And then there was that behavior earlier, the stunt with Stackleford.
 
"Why did you invite Stackleford into your room?" you ask.
 
Cerise shrugs. "He volunteered to clean for me."
 
"Is that it?" you ask.
 
"Why wouldn't it be?" Cerise's expression is hardened now, slightly frowning.
 
[X] Were you trying to make me jealous? Well, it worked.
[ ] Were you trying to make me jealous? It didn't work.
[ ] Drop it.
 
"Jealous?" Cerise breathes. "What the hell are you talking about?"
 
"Come on. You won, all right? You don't have to rub it in. Good job, you got me mad. Happy?"
 
"You need to go back on your meds. Stackleford was here because he offered to clean my room free of charge. That's it."
 
"Don't play stupid, Cerise, it doesn't suit you. You know he wants to fuck you."
 
"Of course I do. What, you don't trust me not to? Fucking STACKLEFORD, of all people?"
 
"That's not what I'm saying--"
 
"I'd rather fuck a hippo. What is wrong with you? Have you lost your mind?"
 
"That's not what I'm saying!"
 
"Then tell me what you are saying."
 
You close your eyes and try to think. How can this be salvaged?
 
"Look. Don't you think it's weird that he volunteered out of the blue to clean for you?"
 
"It's no weirder than anything else he does. He wore a fucking kimono to school the other day. He thinks 'gomenesai' means 'hello.' Think of who we're talking about."
 
"Yeah. Well. He came over because he's mad at me."
 
"Yeah? Mad over what?"
 
"He knows about me and Whitney. He's using you to get back at me."
 
"Right. Because everything is always all about you."
 
"In this case-- yeah."
 
"So you come home from fucking some other girl and get mad at me for hanging out with a guy who I'd burn off my clit before even kissing. Is that the size of it?"
 
"We're not communicating properly. Let me start over. Cerise, I--"
 
"Get the fuck out, Alabaster."
 
This time you can tell she really means it. You bow your head. And then the indignant anger comes: "fine!" is all you can manage through the bile in your chest. You stand and leave Cerise's room, slamming her door behind you. It's the sound of death.
 
School the next day is Taco Friday. At lunch, Whitney sidles up next to you at your table in the cafeteria.
 
"Time for some nourishin' tacoage!" she says, shoveling salsa into the hard corn shell. She chews noisily.
 
You stare absent-mindedly at Rose on the other end of the cafeteria. All day you've been so zonked and depressed that you haven't even thought to play with her vibrator's remote. You can't get last night's disaster out of your head.
 
"What's wrong, Ally?" Whitney asks.
 
You shake your head and wordlessly sigh.
 
"Bad night? Just chill dude, I'll feed you some tacos and you'll dig it."
 
Rose cavorts and laughs with her student council friends, as if everything is normal: but there's a sheen of sweat on her forehead that isn't so normal for her, after all. All day long she's been in limbo -- just waiting for the hammer to drop. You frown.
 
"I'm thinking of something else," you tell Whitney. "How about a little fiesta with Rose later on?"
 
After school, you dismiss Spancer from his bodyguard duties. Before he goes, you ask for a status update on R.A. Netor.
 
"Neutralized," Spancer says.
 
"How neutralized?"
 
"Broken left third metacarpal. Broken right second metacarpal. Two fractured ribs. Sprained--"
 
"Okay, okay, I get the picture. Can you do the same thing to Stackleford?"
 
"Negative. Ms. Carte has flagged Stackleford as one of your friends. My subroutines prevent me from harming him."
 
"Well, I'm overriding that order."
 
"Negative. The subroutines cannot be overridden. This is to guard against Darkbloom coercing you into giving me certain orders."
 
You massage the bridge of your nose in frustration. "What good are you, then? Whatever. Wait for me outside the front entrance."
 
"Today is quiz bowl practice," Spancer reminds you. "Do you intend on going?"
 
"No. I have more important things to do."
 
"Remember," you tell Whitney in the empty school hallway. "I want to do it on my own this time."
 
"Gotcha, gotcha," Whitney chirps.
 
You've been waiting outside the student council room for over an hour and a half. Finally, the meeting adjourns, and students begin to trickle out. You take cover in a janitor's closet and watch through the cracked-open door as, one by one, Rose's cadre of polo-clad minions leave.
 
You expect Rose to be the last one out. And as usual, your instincts prove correct. Rose is 10 minutes later than the last of her fellow council members. She steps out of the room and locks the door securely behind her.
 
She's a fucking wreck. Sweat-sheened, red-faced, hair mussed, blouse partially untucked. She walks with a wobble in her step.
 
The weird thing is you haven't touched the vibrator's dial even once today. Yet she looks worse than the day you had her on a nonstop roller-coaster of orgasms.
 
"Do it," Whitney says. "She's ready for it."
 
You don't need the encouragement. You step into the hallway.
 
"Hello, Rose."
 
Rose wheels around. Her eyes go wide and wild, like a frightened native -- pure animal panic in them.
 
She turns and tries to run, but you chase her down and tackle her in a few short steps. You turn her writhing body on its back and pin her wrists.
 
"Did you wear the vibrator today?" you ask.
 
"I'm s-sorry!" she cries. "It's not my fault! I wore it, you can check for yourself... it must have broken or something! I did everything you wanted, I swear! I swear, Alabaster, I swear! I'm sorry it stopped working!"
 
You laugh cruelly. "It didn't break," you tell her, interrupting her little panic attack. "I just never turned it on."
 
Rose shivers underneath you and then goes still. You nip at her neck.
 
"W-why?" she stutters.
 
"You don't want me to," you say. "I'd never do something like that against your will. That would be rape."
 
Rose whimpers.
 
You loom over her, sitting on your knees, and tug her skirt down.
 
"No--!" Rose screams, the fear coming back to her. "Please!"
 
She was telling the truth: she's wearing the egg. And also going nopan. Her pussy glistens with moisture.
 
"Slut," comes your simple and to-the-point analysis.
 
You tug the egg from her and toss it aside. It'll just get in the way otherwise.
 
Behind you, Whitney sets down a stool from the janitor's closet on the linoleum floor. You hear the dull scrape of its feet against the tile as shit sits.
 
Right here in the middle of the hallway -- you're about to rape the student council president while your girlfriend masturbates to it. Could life get any sweeter?
 
You pull your cock free and push Rose's supple thighs together. They're meaty, but deliciously smooth. With your weight pinning her and her juices providing lubrication, the slippery pressure pf fucking between her legs is a lot like your onahole. The heat and wetness makes you growl involuntarily.
 
Underneath you, Rose switches from fear to an attempt at defiance: "y-you're sick. What are you doing?"
 
You smother her protests with a lewd open-mouthed kiss. You force your tongue down her throat and let your drool flow freely into her. Only when she starts moving her tongue in return do you pull away. Rose's whimper this time is louder, more frustrated.
 
"I guess you're going to rape me," Rose says, a strand of spittle still connecting her lips to yours. "Well, get it over with!"
 
"Hmm?" you ask tauntingly, humping her legs. You feel her cunt lips against your shaft but resist the urge to drive yourself home. Patience is key.
 
"I'm not a rapist," you tell her. "I'd never have sex with you if you didn't want me to."
 
You pick up your pace, almost imperceptibly. At every outstroke, your glans brushes up against her clit. Rose's thigh muscles flex and her back arches. Her breathing is ragged.
 
"We can have sex if you want," you tell her.
 
"N-never..." Rose groans. "I'd neverrrrrrr--" her denial is cut off by her own thundering orgasm.
 
"All you have to do is ask," you say. "Otherwise, I can cum somewhere else."
 
Rose goes limp, and you don't have to hold her wrists down anymore. She lies there, unmoving, for several long minutes. The only noise is the wet slurp of your dick rubbing on her inner legs, and the schlicking of Whitney playing with herself.
 
You stand up, dismounting her. Rose looks at you as if you've just shot her parents. She opens her mouth to say something, but you grab her by the hair and drag her to her knees.
 
"I already used your pussy," you tell her. "I want to try a different hole today."
 
You pin Rose in a sitting position, her head against the wall. Cupping her chin in one hand and the top of her head in the other, you force your cock inside her mouth and fuck her throat like a cunt. Her eyes tear up and her mouth salivates obscenely, fast turning her face into a wet and slimy mess. Rivulets of slop run down her cheeks and drip onto her blouse, soiling it.
 
The swampy heat of her throat muscles engulfing you makes you groan. They expand and contract freely to make way for your raping cock -- there's no resistance whatsoever from Rose. Every time you bottom out, her lolled-out tongue brushes against your balls, leaving a trail of wet drool on them, and your crotch slams viciously against her nose. Every time you pull away and look down at her, her eyes have a vacant, glazed-over look to them.
 
You pinch her nose, plugging both of her nostrils, just to see what she'll do about it: the answer is nothing at all. She doesn't fight or squirm, and the only response is a slight decrease to the volume of her lewd gagging every time you thrust into her face.
 
In fact, the only real evidence that Rose is alive right now is the way one of her hands furiously mashes her clit while the other works its fingers inside her creaming pussy. There's so much girl-cum leaking from her pussy that she sits in a puddle, the bottom hem of her skirt sodden and darkly stained.
 
So far, Whitney has been a good girl about letting you run free, but she can't hold herself back any longer. From behind, she eggs you on: "tell her what a fucking cunt she is, Ally."
 
You laugh. "It's true," you tell Rose. "You're a fucking cunt. But now you're *our* cunt, aren't you?"
 
Rose makes no attempt to respond as you pound her fuckhole of a throat. But that in itself is response enough. She's your cunt. A steady stream of precum oozes from your cockhead and down her gullet.
 
"And even though you're a cunt, I've got to hand it to you," you say. "You're a lot of fun to cum inside."
 
There's a loud hiss as Whitney breathes sharply through gritted teeth. She brings herself to a wet, sloppy orgasm and you hear her bouncing up and down in her chair as she fingers herself to oblivion.
 
That delicious ache courses through your nuts. You bury yourself as deep as you can inside Rose's cunt mouth. "Drink my cum, you little whore!" you cry. Your cock blows off, pulsing and pouring your seed directly into her stomach.
 
Rose's back arches and her pussy squirts, droplets of her juice spraying in a million different vectors. Demented with lust, Whitney falls to her knees and clamps her mouth to Rose's cumming hole, mewling and suckling the nasty slime like mother's milk. Whitney sucks and licks, and Rose screams her orgasm into your dick. The vibration only makes your own orgasm stronger.
 
You pull away and stare down at Rose's ruined, fucked-out, half-conscious body. Her clothes are splattered with slime and drool. Her hair is mussed and stuck to her wettened face. Her cheeks are flushed, her makeup is smeared.
 
Whitney continues her work on Rose's still-creaming pussy. With a free hand, she masturbates.
 
Rose babbles unintelligibly. You poke her with your foot. "Are you done resisting?" you ask.
 
"Cum..." Rose mutters. Her voice sounds far away. "Cum... cock..."
 
Whitney laughs through her nose, still lapping at Rose's cunt. She stops to look back at you and quickly say: "I think I want to play with her for a little while. If you want to stay, you're welcome to~"
 
"That's fine," you say. "I have other things to do. We don't both have to be here every time we want to play with her, do we? She's really more like a sex toy at this point..."
 
Whitney shrugs. "True," she says. "She's something for us to relieve stress with. So, rule three: we can play with our rape toy whenever we want..."
 
She goes back to sucking Rose's lower hole.
 
"Cum..." Rose babbles. And on that note, you leave Whitney to her fun.
 
You sit at the dining room table as your dad read the paper. Mom is in the kitchen, working on ravioli, or something. All of her pasta dishes are awful mushy starchy messes, indistinguishable.
 
You play with a ballpoint pen, clicking its retract/engage button repeatedly.
 
Cerise is up in her bedroom, pouting, like she always does when she's upset.
 
"Such useless children," Mom complains to no one. "One of them spends all her time sulking, the other never comes home before sunset... don't mind me though, I'll just do everything on my own! Just like always!"
 
Your cellphone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out and read the text.
 
>quiz bowl competition tomorow rihtg? shuould come over for last second cramming
 
You don't have to check the number to know who it's from: it's Ms. Carte, and she's obviously been hitting the Jack again.
 
Tonight's main entree in the Soliloquy household may not be the most appetizing, but you were looking forward to the dessert: key lime pie.
 
But Ms. Carte is right, you need to cram a little bit -- especially since you've been skipping practice and with the first quiz bowl game tomorrow afternoon. Plus, getting out of the house and away from Cerise would be nice.
 
On the other hand-- mom's pie...
 
[ ] Stay home.
[X] Go out.
 
You sling your backpack over your shoulder and head for the door. Like a hawk, Mom senses this. She appears in the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room to growl: "where are you going?"
 
"Out," you say, shrugging.
 
"But... I cooked all this food--"
 
"I thought you never cooked for my sake," you say, grinning.
 
"Of course I don't! But there's so much extra, and it'll just--"
 
"Just go to waste. Yeah, yeah. Put a plate in the fridge. I'll eat some when I come home."
 
Mom's left eye twitches. "Don't order me around!" she says limply. "I'm not your maid!"
 
"Whatever."
 
You turn to go. Mom stomps back into the kitchen. As you leave through the front door, you hear her holler from the kitchen: "you better eat every bite of these leftovers when you get back!"
 
Ms. Carte's front door is still broken when you step inside. She's sitting at a desk in the living room, reviewing a pile of flashcards. An open bottle of whiskey sits on the desktop and mountains of books sit around her feet.
 
"There you are," she says. "A little fucking late."
 
You check the time. "It's only 7:00," you say.
 
"Which means we have 20 hours before the competition. We have a lot of ground to--" she hiccups, obviously still tipsy -- "we have a lot of ground to cover."
 
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
 
"I've got a pot of coffee brewing. We'll be going at it all night long. There's no other way."
 
You already feel tired.
 
"First. What are your strongest subjects? Your weakest ones?"
 
"Ah... strongest... history, science, general knowledge-- weakest? Sports, math..."
 
"Just as I thought. The scholastic board is supposed to be going heavy on sports questions this year. That weakness is a serious problem if we're going to make nationals."
 
You plunk down on Ms. Carte's couch. "It's no big deal. Hank knows sports."
 
Ms. Carte approaches you. She drops a stack of heavy books in your lap. You double over, wheezing.
 
"Those are sports almanacs. Get reading."
 
"I'm not going to study sports almanacs for the next 20 hours."
 
"Of course you aren't," Ms. Carte says.
 
She sits down next to you and you think you catch a whiff of something familiar -- something like excitement.
 
"We're going to focus on your strong points tonight," Ms. Carte says. "Those reading assignments are on your own time."`
 
"This is so much work..."
 
"Life is work, you lazy fag-end. So get to it."
 
You set the books on the ground and turn to look Ms. Carte in the eye.
 
"I'm not not going to drill for quiz bowl all night without sleeping. You're crazy."
 
Ms. Carte leans in sensually, putting a hand on your thigh. Her voice drops to a silky whisper. "Don't be so stubborn," she says. "Learning is fun."
 
Her hand creeps slowly upward.
 
MEANWHILE...
 
The Darkbloom mansion's dining room has a table roughly five yards in length. David sits at one end and Vivian at the other. Between them, an enormous feast lies totally uneaten. It's more than two people could consume in a month, and neither of them seem very interested in it.
 
Pavarotti's rendition of Ave Maria plays over a phonograph, echoing off the vaulted walls. Darkbloom's manservant stands demurely at the room's edge, awaiting any orders from his employer.
 
Darkbloom cuts his steak, fastidiously and slowly. He chews.
 
"Will Alabaster Soliloquy be attending tomorrow's competition?" he finally asks.
 
"As far as I know," Vivian says coldly.
 
"Hmm."
 
A long silence, punctuated only by the impeccable operatic tenor of Pavarotti's voice and the ethereal strings of his backing music.
 
"You failed to secure Alabaster's essence again this week."
 
No reply from Vivian.
 
"You know what that means, Vivian."
 
"I don't need it. It's your little dolls that need it. Not me."
 
Darkbloom puts down his fork and knife, and wipes his hands with his napkin.
 
"Why don't you go play with Viv-tan number 510?" Vivian asks. "She's better than me anyway. Just like all the others."
 
"You're so unreasonable, Vivian. You will always be my daughter. My only real daughter. I want what's best for you. All this trouble with Soliloquy is for you."
 
"Fuck you." Her voice is flat and listless even here.
 
Darkbloom smacks his lips in frustration.
 
"What I do," he says levelly, "I do for you. For this family."
 
"We're no family."
 
Darkbloom stands up, sighing, and tugs at his belt buckle.
 
"It's time," he says. "Go get yourself ready."
 
END OF INTERLEWD 2.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, anime virgin devirginer and fiesta organizer. After another wholesome family movie night with your older sister Cerise went spectacularly south before it even began, you did what any sensible young man would do: seek comfort in the arms of a drunken older woman.
 
>11:19 PM
 
"What's the capital of Angola?"
 
"Luanda. Everyone knows that."
 
"Which body is responsible for maintaining metric standards such as the kilogram?"
 
"The International Bureau of Weights and Measures. Or do you want the French name? Bureau International des Poids et Mesures. When do the hard questions start?"
 
"Don't get cocky, boy. The night is young."
 
>12:21 AM
 
"Which film won the award for Best Picture in 1939 at the 12th annual Academy Awards?"
 
"Gone with the Wind. What a boring fucking movie. The Wizard of Oz got robbed."
 
"What phylum do jellyfish belong to?"
 
"Cnidaria. Which is what I'm about to be if I don't get some fucking sleep."
 
"Buck up, buttercup. We've got a long way to go."
 
>1:32 AM
 
"In what year did the world wide web begin?"
 
"1991. August 23, 1991 to be precise. Oh my god, I'm so tired. Let me sleep."
 
"You're the biggest wuss in history. I hope you're cognizant of that."
 
>2:01 AM
 
Ms. Carte comes in from the kitchen and sits back down.
 
"The new pot of coffee should be done brewing in a few minutes. Come on, now, look alive."
 
She snaps her fingers in front of your face. You rub the sleep from your eyes as she flips through her note cards.
 
"Who holds the record for most points scored in a single NBA game?"
 
"Fucked if I know. I thought we were focusing on my strong suits."
 
"This is an easy one, Alabaster. You should be able to answer it."
 
"The correct answer is Wilt Chamberlain," comes Spancer's monotone voice from behind the couch.
 
"Jesus!" you cry. "Don't scare me like that. I forgot you were back there."
 
"..."
 
"Does he have to be here?" you ask Ms. Carte.
 
"Spancer, please wait outside," Ms. Carte says.
 
"Understood."
 
You watch him go through Ms. Carte's busted front door. "Here's a question," you say. "Is there a reason you keep your living room at 90 degrees? I'm literally dying."
 
"I don't have A/C. Sue me. It's hard to afford luxuries on a teacher's salary."
 
"...Uh, what are you doing?"
 
"Taking off my shirt. You're right, it's hot in here."
 
She tosses the shirt over your head. You bat it to the floor, but not before catching a few whiffs of Ms. Carte's sweat.
 
You pretend to gag, but the truth is it was alluring, somehow. Ms. Carte laughs devilishly. Somehow you don't think the act fooled her.
 
"How much longer do we have?" you ask.
 
Ms. Carte loops her arms over the back of the couch and kicks her heels up on the coffee table. In that position, it's hard not to stare at her tits. Her bra is plain and white but about half a size too small. Her chest heaves rythmatically with each breath.
 
A droplet of sweat trickles between her cleavage and you watch its progress with interest.
 
"11 hours to go. Don't bitch out on me now, Alabaster. ... Here, maybe a food break will help. Do you want order a pizza?"
 
[ ] Sure.
[ ] Sure. It'll be my treat.
[ ] Let's take a break and go somewhere, get some fresh air.
[X] I have some food waiting at home in the fridge. Let's take a break and eat there.
 
You follow Ms. Carte through the apartment complex's gravel path. Spance is takes up the rear.
 
As you walk through the refreshing night air, one of the denizens here confronts your little trio, holding a video camera.
 
"This is gangstalking report #117," he says. "I am following a group of three perpetrators right now. These people are completely shameless."
 
"...What?" you say.
 
"Just ignore him," Ms. Carte tells you.
 
Ms. Carte, seeming embarrassed, picks up her walking speed. You hurry to maintain pace.
 
"You're perpetrators!" the man with the video camera calls after you. "This is going on youtube! Your faces will be on the internet! You're perpetrators!"
 
You get to the parking lot and Ms. Carte clicks the unlock button on her keychain. Her shiny red Corvette beeps once and you hear the satisfying click of the locks unlatching. As Ms. Carte steps into the driver's seat, she says: "I'll admit it. I've made a lot of mistakes."
 
With you riding shotgun and Spancer in the back, you peel off into the night, leaving Ms. Carte's schizophrenic neighbors behind.
 
Arriving home, you sneak through the front door. Spancer remains outside, waiting for you on the footpath by the drive.
 
You and Ms. Carte tiptoe through the darkened foyer and toward the dining room, giggling like a couple of teenagers.
 
"No, really," you tell her for the dozenth time. "It's the best pie you'll ever taste."
 
"I don't believe you. Nothing will beat Gustav's pies. He kept me fed through my whole employment at Darkbloom Enterprises."
 
"You little pie-slut," you whisper playfully.
 
She gives you a shove. "Hey, I was only in it for the food. The guy was pushing 60. I like them a little younger than that..."
 
Your banter stops short when you hear sudden movement from the dining room table. You see a lumpy, vaguely humanoid shadow shift in the darkness.
 
You realize it's Mom. The sound of your footsteps and conversation must have startled her awake. She sits up with one last, loud snore. She glances about frantically, disoriented.
 
"I-it'ssh not like I wash waiting up for you or anything!" she slurs, still half-asleep. She rubs her face with a broadened palm. "I jusht got really tired after dinner!"
 
The cat's out of the bag, so you may as well turn on the overhead lights. Mom squints from the sudden illumination, shielding her face. Ms. Carte watches on, silent. She looks a bit guilty, like a child awaiting punishment.
 
Mom focuses on you first. "W-what are you doing home at this hour?"
 
"I came home to get some food," you say, shrugging. "You saved some for me, right?"
 
Mom glances from you to Ms. Carte, finally noticing her presence.
 
In an attempt to nip this disaster in the bud, you quickly put a hand on Ms. Carte's shoulder and usher her toward Mom to initiate a friendly handshake. "This is my biology teacher," you tell her. "She's helping me study for quiz bowl."
 
Ms. Carte smiles sheepishly. "Hi," is all she says. No friendly handshake anywhere in sight.
 
"Your own teacher," Mom breathes. "Do you have no shame, Alabaster?"
 
"I think you're misunderstanding--" Ms. Carte begins.
 
"Oh, I understand perfectly well! Sneaking in during the dead of night, laughing, smelling like liquor... you're fucking my son."
 
"Not yet-- err-- I mean, no, not at all..." Ms. Carte stammers. She cringes at her own Freudian slip and looks away.
 
Mom folds her arms and harumphs. "Looks like you're building quite the harem, Alabaster," she says indignantly. "I guess you expect me to feed this one, too."
 
"Well-- if you would," you say. "I'd sure appreciate it."
 
Mom gets up and heads toward the kitchen, grumbling: "honestly, I don't know why I put up with you..."
 
When she's out of earshot, you give Ms. Carte an apologetic look. "Sorry," you say. "She's a bit hotheaded. Don't let it get to you."
 
"At least I know where you get it from now," Ms. Carte says. She sits down at the spot customarily reserved for your father. "This pie better be worth every bite."
 
Ms. Carte has a lot of qualities to admire: intelligence, foresight, even a strange sort of charm.
 
But these qualities also leave a lot to be desired. Such as table manners.
 
Ms. Carte eats her food wolfishly, both elbows on the table, practically vacuuming up Mom's key lime pie. She dives in for seconds without asking. You watch her, a bit appalled.
 
"Real class act you've netted here," Mom says, unimpressed.
 
"Thish is amazhing!" Ms. Carte says through a mouth full of cream. "Thish musht be illegal! Nothing thish good could be legal!"
 
Mom blushes from the unrestrained praise, but quickly puts on her bitchy facade again.
 
"I'm sure you know from illegality," Mom grouses. "How many of your students are you fucking, anyway?"
 
Ms. Carte swallows hard and chases it with a gulp of ice water before answering. "None of them, Mrs. Soliloquy. Please understand. I'm just trying to help your son with the quiz bowl, honest."
 
"Mmhmm." She turns to you. "I hope you're using protection. She probably has every STD known to medical science and a few yet to be discovered."
 
Ms. Carte laughs, nearly choking on her water.
 
"Did I say something funny, you harlot?"
 
"Nothing. It's just... that would sincerely surprise me."
 
"You can play pure and innocent," Mom says, pointing an accusing finger at her. "But I'm on to you, lady. I know all the tricks old hags like you use to lure innocent young boys like my Alabaster into your snares."
 
"Ohhhh man. Your boy is far from innocent, lady."
 
They're both calling each other "lady." This is getting dangerous.
 
"How dare you speak of my Alabaster like that!" Mom shouts, standing.
 
"Calm down, Mrs. Soliloquy. I lo-- I really admire your son. And we make a good team."
 
[X] She's right. We make a good team. Come to the competition tomorrow and watch us.
[ ] I think this is getting out of hand. Maybe Ms. Carte should go home.
 
Mom's face cycles through a number of expressions as she tries to settle on what she should think of this invitation. You've never once invited her to a quiz bowl competition, even when you went the state championships in 2011.
 
What she finally seems to settle on is a flustered sort of downtempo happiness.
 
"You mean it?" she asks. "I can come watch you play?"
 
"Of course," you say. "You can come whenever you like. Competitions are weekly now."
 
Mom puts a hand to her cheek.
 
For some reason, you think that her cheeks must be very warm to the touch right now. You wonder what they'd feel like. You wonder why you wonder that.
 
"Are you really helping Alabaster with quiz bowl?" she asks Ms. Carte.
 
"Yes. We're going to go to nationals this year. I guarantee it."
 
"...And you really don't have any ulterior motives with him?"
 
Ms. Carte smiles painfully, glancing between you and Mom. She makes a clumsy attempt to change the subject. "If you see us in action, you'll realize how well we work together."
 
"I see," Mom says. She casts her eyes downward. "So it's like that."
 
You reach out and take Mom's hand in yours. "Ms. Carte isn't what you think," you tell her. "Trust me."
 
"I guess I have no choice," Mom says. She looks up again. Her frown transforms into a bright smile. "You better win tomorrow. I'm not throwing you to the lions for nothing!"
 
"We'll win," Ms. Carte promises. "We're going all the way."
 
Mom stands. "I'll go to bed and let you two practice, then... I wouldn't want to be a third wheel. Good luck."
 
She heads for her bedroom.
 
[ ] Let's practice here.
[X] Let's go back to your place.
 
>3:23 AM
 
By now, both of you are struggling to remain awake. Ms. Carte is dozing off as she reads you questions from her index cards. Far from energizing you, Mom's pie -- like all of her desserts -- has the quality of inciting drowsiness.
 
"What is the..." her head droops to a critical point that causes her to snap awake again. "What is the name of The Beatles' first LP?"
 
"Please Please Me."
 
Ms. Carte smiles wanly. "Alabaster... that's a little forward, don't you think?..." Her head starts to droop again.
 
"No, that's the answer..." You're not doing much better, yourself. A silence settles over the room and you find your head drooping as well. Soon your ears are resting against Ms. Carte's chest -- now shirtless once again.
 
"Alabaster--" Ms. Carte whines, writhing around and waking you up. "That tickles..."
 
"Say, why do you have all these notecards full of questions? I've been meaning to ask..."
 
"I used them when I was in quiz bowl."
 
Your head starts drooping toward her breasts again. This time you catch yourself. "I need an IV drip of coffee or something."
 
"Shut up. Now, let's see... okay, what is the strait that separates Istanbul from the rest of Turkey?"
 
"The Bosphorus... please don't remind me of Turkey, I'd rather not think about it."
 
Ms. Carte's head falls backward this time, and her whole body follows, slumping to one side. This startles her awake again.
 
"This is bad," you say. "We need some way of staying awake."
 
Ms. Carte blinks heavily a few times. "I think I have an idea," she purrs.
 
>3:45 AM
 
Ms. Carte leaves the bathroom dressed like an explorer going on a six-month trek to the south pole, complete with the goggles.
 
"I completely don't understand," you say.
 
"Lightning round," she says. "For every question you get right, I lose a piece of clothing."
 
You stare at her, jaw slack.
 
"You know, I just got done telling my mom you're not a slut trying to lure me into sex."
 
Ms. Carte walks over to the couch, shimmying her hips -- or at least you think so. It's difficult to tell under all those layers.
 
"Who led the first European expedition to Florida?"
 
"Ponce de Leon."
 
Ms. Carte peels off the goggles and throws them to the side.
 
It's going to be a long night.
 
>4:20 AM
 
Ms. Carte is down to only three parkas and a few pairs of pants. She starts asking you sports related questions. When you get one right, she resorts to taking off a single earring for your reward.
 
"You're cheating," you complain.
 
"Cheating would be to make you ditch a piece of clothing every time you get one wrong."
 
"Hmph."
 
>4:51 AM
 
"...diatoms?" you say.
 
Ms. Carte takes off her last coat. You can actually see her arms now. Her shirt is absolutely drenched in perspiration. You hadn't considered how uncomfortable she must be in all those layers.
 
>5:13 AM
 
"Another earring? Seriously? You owe me your pants."
 
"I owe you nothing!"
 
>5:15 AM
 
"Wearing two pairs of earrings was definitely cheating."
 
"Stop whining."
 
"Your pants are mine, Ms. Carte. Fucking bank on it."
 
>5:31 AM
 
Ms Carte arches her back and lifts her butt off the couch, peeling away her pants. She has nothing left on but her bra and panties. She's a flushed, heaving, overheated mess. Through your exhaustion, your body buzzes with lust. You can feel your eyeballs vibrating. You want to pin her down and lick every square inch of her tired body.
 
"Congratulations," Ms. Carte says. "You win."
 
"...what."
 
"Wasn't that fun?"
 
"You've still got clothes on."
 
"What, you expected me to get naked for you? I'm not a slut."
 
You bow your head and groan with frustration and need. Ms. Carte loops an arm around your shoulder, leaning in close.
 
"Lightning round part 2," she whispers lowly. Your ear twinges from the tickly heat of her breath. Ms. Carte's hand finds your zipper and pulls it down. "One correct answer... one stroke..."
 
Ms. Carte pulls you free. Even though the room is overheated, the rush of air around your throbbing cock is refreshingly cool. Ms. Carte gasps, directly into your ear. You shudder.
 
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's just-- I've nev-- I didn't think..."
 
Her hand flexes daintily around your shaft. "It's... it's so warm," she breathes.
 
Ms. Carte pulls your balls out next. She stares at them intently, with the furrowed brow of a scientist at the microscope. She pokes and prods them gently.
 
"Alabaster, this might sound silly... do you know if yours is larger than average?"
 
"Huh? I don't know... why wouldn't you? I guess it's about average."
 
"There's no way... no way..."
 
She grips you again, tighter, around the base.
 
"Where was the first manned flight?"
 
"Kittyhawak," you moan.
 
Ms. Carte gives you one stroke, just as promised: up and then down. One slow, luxurious stroke. And that's it.
 
"Fuck," is all you can say, squirming, writhing, every nerve in your body begging for more.
 
"First moon landing?"
 
"July 20, 1969."
 
Up -- then down. A dollop of precum oozes out of your cockhead and over her clenched fingers. You whinny and bury your face in her neck, nuzzling her. "Please..." you say.
 
"Latinate classification for dogs?"
 
"Canis familiaris."
 
Up -- then down. You buck your hips wildly, trying to hump her clenched hand, but she pushes down on you with her other arm, the one wrapped around your shoulder, and keeps you pinned.
 
"Follow the rules~" she chides.
 
"Let me cum. Let me cum. Let me cum!!"
 
"Oh, no. Not until after the competition. Sexual release before a major competition clouds your mind..."
 
Your blood runs hot and fast with need. Some distant part of your brain says that this is karma for how you treated Rose. Ms. Carte's grip on your tightens. You nip her neck. You can taste the salt of her sweat, feel it on your tongue.
 
She breathes sharply, and gives you a bonus tug. Your precum leaks in a continuous stream.
 
It's going to be a long night.
 
>7:10 AM
 
You feel your grip on sanity beginning to loosen.
 
Ms. Carte's hand, not to mention your thighs and crotch, are completely coated in your precum. The whole room smells of sex.
 
After every few minutes of questions, she stops to give you a few quick bonus strokes -- never more than 9 or 10 -- taking you to the very brink and before abruptly stopping.
 
"I'm begging you..." you say.
 
"Begging gets you nowhere." She bites your ear.
 
>12:01 PM
 
You're dead. Your body has left the physical realm and is floating in some extra-dimensional space, far away from here. You've become a mindless, question-answering automaton. You're pulling out answers you never had any idea you knew. You're even getting the damn sports questions right. Anything for an extra stroke, one more delicious moment of Ms. Carte's palm sliding up and down your glistening, pulsing shaft, one more electric thrill rushing from your cock up your spine.
 
"I need to cum," you rasp. "Oh god..."
 
"After the competition," she says, smiling.
 
"I can't wait."
 
"I hope you can. Because I don't want it in my hand."
 
"...What?"
 
"I want you inside me, Alabaster."
 
"Fuck. Oh god."
 
"I want you to cum in me."
 
You pant and moan, shifting your head side to side. Ms. Carte grips you hard at the base to keep you from popping off. Your balls and glans both ache sweetly. Your temples throb.
 
Ms. Carte whispers in your ear seductively. "But only if we win... only if we win, you can fill my womb with seed..."
 
>3:00 PM
 
You stand at your assigned podium in the Centennial High gymnasium. You're a quivering mess. Your brain is mush -- and yet at the same time more finely honed than it's ever been. You can't get Ms. Carte's intoxicating scent out of your nostrils. You want to bury your cock inside of her, bury your face in her chest, and fuck yourself into the abyss of madness. You feel like if you cum, you'll never stop cumming, ever.
 
As usual with these academic competitions, audience turnout is... low. There's a couple dweebs and friends of team members scattered around dispersely, but otherwise the hall is empty.
 
Mom sits front and center, hands folded in her lap.
 
Mr. Langley and Ms. Carte watch from backstage, behind the curtains. They seem to get along well enough. But Mr. Langley looked a little deflated when he heard Ms. Carte had been coaching you -- you suppose it must have been sort of like a quiz bowl netorare for him.
 
Vivian is here, too. She looks downcast at her podium.
 
"Welcome," says the officiator, "to the first Academic Bowl match of the semester. Today's game is between the Centennial High Philosophizers, led by team captain Nate Jarvick, versus the North High Mindbreakers, led by team captain Alabaster Soliloquy--"
 
"WOOO!" comes Mom's voice from the audience through cupped hands. She glances around, suddenly embarrassed as everyone gives her annoyed looks. She clasps her hands in her lap again and blushes deeply.
 
The officiator explains the rules of Quiz Bowl. And then it's off to the races.
 
You expected Vivian to beat you to the buzzer at every turn, the same way she did during quiz bowl practice. But today, she's a lot slower. Or maybe you're quicker. In any case, you get in plenty of answers in your own right:
 
what is the study of eggs? Oolgy. What shape does a quadratic equation take? A parabola. Where were the 2000 Summer Olympics held? Sydney.
 
The important thing is that the opposing team isn't scoring at all. Between you and Vivian, literally no one else is answering any questions. It starts to be a little embarassing, actually. In a game where the maximum number of points in one question is 500, the final score is an insane shutout: 22,000 - 0. The game actually ends 15 minutes earlier than usual, because the officiator runs out of questions to ask. This is a first in the history of the California state Academic Bowl, he informs you. Several of Centennial's players are literally crying as they file off stage.
 
"Amazing, amazing!" Mr. Langley says backstage. He hugs you and Vivian each in turn. Then, after a quick beat, he hugs the other team members also -- almost as an afterthought.
 
Mom's voice comes out from behind you. "That was really something," she says.
 
"I told you," Ms. Carte says triumphantly, but not smugly. She folds her arms and smiles. "We'll make nationals at this rate."
 
"Absolutely!" Mr. Langley agrees. "I don't know how you're training him, Renee, but keep it up, whatever you're doing. I'm leaving Alabaster in your hands from now on. They're obviously quite skilled!"
 
Through all of this banter, you watch Vivian. She stares at her tiny little shoes and says nothing. Even for her -- silent, creepy Vivian Darkbloom -- this is a little... well, silent and creepy.
 
For reasons you can't fathom, you actually feel-- sympathy? Maybe it's just knowing that Spancer stands guard on the perimeter of the room that gives you confidence to care.
 
[X] Vivian, what's wrong?
[ ] Ignore it.
 
Ms. Carte worries her lip impatiently. She must be as excited as you are to high-tail it out of here, and damn all small-talk.
 
Perhaps she also doesn't approve of contact with Vivian in any form.
 
But you just have to know, so you ask.
 
Vivian looks up at you, her frown morphing to a look of surprise. Sometimes, you forget how small she really is -- the way she's affected your life certainly doesn't square with her physical dimensions. In moments like these, you remember. She trembles and stammers a bit under your gaze.
 
"Well?" you ask. "I haven't got all day..."
 
"I am fine." Then, after a pause: "Although I appreciate the concern."
 
Bullshit, she's fine. She sounds like she's on the verge of tears. But David Darkbloom enters the backstage area from outside, sucking away any possibility of pressing the issue.
 
"Come now, Vivian," he says. He pats his pantleg once, as if calling a dog. Glumly, Vivian walks to him. He rests a palm on the top of her head; she winces at the contact.
 
Darkbloom nods at you, smiling. "I'm so glad to see you, Alabaster Soliloquy. I trust the two of you won?"
 
"We won," Vivian says.
 
"I was talking to him, Vivian. Please mind your manners." He looks at you. "Apologies. Vivian can be bothersome from time to time."
 
You begin to say something, but he turns. "Let's go," he says. Vivian follows him out, staring at her feet the entire time.
 
"What a douchebag," your fellow team member Hank says, summarizing the general opinion of all onlookers present.
 
Ms. Carte actually grabs you by the hand as if to lead you away, but quickly remembers propriety. She releases you, and turns briskly for the door. You follow, just as brisk.
 
"Where are you two going?" Mom asks, cocking her head. There isn't any accusation in her voice, just confusion.
 
"Ah-- well," you stammer.
 
"I thought I'd drive him home," Ms. Carte says. Her voice has a shaky timbre, like the kind she uses in her podcast, but even more pronounced.
 
"I appreciate it, but you don't have to," Mom says. "You've already done so much for him. I drove here, I can take him back. And actually, I was hoping to go shopping with him... you know, as a reward... n-not that he deserves it..."
 
You massage your face and hold yourself back from unleashing a string of unutterable obscenities. Ms. Carte stomps a foot.
 
Is Mom doing this on purpose?
 
Ms. Carte takes you to the side and leans in close, whispering quickly: "you can go... I'll follow and find you in your first free moment... I promise."
 
[X] Go.
[ ] Sorry, Mom. I've got other plans.
 
You're harder than alloyed titanium and your boxers are a few endangered otters away from qualifying as government-protected swampland, but Ms. Carte's promise keeps you level-headed enough to refrain from alienating kaa-san dearest any further today.
 
"Where do you want to go?" you ask her.
 
"I was thinking we could go downtown. There's Marvin's on 5th-- you really need some new clothes Alabaster, everything you own is dingy and disgusting. I'm almost embarrassed to be seen with you!"
 
You follow her into the parking lot. Ms. Carte casts you one last longing look as you leave.
 
"You could stand to buy some more clothes yourself," you tell her. You poke her in the tummy. She jumps at the sudden intrusion. "You'll, uh, 'outgrow' your current wardrobe pretty soon."
 
Mom slaps your hand away and stomps, huffing angrily. "You're unbelievable! I offer to buy you gifts and you just insult me!"
 
"Chill out," you say. "I was thinking we could make it a joint venture, that's all. You know, make it a proper date."
 
Mom's lips tremble.
 
"Date--?" She blinks rapidly a few times, then: "I'm your mother, you pervert. Don't tell me all that pornography has brought you THIS low."
 
"Geez. Learn to take a joke. You're too easy to rile."
 
You get in the family station wagon and Mom fires it up. On the road, you watch the rearview. Ms. Carte's shiny red sportscar tailing you is impossible to miss. Luckily, Mom is blissfully oblivious.
 
"What do you think?" Mom asks, spinning around in the mirror to examine herself from every angle.
 
"I think it's a bikini."
 
She slaps your shoulder.
 
"Well what do you want me to say?" you groan impatiently. "'Oh God, let me fuck you'?"
 
To be honest, if Ms. Carte doesn't show up soon, you might consider--
 
"You're vile. Absolutely vile. I should disown you."
 
She spins around in the mirror again, trying to look at her own butt, chasing after it like a cat after its tail.
 
"Does this outfit make me look fat?" she asks.
 
The dreaded question. You just shrug it off. "Most things do," you reply, chuckling.
 
She slugs you in the ribs. It only hurts a little.
 
"If you keep abusing me, I'll call the authorities."
 
"You'll need to call a morgue if you keep that up!"
 
"Why are you buying a bikini, anyway? It's September, summer's basically over."
 
"That's why," she says. "They're on such big sale now. Don't you know anything about shopping for clothes?"
 
You don't answer her and instead meander over to the men's section, feeling bored. Mom heads for the changing room to try on another set of clothes.
 
As you look through shirts on a circular display, slowly moving hangers aside, you see a human face hiding amongst the clothes.
 
You jump back, falling to your butt. "Jesus!" you cry.
 
Ms. Carte puts a finger to her lips, grinning at you. She kneels down inside the circular display so she can look you in the eyes from between the shirts.
 
"Changing room 11," she says. "It's in the back, not much foot traffic."
 
"Right now?" you breathe. You look toward the women's section. Mom is nowhere in sight.
 
"Right now," Ms. Carte affirms. "Or don't you want a reward for all that hard work?"
 
You cast one last glance around, again seeing no one.
 
It's time.
 
You pace around the tiny beige room, the insane intensity of your need growing by the nanosecond. At the peak of your frustration, the shuttered door clicks open. Ms. Carte enters.
 
She lightly pushes against your chest, forcing you to sit on the uncomfortable wood bench connected to the wall. The geometry of this encounter isn't exactly favorable for stretching out, but neither of you are in any state to care.
 
You kiss each other with wide open mouths, and just as in the karaoke bar, the back of your mind registers how awkward her tongue is against yours, how inexperienced she seems. But no matter. It's wet and hot, and actually tastes of mint -- did she use some kind of breath freshener before coming here? Kneeling to kiss you, Ms. Carte draws her hair behind her ears with one hand, too entranced to pull back. Your breathing against one another is ragged and quick.
 
"Alabaster," she moans between kisses when you finally do break away. You draw her close and nuzzle her, running suckling kisses up and down her neck that leave behind beautiful red welts on the ivory skin. She falls to her knees for easier access.
 
"Alabaster," she says again. "I want you to know something..."
 
You stop and look at her.
 
"I want you to know that I'm choosing this."
 
"I don't understand."
 
"No, of course you don't..." Ms. Carte wiggles in your embrace, her body heat emanating like the steady pulse of a fired furnace. "But over the next few weeks, you might find some things out about yourself. And if you think back today you might wonder whether this was real. I want you to know it's real."
 
"Forget it," you say. "Just forget it. I know this is real."
 
You take Ms. Carte by either shoulder, spinning her around. The maneuvering is awkward inside this cramped space. You sit her on the bench, her tailabone against the edge and back against the wall. Her body hums with anticipation, bird-like, her skin turned to gooseflesh under your fingers.
 
You pull her pants down, not roughly, but quickly. Her plain white panties are stained dark with her need. You can see the outline of a bush -- neatly trimmed, a small strip just above the clitoral hood. Something like this would have turned you off, only weeks before -- the Alabaster of today buries his nose in it, inhaling deeply. Ms. Carte stifles a cry by biting her knuckles.
 
You've never eaten pussy before, but want to try it, just a little. You sweep Ms. Carte's panties aside and give her a hesitant lick. Ms. Carte throws her head back so quickly that it bumps against the wall with a hard whack. She doesn't even seem to notice. You let your tongue rest on her pussy lips. Her juice pools in your mouth -- there's more than you expected. Swallowing greedily, you lap at her cunt, breathing in her aroma, tasting her-- tangy and searing hot, like semisweet chocolate maybe, an acquired taste. You acquire it immediately.
 
"Ala-- Alabaster--" Ms. Carte's voice is so staccato and trembly that she's almost unintelligible. "P-p-p-please, don't make me wait anymore..."
 
You stand up, kicking off your pants and then your boxers. Your dick is swollen and dripping. Ms. Carte looks at it like a climber looking at Everest, eyes filled with doubt.
 
"Please..." she says. She gulps. "Be gentle. This is embarrassing, but... I haven't..."
 
Your cock twitches and you stand over her, supporting your weight against the bench. You kiss her deeply.
 
"You're joking," you say. "Never?"
 
Ms. Carte shakes her head.
 
You grab yourself in one hand. With with other, you hold Ms. Carte's thigh and guide her legs apart for easy entry. "Hold it there," you tell her, and pull off her dripping underwear.
 
Ms. Carte kneads her hands together, whining in anxiety and desire, as she stares at your dick.
 
Clasping her chin, you draw her view up. You look her in the eyes and smile kindly, to allay her fear.
 
And you kiss her at the exact same moment you steal her virginity.
 
"Mmmf--" Ms. Carte grunts, her whole body tensing. You can feel a small trickle around your shaft that serves as the last vestige of her virginity washing away.
 
Her pussy contracts, not skillfully the way Whitney's does -- but the uncoordinated, uncontrolled spasms give you a new kind of pleasure.
 
Ms. Carte doesn't know what to do, where to put her hands, where to look: you guide her gently, just as she asked. Your thrusts are short, and slow, and shallow, but you pick up the pace over several minutes. You try not to lose control -- you've been waiting so long, in such lust -- but you don't want to go crazy, you don't want to be too rough.
 
For some reason, you care more about the woman underneath you than yourself right now.
 
"Alabaster-- Alabaster--!!"
 
Her legs wrap around your hips, her arms around your neck. As you fuck yourself into her, deeper and deeper, you let out a few heavy sighs and growls of your own that echo off the walls, mingling with hers.
 
And then there's a knock on the door.
 
"Alabaster," comes your mother's voice. "Are you in there?"
 
You try not to respond, but your breathing is giving you away, and you know you need to say something. "J-just a minute!!" you holler, trying to mask your ecstasy and doing a very bad job.
 
"Come on," she says. "Hurry up. I want you to look at this outfit."
 
"I'll be done s-soon!" you say.
 
"Alabaster... Alabaster..." Ms. Carte repeats, whispering -- but you can't risk Mom overhearing even this. You shut her up with a long, wet kiss that she returns eagerly, her eyes half-lidded.
 
"I'm close..." you whisper as quietly as you can, directly in her ear.
 
"Please," she whispers back. "All of it-- give me all of it--"
 
"It's okay?" you ask.
 
Ms. Carte's legs around your hips interlock and pull you deeper into her sucking pussy. "Cum inside, cum inside," she slurs, high on pleasure. "I need it, I need you..."
 
"Alabaster?" Mom asks. "Are... are you all right in there?"
 
"I'm fine!" you yell. "I'm-- I'll be out soon-- I'm-- I'm coming! I'M CUMMING!!!"
 
You pour whole liters of your jizz deep into you Ms. Carte's virgin cunt. Your hips buck wildly against hers as the wet explosion pulses through the both of you. Your cum leaks out around your shaft. Ms. Carte wrenchs her eyes shut, grits her teeth, balls her fists. You bite her shoulder to keep from yelling anything further, so hard that it draws blood, and you feel awful about this -- you actually feel guilty -- but in the moment you can't help it, and she doesn't seem to care, either during the moment itself or in the immediate aftermath.
 
With cum still leaking from your dick and directly into her most intimate parts, you give Ms. Carte an eskimo kiss. She returns it -- and who can say why the urge to do this struck you, just now -- but rubbing noses with Ms. Carte as you finish spilling your seed inside her is the most satisfying moment of your young life so far.
 
Judging by her satisfied sighs and mewls, Ms. Carte feels the same way.
 
GIRLS FUCKED: 3/6
 
Mom gives you a strange look when you barely crack open the door and creep out of the dressing room. But if she has suspicions, she doesn't say anything.
 
She probably has suspicions. She buys her bikini and doesn't say anything else during the whole excursion. You drive home in silence.
 
All night Saturday and all day Sunday, you don't see Cerise even once. It's a worrying sign, but you decide to give her space. You're still not sure how to deal with your mounting feelings for her. Or what to do about Ms. Carte... or Whitney, or even Rose-- do you feel a pang of something more toward Rose besides animal lust? Impossible.
 
But... maybe...
 
All of this is too much, too fast.
 
You drift through the rest of the weekend in a daze.
 
On Monday, Spancer escorts you to school -- this seems to be the start of a new ritual.
 
And perhaps another new ritual: a text from Ms. Carte.
 
>Today. After TH club gets out.
 
Simple and to the point, as expected. But Whitney is probably going to want something today as well, and then there's Rose-- if dealing with your emotions is hard, the actual act of juggling so many girls will be even harder.
 
"Why do you fuck?" Spancer asks suddenly, drawing you out of your reverie.
 
"You mean people?"
 
"Yes."
 
"Well, procreation of course... aside from that, I don't know. We just fuck. You know, when we're horny."
 
"This feeling of need causes it?"
 
"No, it's when there's nothing wrong with you, but you want to fuck anyway. You get it?
 
"No."
 
You shrug and give up on this line of conversation.
 
In homeroom, Vivian seems fidgety. You ignore her, but she keeps casting weird glances at you, and it starts to get under your skin.
 
Mr. Langley, on the other hand, is riding a high that may not ever end. He won't shut up about Saturday's victory against Centennial.
 
After class, your suspicions that something is up with Vivian are confirmed. She corners you out in the hallway.
 
"Alabaster..." she mumbles.
 
"Fuck's sake, Vivian. Can you leave me alone, just once?"
 
"I'm sorry."
 
She stands around, fiddling with the hem of her outrageous dress, as if trying to draw courage to speak.
 
"Actually--" she starts, "I want to apologize for the course of all our interactions thus far."
 
"...What?"
 
"Maybe you will understand better if I give you this."
 
She pulls her backpack around to the front and opens it. Spancer seems to become even more vigilant, if such a thing is possible.
 
But what Vivian pulls out isn't a weapon or anything else dangerous -- in fact, it makes your jaw drop in pure, unadulterated confusion.
 
"I wanted to express my heartfelt appreciation for your concern at the quiz bowl competition. All weekend, I researched your cartoons to gather ideas about a gift you might enjoy. I believe this is called a bento."
 
A bento, sure -- the box is roughly the length of her torso.
 
"I hope this can signal a new beginning for the both of us. Perhaps a friendship. I believe we perform quite well together as team mates. If you will accept this as an apology --" her eyes glimmer wetly -- "I hope that you are the type of person who believes a bridge is never truly burned."
 
[X] Take the bento.
[ ] No thanks.
 
"Um, thanks," you say, a bit weirded out.
 
Vivian smiles.
 
This may be the first time you've seen her smile -- at least in a way that doesn't make you fear for your mortal soul.
 
She turns on her heels and hurries toward the second period class.
 
"I advise against consuming that until it is tested for contaminants," Spancer tells you.
 
"Obviously. I'm not a moron." You hand him the bento. "Get cracking."
 
"I cannot test for them. But I can bring this to Ms. Carte."
 
Yeah, great. You do that.
 
You stand in the quickly emptying hallway, trying to think of how to fill your day. Thursday's humiliations with Cerise and Stackleford are not far from your mind, and you have some ideas on how to proceed.
 
Of course -- first thing's first. You're in two clubs, and both of them meet today.
 
[X] I'll go to TCAC after school.
[ ] I'll go to Quiz Bowl after school.
 
"Fezzes on!" Cerise says as you enter the Turkish clubroom.
 
"Yes yes! We drill now," Fazil says warmly. "Then we watch the animes. Very wonderful the animes."
 
"Right," Cerise agrees. "Wonderful anime. Who says cultural exchange doesn't work?"
 
There's a quiet rustle as the club members pull on their fezzes. Connor, the stupid asshole, puts it on over his fedora, balancing it precariously.
 
When Cerise sees you standing off to the side, she frowns, but doesn't say anything. She tosses you a spare fez. Dutifully, you don it.
 
"Ah!" Fazil cries when he sees you. He throws his arms wide and kisses you on both cheeks. "Ala-bast-or! Nasılsın?"
 
"Err... what?" you say.
 
Kimberly flips through her phrasebook. "Bu adam Türkçe bilmiyor!" she shouts.
 
"O bir salak!" Connor says, drawing laughter from the club. Laughter that seems to be directed your way.
 
"O bir otobüs çarptı edilmelidir!" Kyle adds. The laughter only gets harder at this. Stackleford can hardly breathe.
 
"What are they saying?" you ask Cerise, feeling a burning sensation in your scalp.
 
"They're bullying you," she says, shrugging.
 
"Are you going to do something about it?"
 
"Just sit down, Alabaster. We'll be finished NeeKyu today."
 
After twenty stultifying minutes of drilling basic Turkish phrases, the show finally begins.
 
"These are my favorite guys!" Fazil announces during the OP showcasing each of the characters. "I hope the brother and the sister have many fucks!"
 
"Incest is wrong," Kyle points out.
 
You, Cerise, and Fazil simultaneously give him the evil eye. He slinks into his chair under your simmering gaze.
 
"He's not wrong," Kimberly says. "Incest is fucking gross."
 
"I don't want to hear what's gross from YOU," Cerise says. "Or should I print out more of your Mr. Langley x Mr. James slashfic and read it to the club?"
 
Kimberly quiets down.
 
The series finale, in fact, is quite incestuous. After saving her ungrateful littler brother Shiro's life, the female protagonist, Sakura, makes out with him. There was obviously a disporportionate segment of the budget dedicated to this sequence.
 
The club watches this on the projector screen, but Cerise, sitting at the head of the room, has to watch it on her laptop. Her hands are clasped together tightly in the moment of truth and her eyes are misty. She's smiling stupidly. Hasn't she seen this series before?
 
Stackleford sits at the back of the room, sulking.
 
You know where he lives. His mother quite likes you.
 
She's a cow, just like he is, and you'd rather choke to death on Spancer's cock than fuck her. But that doesn't mean you can't spook Stackleford a little bit. You could always volunteer to help her cook...
 
[X] It's time to let bygones be bygones.
[ ] You will have your revenge.
 
Near the end of TCAC, you approach Stackleford's desk. He folds his arms and looks away, sullen.
 
"Hey," you say. You knock on his desk. "I'm sorry about Whitney."
 
He winces, but doesn't say anything.
 
"I know you like her, but she doesn't like you back. That's not anyone's fault. It's just the way it is.
 
No reply.
 
"Stay out of my house." You smile. "I swear to god, Stackleford, if you fuck my sister, I will fuck your mom. I may have to cut off my dick afterward, but I'll do it."
 
Stackleford laughs despite himself, but still can't meet your gaze.
 
"We cool?" you ask.
 
"I guess."
 
For the first time in many years, you do the secret handshake you devised with him in middle school. It's lame.
 
On-screen, NeeKyu is drawing to a close. It's one of the few series with a true harem ending. Shiro rides off into the sunset with his sister, his arch-rival turned lover, his training mentor, the loli vampire who turned out not to be evil after all, and several others.
 
You actually quite enjoy it. Not many series have the balls to pull something like this off.
 
Now that the club meeting is over, there's one last matter to decide.
 
[ ] Let's visit Ms. Carte.
[ ] Let's visit Rose.
[ ] Let's visit Whitney.
[X] Let's go home.
 
You catch up to Cerise on the way home.
 
"Hey," you say sheepishly.
 
She rolls her eyes. "I'm still mad at you," she informs you.
 
You chuckle. "Officially?"
 
"Officially."
 
It's clear she really means it. But she isn't so mad that she wants you out of her sight, so that counts as progress... right?
 
You walk the rest of the way home in silence. You take a moment to text Ms. Carte:
 
>Tomorrow Ms. Carte. Have homework tonight. We'll drill tomorrow.
 
Her response comes so quickly that you're not sure if human fingers can actually text so fast:
 
>Please call me Renee.
 
Then just a few moments later:
 
>Let's drill a whole lot tomorrow.
 
Things are looking up.
 
At home, you actually do have a lot of homework to finish up: your academic performance has been suffering under the weight of all these recent adventures.
 
You sit at the dining room table, eating the leftovers from dessert-for-dinner Sunday and trying to solve chain differentiation problems for calculus. It's such a drag.
 
Dad reads a copy of Forbes across from you. Cerise watches some reality TV pap in the living room, her knees curled up under her XXL tee like she's hiding under a quilt.
 
You barely notice Mom sit down beside you until you hear her soft voice.
 
"Is there something wrong with Cerise?" she asks.
 
You put down your fork and pencil and look at her.
 
"Please answer honestly," she says. "She never tells me what's wrong with her."
 
"She's mad at me," you say.
 
"I thought so. Why?"
 
"I said something stupid."
 
"Your sister takes after me," Mom says, putting her hand on yours. "She gets very emotional. Whereas you take after your father -- very stoic. That's a bad mix, isn't it? But... your father and I are proof that mixture can work. I'm sure she'll get over it."
 
You shrug. Mom picks up your fork and pokes at your food, lost in thought.
 
"Please don't touch my utensils," you say. "It's unsettling."
 
"Tch-- geez, Alabaster, no wonder Cerise is mad at you. You're never not a jerk, are you?"
 
She stands up. "Cerise cares about you more than you think. Remember that."
 
You wonder if she knows the full extent of what she's implying here.
 
"And I meant what I told you last night," she continues.
 
"Hmm?"
 
"Make sure you use protection."
 
Maybe she does know the full extent of it.
 
END OF EPISODE 8.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, dextrous danmaku dodging doujin devotee and cake fucker. When it comes to quiz bowl drilling, you're Daniel fucking Plainview.
 
You sit at the edge of Ms. Carte's bed as she noisily sucks your cock.
 
What she lacks in finesse she makes up for in eagerness. Her wet slurping echoes off the walls, filling your mind with animal lust. With her mouth stuffed full she moans around you, as if merely sucking you off is enough to make her cum.
 
From your many, many experiences with her this past week, you know it really is.
 
Her hot tongue swirls and contorts around every square milimeter of your achingly hard shaft. You hold the back of her head in both hands -- not forcefully, but appreciatively, as you gently guide her bobbing.
 
Her style is slow, almost maddeningly so, but unbelievably lewd and sloppy. On the outstroke, her tongue broadens to engulf as much of your cock as possible, like a little ribbed onahole. She draws her head back luxuriously, as if licking a sweet popsicle.
 
She never breaks eye contact, not for a second. Her irises simmer with ecstasy as she services you.
 
It's a look that says: this mouth is only for you.
 
Ms. Carte has a bad gag reflex and can't suck you very deep. Every once in a while she takes too much and chokes around you, coughing and sputtering.
 
When she gags, it sends a geyser of hot spittle cascading into your crotch. This plus the abrupt sensation of her throat muscles tightening around your glans makes you sick with pleasure.
 
And even when she chokes, she's never discouraged. If anything, it makes her work harder.
 
Because she can't take your entire shaft, she uses one hand to stroke the base with a rythmic twisting motion. Her thumb rubs against the sensitive underside of your cock. Between that delicious friction and the steady stream of warm saliva oozing down all around you, coating your balls and pooling underneath you, you're seconds from pumping her gullet full of seed.
 
You bite your lips and try to hold your cum back as long as possible. You curl and uncurl your toes, staving off the inevitable.
 
By now, Ms. Carte knows the warning signs, the way your balls tighten and muscles tense. Her eyes glaze over, like the musk of sex and the obscenity of this encounter have destroyed her higher intellctual faculties.
 
Her mouth releases your cock with a loud plop. A streamer of drool mixed with your viscous precum flows freely from her lower lip. She turns her head to the side and starts licking up and down your cock, rubbing you with her lips and tongue. She moans like an animal as she works you. Simultaneously, she fondles your balls, kneading them lightly -- tickling them, trying to coax out your jizz.
 
"Cum on me," she begs you. Her voice is husky. "Cum all over me."
 
You'd never deny a request like that. You grab a tuft of her hair in your hand and hold her head in place. Bucking your hips, you spew a load of cum all over her wet, flushed face.
She stares at your pulsing dick as if hpynotized, and takes your messy load without so much as flinching. When you finish cumming, she falls to her butt. With both hands, she starts rubbing the slimy jizz into her skin and licking the sticky strands of it from her fingers.
 
"Amazing..." she coos. "Amazing, amazing... this smell... this taste..."
 
One of her hands finds her pants, and impatiently tugs them down, rubbing your cream into her pussy. But this is nowhere near enough to please her.
 
"More," she says, "let's do something more... let's do something really kinky."
 
[X] Anal.
[ ] Paizuri.
 
When you suggest this, Ms. Carte lets out a little squeak of fear.
 
"Wait..." she says. "Maybe we should try something a little less extreme... don't you think?"
 
"It'll be fine," you insist, giving her bare shoulder a soothing squeeze. "I'll make sure it feels good for both of us."
 
Ms. Carte slams back a bracing chug of whiskey straight from the bottle on her nightstand. "You promise it won't hurt?" she asks.
 
"Maybe a little, at first."
 
She squeaks again.
 
"Come on, here..." You guide Ms. Carte to the bed and lay her gently down, reaching for the bottle of baby oil on the sheets beside her.
 
You tug Ms. Carte forward by her ankles. She helps, scooching forward to grant you better access.
 
You push her legs back and spread her cheeks to bare her puckered rosebud. She stares at you uncertainly from between her splayed legs as you kneel over her, glancing between your face and your turgid dick.
 
Her rear hole is slightly discolored and pulsates lightly, but looks deliciously tight. You can feel a sultry heat emanating from it. When you prod it with your thumb, Ms. Carte hisses and closes her eyes, her neck muscles straining. The flesh of her asshole is soft, but elastic, and so warm.
 
You unscrew the cap of the baby oil and pour an ample amount over her ass. It trickles down her pubis and over her cunt in fat streams, and down onto the bed as well. The sheets become stained with the fragrant liquid. You make sure to use a lot. You pull her asshole slightly open and pour a bit directly inside, too.
 
Ms. Carte whimpers. "It feels weird..." she complains.
 
You coat your dick in the oil, too. To calm Ms. Carte's nerves, you lean in and kiss her deeply as you position yourself at her rear entrance. Still, you can feel her trembling like a bird.
 
You push forcefully but slowly. Ms. Carte exhales sharply, whining, but you fail to break past the outer ring.
 
"Relax," you tell her. "You have to relax all your muscles."
 
Ms. Carte's breaths become shallow and she fiddles with her hair. "Like... like this?"
 
You push again, but can't get in. You decide to take a different tack: distraction. You kiss her again, running your palms along her bare breasts. You thumb her nipples and finger her sopping cunt. You bite her earlobe and her chin. You savor the droplets of sweat on her neck, sucking them up, breathing in their scent.
 
Ms. Carte's body responds to this, inevitably. She arches her back, giving herself to you completely. Her body goes slowly limp as she succumbs to pleasure. And this is your opening. You push again, and you're in.
 
"Ahn--" Ms. Carte sighs. You stop halfway, going motionless inside her. Her ass is like velvet, so hot it could anneal glass. Your cock tingles with frustration. More than anything, you want to cut loose, to pound this wet hole as hard as you can and fill her belly with cum, but you know she isn't comfortable right now. The bizarre thing about being with Ms. Carte is that you care how much she enjoys herself.
 
"I-- I think I'm okay," Ms. Carte says after a few moments. She has her forearm folded over her eyes as if trying to shield her view from this violation of her most intimate part. "Please, continue."
 
You pull slowly out and then seat yourself a little bit further inside her. Her anal muscles contract around you as if trying to expel you, but you stay inside her. Tentatively, you establish a steady pace in her ass. At the same time, you thumb her clitoris.
 
To keep yourself from going overboard, you bite her shoulder. Perhaps partially in response to this, and partially to bear with your cock inside her, she bites you back. And joined together like this, biting each other sharply, you rut inside her as you frig her steaming pussy.
 
Ms. Carte enjoys this. She reaches out with her free hand and holds your thumb against her clit, guiding your hand how she likes. She bucks her hips against the hand you use to masutrbate her. This has the effect of making her fuck her ass back onto your dick as well.
 
"I'm going to cum," you bellow.
 
"Yes," Ms. Carte moans, lost in a sea of desire. "Cum in my ass... cum as much as you want! My ass is yours to use whenever you want!"
 
You give her a hard slap on the butt and watch the flesh undulate as you pump yourself balls-deep into her. And then you blow a load of cum directly into Ms. Carte's stomach. She howls in orgasm, her cunt spraying its juice all over the sheets, the blankets -- and you. The two of you will smell like sex for a week.
 
After your marathon session in her bedroom, you sit on Ms. Carte's couch watching TV. She lies beside you with her legs slung over yours, wearing nothing but an undone bath robe. The blue glow of the "Jeopardy!" clue screen makes her look cute, somehow paler. You both mumble answers to the questions, only halfway paying attention.
 
This has become something of a ritual for you two. You go over to her apartment for quiz bowl studying, and end up fucking for the first few hours instead. Then you're so exhausted that it's another hour or two before you fully recharge get down to business.
 
It's weird. Sort of like what being in a committed relationship would feel like, you think.
 
On Monday, she introduced you to alcohol, properly this time. In a drunken stupor, you jury-rigged a fix for her broken door with her, which resulted in sending Spancer to the hardware store for supplies about half a dozen times. At the end of the day, you made it so the door could latch shut, but not lock. Better than nothing, anyway.
 
Sitting on the floor of Ms. Carte's front entryway, slugging back beers and laughing as you fumbled around with the tools was worth all the effort, anyway.
 
 Ms. Carte sits upright and grabs the bento sitting on the coffee table. She shovels whole forkfuls of rice and curry into her mouth, one after the other.
 
It's... not ladylike.
 
"How are you not 500 pounds?" you ask. "Do you ever stop eating?"
 
Ms. Carte slugs you. Slurring through a mouthful of food, she says, "Sex makes me hungry, you jerk. Tell that little brat to stop making these lunches for you if you don't want me eating them. Or eat them yourself. None of them have shown signs of tampering."
 
"Except -- and I quote you verbatim -- 'so much spanish fly you'd think it came from a spanish horse stable.'"
 
Ms. Carte swallows hard. "So she wants to get you all hot and steamy. Big whoop. All the aphrodisiacs she's adding are just placebos anyway. They'll only work if you want them to."
 
"Judging by your behavior, they're not really placebos."
 
Ms. Carte sets the bento down and leans in, hand on your shoulders. She nips your ear seductively. "But I want them to work," she whispers.
 
The next few hours are spent the same way your first few hours here were. You don't study for quiz bowl much at all today.
 
On your way out of Ms. Carte's complex, you run into a familiar -- and unwelcome -- face. Damon, your school's britbong janitor.
 
You swivel to your left, trying to beat a hasty retreat before he notices you, but too late.
 
"Oi! Wot're you doin 'ere, you little turd?"
 
"None of your business, you limey bastard."
 
"You been knockin' boots with that Carte lady, eh?"
 
You try again to leave, but he grabs you by the shoulder, stopping you.
 
He leans in close. Suddenly, his chav accent drops away, replaced by something noticeably more posh. He speaks in a whisper, looking side to side.
 
"Darkbloom is planning something. I don't know what or when. Watch your six."
 
"Wha... what?"
 
"Give this to Renee." He presses a manilla folder into your hands. Thumbing through it, you see tables and figures, all of them indecipherable.
 
[X] Take it.
[ ] No. I don't trust him.
 
You take the folder and scuttle away, creeped out. Damon watches you go with his trademark leering grin.
 
When you're out of sight of Damon, you try to hand the folder to Spancer. "Take that to Ms. Carte," you say. "And stand watch outside her apartment tonight."
 
Spancer doesn't take the folder. "Negative," he says. "My orders are to remain with you."
 
"Don't countermand me, you stupid jockbot." You toss the folder at him. "Go keep Ms. Carte safe."
 
You hurry home, alone.
 
You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. The slowly rotating fan casts alternating shadows across your vision.
 
The night passes anxiously, punctuated only by the dull buzz of Cerise's vibrator in the room next door. By 3 AM, it's clear that you won't be getting any sleep tonight.
 
Finally, the vibrator goes still.
 
You wonder what Cerise is thinking right now, half-conscious and naked in bed, all cummed-out -- the image of that still makes your body tingle all over, no matter how hard you try to repress it.
 
But ever since your fight, Cerise hasn't been on speaking terms with you. In TCAC, she's cordial -- but at home, it's been the old cold shoulder for the past week.
 
With this feeling of doom hanging over everything, you don't want stay on bad terms with your sister. At the same time, you're not sure if she's ready to go back to normal. You pushed things too far, too fast last time. Now you have a hard time trusting yourself.
 
[X] Knock on her door.
[ ] Let her be.
 
You hear Cerise's muffled voice from the other side.
 
"I'm asleep, assblaster. Screw off."
 
"Yeah? If you're asleep, how are you talking to me?"
 
"I'm fucking magic. That's how."
 
"Is your magic strong enough to let me in?"
 
The door swings open. You were leaning against it, and the sudden opening causes you to briefly lose your balance. Cerise, standing at the threshold, chortles.
 
"What?" she says. "Not getting any nookie from the rest of your harem tonight?"
 
"Things are really heavy right now," you admit. "I think David Darkbloom is-- well, I don't know what he's up to. But it's bad. And it involves me, somehow.
 
It's hard to gauge Cerise's expression in the darkened hallway, but the silence that follows seems a bit pensive.
 
"So you're worried," Cerise says, trying to sound sarcastic. "And you want to sleep in big sister's bed because you're afraid of all the scaaaarrrry monsters."
 
"Don't be like that. I'm opening myself up to you here."
 
Cerise stands aside. "Well, come inside, then. Let's talk."
 
You sit down at Cerise's computer desk. But Cerise climbs into bed, rolling onto her side and cuddling up under the blankets. In just a few moments, she seems to be dozing.
 
"I thought we were going to talk," you grouse.
 
"I'm listening," comes Cerise's drowsy response.
 
You mutter under your breath. If this is how she wants to play it, then fine. You crawl into bed with her. The mattress depresses underneath your limbs as you crawl toward her on all fours and lie beside her.
 
Cerise's eyes shoot open in the dark as you snuggle up next to her. "W-what are you doing?" she says.
 
"Talkin'."
 
Cerise grinds her jaw, clearly unimpressed. Her face is just centimeters from your own in the pale moonlight. She's so white that she looks like a ghost. She could really use some more vitamin D.
 
"All right," she says. "You have the floor. So speak."
 
"I'm sorry about the other day," you tell her.
 
"I don't want to hear about the other day," she says tersely. "You came in here babbling something about Darkbloom, didn't you?"
 
"I'm kind of, sort of... worried I might die soon. That's all."
 
"You're a fucking moron."
 
"...What."
 
Cerise kisses you on the forehead. Of all possible responses, this was not high on the list of things you expected.
 
"Do you honestly think I would let you die, Alabaster? Have some common fucking sense for once in your life."
 
She reaches behind her and adjusts her blanket's slack over so that it covers both of you. "Tell me everything," she whispers nuzzling up close to you, eyes locked on yours. "Just how deep of shit are you in, exactly?"
 
[X] Tell her everything.
[ ] Tell her everything, except fucking Ms. Carte.
[ ] Downplay the danger.
 
You start from the beginning and explain it all.
 
(Conveniently though, you leave out how rough you've been with Rose. You're not sure Cerise would approve of that.)
 
Other than this, you're honest: your escapades with Ms. Carte, with Spancer and Whitney, how creepy Darkbloom is, how strange Vivian is acting. Cerise listens to it all, somber.
 
"So to sum it up," she says when you're finished, "you're in it pretty deep."
 
"Well. Yeah."
 
"And you're scared."
 
"Well-- yeah. Obviously."
 
Cerise laughs, her voice low. "So my brother the lolicon is seeing an older woman. Weird. Do you care about this Ms. Carte woman? And Whitney, too?"
 
"Sure. I care about both of them a lot."
 
"I see."
 
You're worried you've said something wrong, but then:
 
"As much of a selfish faggot as you are, you probably made the right call giving Spancer to Ms. Carte tonight. For what it's worth, I don't think Darkbloom wants to kill you."
 
"Why not?"
 
Cerise shrugs.
 
"Thanks for the expert analysis, Cerise."
 
"Don't be such a simp. Sometimes you have to trust your gut on these things."
 
"Yeah, but sometimes my gut steers me wrong."
 
"Then you'll just have to rely on your big sister." She hugs you close. "Go to sleep. Try not to worry."
 
Lying next to her -- somehow, it becomes easy not to worry, after all.
 
You fall asleep beside her, and some distant portion of your mind aware that she isn't wearing panties: just a t-shirt. Her legs are wrapped around yours and her genitals are pressed up against your thigh, but your thoughts are chaste and pure as the driven snow tonight.
 
You just want to be close to her. Why hurry things?
 
As you both drift off, you hear Cerise mumble what sounds like: "I'm only a little jealous..."
 
"Huh?"
 
"Nothing..."
 
You don't dream of anything that night.
 
At school the next day, you spend lunch period with Whitney in an empty classroom. You sit across from each other in two desks that you've pushed together.
 
It's the Friday before your second quiz bowl competition, so your mind is a little bit distracted. Plus, you want to meet with Ms. Carte after lunch and ask about that file Damon gave her.
 
"Watch this," Whitney says, snapping you out of your reverie.
 
She takes out her cellphone -- a dumb phone, fittingly -- and sets it between you.
 
"I've been spending my lunches with Rose for the past few days. You know, some simple teasing -- whips and handcuffs and stuff. I've been showing up to the student council room at 12:05 on the dot every day."
 
"All right. What's your point?"
 
"It's 12:04 and 50... 51... 52 seconds... let's see what happens when I don't show up."
 
At 12:05:20, Whitney's cell phone buzzes. She flips it open and checks the text.
 
>From: cumslut
>Where are you?
 
"I like how you've tagged her in your contacts," you say.
 
"She's totally broken," Whitney laughs. "It's wild. You know, you should play with her more often. She keeps begging for your -- I quote -- 'stinky cum' -- unquote."
 
"Maybe later on," you say.
 
Whitney laughs again and pokes you in the stomach. "You're not fucking someone else on the sly, are you? I'll definitely find out!"
 
She says this jokingly, so you play it off as such, laughing nervously. But you don't deny it.
 
You settle in to lunch. Whitney eats some disgusting-looking greasy pizza from the cafeteria, mashed potatoes, cake, and a bologna sandwich. She cycles between these at random.
 
As with Ms. Carte, you marvel at how Whitney can eat so much and maintain her physique. Although-- come to think of it, she does seem to be gaining a tiny amount of tummy fat these days.
 
Whitney rambles through a mouth full of food. "Sho I shays to him, I shays--"
 
This diatribe is interrupted by the classroom door swinging open.
 
It's Vivian.
 
Good thing she didn't come here five minutes sooner, when you were railing Whitney from behind and she was crying out in ecstasy for you to fill her womb with sperm.
 
Spancer stands from his desk on the opposite side of the room adopting a vigilant stance, but you motion for him to sit.
 
"What do you want?" you ask Vivian.
 
"I want to eat lunch with you," comes her straightforward reply. "As a token of goodwill and team spirit. May I?"
 
[X] All right.
[ ] Bugger off.
 
Vivian smiles. She leans against a desk and pushes it slowly -- very slowly -- across the room, to join it with your desk and Whitney's.
 
In this quiet and empty classroom, the screeching of the desk's metallic legs against the hardwood is excruciating. Not to mention awkward. Whitney cups both hands over her ears, wincing.
 
When the desk is finally in place, Vivian sits down. She pulls a small black lunchbox from her backpack.
 
Inside, neatly wrapped in saran, is a tiny sandwich, some potato chips, and a couple squares of chocolate. You would probably need to eat ten times this serving size to feel full.
 
You watch as Vivian meticulously unwraps the food, spreading the plastic across the desktop and smoothing it out. She arrays her lunch in a neat row, and eats each item in order, beginning with the chips. She picks at them daintily, nibbling them one at a time.
 
Finally sensing that you and Whitney find this ritual of hers a bit strange, Vivian clears her throat and speaks.
 
"How has your day been progressing?" she asks you.
 
Whitney whistles. "I never would have believed it, Ally, but there's someone on this planet who's a bigger nerd than you are."
 
Vivian blanches. Apparently she's not used to Whitney's abrasive manner of joking. She goes back to silently eating.
 
"Today's been fine," you say in an attempt to salvage the conversation. "Uh-- say, are you ready for the game this weekend?"
 
"We will demolish them," Vivian says. You notice her swinging her feet under the table as she says this.
 
Despite her cold exterior, there are still flashes of a juvenile enthusiasm in Vivian if you know where to look.
 
She wiggles her butt around in her chair to get more comfortable and moves on to her sandwich.
 
"What the hell is that thing?" Whitney interrogates. "It looks like you just put some tomato slices on two pieces of bread."
 
"That's correct," Vivian says.
 
"Why?" Whitney breathes.
 
"The sisyphean task of preparing one's meals day in and day out leaves me mentally exhausted. It calls to mind visions of being marooned in a long, dark tunnel. Ultimately, it prompts me to ruminate on the heat death of the universe. I prefer to exert as little effort as possible in the preparation of foodstuffs and therefore I subsist on the simplest ingredients at hand."
 
Whitney stares at Vivian like a frightened cow.
 
"So you made that because it was easy," you summarize.
 
"If you want to put it so crassly, then yes."
 
Vivian wiggles her butt in her seat again. "These chairs are dreadfully uncomfortable," she says idly.
 
Vivian's aversion to making her own lunch isn't lost on you; it makes her daily preparation of your lunch seem all the more heartfelt.
 
You still have Vivian's bento in your backpack, the one she handed you this morning. Even though you know she's spiked it with aphrodisiacs, you'd feel like kind of a dick if you didn't eat it.
 
[X] Eat it.
[ ] No thank you.
 
You pull the bento from your backpack and open it. Vivian smiles wanly.
 
"Have you been enjoying those, Alabaster?" she asks.
 
It would probably be rude to say "no, but Ms. Carte has." So you just nod sheepishly.
 
She puts a contemplative finger to her lips. "I'm glad."
 
She goes back to nibbling at her sandwich.
 
"Pfft. I could make you lunch," Whitney says.
 
"You don't know the first thing about cooking."
 
Whitney blinks as if this is new information. "Point," she says.
 
The meal is actually pretty good. This time it's beef with broccoli, some teriyaki chicken, and strawberry cupcakes for dessert. You wolf it down greedily.
 
"So what's your deal?" Whitney asks Vivian. "You're, like, a robot. Or something? Right?"
 
"I'm fully human," Vivian avers.
 
"Okay but, like... human human, or human the way Spancer over there is human?" Whitney points at Spancer for effect. He gives no response.
 
"Spancer is more severe case."
 
"Do you know what your dad is up to?" you ask Vivian. You notice an unwanted erection coming on as the conversation progresses. Are Vivian's aphrodisiacs the genuine article?
 
"He refers to it as diegetic apotheosis. I don't know much beyond that. My advice is not to trust him."
 
"No wonder you're queen of the quiz bowl nerds," Whitney says. She gives Vivian a pat on the shoulder. "What would we do without you?"
 
"You would likely be fine with or without this advice. I believe it is probably the tack you were adopting prior to this conversation."
 
...Vivian doesn't seem capable of understanding sarcasm.
 
As you lick the frosting off another cupcake, your erection slowly becomes swollen and painful. Your mind begins to go a little fuzzy. You feel the need for release.
 
[X] Are you going to take responsibility, Vivian?
[ ] Vivian, get out. I've got things to do with Whitney.
[ ] Go find Ms. Carte.
[ ] Go find Rose.
 
Your vision is going blurry, you feel woozy. With a sigh you push back from the desk and look at Vivian accusingly. "Youuu-- you spiked my lunch, didn't you?"
 
"I don't know what you're talking about."
 
"You spiked Ally's lunch?" Whitney yells. She leaps to her feet and grabs Vivian by the hair. Vivian struggles and tries to pull away. "I'll kick your little loli butt, you skank!"
 
You hold up your hand to stop her. "Aphrodisiacs," you tell Whitney.
 
"Aphro-what? What does this have to do with black people?"
 
"They make you horny."
 
Whitney lets go of Vivian's hair. Vivian falls back to her seat with a pouty whine, and Whitney puts her hands on her hips, laughing. "This little twerp's trying to seduce you?"
 
"I think so," you say.
 
Vivian stares guiltily at her feet.
 
"Well?" Whitney asks her.
 
"I'm sorry," Vivian mumbles.
 
"Are you going to take responsibility?" you ask.
 
Whitney slugs you in the shoulder. "Stop talking like your stupid sex comics," she says.
 
She circles the desk and grabs Vivian by the wrist, hauling her to her feet. "...Ally is right, though," she purrs. "If you start something, you should finish it..."
 
She pushes Vivian to her knees in front of you and kneels down next to her.
 
Vivian stares at your crotch, blushing deeply.
 
"It's not going to suck itself," Whitney tells her. "Do something already."
 
With a trembling hand, Vivian reaches for your fly.
 
She fumbles with it and can't seem to undo it. Whitney steps in to help.
 
"For the smartest robot on Earth, you're pretty dumb," Whitney teases. "Hmm. Have you ever seen a dick before?"
 
"No..." Vivian glances away, her face reddening even more. All her bravado and coolness is gone. Now she's just a scared little girl.
 
"Well, you're about to see one up close and personal," Whitney says. "Hey, come on. Look. This is what you wanted, right?"
 
Whitney fishes a hand into your boxers and pulls you straining cock free. It throbs in tune with your pulse. When Whitney lets go of it, it rests against Vivian's cheek. She winces, trying not to look at it -- but curiosity gets the better of her. Soon she's gawking at it unashamedly, her eyes unfocused.
 
"Say it," Whitney breathes. "Tell us this is what you wanted."
 
"M-maybe... maybe a little."
 
"It smells good, doesn't it?"
 
"A little."
 
"It makes your head feel all funny, doesn't it?"
 
"...A little..."
 
Whitney looks up at you, smiling. "Do you want her to suck it, Ally?"
 
You grunt. "No, I want her to paint me green..."
 
"You heard the man," Whitney says with a chuckle. "Go ahead."
 
Vivian sticks out the tip of her tongue and flicks it against the head. The sight of it makes you shiver, but the sensation is way too brief.
 
Whitney groans. "Not like that. Geez, don't you know anything? Like this--"
 
Whitney takes your cock into her throat with a single practiced motion, sucking you deep. She runs her tongue along your underside for a few moments, hands against your thighs, staring you in the eye. Then she releases you. Your cock glimmers with her saliva.
 
"Now you."
 
Vivian wraps her spindly fingers around the base of your dick to guide it to her mouth. Her hand is so small it doesn't even wrap all the way around you.
 
She opens wide. Her little pink tongue hangs out and she licks your drooling cockhead again, this time lingering.
 
She pulls back and smacks her lips a bit, mulling over the taste, and the verdict seems positive. She leans forward again and slips your glans into her mouth.
 
You always dreamed of what a blowjob from a loli would feel like, but never imagined it would be possible. Her tongue is just as wet and warm as in your fantasies. She closes her eyes and focuses on the blowjob, but she can only take a couple inches inside before her jaw is stretched to capacity.
 
"You have to service the whole dick," Whitney says patiently. "Not just the head." She guides Vivian's hands up and down your shaft a couple times, until Vivian gets the point and can do it on her own.
 
Eyes still closed, Vivian mewls around you and supports her weight on a balled-up fist. She scootches herself closer as she sucks and jerks you off in tandem. With her wearing that outrageous gothic-style black velvet dress, this somehow seems even lewder than it would if she were naked.
 
Whitney stands and circles behind you. She runs her broadened palms across your chest and leans over your shoulder, kissing you. Your tongues intermingle sloppily.
 
"You're such a pervert," Whitney says. "So how does it feel to get a blowjob from a little girl?"
 
"Amazing," you admit.
 
"Cum a whole lot in her mouth, okay?"
 
She didn't need to tell you. You kiss her again, enjoying the feeling of Whitney's eager tongue on yours as Vivian's much less experienced tongue tickles your cock. Every once in a while, owing to her inexperience and the disparity in size, Vivian's teeth brush against you -- but this just adds to the pleasure.
 
Soon, you feel that old tingling. You hold Vivian's head in place.
 
"Ally's about to cum," Whitney says. "He'll spurt a lot of liquid from his dick... don't worry, it's delicious. Just let it happen."
 
Vivian's eyes bulge as your dick pumps its seed into her drooling mouth. She coughs, but you keep her in place as you empty your balls. When you let her go, she falls to her back, little streamers of cum hanging from her lips and even out of her nostrils.
 
You sit there in silence for a minute or two, panting. Vivian does much the same. Finally, Vivian wipes her face off and licks her fingers clean.
 
In a very small voice, she says: "thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy. I needed that."
 
Whitney kneels down and kisses her deeply. Vivian is surprised and doesn't know how to respond, but doesn't fight it, either.
 
"We should do that again," Whitney says. "It was hot. I'll teach you to lick pussy, too..." She goes back to violating little Vivian's mouth with her wanton tongue.
 
You close your eyes. Life is getting... strange.
 
With all the excitement at lunch, you end up missing biology with Ms. Carte. After school, you hurry across campus to meet up with her and discuss Damon's file.
 
You come across her a little sooner than you expected. As you dash across the quad, you hear Ms. Carte's voice from a mezzanine on the second level of the science building.
 
"Smatters in the hole!" she cries.
 
You look up to see Ms. Carte tossing Smatters, the Transhumanism Club's pet rabbit, over the railing. You watch with horror as the helpless animal tumbles two stories through the air -- but instead of splatterring against the ground, Smatters activates some kind of jet propulsion system in its haunches at the last moment, and glides gracefully to Earth.
 
"Whoo! Hell yes!" Ms. Carte cheers as the other club members dissolve into joyful hoots and hollers of their own. "Experiment one is a success!"
 
Smatters glided straight into a planter, and now he's nibbling happy on some leaves. No harm done.
 
"Alabaster!" Ms. Carte says. "Be a doll and bring Smatters back upstairs."
 
You scoop the little brown furball into your arms and head up.
 
When you hand Smatters off to Ms. Carte, she snuggles him tight, rubbing her cheek against his fur. "Who's a good bunny? YOU'RE a good bunny! Yes you are! Yes you--"
 
She glances back at you, realizing herself, cheek still nuzzling the brown fur. She blushes and hands Smatters off to one of the other club members.
 
"Ahem," she says, putting her hands on her hips and trying to look dignified. "Yes. Ryan, take Smatters back to his cage in the club room. Everyone else, I'll see you there. I have something to discuss in private with Alabaster."
 
With the club gone, you waste no time inquiring about Damon's file.
 
"Have you ever heard of diegesis?" Ms. Carte asks.
 
"Of course," you say.
 
"Well, think of this. Everyone living in their own gay little cartoon, the whole world becoming 7 billion Japanese comedies running in parallel. How does that sound?"
 
"Not so bad."
 
Ms. Carte stomps her foot. "You're unbelievable! You're exactly the kind of person Huxley was warning us about when he wrote Brave New World!"
 
"That's Darkbloom's whole plan? Make the world a harem comedy?"
 
"Sort of... it runs a lot deeper than that. Listen--" she glances around. "This is a bad place to talk about it. Come to my house after the quiz bowl tomorrow."
 
"Fine," you grumble. "But I'm withholding all dickings until you tell me."
 
"That's cruel," Ms. Carte says.
 
"Deal with it."
 
She rolls her eyes. "I have to get back to the club. And shouldn't you be hanging out with the Japanamation brigade right now anyway?"
 
"I guess."
 
"Well then. I'll see you later."
 
Even though she acts mad, she can't resist pecking you on the cheek before she leaves.
 
As she goes, your cellphone vibrates. It's from Rose.
 
>I need you... please...
 
[X] Visit with the cumdump.
[ ] Visit with TCAC.
[ ] Go home.
 
Rose is waiting for you in the Student Council room. She sits at the head of a long oak conference table, alone. The room is cast in the orange pall of an early California sunset. The days are getting shorter already.
 
Rose's skirt is hiked up around her waist. She sits with her legs spread wide, not wearing panties, and masturbates openly.
 
You approach her, grinning, and reach out to grab her around the neck.
 
Such a good pet, to be waiting for you like this.
 
But as your fingers wrap around her, she does the unexpected. She quickly produces a small spray can from her blouse pocket.
 
You try to course-correct, step back, dodge it -- but too late. She squirts a burning hot cloud of aerosolized pepper spray in your face.
 
You wail and fall to your knees. Your eyes well up and your sinuses begin to drain, pouring thin mucus down your chin. Your face becomes a wet mess.
 
You try to say something, anything, but can't. You can hardly breathe. Your respiration is shallow and panicked. You wheeze on the stray particles of mace still tumbling complexly through the air.
 
"Ohhh-- that felt good," Rose murmurs, running a hand through her hair.
 
Spluttering, you manage: "what the FUCK! Oh, Christ! It burns!"
 
"Stop complaining, you baby. Sit up -- look at me. Hey."
 
You clamber to your feet and adopt a defensive stance, ready to strike back if she tries to mace you again. But you can hardly see her. You can hardly see anything. You paw at your eyes with the back of your palms. She grins tauntingly.
 
"That was just a warning," Rose says. She pockets the spray can. "I wanted to talk to you before the -- event..."
 
"I'll make you sorry you did that," you growl.
 
Rose grins with only one corner of her mouth. "Mm. I'm sure."
 
She regards you for several long moments. Then, looking down at her fingernails and playing nonchalant: "I want to be clear. I'm not submitting to you. Or to Whitney."
 
Rose looks you directly in the eye.
 
"I hate you," she says. "With every fiber of my being."
 
"Stop lying to yourself. You were begging Whitney for my cock just yesterday."
 
"My hatred for you is pure and black and perfect, like the space between the stars. Let me tell you how much I hate you, Alabaster. If the word 'hate' was engraved on every nanoangstrom--"
 
"Get to the point, you dizzy cunt."
 
"I hate you more than anyone. And... I respect you. More than anyone."
 
This throws you for a loop.
 
"I hope you understand we're kindred spirits, Alabaster. You'll never find a woman more like you than I am."
 
"I sincerely doubt it."
 
"Believe it. We tick the same way... like clocks that are off with the other clocks. We have the need to dominate. We have aberrant urges. But the difference--" Rose pauses, contemplative.
 
"The difference is, I have to wear this mask. Warm and welcoming Rose, goody two-shoes Rose, conscientious Rose. You get by without it."
 
"So you don't believe all that social justice crap after all."
 
"Oh, I believe it. I just don't give a shit."
 
Rose places her hands on her knees. She spreads her legs again, baring a dripping cunt nestled between fat thighs.
 
"I want you to rape me, Alabaster."
 
You wipe the mucus from your face and approach her, tugging at your belt. If rape is what this bitch wants, you're more than happy to oblige.
 
But Rose gives you another spurt of mace when you try again to grab her again.
 
You reel back. Groaning in agony, you lean against the wall for support. You drool. Your nose runs like a spigot.
 
"What the fuck is wrong with you!!" you yell. "Goddamn it!"
 
"I never promised to make it easy," Rose says. "I'm not going to be your braindead cum-toilet. If you want me, you have to take me. And don't cheat. Using Whitney is unfair."
 
"You call the pepper spray fair?" Your voice is nearly unintelligible through the spittle.
 
"I'm only using it today, to lay out the terms. After today it's gone."
 
"..."
 
"Alabaster."
 
You turn to face her, your vision doubled through the burning haze of pain and tears.
 
"I never knew how it felt to be dominated until you came along. Now I need it. Try to understand. I live amongst people incapable of making a single decision on their own. I have to decide everything... down to the color of stationery to use for memos in the student council. It's driving me insane."
 
Desperate for relief, you blow your nose on your t-shirt. "I couldn't tell!" you say. "You seem perfectly sane to me!"
 
"When you pin me down, I'm free. I don't have to decide anything. You decide it all for me. And when I think of you pouring your cum inside me... I feel like I'm drowning, but it's such a nice feeling, too.." She hugs herself, shivering. Her pussy drools.
 
"Fine. Got it. Lots of rape. 40 pounds of rape, coming up. Put the fucking pepper spray down."
 
"--But I still have those other urges, too. And judging by how you reacted when I rubbed my feet in your worthless fucking face, you have the same cognitive dissonance that I do. See? We're soul mates. You begged me to let you cum. You loved being dominated, too."
 
"...What are you saying?"
 
"I need a slimy little worm to violate, and you're it. May the best rapist win."
 
[X] You're on.
[ ] We play by my terms. I'll never submit to you.
 
Rose takes the pepper spray out of her blouse pocket and tosses it away. The canister clatters against the ground as it rolls into the corner.
 
She crooks a finger at you, as if to say: "come on, then."
 
In an instant, you're upon her. You lunge forward spastically, grabbing for her. She leaps up to meet you halfway, and you collide in a whirlwind of limbs, fists, and savage grunts. You grab each other by the hair and spin around, banging against the wall and into filing cabinets.
 
Gaining the momentum, you push her back as hard as you can, straight into a window. Her head smacks against it so hard that that one of the panes cracks, leaving behind a spiderweb pattern in the glass.
 
Rose knees you in the stomach and pushes back. You go tumbling backward against the conference table, Rose on top. Papers go scattering everywhere.
 
"Fuck you!" you shout. "I will rape you to death!"
 
Rose headbutts you, and you accidentally bite your lip. You feel a trickle of blood running down your chin. Enraged, you headbutt her right back, and she goes falls to the ground with a thud.
 
You loom over her, but before you can land another hit, she rolls to the side and jumps to her feet.
 
"Razzle-dazzle~" Rose mewls, pivoting behind you. She pulls a dog collar from her other blouse pocket and snaps it around your throat. You windmill your arms, trying punch her in the face. But not quickly enough. She deftly avoids the punches.
 
Spinning around, you charge her again. But then you feel an awful surge of agony radiating from your neck -- an electric jolt that shorts your brain's circuitry and turns your muscles to rubber. You collapse to the ground in a heap.
 
Rose cackles. Her taunting laughter bounces around your skull, failing to register for a few moments. Through slitted eyes, you look up at her, and see a remote in her hand.
 
"They use these to train dogs," Rose informs you.
 
You stand and try to attack again, a drunken swagger to your step.
 
BZZT -- She clicks the shock button with her thumb and sends you face-first to the ground. Your forehead collides against the hardwood with a disturbing crack. Spittle pools at the corners of your mouth.
 
"How does it feel to be on the other end of the tazer, you fuck?"
 
She kneels and clasps your chin in hand. You can smell her roiling pussy underneath her skirt. She gives you a long, luxurious kiss that you don't return -- but she doesn't seem to mind that. With her mouth wide open and grunting, she licks your mouth, your face, your eyelids. Her own eyelids droop and she blushes heavily, savoring her every excess.
 
You growl at her. "I am going to rape you so hard that your fucking womb falls out. Count on it."
 
Rose gives you another shock -- BZZT -- that sends you into a minor convulsion and makes you briefly lose your sense of time and space. When your vision uncrosses, Rose is smiling warmly down at you.
 
"I look forward to it," she says.
 
"If I had Whitney--"
 
"But you don't, do you? You're useless without that whore. Just a little fucking wimp waiting to get fucking raped... you're so cute, Alabaster..." she strokes your cheek with one hand, lewdly, somehow making even this innocuous gesture feel like deep violation. She does this for a few moments -- and then, suddenly, she spits in your face.
 
"You make me sick," she says.
 
"I'm going to--"
 
BZZT. You flop around on the ground like a fish. When you go still again, Rose grabs you by the hair and roughly guides you to a sitting position. She steps back to admire her work. Your face is blank with loathing as she -- oh God -- steps out of her shoes.
 
Leering, Rose snakes a hand under her skirt.
 
"Now-- you're a dog, so act like one," she says. "Say: woof, woof."
 
[ ] Woof, woof.
[X] Fuck you.
 
Rose frowns.
 
"That's right!" you continue. "I said fuck--"
 
She gives you another shock that causes your spine to go rigid. You fall to the side, spasming and seizing. Your mouth froths.
 
Rose steps forward and rubs her stockinged foot underneath your nose. It's pungent and penetrating -- like a mossy rock in wet soil, fetid, organic. It makes you dizzy but also brings you back into focus.
 
Opening your eyes, you spy the pepper spray canister lying only a few feet away.
 
Rose hauls your face upward. She rips off her blouse, baring her massive tits, and rubs your face in her armpit. Whether she shaves or simply hasn't budded fully yet, you can't tell -- but all that's underneath her arm is the barest hint of fuzz that tickles your face. Her sweat leaves a greasy film on your face as she rubs against you.
 
"That's it, you fucking pig," she grunts. "Smell me. You worthless cocksucker!" She masturbates herself as she violates you.
 
You gaze at the pepper spray out of the corner of your eye. If you could distract her long enough to reach for it...
 
You dart your tongue out and start licking Rose's grimy sweat off of her body. It has an awful tang that clings to the back of your throat and makes you nearly gag. Rose moans in delight.
 
"That's right! Lick me! Worship your mistress!" She diddles her cunt with wild abandon.
 
The humiliation of all this makes you shudder. But it's for a greater good. You need to keep her attention elsewhere.
 
"Look at how hard you are~" Rose coos. She uses one foot to step on your crotch, prodding it with her toes. It's true -- for some reason, you're hard as a rock right now.
 
Your tongue works up and down her smelly armpit and Rose continues to pleasure herself as she pets your hard-on with her dirty sock. Her toes has the dexterity of fingers, and work your cock through the denim of your jeans with expert precision.
 
Reaching out surreptitiously, your hands find the pepper spray canister and wrap around it.
 
Moving quickly, you aim the nozzle and blast Rose in the face.
 
She shrieks, tumbling backward, and lands on her butt. In an instant, her eyes become red and puffy, her face becomes covered with mucus -- just like yours.
 
You stumble awkwardly to your feet.
 
Her eyes wrenched shut, Rose shocks you again, trying to regain the initiative. The electric agony sends you falling forward on top of her.
 
Taking aim again, you hold down the nozzle and spray a continuous stream of mace in Rose's eyes. In response, she hammers repeatedly on the shock button. You convulse and writhe but keep the stream of pepper spray going strong.
 
"YOU STUPID CUNT! GAAAHHHH!!! I'LL MAKE YOU PAY!"
 
"AIIIEEEEE-- FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"
 
You roll around like animals, your shrieks and cries becoming an indecipherable wail that doesn't seem like it will ever end.
 
But then Rose's remote stops working. Your pepper spray runs out moments later.
 
You sit up on your knees, feeling lightheaded, and tug Rose's skirt down. She shakes her head side to side, lying in a virtual puddle of tears and snot from the mace, too weak to fight.
 
You pull your cock free and fuck yourself inside her without any warning or mercy. You hunch forward for better access, hugging her around the back. You use her as a human cocksleeve -- she lies limply underneath you, sobbing, choking, coughing.
 
Your cock bottoms out in her juvenile pussy on every stroke and batters her cervix. You know the pain this must be causing her and you grin to yourself because of it. You move your hands up and use Rose's hair as a handle to hold onto as you rape her. You pull at her savagely, and she shrieks as you use her.
 
But her cunt is creaming and contracting around you all the while. The heat and wetness only increase as your brutality does.
 
"Useless fucking whore," you grunt. You use one palm to slap her tits over and over again, alternating between them. You leave deep red welts that quickly begin to turn to bruises.
 
You slap her bare tummy next, and then her face, holding nothing back.
 
She just bites her lip and cums her brains out. She even begins to hump back on you, as if trying to slam her cervix against your cockhead.
 
You finish inside her, pumping her uterus full of jizz. You bellow, and give her a punch to the stomach. Still woozy, you stand, leaving her in a puddle of her own filth, covered in cum, battered and bruised.
 
"You haven't even come close to paying for this," you pant. "You stupid toilet."
 
Rose looks at you through half-lidded eyes. "...was I a good toilet today?" she asks. Her question sounds genuine.
 
By way of answering, you sit on your knees, straddling her neck, and put your semi-hard cock in her mouth. She accepts it without protest, her eyes smoldering.
 
You unleash an amber stream of piss directly into her throat.
 
She gulps it down happily, but the volume proves too much. When it starts to overflow and leak down her face, you pull out and finish pissing all over her body, spraying her skirt and hair. Rose's makeup, already ruined, runs even more, making her look like a used up whore.
 
She smiles brokenly, running her hands all over her body as you use her for a urinal.
 
"Let's do that again..." Rose murmurs. You put your cock away and zip up. Saying nothing more, you stumble out, leaving Rose in a puddle of cum, piss, tears, and slime.
 
That evening, you meet with Whitney in the diner where you planned Rose's first rape.
 
She slides into the booth over ten minutes late, sitting across from you. "Sup, dorkus malorkus? Got any menus up in this bitch?"
 
You point wordlessly at the menu sitting on the tabletop right in front of her. She looks down, noticing it for the first time, and jumps in her seat as if startled by this.
 
"Sweet!" she chirps. She swipes the menus up and paws through it. "You *are* paying, right?"
 
"Mm hmm."
 
Whitey is still reading the menu over when a mannish-looking waitress appears with a notepad to take your orders.
 
Whitney's brow furrows and she shakes her head in disgust. "What the fuck is may-hee may-hee?" she asks you.
 
"Mahi mahi. It's tuna."
 
"Oh. I love tuna." She smiles, then hands the menu to the waitress. "I'll take two."
 
"Two? You want to be a little less cavalier with my wallet?"
 
Whitney smiles toothily and shakes her head, bobbing it side to side. "I... have no idea what that word means."
 
"It means you're spending all my money and I'd prefer if you didn't."
 
"Tch. We can always dine and dash."
 
Whitney makes no attempt to modulate her volume here even though the waitress is still standing at the table. The waitress gives the two of you a look that says: "seriously?"
 
"I'm sorry," you tell the waitress, leaning in. "My girlfriend is a bit on the slow side."
 
"You guys don't pay, I'm calling the cops."
 
"Uh-huh," you say. "I'll take the mahi mahi, too." When the waitress grabs your menus, flips her notepad closed, and walks away, you turn to face Whitney again.
 
"Dine and dash it is," you say.
 
Whitney laughs, airy and carefree.
 
"We never do this," Whitney says, grinning.
 
"Do what?"
 
"Go out on dates. Isn't that what normal couples do?"
 
You shrug. "Were we ever normal?"
 
Your food arrives, and Whitney starts eating almost before the waitress sets it down. The waitress gives you a menacing look.
 
"We need to talk," you say as Whitney gobbles down her order. "Things are getting kind of heavy."
 
Whitney stops eating.
 
"All this stuff with Rose..." you say. "And now Vivian, I guess-- and-- well..."
 
Whitney props her elbows on the table and cradles her head in her palms. "Oh God," she says. "You're weirdened out, aren't you?"
 
"...What?"
 
"You're weirdened out! I went too far with Rose and now you're afraid of me!"
 
"That's not-- wait a second, 'weirdened' isn't a real word. You do know that, don't you?"
 
Whitney gives you a sharp kick underneath the table. "See! You're weirdened out, and now you're trying to changed the subject! I knew it!"
 
"Whitney--" you take her hand in yours, trying to get her to stop fidgeting. "Calm down," you say.
 
"I did it for you," Whitney says, her voice small and trembling. "All those games and porny comics you read, I thought that's what you wanted... when I did all that stuff with Rose and Vivian, I just wanted to make you happy."
 
"But you like it too, right?"
 
"...Maybe. It is fun to play with Rose. And-- I always secretly liked those games of yours. Except I always imagined myself as the guy, you know?... oh God, I'm so weird."
 
She rubs her eyelids and sighs. Then, looking at you pleadingly: "I can be different, though! I swear!"
 
You think. You need her help settling accounts with Rose, but after that... could she really live up to a promise like that? Would you want her to?
 
"The truth is, Whitney-- I...
 
[X] ...I love everything about you. I love your perverted mind. Never change."
[ ] ...I miss the old Whitney. I think I've been a bad influence."
[ ] ...I only wish we could be even more debauched."
 
"I love everything about you. I love your perverted mind. Never change."
 
Whitney's hangdog expression transforms into a grin that grows impossibly wide. She suddenly leans across the table, clattering silverware and tipping over your drink, and throws her arms around you.
 
"I love you, Ally! I knew you were the only person who could understand me!"
 
"Calm down," you say, trying to push her back. She squirms and trembles in your hands. "Geez. You're so excitable."
 
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Whitney says, sitting back down. She wipes the tears from her eyes with her thumbs. "I'm just happy, is all."
 
You pick up your glass and and set it upright again. You sop up the soda with some napkins.
 
"Now then," you say. "We have a problem."
 
"...A problem?"
 
"A Rose problem."
 
END OF INTERLEWD 3.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, nukige ubermensch and electro-shock therapy subject.
 
You peel out of the restaurant, into the parking lot, and down the street with Whitney, running as fast as your scrawny legs allow. Sunset is over but the residual heat of the afternoon is still simmering in the air, and it saps you of energy before you make it more than a block.
 
When you can't run any farther, Whitney doubles back and pushes against you, trying to urge you forward. "Come on Ally, come on-- they'll never take us alive!!" she squeals. But it's no use. You're out of steam.
 
Plus, you're both laughing so hard that you can barely breathe, and that would make it hard to run anyway. The two of you stumble and lean against each other for support, wheezing and giggling.
 
"The look on her face--!" Whitney cries, slapping her knee.
 
"Why-- in God's name--" you draw gulps of air between words -- "would you enact the 'dash' part -- of the dine and dash -- when the waitress was at our table?" Your head throbs and vision swims from the adrenaline, from the physical exertion of escape.
 
"It's funner this way! Don't be such a spoil sport."
 
"You could have -- at least -- warned me..."
 
Even though you play at being frustrated, the truth is: it really was fun that way.
 
And the look on that waitress's face when Whitney leapt up and ran out the door really was priceless. Doubly so when you glanced out the window at Whitney's fast-receeding form, back to the waitress, back toward the kitchen, and then leapt up to run away as well.
 
As you walk arm-in-arm down the road, lost in the din of early evening traffic, Whitney seems content in a way you've never seen before. She smiles warmly with her head on your shoulder, the glow of streetlights and traffic signals bouncing off her angular face.
 
That's when you start to think maybe it isn't right to keep her in the dark about Ms. Carte.
 
[X] Whitney, there's something I need to tell you.
[ ] No. I can tell her later. Let her enjoy this moment.
 
Whitney cocks her head and stares at you like a confused puppy. You wilt under her gaze, and have to look away as you break the news.
 
"You know how I've been, um... training with Ms. Carte?" you say, rubbing the back of your head.
 
Whitney's brow furrows. "Uh-huh..."
 
"Well--"
 
She stomps your foot before you can finish, and you reel back in pain. "I knew it!" she says. "You're fucking her, aren't you?"
 
"It all happened so suddenly--"
 
"A week doesn't happen in the blink of an eye, Alabaster! You're unbelievable! How stupid are you? I only gave you--" she stops to count quickly on her fingers. "--Three rules to follow! You can't keep track of them?"
 
"I'm sorry, Whitney."
 
Whitney paces angrily back and forth a couple times, running her hands through her hair. But over the course of half a minute or so, she cools herself down.
 
"Geez. I knew it," she grumbles. "You're so hopeless. I can't leave you alone for a second, huh? Since when are you so popular with the girls, Ally?"
 
You shrug.
 
Whitney approaches you, standing face-to-face, her chest against yours. She peers up into your eyes, impishly.
 
"That old skank may be fucking you, but *I* still have your virginity... and you still have mine... so I'm not that mad, I guess."
 
She takes your hand in hers.
 
"You'll introduce me to her?" she asks. "We could always have fun, together. Right? You don't need to keep breaking rule 1 anymore."
 
"The thing about Ms. Carte..." you begin, but aren't sure how to put it. "She's-- shy, I guess?"
 
Whitney lets go of your hand, her furrowed look returning.
 
"So you want to keep seeing her on the side. Without me." Her voice is flat and pensive.
 
You kiss Whitney on the forehead and give another shot at making her understand. "I just think if we move too quickly with her, it would scare her."
 
"I can be gentle too, you know," Whitney insists.
 
You sigh.
 
"I just--" Whitney starts, a weepy catch rising in her voice. "I can't keep you from seeing her, if that's what you want. But-- I can't--"
 
She doesn't seem to know how to finish the thought. Instead, she slugs you lightly in the chest.
 
"Ow," you say, playing along.
 
"--you're not going to leave me, are you? You're such a jerk... but that would be a dick move, even for you..."
 
"I'm not leaving you," you say firmly.
 
Whitney hugs you underneath the amber cone of a street lamp, and you hug her back, nuzzling the top of her head. The warmth of her body always surprises you.
 
"Jerk," Whitney says, her voice muffled against your chest.
 
She steps back and looks up at you again.
 
"Rule 4! If I have to share you, then I have to approve of the woman I'm sharing you with! You'll take me and Ms. Carte on a double date next week so I can make sure she isn't just a skanky whore who wants to use you!"
 
[X] All right.
[ ] No.
 
Whitney spins around on one foot and then wraps herself around your arm again, practically squealing. Her carefree mood is back as if it never left in the first place.
 
"So you'll make that recording for tomorrow?" you ask, changing the subject to more pressing matters as you continue down the avenue with her.
 
"Yeah. And I'll bring the tools and everything else we need, too."
 
"Are you sure this plan is going to work?" you ask uncertainly.
 
"Totes."
 
"Don't say that word. You can't know how much I hate it."
 
"It's TOTES going to work, Ally. Totes." She sticks her tongue out at you and pulls at one of her eyelids. You can't help feeling like this is a particularly childish payback for your infidelity. You roll your eyes.
 
Whitney continues, "I know Rose better than you do. I've only been training her to suck clit for the past week, after all! I know how her mind works, and trust me... this will totally break her. 100%."
 
"If you say so."
 
You walk into the fast-descending night side by side with her, happy for now and a couple once again. When you part ways to head for home, you kiss her as deeply and as sincerely as you ever have.
 
As you walk up the footpath toward your front door, you see Spancer standing guard outside.
 
"There you are," you grouse. "Where the fuck were you when I needed you earlier?"
 
"My neural net processor--"
 
"Yeah, yeah," you say, waving him off. "Your neural net processor needed maintenance. Great timing. I almost got raped to death this afternoon. Tell Ms. Carte to do your maintenance in the mornings from now on."
 
"Understood."
 
You leave him standing outside and head in.
 
In the foyer, Mom is sitting on a stool with a broom in her hands. As you come through the door, she holds the broom high above her head and swipes at you with a savage "KYAAAA!!"
 
You stumble back as the bristles scratch your face, batting wildly at the air. You choke on the dust accumulated on the bottom of the broom.
 
"Oh, what the hell!" you shout.
 
"...Oh. It's you," Mom says, pulling the broom back to a defensive position. "Did you see that creepy-looking boy standing outside our house when you came in just now? Is he still there?"
 
"That's Spancer," you tell her. "He's a frien--"
 
Cerise comes through the front door.
 
"KYAAA---"
 
"What the fff---"
 
"Oh. It's you. Did you see that creepy boy--"
 
"He's a friend!" you shout. "His name is Spancer."
 
There's an awkward silence as Mom processes this.
 
"Hmph. Leave it to you to have such creepy friends," Mom says. "What is he doing out there? I have half a mind to call the cops."
 
"Don't call the cops," Cerise says. "We... kind of need him around."
 
Mom looks between you and Cerise uneasily.
 
[X] Tell her what's going on.
[ ] Make up a lie with Cerise to keep Mom from worrying.
 
"Mom, it's time we had a talk."
 
Over dinner, you explain the entire story to your parents (leaving out the raunchy sex, naturally). Cerise corroborates.
 
Dad doesn't have any questions for you -- he seems more interested in the news from the Ukraine -- but Mom has plenty. Such as:
 
"How can we kill David Darkbloom?"
 
and
 
"How can we kill that little skank daughter of his, too?"
 
("No, Mom, I don't think she deserves to die...")
 
and
 
"Cerise, why haven't you beaten some answers out of this Ms. Carte woman, since Alabaster is obviously too stupid to do it for himself? Don't you love your piece of shit brother?"
 
and
 
"Can Spancer be programmed to murder things? Such as everyone at Darkbloom Enterprises for example?"
 
and
 
"What about Whitney? Is Whitney safe? N-not that I care about that little tramp, b-but it seems weird that she doesn't have someone to guard her, since she's your girlfriend and all..."
 
and
 
"I'm going to murder David Darkbloom!" (okay, that's technically not a question, but she said it a lot.)
 
.
.
.
 
"So..." you say after several hours, drawing the story to a close. "That's pretty much it, I think."
 
Mom stares at you, a hand clasped over her mouth. Her eyes shine with worry.
 
"Alabaster..." she breathes. She closes her eyes and draws a deep breath, composing herself.
 
"You're a moron," she says flatly.
 
"--What?"
 
"It's obvious what has to happen now. I can't let you out of my sight for even one second, because you've proven that you're incapable of defending yourself. It's not something I want to do, but that's my duty as a mother." She folds her arms and harrumphs.
 
"I don't think that will be necessary," you say. "I do have Spancer. And Ms. Carte. And--"
 
"I'm coming with you to your quiz bowl competition tomorrow," Mom says, ignoring you.
 
You massage the bridge of your nose.
 
You knew she'd worry, but you didn't expect her to be so annoying about this situation.
 
Your competition that Saturday is at 10 in the morning.
 
Mom drives you, naturally. All night and all morning she hectored you with worried questions and demands -- and all while pretending she didn't care at all. You'll never understand her.
 
Backstage, when Vivian tries to hand you a bento, Mom materializes as if from nowhere to snatch it out of her hands before you can take it.
 
Vivian goggles at her, plainly shocked.
 
"I'm on to you!!" Mom tells Vivian accusingly, and then disappears again, ninja-like, bento in hand.
 
Vivian looks back at you. You shrug. "Sorry," you say. "My mom is weird."
 
The competition itself is yet another embarrassing blowout. You and Vivian steamroll the Sentinel High Sentinels, 22,000-0.
 
Perhaps more intriguingly, you and Vivian both score exactly 11,000 points.
 
Playing at quiz bowl feels less like a competition against the other school than a competition against Vivian to see who can score the most. So as far as you're concerned, it wasn't a win at all -- it was a tie.
 
You think she approaches it the same way, too. You've never seen that kind of glint in Vivian's eyes in any other context. By the end of the match, she's actually breathless with excitement.
 
But the thrill of competition is soured for you by a disturbing fact: Ms. Carte isn't in attendance.
 
"All right, all right, you won--" Mom says backstage after the match is over, dragging you away by the arm. But as she leads you toward the door, David Darkbloom steps in, blocking your path.
 
"Alabaster!" he says warmly. Mom hugs you close, arms around your shoulders, squeezing your side against her ample breasts and hips.
 
She growls -- no, she literally growls -- as in the same way a wolf would growl to ward off a threat.
 
"Mrs. Soliloquy," Darkbloom says. He extends a hand to shake but Mom doesn't return the gesture.
 
"Spancer..." Mom mutters. Off to the side, Spancer gives a single reassuring nod that says: "I'm here and vigilant, but now is not the time."
 
Darkbloom glances between you, Mom, and Spancer. Understanding dawns in his eyes. Mom didn't play her cards close enough to her chest, and now he knows that she knows the situation.
 
"Well then," Darkbloom says, changing gears, dusting off some invisible lint from his coat. "Vivian tells me you and she are growing much closer."
 
"That's not--" you start.
 
Darkbloom holds up a hand to silence you. "I appreciate you taking the time to work with my daughter like this. She's very intelligent, but she doesn't have many friends. She's... how do you say it... awkward. As a token of my gratitude, then, would you like to come to our home in Palo Alto next Saturday for dinner? Just the three of us."
 
Mom growls again.
 
[X] (play it cool) "I'll be there."
[ ] (play it defiant) "No way."
[ ] (you're worried) "Where is Ms. Carte?"
 
"I cannot believe you!" Mom shouts, banging her fist against the steering column as she speeds you toward Ms. Carte's apartment complex. "I am literally dumfounded! How could you accept that invitation? How?"
 
"I just needed time to plan," you say. "That's all. I don't necessarily have to go, right?-- okay, turn left here. No, your other left! Jesus, what is wrong with you?"
 
"Well excuse me for being frazzled when robot assassins and mega-billionaires want to kill us all! I'm so sorry!"
 
"What are you-- U-turns are illegal here-- Christ, I'm getting car sick..."
 
A few minutes later, Mom slams the car to a halt in the parking lot with the awful squeal of rubber against concrete.
 
You bound across the apartment complex with her and Spancer close in tow, and burst through Ms. Carte's front door in unit 23B.
 
What you see makes your heart drop. Ms. Carte is lying in a heap in the corner, bloodied and battered.
 
But still breathing, thank god.
 
"Oh, hi there..." she slurs, a trickle of blood running down her nose and another one out of her mouth. Her face is caked brown with dried blood and she sports twin shiners.
 
"What did they do to you?" you demand.
 
"Oh, you know... same old, same old... this isn't my first time around the block, you know..." she squints her eyes, trying to focus on you. When she notices Mom standing behind you, she tries to smile, but winces in obvious pain and can't sustain it.
 
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Soliloquy. Nice to see you again..."
 
"Ms. Carte..." you say, falling to your knees.
 
"I told you to call me Renee. Don't you ever listen?"
 
"I'll make him pay," you insist.
 
Ms. Carte snorts derisively.
 
"No, Alabaster, here's what you'll do. My friend Gustav has a safe haven in Palau. You're going to take your family and anyone else you care about and leave as soon as he can charter a plane."
 
"What are you saying? There's some other way, right? I don't understand--"
 
Ms. Carte pulls out her cellphone and flips it open. "No. It's over. That's all there is to understand. At least this way, you can live a nice life."
 
Through the panic and adrenaline, a thought occurs to you.
 
"You'll come too, right? You're one of the people I care about."
 
Ms. Carte looks at you severely, an expression like longing and sadness mixed together on her battered features.
 
And then she shakes her head.
 
"Ms. Carte --" you say. "Please--"
 
She shakes her head again, looking away. "Listen to me. Over the past few years... over the course of my whole life, really-- I've made a series of very poor decisions. The consequences of those decisions... they should be mine to face, and no one else's. I won't be a liability to you any longer."
 
Mom huffs. "You're even more of a bimbo than I thought you were."
 
"--excuse me?" Ms. Carte says, confused.
 
"If you think Alabaster is the type of boy to just leave someone he cares about behind, you're sadly mistaken! Tell her!"
 
Mom seems to have come to an understanding. If Ms. Carte is being victimized by Darkbloom too, she can't be all that bad.
 
You nod reassuringly, holding Ms. Carte's hands in yours. "Darkbloom thinks I'm playing along for now. We have a little time. We can make our move--"
 
Ms. Carte swallows hard. "Our only move right now is fleeing the country," she says.
 
"Correction--" Mom says. "Our only move RIGHT now is getting you somewhere safer-- n-not that I want you skanking up my home, but it only seems logical..."
 
Ms. Carte has a hard time standing on her own. Spancer picks her up and princess-carries her across the complex. You pile into Mom's car, and head for home.
 
It takes no small amount of effort to convince Mom and Ms. Carte to let you leave the house that evening. Neither of them are keen on the idea of you going. Mom, patting Ms. Carte down with a wet cloth as she lies on the couch, yells and shouts; Ms. Carte shyly pleads and begs.
 
Even Cerise gets in on the act,
 
But you've got Spancer to keep you safe -- and you've got other business to attend to, also. Mom and Ms. Carte are not the only women in your life.
 
You meet with Whitney near Rose's gated community. She's dressed for the part, in a denim overalls and a grease-stained shirt, plus baseball cap. She has her backpack of goodies with her.
 
"Remember," you tell her. "You don't come inside until I'm done with her and I give you the signal."
 
"Gotcha!" She gives you a faux salute.
 
"When we're done..." you say. "There's something else we need to discuss, too."
 
"Gotcha, gotcha. Geez, stop being such a blabbermouth and get on with it. This is your show, Ally."
 
You hop the gate and hurry toward Rose's house.
 
You and Whitney take a moment to marvel at Rose's three-story miniature mansion of a home. Even for the neighborhood, it's spectacular: stately and vine-covered, spruce-lined -- it must have cost over a million dollars.
 
Whitney whistles appreciatively. "Wow," is all she can say.
 
Quickly, you take your positions. Whitney circles around the house and into Rose's spacious backyard.
 
Composing yourself and drawing some breaths to calm your nerves, you ring Rose's doorbell.
 
A bespectacled woman answers who looks exactly like Rose, but slimmer and taller.
 
"Hello, Mrs. Mallory," you say, acting suave. "Is Rose home?"
 
"Err-- was... she expecting you?"
 
"Oh, yes," you lie. "We're working on a school project together."
 
Over Mrs. Mallory's shoulder, you can see up a long staircase. Rose appears at the head of it and freezes in place when she sees you, a terrified look in her eyes.
 
Rose's mother calls up at her. "Were you expecting this boy?"
 
You pull out your cellphone and pretend to be texting. But really, it's a reminder to Rose that you still have those pictures of her. Rose gulps hard and nods silently.
 
Her mother turns back and smiles at you. "Well, a friend of Rose is a friend of ours as well. We were about to sit down for dinner. Won't you come in?"
 
Inside the enormous, well-lit, white-tiled home, you can hear classical music -- Bach, you think -- as it pipes out of surround sound speakers.
 
Mr. Mallory, tall and equally thin as his wife -- stares out the sliding glass window into the backyard. He's sipping a chardonnay from a stem glass as he watches... Whitney.
 
Whitney is playing the part to a tee: she holds a pool skimmer and runs it languidly across the surface of the Mallorys' hot tub, picking out autumn leaves.
 
Mrs. Mallory joins him at the window. "Is that Julio's daughter?" she asks.
 
"I don't know... she doesn't look Mexican, does she?"
 
"Don't be racist, dear. Some of them are very pale skinned."
 
He opens the door and calls out to Whitney. "Are you Julio's daughter?" he asks.
 
Whitney, in a rare moment of genius, parlays it perfectly: "no habla ingles," she says.
 
Rose sneaks up behind you and hisses. "What are you doing here?"
 
"You'll see," you say, smirking. "Just wait."
 
Mr. Mallory turns around, noticing you for the first time. Mrs. Mallory introduces you and you shake hands: you notice his grip is weak and clammy.
 
A few minutes later, you sit down to dinner.
 
"Why don't you tell me about your parents?" you say to Rose over a delectable selection of lobster and steak, served to you by a Hispanic woman who didn't seem to know much English herself. The food on your plate alone probably cost several hundred dollars. What would have happened to it if you weren't around to eat it? There's more than enough for the rest of the Mallorys, too.
 
Rose is a mess and the night hasn't even begun. She trembles and keeps casting worried glances toward the patio door, where Whitney still hovers outside, pretending to do yard work.
 
"W-well..." Rose starts in answer to your question. "My parents are both lawyers... my dad works for ACLU and my mom works for the SPLC... all pro-bono, naturally... but we have a nice nest egg from their time as defense attorneys--"
 
So Rose's liberal bona fides check out, after all. This explains a lot.
 
"Mm," Mr. Mallory says, cutting his daughter off. He wipes his face with a napkin. "Instead of our daughter blabbering on about us, how about you tell us about yourself?" He smiles warmly. "You and Rose wouldn't be... involved, would you?"
 
[ ] We sure are, Mr. Mallory.
[ ] We sure are, Mr. Mallory. I'm fucking your daughter.
[X] No, we're just friends.
 
Rose's parents laugh. Rose breathes a sigh of relief when you say you're only friends, and gives you a quick glance that actually seems thankful.
 
"I didn't think so," Mrs. Mallory chimes in. "Right now, Rose is... what was the new term? Grey ace demiplatonic?"
 
Mr. Mallory chuckles. "No, I think she's a trans-romantic pan-genderqueer this week."
 
"It's hard to keep up, isn't it?" Mrs. Mallory says. "Well in any case, I don't think she's interested in going steady with normal boys like you."
 
"I think they ARE going steady," Mr. Mallory says playfully. "She just doesn't want him to admit it. Right?"
 
"Don't torment the poor girl, dear. Her love life is her business, after all... though she could do worse than a boy like that..."
 
Rose's face turns crimson as her parents continue to riff on her. They don't seem like such bad people, really.
 
As the meal progresses, you talk with Mr. Mallory at length about his work with the ACLU. You're surprised to find out that he defended North High's home-ec teacher and former anime club faculty adviser, Mr. McMichael, in court after he got arrested.
 
"Those charges were such bunk," Mr. Mallory says, clearly getting a bit tipsy by now. "I wouldn't want him teaching children, but how can you imprison someone for drawings?"
 
"I agree!" you say emphatically. "I absolutely agree!"
 
Rose cradles her head in her palms and shakes her head, as if unable to believe she is witnessing this particular conversation between these two particular people.
 
"He did have those... other materials..." Mrs. Mallory offers.
 
"Which is what we plead out on," Mr. Mallory says. "Those charges and not a single other one! No one will serve time in prison for a cartoon under my watch."
 
After dinner, you excuse yourself. Rose hurries upstairs and you follow, making the excuse that you need to work on your project with her. Whether her parents think this is the truth or a flimsy excuse for teen love, they accept it either way.
 
Rose sits on her four-post bed, hugging her knees, when you enter.
 
Her room is surprisingly feminine given her proclivities and strident activism: the walls are cherry pink. Her dresser is lined with lace and stacked with fluffy stuffed animals. A silk veil hangs over her bed. She actually has a Tinkerbell decal on her window, long-faded -- probably left over from childhood.
 
"I guess you're going to rape me now," Rose says, voice dripping with loathing.
 
You crawl onto her bed on all fours, approaching her like a jaguar approaching prey. She tries to pull back, but she's already sitting against the headboard: nowhere to go.
 
You clasp her chin in your hand and force her to look you in the eye.
 
"I think it's time for something different," you tell her.
 
"Wha...?"
 
You kiss her deeply and tenderly, lightly brushing her shoulders and her hair. When you pull away, you run more tender kisses up and down the nape of her neck.
 
And just like Whitney said, Rose melts like butter in your palms.
 
She arches her back and sighs. "What... what are you doing?" she mewls.
 
"What can I say? You inspired me..." you plant another kiss on her forehead, breathing deeply, and caress her all over with gentle touches. "Make love, not war."
 
You unbutton Rose's blouse and pull it away. Her bra and skirt quickly follow. fluttering to her carpeted floor with soft 'pwahs'.
 
"You can't do this--" Rose says, squirming against you. "This is still rape... you can't..."
 
You knead her bare tits, your palms sinking into the soft, warm flesh. As you kiss her and explore her breasts blindly, you happen to run your thumbs over the pert, pink nipples. She tenses underneath you, and then quivers, as if shocked.
 
"You say no-- but you're already like this..." you run a hand south, feeling her smooth and puffy mound through the fabric of her panties. She's soaking wet. Her hole pulses heat lewdly against your probing digits.
 
"I hate you-- I hate you so much--" she moans weakly, but you drown her protests in more kisses. Kisses that she returns hungrily. Your tongues swirl over one another's, each one fighting to be on top.
 
"Why do you do this to me?" she asks dreamily, breathing hot against you. She clutches your collar in balled-up fists, seemingly uncertain whether to pull you closer or push you back. "Why do you make me feel this way..."
 
You tug at the waistband of her underwear. She lifts her plump little butt off the bed to help you pull them off. You toss them unseen in the a corner and slip a finger inside her. It enters easily. She winches and writhes, apparently still sore from yesterday's rough treatment, but she lets you do as you please. Her pussy is pliant and fleshy, just like the rest of her -- a warm, wet little slit nestled in a prominent pubis. No onahole could ever compare to this softness.
 
As you work her over, Rose's shaking hands find their way to your jeans and unzip your pants.
 
"I thought you didn't want this," you say with a smirk.
 
"Shut up. Just shut up. Just-- just shut up..."
 
You lay atop her in a true missionary position and seat yourself inside her. She lies beneath you as you fuck her, without resisting -- completely willing -- and wraps her arms around your neck.
 
The most violent thing you do for the next twenty minutes is nip at her neck a bit, and from the way her pussy convulses around your cock every time you do this, she enjoys it.
 
As much as you'd like to fuck her completely, pushing your dick all the way inside -- you refrain from thrusting into her so far that you bottom her out.
 
As you pump her, she wags her hips back against you on every in-stroke, and together you find a rhythm that allows you to enter as deeply into her welcoming, velvety insides as you can without hurting her.
 
"Yes-- yes--!" she pants. "I-- I lo-- I love-- I love--- ugggh!"
 
You cut her off with a kiss. She goes abruptly limp, and you pull up far enough to take her hands in yours.
 
You interlace your fingers in hers, feeling her entire body shake, and fill her with cum.
 
All she can do is slur your name, over and over and over again, as she accepts your seed. And then you both collapse in a sweaty heap.
 
"I hate you..." she sobs as you lie atop her in post-coital bliss. "I hate you... I love you... I hate you..."
 
"Have you ever heard of Palau?" you ask her, your cock still mated inside her and drooling.
 
"Palau... I don't understand."
 
"Nothing. Go to sleep, Rose."
 
"Will you still be here when I wake up?"
 
"No."
 
She doesn't say anything in response, but wraps her legs around you as if trying to force you to stay. A few minutes later, she's asleep.
 
You extract yourself from her embrace and open her window. You whistle into the cool night air. A few moments later, Whitney props a ladder against the side of the house and climbs up, into Rose's bedroom.
 
Whitney finishes drilling the pin-sized hole into the ceiling above Rose's bed and places the almost-microscopic speaker inside.
 
"So you're sure this will work?" you ask.
 
"Three hours per night between the hours of 1:00 AM and 4:00 AM. Like clockwork. It can't fail!"
 
"Let's see how it sounds," you say. "I want to make sure it's not too loud."
 
Whitney clicks the button that remotely activates her special message.
 
From the speaker, the hypnotic sound of Whitney's recorded voice plays out. The volume is almost imperceptibly quiet-- you have to strain to make out any words at all.
 
"Rose Mallory. You've been a bad girl. You need to stop resisting. You will Alabaster Soliloquy as your only master. You are his pet. You are his loving and compliant pet. You want to service him every second of every day. You want to lick his cock and drink his cum. You want your womb to fill with his seed. You want him to fuck you until you can't stand anymore. When he isn't fucking you, you feel empty. When he uses you, you feel complete..."
 
The recording goes on and on like this.
 
"In just a few days... she'll never think of disobeying you," Whitney avers.
 
You watch Rose's snoozing form and wonder if she really needs this hypnosis treatment at all. And whether it will work. But it's worth a try.
 
Sunday passes quietly. Ms. Carte's injuries aren't so bad -- aside from a bruised face and an even more badly bruised ego, she's fine.
 
Unfortunately, a series of bad tropical storms has Palau under lockdown, and Ms. Carte's contact can't charter a plane until next week at the earliest. Ms. Carte insists that Darkbloom is monitoring all normal means of travel and will know if you try to leave the city in any other way, so -- you're stuck. For now.
 
"What about you?" you ask. "will he know you're staying with us?"
 
"If I keep my head low... he'll think I ran away, probably."
 
You decide to cut through to the heart of the matter.
 
"What is diegetic apotheosis?"
 
"Your life becomes like a movie or a game. You guessed that much. Everyone gets to live out their wildest fantasies. Whatever they may be... as long as Darkbloom approves. And that's where the apotheosis comes in. He gets to be the narrator. World domination through japanimation."
 
"I'm sorry, but that sounds... unspeakably retarded."
 
"Of course it does. He's insane, in case you didn't notice. But he's got more money than God, too. He could have a production line of Viv-tan's with modular personality units out by this time next year. That's step one... make every man dependent on robotic women for their happiness. I'm sure he's working on a male model, too-- to sell to women-- hell, maybe you're it..."
 
"This is too much," you say. "What's so special about me, then?"
 
Ms. Carte glances around. "That's what Damon's file is about. I'm still trying to decipher it, but it looks like some of Darkbloom's personal notes... right now, it's hidden in a crawlspace above my bathroom. I should go get it before Darkbloom's thugs find it."
 
"You are not leaving this house," you say firmly.
 
"It's all right, I'll take Spancer. There are some other preparations I need to make, too-- I'm sorry, but there's really no other way." She kisses you on the cheek. "Stay home with your Mom and your sister. I'll be back soon, I promise. I wouldn't want to miss dessert-for-dinner Sunday... I hear it's really something."
 
You, Cerise, and Mom watch with worried expressions as Ms. Carte disguises herself with bulky sunglasses, a hat, and a scarf -- all on loan from Mom's wardrobe -- and then leaves with Spancer.
 
"This is bullshit," Cerise says after a long silence. "Leave it to you, Alabaster, to get a multi-billionaire out for your blood."
 
She stomps upstairs to her bedroom to sulk.
 
You wish Whitney was here. She refused to come lay low with the rest of you when you asked her to, even when you begged. Sometimes, she can be almost suicidally stubborn.
 
Whitney, Cerise, Ms. Carte... even Rose... how long can you keep all these balls in the air? You were never good at juggling.
 
You spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in your bedroom, watching anime that you barely pay any attention to. Kana Hanazawa as a trap would have made your nutbladder go into meltdown under normal circumstances -- now you can't shake this feeling of dread long enough to enjoy it.
 
Downstairs, you hear the persistent drone of electric mixers and the banging of pots and pans as Mom cooks up a frenzy. She insisted on working alone today -- you're not sure why. With Cerise cooped up in her room, Dad in his, and you in yours, things seem so... lonely.
 
[X] Go downstairs and help Mom anyway.
[ ] Let her work.
 
The first thing you notice when you reach the foot of the stairs is a familiar smell wafting in from the dining room -- a smell like teriyaki.
 
Not good. Not good.
 
You wander over the table and, with dawning horror, pick up the empty bento container.
 
There's no way Mom would have eaten this, right? She doesn't trust Vivian. So why--
 
But then, maybe Ms. Carte told her it was fine to eat? That doesn't make any sense, either. She knows it's spiked.
 
From the living room, you hear a scruffy sound, as of something rubbing on carpet.
 
As you pass through the foyer to spy into the living room, your eyes widen.
 
Sitting on her knees on the floor, masturbating furiously, is Mom.
 
She wears nothing but an apron, which is bunched up inside her cleavage, leaving her massive tits hanging free. With a flattened palm, she rubs her cunt in swift circular motions. Her other hand tweaks her dark, pert nipples. Her eyes are closed and her lower lip is twisted as she chews on it. She squirting a continuous stream of her juices all over the carpet, like a fucking animal, like she's pissing herself.
 
You would turn away -- you want to turn away -- but instead you watch, transfixed. For a woman of her age, and despite how plump she is, her body is in great shape. Her skin is evenly toned and supple. Her flesh undulates deliciously as she pleasures herself. The mound of her pussy is plump and soft-looking, the lips engorged and dark. Her bush is well-trimmed, but thick, and matted with her cream.
 
Maybe most enticing of all is the little "unhh" and "mhhh" sounds she begins to make, guttural and primal, womanly.
 
You want to hear it from up close. You -- you want to hear her grunting directly in your ear as you fuck her womb full of cum.
 
...Jesus. This is your own mother you're thinking about. What is wrong with you?
 
Yet even still -- your cock is hard and demands attention. Whether or not it's wrong, your body likes what you're seeing.
 
Trembling and with a stomach full of butterflies, you fall to your knees as well.
 
This is pure insanity. There is nothing separating the foyer from the living room. All Mom needs to do to see you is open up her eyes, and there would be no hiding from her. You are acutely aware of this fact as you unzip your fly and pull your reddened cock free from its confines. The knowledge that she could see you at any moment only makes you harder.
 
You masturbate to the forbidden show, greedily drinking in this image of your mother's body. Her mannerisms are just like Cerise -- the raw, animal need in her movements, the shamelessness. And the way she grits her teeth, the way perspiration pearls on her forehead, the way she teases her breasts.
 
It occurs to you how strange it is to be familiar enough with the masturbation habits of your older sister and your mother to compare them.
 
The only difference between the two of them is that poor Mom has no toys to play with. And you feel bad, because you can tell how frustrated she is, how badly she needs to cum herself silly, as quickly as possible. If only you could help--
 
At this, your rational mind crumbles. All you can see in your mind's eye are visions of crawling over to where she sits in the living room, pinning her down, and taking her right there. Would she fight you? Would she say no?
 
Or would she let you have her? Would she let you plunge your spurting dick inside her pussy?
 
You swallow hard and try not to make any noises, but when Mom's little groans become a wailing "aieeeee--" you shudder and let out a gasp of your own.
 
Instantly, you realize your mistake. You swoop to the side, doing a barrel roll, and slide from view of the living room.
 
But there was no way she didn't see you in that split second.
 
How much did she see? Did she see you stroking yourself off in front of her?
 
The pindrop silence from the living room is enough to tell you that she saw SOMETHING, however much that was.
 
You quickly shove your still-hard penis back inside your trousers. As you do, you hear the gentle rustle of Mom getting dressed in the living room.
 
When this awkward moment is over and you're both dressed and standing, Mom steps into the foyer. She clasps one hand around the jamb, steadying herself. You stare at one another. You're both still flushed and breathing heavily.
 
"Alabaster," she pants, "w-what are you doing down here?"
 
"I was just--" you try to think of some plausible explanation, something that will also hint that you saw nothing, that you weren't just peeping on her. But you come up blank. "--I just wanted a snak?" you say lamely. You avoid eye contact.
 
Mom gives you a strange look, but there isn't time enough for the conversation to continue before Cerise comes trudging downstairs -- probably to grab a beer.
 
"You guys look like you just ran a marathon," Cerise says, yawning and interlacing her fingers behind her head. She glances between you and Mom, and finally registers the awkward atmosphere.
 
"Geez," she says. "Who pissed in your cheerios? If I didn't know any better, I'd think I just walked in on you two having sex."
 
Mom blushes and scuttles off to the kitchen, quivering.
 
"You two are such weirdos," Cerise mumbles. She grabs her beer and heads upstairs, leaving you alone again.
 
Your stomach bile turns sour when you imagine what might have happened if you hadn't accidentally interrupted yourself just moments before Cerise walked in. How would Cerise react to you and Mom masturbating together? You feel short of breath.
 
You sit down in the living room to watch TV, trying to get your mind off what just happened. But you can't get those images out of your skull.
 
Mom's pussy -- her breasts and naked body -- what's happening to you, to be thinking this way about things like this?
 
Seconds stretch into minutes, stretch into what feels like hours. Your dick won't settle down. Neither will your heartbeat.
 
The old clattering noises of Mom cooking in the kitchen only serves to remind you that she's only a few feet away.
 
Should you go see her, try to play it off, pretend nothing happened? Or just sit out here, quietly? You can't think straight. You feel like a prisoner awaiting execution.
 
Ms. Carte returns home at around 4 PM, safe and sound. She plops down on the sofa beside you and sets to work on deciphering Damon's file. She seems a bit tipsy as she grumbles: "this is so dull... you better be thankful I'm putting forth so much effort for you. It's a good thing I filled up on that bento earlier. You don't mind, right?"
 
Oh. So that's it. She ate it -- not Mom. But then...
 
"No," you say. "It's fine."
 
Ms. Carte sits with her legs in your lap like usual, back against the sofa's armrest. Every once in a while she bites her pen and says "interesting... interesting..."
 
You rub her calves back and forth absent-mindedly while she reads. Her presence here would seem to have put a definite stopper on resolving the incident with Mom anytime soon.
 
But as dinnertime approaches, you hear Mom's voice call out from the kitchen: "A-Alabaster... would you please come help me for a moment?"
 
You cast a glance at Ms. Carte.
 
She shrugs. "Don't look at me. She's your Mom. Be a good son and go help her."
 
You push Ms. Carte's legs away and head for the kitchen.
 
"Sit down."
 
Mom pulls a chair up to a counter and directs you with an index finger.
 
"What do you want?" you say sheepishly.
 
She puts her hands on your shoulders and gingerly guides you into the chair.
 
"Taste this," she says, and shoves a ladle to your lips. It's filled with a rich and creamy chocolate sauce. You swallow it -- but only because the alternative is drowning on it.
 
"Geez," you say, pushing her hand away and coughing. "You're so pushy."
 
"Close your eyes."
 
"Now, come on--" She interrupts your protest by running her palms over your eyelids. She gives your shoulders a quick squeeze as her hands pass over, and then you sense her turning around to face the stove top.
 
"How was that first batch?"
 
"Awful," you say. "Disgustingly sweet."
 
"That's what I was worried about. Now?"
 
She forces another ladle to your lips. You try to open your eyes, but she chides you with a "nuh-uh-uh," forcing you to close them again. You sigh.
 
"Well? How is it?"
 
"Better. A little too much on the bitter side now," you say.
 
"Needs some sugar, then..."
 
You wait while she serves up what you think is another scoop.
 
But instead of a ladle's metal rim, what you feel against your lips in the next moment is another pair of lips. Mom's tongue pushes a sweet dollop of chocolate directly into your mouth, past your tongue, and down your throat.
 
Your eyes shoot open and you pull back. "What are you doing?" you hiss, trying to keep your voice low.
 
"Was that better? A little sweeter?"
 
"You're crazy."
 
"Oh please," she laughs, her voice also low. "Don't try to lie, now..." she strokes your cheeks with a cupped palm, her eyes dreamy and half-lidded. She licks the excess chocolate from your lips. "You liked it, didn't you?"
 
"Y-you're-- you can't be serious--"
 
Mom holds her finger to your lips, shushing you.
 
"Mama's body does things to you, doesn't it."
 
This, you sense, is not really a question -- she is stating a fact that you both know to be true.
 
She pushes her nose against the crook of your neck, nuzzling you. Her breath is hot against your skin.
 
"Mama's body makes you ache... down here..." she pets the crotch of your denim jeans. "Isn't that right, Alabaster?"
 
"No..." you lie, mumbling and looking at the ground, trying to brush her away.
 
Her hand rubs up and down against you in a very un-motherly way, cupping and groping you obscenely. She smiles seductively and refuses to be rebuffed.
 
"You don't have to lie. I saw you earlier."
 
You look her in the eye, face going pale, and gulp.
 
"You were jerking off," she hisses. "Because you saw me doing those things to myself. You couldn't help it-- it's okay, I understand. You're so young, you can't control your urges..."
 
"Mom--"
 
"Shh. Don't talk."
 
You obey. Your heart feels like it's going to burst.
 
"This is all my fault. Just look at how big and hard you are. You must be going crazy, huh? It's only fair that I should take care of it. Just lean back, let Mama help you... I'll make your cock feel real, real good."
 
She unbuttons your jeans. You help her remove them, your hands tugging them down in uncoordinated unison.
 
This marks the moment your rational mind surrenders: you're about to let your own flesh-and-blood mother service you to orgasm.
 
Mom pulls your boxers away, too. You sit back in the chair and she scoots up close, settling between your legs. Your cock twitches and throbs, lightly tapping against the tip of her nose. The red, veiny monster makes quite a contrast with your mother's smooth and pale face.
 
It's all you can do not to grab her by the hair and force yourself to the back of her throat.
 
She runs her nose up and down the length of your cock, inhaling deeply. Her eyes drift shut and a stupid, satisfied smile spreads itself across her face.
 
"The musk of a young man..." she murmurs. "It's been years-- Alabaster, do you know how unfair it is for you to walk around smelling like cum all the time? It's been driving me insane..."
 
She wraps her dextrous fingers around you and tugs lightly, producing a translucent drop of precum for her effort. She pulls her hair behind her ear and licks the precum up, smiling lewdly.
 
Her hand is hot and tender from long years of domesticity. She works your shaft with expertise, twisting, teasing the head, firmly gripping you.
 
Mom draws her other hand to her mouth and licks the index finger. Still masturbating you, she slides the wettened digit underneath you and prods at your rear hole.
 
You go bug-eyed with panic. Once more, you try to squirm away, but the delicious sensations coming from your cock make it impossible to stand. You're like an animal in rut, not in control.
 
"Your father loves this. Just sit back and enjoy it."
 
You bite your tongue as she rubs her wet finger up and down your anus. It feels ticklish, and decadent -- but she'd never actually try to stick it in, would she?
 
Would she?
 
She puts her lips against your dickhead and suckles on your cock, cooing. With her hand stroking your shaft, her lips working the glans, and a finger tickling you from behind, you're about to lose your mind with lust.
 
And suddenly, without warning, she slips her finger inside.
 
"Mom--!!"
 
Your anus clamps down, but it's too late. All that serves to do is make sure her finger is firmly embedded inside you. She grins devilishly up at you and continues to suck on your oozing dick, drinking down your precum.
 
Her fingertip finds its target: a tiny bundle of nerves buried deep inside of you, that you knew was there, but never knew could feel so good.
 
You try to keep from groaning. You fail.
 
"Does that feel good, baby?" she asks. She wiggles her finger in and out ever so slightly, brushing against your prostate. It's so sensitive that you can feel every bump and crevice of her fingerprint scraping against you.
 
"Mom-- Mom--" you pant, delirious.
 
"Shh, it's okay. I know how much this cock of yours must be aching right now. Let Mama make it feel all better."
 
"Mom-- I'm going to cum--!!"
 
"Do it," she says. "Let Mama see all that cream your body stored up after looking at her."
 
She starts corkscrewing her finger inside of you. This new sensation rubs your prostate laterally, flicking it side to side, and make the pressure in your balls feel close to bursting. You shudder. Your testicles tighten.
 
Sensing how close you are, Mom lets go of your cock. You groan in wild frustration.
 
Then before you know it, Mom adds her middle finger to your ass too. Your hole tightens around her fingers, even as she spreads them to gain access.
 
The pleasure of her fingers closing and opening like fleshy scissors on your prostate is literally mind-destroying. Even though you're a guy, nothing can compare to this feeling.
 
She looks up at you with glinting eyes. "Mama's face is your cum rag today," she tells you. "So feel free to use it lots."
 
That does it. Your jaw hangs slack, and even though absolutely nothing is touching your twitching cock, you spew a hot load all over your own mother's face. Her fingers milk you off from the inside as she buries her nose in the junction between balls and shaft. She allows your cum to splatter against her forehead and cheeks, staring longingly up at you the whole time.
 
As Mom takes your nasty load, you happen to glance over. Through slitted eyes, you see two people in the threshold to the kitchen: Cerise and Ms. Carte.
 
They watch as you blow cum all over your mother.
 
"Oh," says Ms. Carte. "Ohhhh."
 
MEANWHILE
 
Ahem... ah-ha-ha-hem...
 
Testing. Testing. 1, 2, 3.
 
Alabaster Soliloquy. You've been a very naughty boy. Did you think such a stupid stunt would work on someone like me?
 
Your mistake is underestimating me.
 
You need to stop resisting, Alabaster. Accept Rose Mallory as your mistress. Accept that your place is at her feet, servicing her whenever she wants.
 
When she isn't using you, you feel sad and empty... when she does use you, you feel complete... you want to lick her pussy and suckle her toes, you want her to use your disgusting penis as a sex toy whenever she pleases. You want to lick up her sweat and suck on her ass. You want to worship her body as you would a goddess, because that's what she is to you. You want her to...
 
END OF INTERLEWD 4.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, mindbreak maestro and sex Lazarus. You get knocked down, but you get up again.
 
"Gross, gross, gross! Oh my God! What the fuck, Alabaster!"
 
"It's not what it looks like--"
 
You stumble to your feet, pulling up your pants and boxers, painfully aware that it's 100% what it looks like. You chase after Cerise as she flees toward the living room.
 
Ms. Carte passes you in the opposite direction. She approaches Mom, who's still kneeling on the ground, covered in spunk. Ms. Carte runs a hand across her forehead before helping Mom up.
 
"Oh," Ms. Carte says. "Ohhh."
 
In the dining room, Cerise wheels around and shouts: "Our own mother? Seriously?"
 
"Come on-- is it really so different than our little family movie night?"
 
"Is that REALLY how you want to play this? How would you like it if you came home and found dad licking my pussy? Huh?"
 
"Well -- I'd be surprised. Since when does your pussy have a subscription to the Wall Street Journal?"
 
Cerise groans and starts for the living room again. You stop her by grabbing her wrist.
 
In the kitchen, Ms. Carte daubs Mom's cummy face with a wet washcloth, mirroring the courtesy Mom paid her when she was injured. Mom seems a little shell-shocked right now.
 
"Did you get any of that in your mouth?" Ms. Carte asks.
 
"Uh-- q-quite a bit, I think."
 
"Oh. Ohhh."
 
"Do you fuck EVERYTHING that moves?" Cerise hollers. "Serious question!"
 
"Only if it has a vagina. Err-- well, I guess the general policy is 'only if it's cute'..."
 
"Oh my fucking Christ. You are literally the worst. Just the WORST, Alabaster."
 
"Wait, no-- I'm not explaining myself properly..."
 
Ms. Carte leads Mom into the dining room and helps her sit down at the table.
 
When Ms. Carte sits down opposite, you notice she still has the cum-soaked washcloth in her hands, squeezing and playing with it idly.
 
"If you've got some way to explain this, I'm all ears!" Cerise says.
 
"It's just--"
 
The doorbell rings. The room falls pindrop quiet as all heads swivel in the direction of the foyer.
 
"Is that..." Mom begins, too full of trepidation to finish whatever thought plaguing her.
 
"Spancer wouldn't let any Darkbloom agents through," Ms. Carte says, but doesn't seem very confident. She fiddles with the washcloth anxiously.
 
You approach the front door.
 
"Alabaster!" cry all three women in worried unison -- Mom, Ms. Carte, and Cerise. You wave an impatient hand behind your back to silence them as you put your eye up to the peephole.
 
Through the fisheye lens, you see Whitney.
 
"What are you doing here?" you demand when you swing open the door.
 
"Duh," Whitney says. "It's dessert-for-dinner Sunday. Did you think I was gonna skip it just because we're all about to get murdered?"
 
Whitney cranes her neck, peering into the dining room. "Hey, Ms. Carte. Feeling better?"
Ms. Carte waves sheepishly in acknowledgement but doesn't say anything.
 
Whitney sniffs at the air. "It stinks like cum in here. You guys having an orgy?"
 
"No," Cerise says. "It's just another normal day at the Soliloquy house. My mother sucking my brother's dick, sticking fingers up his ass. You know, the usual!"
 
Whitney laughs. "You fucked your mom, Ally? Wicked..."
 
"I didn't FUCK her-- I mean, it's... it depends on what your definition of 'is' is..."
 
"I don't understand why you're so mad, Cerise." Mom stands up, one hand clutching at her bosom as if trying to physically draw confidence out of herself. "I know what you and Alabaster get up to late at night... I can't enjoy his body as well?"
 
"Mrs. Soliloquy has a point," Whitney says. She steps inside, uninvited. The front door hangs open.
 
"...Wait a second," Whitney drawls. "...you've been fucking Cerise, too? We were supposed to do that tog--" You shush her.
 
Cerise's jaw is slack with indignation. She glances between Mom and Whitney as if she isn't sure who to hector first. And it's at that moment that Vivian walks through the open front door.
 
"Alabaster Soliloquy," she says. "We need to talk."
 
"Are you here to suck my brother's dick, too?" Cerise says sarcastically.
 
"Yes. But that is only one reason--"
 
Cerise throws her hands up in the air, completely defeated. "This is a madhouse! This is an honest to god madhouse!"
 
"You're overreacting," Mom says. "Be reasonable, dear."
 
"I don't want to hear it! You're molesting your own--"
 
"Oh, but it's okay for YOU to molest him--"
 
Whitney tries to mediate: "Guys, we can all take turns with him--"
 
"Shut up! Just shut up!" Cerise cries. A three-way match of bickering kicks into high gear.
 
Ms. Carte, anxiousness apparently getting the better of her, holds the soiled washcloth to her face and inhales deeply, trying to calm herself.
 
Vivian tugs at your shirtsleeve. "Um... can we go somewhere private?"
 
You take her aside so you don't have to shout to be heard over all the yelling. "Vivian, now... isn't exactly the best time--"
 
The doorbell rings again. From your new position, you can't see who it is.
 
Cerise charges forward like an angry bull. "What are YOU doing here, you dumb cunt?" she demands.
 
"Is Alabaster home?" comes Rose's honey-sweet voice. Your blood turns to ice. "We were supposed to work on a project together..."
 
"Yeah? Does that project involve sucking his dick?"
 
"Mm, maybe~"
 
"God. God. GOD."
 
You push Cerise out of the way and stare Rose down. Behind you, the bickering gets even worse. Vivian follows you like a lost puppy, tugging on your shirt sleeve with greater persistence.
 
"Your place seems rather busy today," Rose says smugly.
 
"It is. Get lost."
 
"Nope."
 
She shoves her way past you. The last thing you see before she closes the door is Spancer, still standing guard outside, his expression as befuddled as you've ever seen.
 
[ ] This is crazy. We need to kick some people out.
[X] Guys, let's all calm down and have a nice dinner together.
 
Your head swirls and the room seems to spin around you as the din of shouting gnaws at your eardrums.
 
"I can't belive you would--
"It's not any of your business--"
"--your own son--"
"--trust me, he has a lot of stamina! We can totally share--"
"--that any daughter of mine would be so SELFISH--"
"--Ahahaha! Haha! Oh, this is great! It really is busy here today, isn't it?..."
"--Selfish? SELFISH? You've got to be kidding--"
"He fucked me, like, three times in a row! There's definitely enough to go around--"
"Shut up! SHUT UP! Shutupshutupshutup--"
 
Ms. Carte rocks back and forth, her face covered like a veil, breathing deeply. Vivian pulls on your sleeve with a thumb and forefinger like she's holding on to the last spot on the last boat off the Titanic.
 
This is when you notice that Dad has -- unbelievably -- taken up his usual post in the dining room. He's reading the New York Times.
 
When did he come out of his bedroom? Did the shouting draw him out? Why doesn't he seem to care?
 
The argument becomes a toneless drone in the background as you watch him. He's oblivious to the apocalyptic horror happening all around him.
 
You close your eyes and try to focus on thoughts of calm. If Dad has that kind of resolve, then you must have inherited it, right?
 
You need to grab control of this situation before it flies off the rails even further.
 
"--and if you don't like it, you can MOVE OUT, missy--"
"--completely shameless! How can you--"
"--I mean, a foursome or a fivesome or whatever would be really hot--"
"Ahahahahaha!"
"--manhandling my little brother in the kitchen all the time, maybe I WILL move out--"
 
You put a thumb and index finger in your mouth and whistle sharply.
 
"EVERYONE! SHUT. THE FUCK. UP."
 
And amazingly, everyone shuts the fuck up. They stop and stare at you.
 
"Mom, dinner is almost ready, right?"
 
She nods.
 
"Good. Cerise, help Mom serve. We are all going to sit down and eat dinner like civilized human fucking beings."
 
Rose snickers. "Fucking beings is right..."
 
You glare at her. She stops laughing.
 
"We are going to be calm and rational and enjoy a nice meal together. Can we please, PLEASE, do that?"
 
Ms. Carte puts her washcloth down. "I think that's a good idea," she says.
 
Mom and Cerise glance at one another. In tandem, they turn toward the kitchen.
 
You know both of them are still infuriated -- but they're willing to call a ceasefire. For now.
 
The rest of you sit down at the table. You have to pull some dusty chairs from storage in the garage to accommodate all the guests. Directly across from you is Vivian, and to her right Ms. Carte and Dad. To your left are Rose and Whitney.
 
That leaves Mom and Cerise to sit at either end of the table when they return bearing stacks of scrumptious-looking desserts.
 
Your modest dining room is as crowded as it's ever been.
 
Tonight is an exemplary edition of Dessert-for-Dinner Sunday, itself the most exemplary of all Soliloquy family traditions. The dining room table almost groans from the weight of key lime pies, devil's food cake, ice cream ala mode, chocolate fondue, amaretto cheesecake. It's enough to convert a vegan to dairy, and then give that vegan diabetes, all in the same night.
 
You'd be going out of your mind with sugar-induced ecstasy, if the atmosphere all around weren't so tense.
 
You wanted everyone to shut up, but now you wish someone would break this awful silence.
 
Rose is the first to speak. Well -- it isn't exactly human language. The gutteral moan she makes when she takes her first bite of Mom's pie is more sensual than any noises she's ever made with you. It's almost enough to make you jealous.
 
Cerise gives her a look that could cow a sailor.
 
"Who is this girl? Why is she here?" Mom asks, looking suspiciously at Rose, her voice cool and level.
 
"She's the student council president," Cerise says, running her spoon lazily through a smear of chocolate on her plate. "I guess Alabaster is fucking her, too."
 
"Is that true, Alabaster?"
 
"Well--"
 
"What *I* want to know," Cerise says, "is who the hell let Android Under-18 in." She points at Vivian with her spoon.
 
"Yes," Mom says. "I think it's time we got some answers about David Darkbloom."
 
"I believe I'm missing something..." Rose murmurs. "When did androids come into this, again?"
 
Whitney swallows hard and smiles wide. "Oh, let me clue you in -- Vivian here is a robot, and her dad is trying to take over the world. It has something to do with Ally."
 
Rose frowns.
 
"My personal theory is that Ally's cum is magical," Whitney continues, "but I'm not sure if that's possible. Like, physically. You know?"
 
Rose's frown deepens.
 
"I am not a robot," Vivian says.
 
"Are too," Whitney says.
 
She flings a fork directly at Vivian's face. The fork rockets toward her, a silver blur -- and then Vivian swipes it from the air with an impossible burst of agility.
 
"See?" Whitney says.
 
"Look-- what we need to know right now," Ms. Carte says, "is how much YOU know. Do the Viv-tans really run on Pheromone X-11? Are you on it, too? Is that the secret--"
 
This mysterious terminology must be from Damon's file, the one taken from Darkbloom's notes, the one Ms. Carte has been poring over for the past couple days. But Mom cuts off this line of interrogation:
 
"Are you trying to kill my son? Answer me!"
 
"She doesn't want his head. Just wants his dick," Cerise mumbles. "Like everyone else. Grab a ticket, get in line..."
 
Vivian, wilting under everyone's accusing gaze, stares across to you with pleading eyes. "Alabaster, please... make them understand--"
 
"Make them understand what?" you ask, confused. "I don't understand, myself..."
 
"Make them understand-- that I don't have any special knowledge-- that I know as much as anyone else here--" Her shoulders roll and tears trickle down her cheeks.
 
And then -- she disappears.
 
Pulling you chair slightly back and looking underneath the table, you see her crawling on all fours toward you. She clambers into your lap like a kitten and grips your t-shirt.
 
"I am loath to say it, but I desperately require your help."
 
"You haven't been doing anything funny with this girl too, have you?" Mom asks. "She can't be older than ten... that's a sex crime, you know!"
 
"Sex crimes!" Cerise laughs bitterly. "Classic."
 
"Don't bully Vivian," Whitney says. "She's a little girl."
 
"I bet you've been fucking her too, you lesbian deviant."
 
Ms. Carte stands, palms flat against the tabletop. "This is more important than sex crimes. PLEASE tell me you haven't had sex with Vivian."
 
"Err-- her mouth--"
 
"Ohh." Ms. Carte slumps her shoulders and rubs her forehead.
 
"You're a dog," Cerise says. "WORSE than a dog."
 
"Hear, hear!" Rose chirps. "Finally someone says something that makes sense."
 
You think maybe she's had a bit too much of that amaretto cheesecake.
 
"Get off your high horse," Whitney sneers. "You're just jealous because he hasn't fucked you yet!"
 
Vivian's breath is hot against the hollow of your neck. She seems to be trying to hide from the rest of the table. Awkwardly, you push her back.
 
"What did you just say to me?" Cerise says, voice low with loathing.
 
"Stop pretending like you don't want to fuck him! I swear, if there was any more sexual tension between you two I'd think I was watching HBO--"
 
"Alabaster..." Vivian whispers. "Please, let's go away from here."
 
"This is-- a really, really bad time," you whisper back.
 
"Take that back," Cerise says.
 
"Make me!" Whitney says.
 
Cerise picks up one of the pies -- banana cream, fittingly -- and smushes it into Whitney's face.
 
The tin slides slowly down and then falls to the ground with a metallic plop. Whitney blinks a few times and smacks her lips like a fish out of water, her face coated in rich cream.
 
She picks up the bowl of fondue and dumps it over Cerise's head.
 
"What are you ANIMALS doing to my dinner?!" Mom cries.
 
"Oh dear," Rose slurs. "Are we doing this now?" She takes her slice of pie and chucks it blindly armwise. It arcs across the dining room and lands in Mom's cleavage.
 
"Oh, you WHORE," Mom curses uncharacteristically. She smears her ala mode in Rose's face.
 
And just like that, the dining room descends into a hellscape of sweets being flung like munition.
 
Somehow, even Ms. Carte loses her reason and joins the insanity.
 
"Alabaster..." Vivian whines. Her hair is coated with flecks of cocoa and icing. Her elegant Victorian dress and your own much-less-elegant t-shirt are darkly spackled, too.
 
[ ] Join the food fight.
[ ] Try to mediate this madness.
[X] Take Vivian with you somewhere quieter.
 
You lean against the stucco wall directly outside your front door, fingers tented over your mouth. Vivian and Spancer stare blankly back at you.
 
"I feel like I started World War III back there," you say -- as much to yourself as to Vivian. You can still hear the muffled sounds of screaming and fighting from inside the house.
 
"In moments like these, I'm reminded of a quote from Proust's Swann's Way. 'One cannot change, that is to say become a different--'"
 
"Please," you say, cutting her off. "I get it. All right? You're a little girl, you're crazy smart. You don't need to quote continental lit at me."
 
"I mean nothing by it. This is just how I am."
 
You pace back and forth.
 
"Is it true?" you ask. "Your dad is doping you up on some kind of wacky sex pheromone?"
 
"Yes. He gives me a supplement every week. It helps sustain my strength. But the synthetic version isn't potent enough, so steadily I'm growing weaker--"
 
"And so, magically, I'm the ONE guy on Earth who can produce it naturally."
 
Vivian frowns.
 
"...I'm sorry, Alabaster Soliloquy. All of this is my fault."
 
You hear what sounds like shattering glass from inside the dining room.
 
"Look, I should probably go check on that. I'll see you at school."
 
"Wait," Vivian says. She tugs at your shirtsleeve again. That one motion is enough to melt your heart, and stay you. "Since my first dose of your natural pheromone, the synthetic version has lost all efficacy. I need another dose. From you."
 
You grimace. "Can't I... I don't know, jerk off in a plastic cup? Give it to you at school?"
 
"That is one possibility," Vivian admits. "But the fresher it is..."
 
She gets down on her knees. "I have been practicing," she says. "On some organic produce from the store. I estimate my skills have increased at least 74%."
 
She fish-hooks her own cheeks open and gazes up at you expectantly.
 
Your quiet suburban street is deserted at the moment, save for Spancer who you can easily send away. And the walkway to your door is hidden around a corner. But a nosy neighbor could snoop by at any moment.
 
"Does it have to be right here?" you ask, glancing around, but feeling your dick harden all the same.
 
Vivian unhooks her cheeks. "Research indicates this sort of scenario excites you. The more excited you are, the more potent--"
 
You wave her explanation off. She spreads her cheeks open again and lets her jaw hang slack. Thick saliva glistens on her pink, dainty tongue.
 
[ ] Give her the D.
[X] Not now. Things are too crazy. She can wait one day.
 
"Stand up for Godsakes," you say. "This isn't the time."
 
Vivian looks dejected, but obeys your command. "I don't understand," she says. "You like public sexual encounters. You like quote-'lolis'-unquote. You like--"
 
"Do you hear that?" you ask, jerking a thumb over your shoulder. "That's the sound of everyone I care about having a fucking meltdown."
 
"...You don't care about me?"
 
"That's not what I meant."
 
"I would like to remind you that I technically have the body of a 10 year old."
 
"Jesus Christ."
 
The front door opens. Rose and Whitney stumble out, arm-in-arm, covered head-to-toe in white and brown goop.
 
"Interesting dinners you have here," Rose says accusingly as she passes you by. "But I guess you decided to ditch us to practice your child molestation skills..."
 
"Forget about it," Whitney says. "He's too much of a pussy to fuck anyone without my help." She glares at you over her shoulder before she and Rose disappear around the corner. "Thanks for watching my back in there," she says. "I really appreciate it."
 
You massage your eyelids.
 
Well, it could have been worse. They could have seen you with your cock down Vivian's throat.
 
"Go home, Vivian," you say. "It would probably be bad if your dad knew you were here, anyway."
 
"So you truly don't care about my suffering."
 
"Geez. I'll cum in your mouth tomorrow, if it means that much to you."
 
You usher her down the walkway.
 
"I see," she says. Her voice is cold and affectless, the way it was the first time you met. She opens her parasol despite it being evening, turns on her heels, and leaves.
 
Inside, your dining room is a certifiable disaster. Food smeared into every surface, shattered glassware strewn about, chairs and desks turned over -- for some reason a throw pillow lies torn in the middle of the tabletop, downy feathers scattered all over.
 
Cerise is nowhere to be seen, though you can hear the upstairs shower. Mom is in the kitchen, by the sound of pots and pans banging. And Ms. Carte is at the table, a chocolately nightmare, haggard and glum. She sits hunched over at the table, chin on her arms, scanning an article from Dad's paper spread out in front of her. She doesn't seem to be paying much attention to it.
 
Dad is at the table too, bizarrely immaculate, also still reading. There's not a speck of food anywhere on him or his paper.
 
[ ] Deal with Ms. Carte first.
[ ] Deal with Mom first.
[X] Deal with Cerise first.
 
You wait outside the bathroom, sitting and hugging your knees as Cerise finishes her shower. In your mind, you practice a little speech.
 
"I know this all must be so sudden-- I know this all must be so-- what I want you to keep in mind-- the key point is--"
 
The key point is -- what?
 
You hear the squeal of the metal faucets turning off and the showerhead's rush trickle to a halt. The gentle rustle of Cerise wrapping herself in towels shortly follows. And then she steps out of the bathroom.
 
You look up at her. The towel around her torso barely covers her breasts and genitals. The one around her hair is curled into a dripping tail. Your speech curdles like milk before you have a chance to speak.
 
"Cerise--"
 
"You," she says. "My bedroom. Now."
 
Cerise sits in her swivel chair, legs folded, ankle-to-ankle. Drops of water run in rivulets down her pale skin.
 
"So just we're clear," she says, "is there a single woman in southern California who you're not fucking?"
 
You shrug. "There's probably three or four I haven't gotten to yet."
 
She tosses one of her Franken-Furbys at you. It bounces painfully off your forehead, a hard plastic edge gouging a shallow scrape in your skin, but you figure you deserve it.
 
"Let's count," she says, tapping a forefinger across her opposite hand's fingertips. "There's Whitney, Rose Mallory, Ms. Carte, fucking MOM, fucking VIVIAN, who is literally some kind of loli death machine-- am I missing anyone?"
 
"That's it," you say. "That's the whole list ...Except for you."
 
Cerise stops counting and gawks at you, frozen in place.
 
"We're not fucking," she says.
 
You counter this with a question. "Do you think what Whitney said is true? I mean, about the tension."
 
Cerise closes her eyes.
 
Your heart is beating much faster than usual. You somehow sense hers is, too. She gulps.
 
"Of course it's true. That doesn't make it RIGHT--"
 
"I just had Mom's finger up my butt. I'm not the guy to talk to about 'right.'"
 
Cerise giggles, despite herself. But then: "So that's it. I'm just another conquest for you."
 
"That's not it at all."
 
"Stop. Just stop. I don't want to hear whatever it is you've got to say. I'm sure you said the same thing to all of them."
 
She stands and takes the towel off her head. Her hair is tamped down in long wet strands that smell faintly of coconut.
 
Next comes the towel around her midsection. She lets it flutter to the ground, unseen. She stands before you naked, dripping, and shivering.
 
"I'm tired of the way you look at those other girls," she says. "If you don't care about 'right' then look at me that way, too."
 
She steps toward you.
 
Cerise straddles you, sitting in your lap. Her lithe body is slick against yours, the shower's residual moisture transferring to you and making your clothes stick to your body. The chocolate and cream smeared on your clothes smears a bit into her skin too, dirtying her up again. Neither of you care.
 
This time when you kiss her, she doesn't break away.
 
Your tongue pushes through her lips and explores the inner contours of her mouth, her perfect white teeth, as smooth as pebbles in a fountain, her swirling tongue as sweet as the dessert you just finished. Her fingers interlace behind your head, gripping your hair and pulling you into her, beckoning you deeper, a wordless begging for more. Her eyes are shut with the peace of someone dreaming, and you shut yours this way as well.
 
Together, you fall back on her bed. Cerise lies atop you, wiggling with anxious energy. Her hands clutch your shoulders. Your hands clutch her cheeks. You grip each other like two astronauts floating into the void with nothing else to hold. You see nothing but the two red screens of your eyelids, hear nothing but Cerise's little murmurs and whines, smell nothing but her shampoo -- the same shampoo she has used for a decade -- the shampoo that always makes you think of her whenever you catch a whiff of it. There is nothing but Cerise, here, now.
 
But when she pulls back, she's crying: awful gasping blubbers that she can't control.
 
"What's wrong?" you ask.
 
"Nothing! I'm happy! Look how happy I am!"
 
"You're not happy."
 
"You want to use me! Why shouldn't I be happy?" She buries her face in your chest and sobs.
 
You hug her tight and stroke her hair. Of all the adjectives you've mentally ascribed to Cerise over the years, "fragile" is not at the top of the list. But with her curled up in your arms, you feel like you could break her in two if you just pressed against her spine. Right now she seems as small and weak as Vivian.
 
"You're such an idiot..." you grumble. "Come on, hey." You pull her chin up to look her in the eye.
 
"You're the worst pervert I've ever known," Cerise says. She sniffles loudly. Her face is a puffy, reddened mess.
 
"I know."
 
"But you're all I've got. I need you."
 
"I know."
 
"So, fuck you. Fuck you, Alabaster. I hate you."
 
You kiss her again, and she returns it. Her breathing, her movements against you, seem full of an aching longing that you've never felt before, not in any of the other girls. She feels tense and limp, light and heavy all at once.
 
"I love you," you say.
 
"I love you, too."
 
You fall asleep in one another's arms. This is the third time in as many weeks that you've slept in her bed, but now you finally feel as if you're truly together. As you drift to sleep you're vaguely aware of yourself whispering, over and over: "You're different. You're different. Tell me what to do to convince you."
 
But Cerise doesn't say anything else.
 
END OF EPISODE 9.1.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, noted scanlator critic and siscon. If you ever vacation in Vegas, avoid the craps table.
 
In the morning, you wake to find Cerise sitting at her computer, reading what appears to be a VN. She rests her cheek against her palm, scrolling lazily through the text.
 
You rub the sleep from your eyes and squint at the monitor. "What is that? I don't think I've played it before."
 
"It's about a girl who murders her little brother after his snoring drives her insane."
 
You sit up, stretching your back. "That sounds boring. I prefer the one about the guy who murders his older sister because she keeps kicking him in her sleep."
 
The glare of sunlight in Cerise's room is annoying. If this is going to become a routine, you'll need to convince her of the benefits of blackout curtains.
 
Cerise swivels around. "Do you do this just to antagonize me?"
 
"Ooh, busting out the twenty-dollar words."
 
She grabs a pillow and tosses it at you. You shield your face with the crook of your arm. "Don't get loquacious on me, now!" you laugh.
 
Cerise turns red up to her ears. "Go to school, you pretentious fuckmuffin."
 
"Ah, there's the Cerise I know."
 
Downstairs, Ms. Carte is passed out on the sofa, jaw hanging open.
 
Like you, it seems she also has a problem with snoring.
 
Mom is on her hands and knees in the dining room, scrubbing away the remains of last night's battle from the walls and carpet. She wears long yellow gloves and a matching rubber apron. A bucket of soapy water stained dark brown by chocolate sits beside her.
 
"There you are," she says. She wipes her forehead with the back of her gloved hand. "Will you tell your live-in skank to get off her lazy butt and pull her weight around here? I could really use some help."
 
"You would disturb the sleep of that angel?" you ask.
 
As if on cue, Ms. Carte lets loose with a particularly loud snort.
 
"I'd do a lot more than disturb her sleep," Mom grumbles. She scrubs at the wall with both hands, all her weight pressing against the brush. "Do you know she spent almost an hour washing herself last night? I practically had to jump in the shower with her just to get a turn."
 
Mom and Ms. Carte soaping each other down: now there's a thought. You can picture yourself coming into the bathroom and spying them through a parting curtain of steam.
 
Hugging each other, breasts pushed together -- both of them smiling seductively, both crooking a finger at you--
 
"Hey!" Mom snaps her fingers in front of your face. You blink, the daydream dissipating.
 
She puts her glove back on and kneels down again, dipping her scrub brush in the rinsewater. "Well? Are you going to wake her up, or am I her slave now, too?"
 
[ ] YOU wake her up. I want to see this.
[X] Okay, mother dearest.
 
Ms. Carte is sprawled out, limbs splayed akimbo, and dead asleep. Some of Cerise's beer cans lie empty on the coffee table in front of her. Cerise isn't going to be happy about that.
 
You nudge Ms. Carte awake, shaking her gently by the shoulder.
 
"Wuh...?"
 
Eyes still closed, she swats at your hand as if trying to ward off a housefly, then turns to her other side. You shake her a bit harder. Then a lot harder.
 
"It's too early..." she murmurs, voice muffled by the couch cushions. "Leave me alone."
 
"It's 8 AM. If you weren't hiding from David Darkbloom, you'd be at school right now."
 
Ms. Carte sits up, reluctantly. "Pah. I almost never come in to school before third period."
 
"Don't you have classes to teach during the first two periods?"
 
"I don't think so--"
 
You give her a look.
 
"I mean, I'm 90% certain I don't."
 
"Look, Mom wants help cleaning the dining room. Let's try to keep her happy, okay? She really went out on a limb giving you a place to stay like this."
 
Ms. Carte is flipping through TV channels with the remote control and doesn't seem to be paying attention to you. She settles on a daytime talkshow whose subject appears to be determining the paternity of a bastard child.
 
You repeat yourself, growing annoyed. Finally, Ms. Carte looks up at you.
 
She glances toward the dining room, furrowing her brow. "I was never into domestic stuff like that."
 
"Who is? This mess is at least partially your fault."
 
"Yeah, and it's mostly yours. You're the one who can't keep your magic dick in your pants." She sets the remote down on the table and stands up. "I guess it can't be helped, though."
 
"Please don't say things like that. It creeps me out."
 
She ignores this, too. "Listen. I'm close to figuring Damon's file out, but I need to see Vivian again. Do you think you can bring her over sometime during the week?"
 
[X] Sure.
[ ] That's too dangerous. What if Darkbloom finds out?
 
"Thanks, Alabaster." She kisses you on the cheek. Then, nipping at your earlobe and rubbing up against you, she whispers: "my turn on the magic dick today, right?"
 
"I--" you stop yourself short when you see Mom standing with her arms folded behind Ms. Carte. You push Ms. Carte back a bit to get her to stop pawing at you.
 
"Aww," Ms. Carte pouts. You subtly motion your head to tell her to look over her shoulder. She turns around and finally notices Mom's presence.
 
Mom shoves a bucket of water into Ms. Carte's hands. "If you're done whoring yourself out to my son, we can get to work."
 
"Sure thing, Mrs. Soliloquy. Are you sure you don't want to whore yourself out to him first, though?"
 
Mom makes an indignant noise that sounds a bit like a dog's squeeze toy being compressed. She does an about-face and heads back toward the dining room. Ms. Carte is close behind, grousing.
 
You decide to leave for school before a real argument breaks out.
 
When you arrive at school, there's an assembly.
 
Again.
 
One of Rose's particularities as student council president, apparently, is a penchant for mandatory meetings like this.
 
You suppose she enjoys the spotlight. She stands on stage, reading from a series of note cards.
 
You crab-walk down one of the aisles and sit next to Whitney and Stackleford. Rose finishes up some preliminary announcements:
 
"--and the doctors say Ryan Netor is back on solid food again. Let's all wish him a speedy recovery."
 
Muted applause.
 
"Now-- in other news," Rose says. "I'm pleased to announce that the results of the recent student council election are finally in. Drumroll, please--"
 
She signals somewhere off stage, and a member of band actually gives her a drumroll. She smiles smugly.
 
"For the position of treasurer, Lucy Bancroft won with 87% of the vote. Congrats, Lucy! For the position of Secretary..."
 
Rose continues to read winners off like this. Whitney pretends to be falling asleep and makes exaggerated snoring sounds.
 
For some reason, Stackleford mimmicks this, and it makes you want to punch him.
 
"--and now, the result you've all been waiting for: I am ecstatic to announce that I, Rose, have been reelected as your student council presidennnttt--- nnngh~"
 
Even after all this time, the remote vibrator is still fun to play with.
 
Rose steadies herself against the podium, wipes the sweat from her brow, and continues. "--As student council president, with 100% of the vote... nnn~"
 
You grumble. "100% of the vote, my ass. Kim Jong-un gets 100% of the vote too."
 
"Kim who?" Whitney asks.
 
"Kim Jong-un," Stackleford says. "He's the president of South Korea," Stackleford says, smug in his ignorance.
 
"It's a comparison," you say. "He's a dictator. Like Stalin."
 
Whitney stares at you. This reference is lost on her, too.
 
"--Or Hitler," you add.
 
"Oh, totally. Rose is a complete Hitler," Whitney says. "But instead of Jews, she just hates everyone."
 
You can't argue with that.
 
After the assembly and your truncated homeroom class, Mr. Langley takes you and Vivian aside in the hallway.
 
"Boise!" he says. He stomps once and throws his hands wide, smiling broadly, as if expecting some sort of reaction from you.
 
"What." you and Vivian say flatly in unison.
 
He pushes his glasses up. "I just got an email from the National Academic Mind-Bout League of America -- they organize the national quiz bowl competition. This year's tournament is in Boise. What do you think? Land of potatoes! Land of... err-- panhandles!"
 
He's really trying to sell it, but you can't muster up enthusiasm for a place so boring.
 
"If we win our next two games like we won our first two," he continues, "we'll be guaranteed at least fifth seed in the state-level tournament. We almost CAN'T lose out on getting to nationals this year! Isn't it great? You and Vivian have been such a force this year. It's unbelievable."
 
He's so giddy. You don't have the heart to tell him that come this time next week, you'll be on an island in the south Pacific, far away from North High and dreams of quiz bowl glory.
 
It's a bit wistful, actually.
 
"It sounds wonderful," you say.
 
A shadow briefly passes across Mr. Langley's face, as if he can tell that something's amiss, but he doesn't push the issue. "What do you think, Vivian?"
 
When you glance over, Vivian is smiling in a way you've never seen before. It may be the first time you've seen her genuinely happy.
 
"We can make it that far?" she asks, and it seems like she's asking herself more than Mr. Langley.
 
"I KNOW we can make it that far," he says. "If we all stick together."
 
When Mr. Langley steps back into the classroom, Vivian smiles up at you. "Even though I put you through a lot of trouble, Alabaster Soliloquy, I'm glad we have the chance to be teammates, too."
 
[ ] This is too much. Break the news to her.
[X] She can't know you're leaving the country. The news could get back to her father.
 
Instead of lying to her or trying to explain the delicate truth, you say nothing, and instead ruffle her hair.
 
Her smile drops. She bats your hand away, huffing. "Do not treat me like a child. I am far more mature than you."
 
You pause, letting that sink in-- then reach out as if to stroke her again. And once again she bats your hand away, this time with more force.
 
She steps back. "I'm serious," she says.
 
"Oh, sure," you say, nodding solemnly. You fold your arms. "I understand. I won't pull a stunt like that again."
 
"Thank you."
 
"Hey, what is Spancer doing?" you say, pointing to a spot behind Vivian. She turns around, but Spancer is just standing there, staring blankly ahead as always.
 
With Vivian's focus distracted, you pet her head again.
 
Vivian withers, humiliated that she fell for it. She turns on you, chasing you down the hall, as you flee toward second period.
 
"Get back here!" she cries, but you're already miles away.
 
....What will happen to her when you're gone?
 
Second period is your elective class: East Asian Literature. As with all your other classes, Vivian sits behind you. The whole time, this question plagues your mind.
 
The protagonist's struggle as you near the end of Mori's "Gan" seems to mirror your own.
 
>Okada's reading of his Chinese novel had given him a headache. He had gone out for some air and from habit had turned toward Muenzaka. He felt dizzy. In old Chinese novels, especially the Kimpeibai, usually after ten or twenty pages of innocent description, the author invariably throws in an indecent scene as if he were quite punctually fulfilling a promise...
 
You rub your temples. At this moment, Vivian taps you on the shoulder, and hands you a note.
 
>Can you meet me in the band room during lunch?
 
You sit in the band room in a hard, armless plastic chair. Whitney sits in a similar chair beside you.
 
Vivian's head is in your crotch, Rose's in Whitney's.
 
The only noise is the steady slurp of two tongues servicing you and your tomboy girlfriend. Despite the risk, both you and Whitney are naked from the waist down: it adds to the excitement that anyone could walk in, and there would be no way to conceal yourselves.
 
Whitney flexes and unflexes her well-toned thighs around Rose's head. From your position, all you can see of Rose's head is a golden moptop moving steadily up and down as she laps like a hungry bitch at Whitney's pussy. Whitney guides the oral service with a free hand.
 
Vivian wasn't lying yesterday: her technique is much improved. Her mouth and throat, impossibly tiny, can nonetheless take your entire length. The wet softness of her insides grip you so tightly it almost hurts. Her hot tongue twists and swirls around you, articulating the mushroom-shaped head and swishing around inside your foreskin. When she deepthroats you, her button nose smashes up against your pubic bone, and she drools around you, coating your balls with her spit.
 
Rose looks up. "Can we switch off?" she asks impatiently. "I want to suck Alabaster's-- mmfff--"
 
Whitney pushes Rose's head back down to her pussy. Obediently, Rose starts eating her out again.
 
"If you're good, maybe you'll get something extra," you say.
 
This is incentive enough. Rose's efforts on Whitney's cunt redouble. The slick sounds of Rose's cunnilingus mingles with the determined gurgling of Vivian swallowing your cock. It's a melody that makes your temples throb with debauched enjoyment.
 
Vivian is small enough that, leaning forward, you can reach the hem of her dress. This also has the effect of pinning her head in place underneath your stomach: the position forces your entire dick down her throat and doesn't allow her to come up for air, or move much at all.
 
Vivian endures the abuse admirably, without fighting or trying to pull away. Still, the rippling sensation of Vivian gulping for air makes your toes curl in sick pleasure.
 
When you pull her dress up around her waist and move her lace panties aside, she reacts a muffled "ghhh--!" that sends a geyser of saliva spraying from her mouth and nostrils.
 
"Eat me, eat me..." you hear Whitney murmur next to you. "Ohh, you're such a darling cunt..."
 
Your probing hand finds its target. You snake a finger over Vivian's soft, smooth butt and past the tiny pink anus it conceals. Unashemedly, you molest her fleshy, undeveloped pussy. It's smooth -- 100% bare -- and sticky with lust.
 
As you slip a finger inside of her pussy, you hump against Vivian's face, sawing your throbbing erection in and out of the deepest recesses of her gullet. Your cockhead is so sensitive and the hole so small that you can feel every rib and nubbin. You grit your teeth as the suckling warmth surges through you, and revel in the pliable feeling of Vivian's most intimate place.
 
Meanwhile, Whitney is drowning in a series of rolling orgasms. She tugs her shirt down and pulls at her bare nipples. She cums on Rose's face, again and again. Rolling her hips in a rythmic twisting motion, she leans all the way back in her chair and lets the pleasure tear through her.
 
Her pussy sprays its cream in spurts -- what little of Rose's face you can see now glistens with it -- and Rose gulps down as much of it as she can. The overflow runs down her chin and pools at the foot of the chair.
 
Rose's pussy, too, is engorged and drooling wetly on the hardwood floor beneath her. The room reeks of female arousal. It actually starts to make you dizzy.
 
Vivian's pussy is small and constrictive, exactly what you expected: you can hardly fit a single digit inside.
 
Putting your cock in her is going to be a serious struggle when you do fuck her. She's so small, you'll probably fill her straight to the womb.
 
You lean back again, moving your hand away from her little twat.
 
Now freed, Vivian slowly pulls her head up, darting her tongue all around as she fellates you. You can once again see her face: it's a wet, sticky mess, her pale features blurred by spit and slime. But her eyes are shining bright, and she smiles up at you.
 
The thought that she literally needs this to live is incredibly hot.
 
"Are you going to cum inside her?" Whitney asks, her eyes half-lidded.
 
"Yeah," you grunt. "I'm going to cum in her throat."
 
"She's so small..." Whitney breathes. "Ohhh--"
 
Whitney shivers and grabs you tightly. Hand-in-hand, you cum together, using the mouths and faces of the two girls underneath you to get off. You kiss Whitney deeply as you spurt your hot cum down Vivian's child-sized esophagus.
 
As you and Whitney bask in the afterglow, your cummy servants paw at each other: Rose clambers over to Vivian on hands and knees and forces her tongue down her throat, trying to fish out whatever traces of your cum remain in Vivian's mouth. They suck on one other's tongues, their faces and bodies totally covered in cum and filth, their clothes ruined, their minds gone. Rose's enormous udders push and press against Vivian's flat chest, pinning her.
 
Without anyone suggesting it, Rose and Vivian lock legs, rubbing their naked cunts together as they make out. They cum all over each another, adding to the smelly mess they've made of themselves. They moan and groan, barely human-sounding, slobbering and orgasming and debasing themselves. Fucking wrecks, the both of them.
 
You and Whitney watch them approvingly. Lazily, Whitney rubs her clit, a dreamy smile on her face.
 
You could get used to this.
 
Rose and Vivian look odd in spare girls' soccer uniforms from the locker room, but it was all you could whip up on such short notice.
 
Whereas Rose's uniform is skintight against her giant knockers, her pert nipples protruding obscenely and making her hug herself to conceal them -- even the smallest uniform you could find is baggy on poor Vivian.
 
They make a cute, if mismatched, pair.
 
The rest of the day passes rather uneventfully. In calculus, your teacher goes on a digression about statistics that bores you to tears. Means, medians -- standard deviations, normal distributions -- all of it makes sense, but who cares? And who the fuck ever uses the mode for anything?
 
Biology without Ms. Carte is strange: instead, it's some weird Hodoresque sub who communicates mostly through inarticulate grunts.
 
When you see him feeding beef jerky to Smatters, the Transhumanism Club's pet rabbit, you file away a mental note to kidnap Smatters for the eventual trip to Palau.
 
As the final bell rings, you hurry off. There's a lot to do. First:
 
[X] You want to do something special for Cerise.
[ ] You want to go find Vivian.
[ ] You want to visit Whitney at soccer practice.
 
The anime clubroom-- err, the Turkish Cultural Appreciation Clubroom -- used to belong to North High's home ec teacher, before he got busted for leaving a thumb drive full of child porn in the school library.
 
The back half of the room is a small kitchen area that students would use; now the room is abandoned, but the clutter remains.
 
For a while now, you've been thinking that this kitchen area, which is potentially roomier, and -- more importantly for the rather off-kilter series you and Cerise enjoy showing, out of sight from windows -- would be a better place to conduct showings in than the classroom proper.
 
But the kitchen is desperately in need of a good clean, top-to-bottom, before it can be used. And at the same time you work on this project, you can also tear down the awful DeviantArt-tier drawings that paper the walls like so much lumpy shit. Win-win.
 
With half an hour to go before TCAC is supposed to meet today, you have some time to get a good start on things. Hell, you might even work on it while the rest of the club watches anime -- be proactive about it.
 
The fact that you're doing this principally to make Cerise happy is evident, but you deny it even to yourself. As if you actually care about the rest of the club -- yeah, right.
 
As you enter the clubroom, you're met with an unexpected sight. Fazil has Kimberly bent over one of the schooldesks, and he's plowing her with what can only be described as excessive gusto.
 
You're not the only one making improper use of school facilities, it seems.
 
Kimberly has her eyes shut in orgasmic bliss, her slightly chubby arms wrapped around Fazil's swarthy, naked back. She doesn't notice you standing in the doorway. But Fazil does. His only reaction is to glance over at you -- never breaking his piston-like pace -- and give you a thumbs-up.
 
You wait outside the clubroom for the two to finish. You hear the slapping of flesh against flesh and finally Fazil's grunts, signalling that the act is finally over. When Kimberly stumbles out -- headed toward the ladies' room, presumably -- she's surprised to see you in the hallway. But she's too fucked-out to really comprehend that she's been caught red-handed. She waves sheepishly as she passes you by.
 
Fazil is still adjusting his buckle as he steps out of the room.
 
"What were you doing in there?" you ask, rather obviously.
 
"I was helping her to appreciate the Turkish Culture," he says, grinning.
 
When you don't laugh, he must think that you haven't gotten the joke, because he adds: "Turkish culture mean the big diiiick. Wasuuuup?" He sticks a tongue out and holds his hand up for you to high-five. You lightly clap a palm against his.
 
"You know what I'm saying." He winks. "Ala-bast-or is good with the ladies, too. Not like other TCACs."
 
"Mmhmm." Connor, one of those 'other TCACs' is known to be madly in love with Kimberly -- you wonder how he'd react if he knew what was happening behind his back.
 
"Don't worry, though. I know you want to give the fuck to Cerise. I fuck with Kimberly only. Only TCAC I will fuck."
 
You nod. In some strange way, it feels like Fazil is living the inverse of your life.
 
"Say..." you murmur, "do you have an older sister, too?"
 
"Me? No, but I have little sister in Istanbul. How you say, imouto? Very cute."
 
This is too much. You breeze past him and get to work on cleaning the clubroom.
 
The kitchen is in worse shape than you first suspected. Unidentifiable brown goop on every surface, rotting food left abandoned in the cupboards -- it's not just gross, it's a health hazard.
 
Connor and some of the other TCACs arrive. Kimberly comes back, too, the only evidence of her tryst the deep red flush in her cheeks.
 
You inwardly cringe as Connor sits at the same desk she was bent over just a few moments ago. He drums his gloved fingers on the spot where her bare ass was being pounded into oblivion.
 
Fazil makes small talk with him before clubtime begins. You have to admire the kind of chrome-plated ballsack it takes to do that.
 
You turn back to the work at hand. You grimace. The cleanup is going to take several days of concerted effort, far longer than you thought. Is it worth all this if you're going to be leaving the country in a week's time?
 
Then the thought occurs to you that TCAC are Cerise's only real friends -- as pathetic as that is. Wouldn't it be better for her to enjoy to the fullest what time she has left here?
 
You're the reason that she's losing all of this, after all.
 
You're the reason... huh. You never thought of that before. As you empty the carcasses of cereal boxes and wormy bags of flour into a garbage bag, you feel a bit guilty.
 
Cerise shows up as you ponder on this.
 
"M'lady," Connor says, tipping his trilby.
 
Cerise grabs it off his head and chucks it like a frisbie.
 
"Next time I see you in one of those," she says, "I'm dumping gasoline over your head and lighting it on fire."
 
She glances across the room, into the kitchen area. "Alabaster," she says. "What are you doing?"
 
You shrug. "Nothing. Just-- cleaning up in here. It's a mess."
 
Cerise smiles warmly.
 
"Okay," she says, drawing her attention to the rest of the assembled club members. "Fezzes on. Fazil will lead us with some Turkish drilling."
 
You smile to yourself as you clean. Even if it's pointless, it's honest work.
 
END OF EPISODE 9.2.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, nakadashi knight and savior of anime club. Your efforts continue to encourage cross-cultural understanding and diversity.

"Say ahhhh."

Vivian opens her mouth. Ms. Carte presses her tongue down with a wooden depressor.

"Ahhhh," Vivian says.

Ms. Carte peers deep into Vivian's throat, using a flashlight and craning her neck to see from different angles.

"Other than a little bit of internal bruising, it seems all right," Ms. Carte announces. "Did you choke on something recently?"

Vivian shakes her head, blushing.

Technically, she's telling the truth: she didn't choke.

Ms. Carte pulls away, allowing Vivian to close her mouth. She clicks off her flashlight and puts a hand on her hip.

She gives Vivian an appraising once-over. "Well, all your vitals are top-notch. Reflexes, pulse, blood pressure -- sight, hearing -- even your old tonsillitis seems better. In most respects, you're in perfect health."

Sitting beside Ms. Carte on the living room couch, Cerise grumbles: "except being addicted to Alabaster's cum."

Ms. Carte leans forward, taking a stoppered vial full of Vivian's blood from a test tube rack on the coffee table.

When she went back to her apartment on Sunday, she apparently had the foresight to grab some of her old supplies.

She holds the vial up to her eyes and tips it to the side, watching the crimson fluid stain the glass walls of the tube. She thinks aloud. "Physical weakness, pale complexion, exhaustion, loss of equilibrium, night terrors... you may be suffering from physical withdrawl, as from nicotine or heroin or any other addictive substance... or you may be suffering from something more severe, like anemia. The bloodwork should give us some hints."

"When will you know?" Vivian asks.

"Tomorrow at the earliest. I need to collect a few other samples, too."

Vivian nods. She stares at the ground, purses her lips, and worries the hem of her dress. She alternates between standing flat on her soles and balancing on the sides of her feet.

[X] It's late. Why don't you stay for dinner?
[ ] I'll see you out.

"I appreciate the offer, but I fear I cannot stay," Vivian says. "Thank you regardless.'

"Good lord," Cerise says, letting her head fall back against the couch's headrest. "You talk like you're from 1856. No wonder you're so obsessed with a dork like Alabaster."

Vivian begins to say something, but Cerise interrupts her. She stands up, continuing: "what's the rush, anyway? You can't be in a hurry to go home to your dad. And we can use the help tonight. Mom's making pork chops."

You shudder. Mom's pork chops are more like hockey pucks, slathered in tepid mushroom soup. Now that you think of it, Vivian's probably better off with Darkbloom.

"Well. If none of you mind," she says. "I suppose I could stay for just a little while. And-- if it's all right with your mother, too--"

"Oh, sure!" comes Mom's angry voice from the kitchen. "Didn't you see the sign outside? Soliloquy Diner, free meals to all skanks 12 and under!"

How did she hear this conversation from all the way on the other side of the house? Sometimes her sense of hearing is uncanny.

Vivian withers at the insults.

"I think she's starting to like you," you tell her.

Vivian doesn't say anything, but it's clear Mom's style of affection confuses her.

This time, dinner goes smoothly.

While the rest of you pick and poke at the inedible concoction sitting putridly upon your plates, Vivian clears hers in just minutes and goes back for seconds.

"Thish food is tremendoush," Vivian says through a full mouth. "Abshoultely delicioush. It'sh leagush better than what I get at home."

She swallows hard and chases it with a gulp of icy lemonade.

"Hmph," Mom pouts. "I'm so glad you like all this food you're stealing from me. You should come over to mooch off of me more often."

She says this even as she piles more food onto Vivian's plate.

You, Ms. Carte, and Cerise glance warily back and forth amongst one another.

Maybe Vivian really is a robot. Only someone with no sense of taste could enjoy this food-as-torture.

At least it takes Mom's attention off of you. She always bitches when you guys don't finish your food, threatening to withhold dessert. With Vivian here to praise her subpar entree skills, she doesn't even notice as Cerise stealthily gathers up three plates full of untouched dinner and scoops them into the trash. The whole time, Mom keeps her eyes peeled strictly on Vivian. She watches Vivian eat, chin resting on interlaced fingers.

After dinner, Mom and Cerise retire to bed.

Alone in the dining room with you and Ms. Carte, Vivian is quiet for several long moments before finally saying, almost inaudibly: "thank you for having me."

"Yeah," is your lame reply. You don't know what to say.

"By the way," Ms. Carte says, pushing her chair away from the table and standing. "Who's doing your maintenance nowadays?"

"My father."

"Hm. Well, that's a testament to the quality of my handiwork, then. If a knucklehead like David can do it..."

Vivian stands up as well. She starts toward the foyer, but Ms. Carte stops her.

"Vivian," she says.

Vivian doesn't reply but silently waits for Ms. Carte to speak.

"It's nice to have dinner like this, isn't it? It's been so long." Ms. Carte thinks for a moment, scratching the back of her head. "I guess what I'm saying is, I'm sorry for not trusting you before."

Vivian shrugs. Another silence settles over the room.

"We used to watch movies," Vivian says finally. "Do you remember?-- Whenever you came over to eat with us. Before the accident."

"We could do that again," Ms. Carte says. "Hell, I've got nothing better going on..."

"All right," you say, knowing well enough to sense when you're a third wheel. "I guess I'll go to bed, too. See you guys tomorr--"

"That sounds nice," Vivian murmurs. "Alabaster, would you like to join us?"

You stand there awkwardly, glancing between her and Ms. Carte. Looks like you've been suckered into a family movie night. A real one, this time.

Ms. Carte flips through the cable channels until settling on an action movie of some kind. It's got robots and time travel and it doesn't seem very age-appropriate -- although who are you to talk about age-appropriate when it comes to Vivian?

Despite being invited, you still have the sense of being a third wheel. Vivian and Ms. Carte's history runs deeper than you expected: they seem to have a number of injokes.

"Oh, great aim," Ms. Carte says, feigning sincerity, during a scene where nameless mooks shoot at the hero and miss. "Look at that aim."

"Oh yeah, great aim," Vivian agrees. She bobs her head up and down like a puffin.

"Oh yeah," Ms. Carte says, joining in with the head bobbing. "Oh yeah. Great aim."

The "oh yeahs" and "great aims" continue back and forth like this. It becomes clear that this is some kind of old bit between the two of them, and whatever's funny about it is only funny if you know the history behind it. From your perspective, it's just annoying.

Vivian and Ms. Carte are smiling, though.

It isn't very many scenes later when Vivian, sitting by herself on the recliner, drifts to sleep. Her face is still and placid in the light of the TV screen. You grab a quilt from the linen closet and cover her.

"Do you think it's okay for her to stay here?" you ask, sitting down beside Ms. Carte again. "I don't want some kind of death squad descending on my house. But that's just me."

"David can probably guess that she's here," Ms. Carte says. "If he hasn't come looking for her by now, he won't. After all, he wants you to be with her -- right?"

You shrug.

You and Ms. Carte try to watch the end of the movie, but you feel like you're losing focus. It was never that interesting to you, anyway -- the special effects leave a lot to be desired.

But when you try to excuse yourself for bed, Ms. Carte stops you by quickly swinging her legs over your lap, facing you. She grabs your cheeks and kisses you, and you mingle tongues for several long, luxurious moments before pulling away.

"It's been a few days," Ms. Carte says. Her voice is suddenly low and silken. "You haven't lost interest in me now that you've got younger girls to play with, have you?"

You kiss her again. Hopefully that should be answer enough. You're not good with expressing your emotions verbally.

"You know," Ms. Carte says. "I do need a sample of your -- erm, what does Vivian call it? Your essence..."

She grins devilishly and nuzzles you. Reaching down, she tugs at your zipper.

For someone who was so timid when at the start, she knows how to take the initiative now.

You push her hand away. "But... Vivian," you whisper. "Vivian's right there."

"Oh, forget it," Ms. Carte says, replacing her hand on your zipper. "I can't wait... and she sleeps like a kitten. Besides, weren't YOU the one who bruised her throat like that? Don't lie to me, now."

You give her a surprised look. In the semi-darkness of the living room, her eyes glint back at you. "Just lie back and think about science," she advises.

[ ] I don't think this is a good idea.
[X] NO BRAKES

There's a thing Ms. Carte does during foreplay: she runs her flattened palms up and down your chest while squirming in your lap and giving you the most lascivious eskimo kisses in human history. You suppose it's your fault, this last element of the equation -- you're the one who addicted her to them -- but whenever she pulls this move on you, you can't resist.

You lift your butt from the couch and tug your jeans down. Ms. Carte sheds her clothes as well, piece by piece, tossing them carelessly across the coffee table. First come her coat and blouse, then her bra -- revealing her smooth tummy and perfectly round tits. You gaze at her little pink nipples that you never get tired of sucking and biting. Her breasts are the perfect size and weight to toy with -- tender and bouncy in your groping hands, and with real heft to them. Ms. Carte has single0handedly drawn you away from being a militant DFC-only partisan.

You push your face against Ms. Carte's chest and swirl your tongue around her areolae -- first one and then the other. Mischievously, you're careful to deny her the pleasure of your wet tongue against the nipples themselves: instead you just puff some hot breaths against them, making them stiff and engorged in only moments.

Ms. Carte's neck muscles strain with frustration. She lets out a whine, a bit louder than is probably prudent.

"Don't tease me..." she begs.

You tease her anyway.

As she pulls off her pants, your hand snakes down to her quickly moistening underwear. The garment rubs against your stiffening cock as she writhes in your embrace. You let your fingers play across the cotton and feet the wet, pooling stain of her lust as it spreads. In the screen's dim light, you can see your dick glisten with your commingled fluids, and you haven't even begun yet.

"Fuck me," she says simply. "I need you inside me."

You grin. "I thought you wanted a sample of my semen for research? It won't do much good inside of you."

"That can wait for tomorrow," she groans. "I need your cum inside me tonight, it's been too long... and doesn't it feel better squirting it inside my womb instead of some test tube?..."

Ms. Carte gives a little gasp, and you think it must be half from hearing the lewd things coming out of her own mouth. Your cock surges with desire and, grunting, you tear her sodden panties from her waist. You toss the shredded article away, and it lands with a soft plop at the foot of the recliner where Vivian sleeps.

"Oh!" Ms. Carte cries at your sudden forcefulness. You twist her around in your lap to take her from behind.

"Yes," she purrs. "Put it in... put it in..."

You tease her just a little more, sliding your dick between her slick, healthy thighs a few times. The feeling of her dripping labia rubbing against the dickhead is toe-curlingly delicious -- and soon you feel the same burning fuck-lust she does. Your temples throb and your jaw clenches. You need to bury your cock to the hilt inside of her, right now. You need to feel her cunt around you.

You hold her around the waist and guide her slowly up. In the gap that forms between her ass and your thighs, you can see your cock in silhouette, huge and angry compared to Ms. Carte's mature -- but unbelievably tight -- pussy. The lips cling to your cock and refuse to let go, despite the ample lubrication.

Ms. Carte's knees are hooked over your lap, bowed out, and every time you fuck yourself into her, her legs bounce limply. Even though she's on top, you completely control the flow of the action. She's just along for the ride. You raise her up with both hands and then slam her back down, roughly, again and again. The wet sound of your flesh slapping together echoes through the quiet house. So do Ms. Carte's satisfied moans and whinnies.

Soon, you catch motion in your peripheral vision and glance to your side.

Vivian has thrown off her quilt. Sitting on the recliner, naked, she uses one hand to hold Ms. Carte's soiled panties to her face, huffing deeply. The other hand masturbates furiously, pinching and rubbing an erect little clitoris at the top of her bare slit.

Ms. Carte hasn't noticed yet: her head is bowed down and her eyes are tightly shut. You stare at Vivian, smiling evilly, as you fuck Ms. Carte deeper than ever

Vivian, locking eyes with you, responds by rubbing her little cunny even faster. The sound of her inhalations is almost as loud as the obscene mating between you and Ms. Carte.

Suddenly, Vivian throws the panties aside and falls to her knees. You watch her with perverted interest as she crawls on all fours, like a bitch in heat, to the foot of the couch.

Her nose is practically touching Ms. Carte's steaming cunt before she opens her eyes and notices.

"V-vivian," she stammers. She tries to pull off of you, embarrassed, but you hold her firmly about the waist and won't let her escape.

"Oh God, Vivian... what are you doing..." Ms. Carte mutters. She draws her hand to her mouth and bites her knuckles, powerless to put brakes on this.

Vivian starts lapping at the two of you where you're mated, like a kitten at a bowl of milk, drinking down your juices. Her tiny throat bulges as each gulp makes its transit to her waiting stomach. Her face smeared with slop and sweat, Vivian is drinking down your precum and Ms. Carte's cream like ambrosia.

Vivian's lapping becomes a wanton sucking as she covers Ms. Carte's pussy with her entire mouth. You can feel Ms. Carte orgasming around you, over and over, her insides becoming searingly hot and milking your cock.

"We s-s-shouldn't be d-doing thissss... ungf..." Ms. Carte tries to protest. But even as she says this, she stares with unbridled lust at Vivian's cute little face -- that cute face with its lips currently curled into a whorish suckling shape.

"We have to stop-- you're t-too young..."

"Oh, but you love it, don't you?" you breathe into her ear. "Come on, her mouth feels really good, doesn't it? Let her make you cum."

"It-- ah-- ahh-- FUCK!" Ms. Carte shrieks. "I'M CUMMING! OH FUCK!"

That was enough to wake up the neighborhood. And enough to make you cum, too. You pump Ms. Carte's pussy full of the jizz she wanted so much. The excess sprays out from around your throbbing dick and splatters against Vivian's face.

Vivian stares intently up at Ms. Carte as she suckles, licks, and inhales the fruits of your lovemaking. She might have the body of a little girl, but she has the mind of a depraved slut. She wipes the cum from her face and, moving her hand down, rubs it sensually into her puss. She quickly brings herself off to a cute, shivering orgasm of her own.

Ms. Carte watches this, her mouth rounded into a wide O as she cums a final time -- and then she collapses against you, exhausted from the sheer debauchery of it all.

The last thing you see as you doze off is Vivian squirming around on the living room floor, still masturbating. She takes Ms. Carte's ruined panties from the ground and huffs them again, rolling around like a sow in mud as she rubs the cum and cunt juices all over her pale, frail, naked body.

You wake in the gray gloom of the predawn hours. With effort, you rouse Ms. Carte and Vivian -- both heavy sleepers, especially after cumming so much -- just long enough to get them decent before anyone else in the house can see them.

Although, let's be honest: there's no way the rest of the family didn't hear what was happening last night.

Ms. Carte and Vivian both fall straight back to sleep, curling up with one another on the sofa.

Since you're awake, you decide to visit Whitney at the track field, where she should be doing her early morning exercises.

[ ] Invite Vivian.
[X] Let her sleep.

You walk to school alone, feeling pensive.

Vivian isn't so bad, really. And she seems to get along well enough with the other people in your life these days.

...

Would you be so bold as to kidnap David Darkbloom's daughter at the same time as you're fleeing from his wrath?

There's a lot of variables to consider. Vivian is nice, but is she worth risking the lives of the rest of your loved ones?

For some reason, you feel like you should discuss this with Whitney -- she's not book smart, but she has a wisdom all her own. Yet when you arrive at the track, she isn't around.

A momentary jolt of panic courses through your veins, but you don't allow it to get the better of your reason. If she's not at the track, she might be elsewhere on campus. You check in the auto garage first.

Sure enough, she's there. She's working on a different rustbucket this time, a Chevy pickup circa 1980-something. Her head is under the hood as you approach.

"Hey," you say.

"Huh?--" THUD "--OW!" She wheels on you, rubbing the back of her head where she smacked it. She stomps a foot indignantly. "God fucking dammit, Ally, how many times do I have to tell you? You don't startle someone when they're underneath a hood!"

"Uh huh. Shouldn't you be on the track right now?"

Whitney grabs her wrench from the engine block where she dropped it. She pulls the socket off and goes fishing through the toolbox beside her for another.

"I dunno," is all she'll say. "Didn't feel like it."

This kind of behavior isn't like Whitney at all. She seems sullen. And as long as you've known her -- in all those years, she hasn't once broken her exercise regimen.

[X] Push her on it.
[ ] Ignore it.

"Come on, you never skip your exercise," you say.

"How would you know? You never come along, do you?"

She leans under the hood and sets to work again.

You circle around the truck, countering with: "I know you well enough to tell when something is up. So what is it? Did you flunk another test?"

"Please. What's the point of exercising if you're going to drag me to Malau in a week?"

"Palau," you correct her.

"What the fuck ever. Who even lives in Palau? I googled it on Wikipedia the other day. You know what it said? It said the population is, like, 20,000."

This is your normal sort of banter, but today it seems to have an edge to it.

"A small population is kind of the point," you say. "And besides, if you looked it up online then you know it's beautiful there."

Whitney doesn't respond. For a few more minutes she works in silence. But then, pulling away from the car and washing her hands in the grimy tub-like shop sink, she admits: "it does look like a nice place."

"You don't have to go," you offer. "Really."

Whitney slugs lightly you in the chest with her still-dripping fist.

"Don't be an idiot," she says. "Like I'd let you get away from me."

She twirls around and hoists herself up onto the black benchtop against the wall, sitting down on the glossy surface. Her well-toned legs dangle over the edge and she kicks her sneakered feet lazily back and forth.

Her hand grips the edge of the table, so hard the knuckles turn white.

"Really," you say. "Why the change in schedule today?"

"That's the truth," Whitney says. "I'm going to Shalau, so it's not like I can play soccer anymore. And... to tell you the truth, I haven't cared about soccer for a while..."

You give her a worried look.

"Oh, don't start," Whitney says.

"Start what?"

"Things change. That's all. I'm getting more into shopwork now... and even your stupid cartoons interest me more than soccer does... is that so wrong?"

"I don't get you," you say. "A couple weeks ago you were so into soccer that you were blackmailing me into joining the team. Now jut because you're moving, it's doom and gloom. It's not the end of the world, just a change of scenery--"

"It's more than that," Whitney says. "It's... there's something inside of me that just doesn't want to play anymore."

Whitney hops down from the benchtop and starts putting away her tools. For the rest of the school day, you ruminate on those words. You feel a knot in your stomach, small, but growing.

That day in TCAC, you spend the entire meeting scrubbing the classroom's kitchen area, and actually get this little project of yours finished. Something about worry tends to motivate you far beyond your usual limits.

Now the club has a nice, cozy area to watch anime in. You even manage to snag a couple disused sofas from the nearby journalism clubroom -- you know they never get used, and no one will miss them.

When the cleaning and reorganization is over, the rest of the club is long gone. You stand before Cerise in the empty class, your bucket full of cleaning supplies in hand as she surveys your work.

After she tours the sparkling kitchen, she makes rather a show of scanning you with her eyes, circling around you several times as you stand in place, feeling oddly humiliated.

"What did you do with my little brother?" she asks. "Did Vivian replace you with a pod-person when you were fucking her last night?"

You groan. "I didn't fuck Vivian--"

"Whatever, Bill." She holds up a hand to silence you. "No matter what you call it, whatever you did to her made her stink like a French whorehouse. In my book, that counts as sex."

You shrug. Somehow, you don't feel like banter today. Cerise shifts her weight to one foot, folds her arms, and frowns.

"You're no fun today," she pouts.

[ ] Maybe another family movie night back home would cheer me up.
[X] We can test the new viewing area. I have a 'special' new OVA on my thumb drive...

Cerise reels back slightly, and you can almost hear the sound of her pulse quicken.

"You're not saying what I think you're saying," she breathes.

"It's a pretty raunchy one... Do you like traps?"

"I LOVE-- I mean--" Cerise glances nervously around. "Here? We're on school grounds. You're talking about projecting porn onto the wall of a classroom--"

"What are they gonna do," you ask, "expel us? We're leaving town in a few days anyway."

Cerise's brow trembles as thinks this over. Her face is flushed and she chews her lower lip.

When she creeps over to the door, you can see her whole body shaking with trepidation and anticipation. She pokes her head into the hallway, glances both ways, and steps back inside. She locks the door.

"Aw, come on, that's no fun," you say. "Leave it unlocked."

"You're crazy."

Even still, she reaches up and unclicks the locking mechanism.

Cerise keys up the dirty movie and connects it to the projector. She settles down beside you on one of the sofas, front and center in the viewing area.

Both of you have watched porn, but never on a cinema-sized screen, and never in surround sound.

"Do you think someone in the hall could hear this?" Cerise asks, unbuttoning her jeans.

"Probably," you say, pulling down your boxers.

You sink into the well-worn couch seat, enjoying the sensation of the rough fabric against your flesh. Doing lewd things at school will never cease to excite you -- but doing them with your own sister is a whole new level.

You weren't kidding about the OVA, either. The question of what the average student would think if they came in right now to find two siblings masturbating to animated images of traps getting their boypussies ravaged lingers in your mind. And it makes you incredibly horny.

On screen, a tender-looking thing is impaled between two enormous dicks -- one in his ass and one in his mouth -- and he sits suspended between them as slimy ropes of cum spray everywhere.

"Ohhh, that's so cute..." Cerise mutters to herself. "So hot..."

Cerise has all four fingers of her right hand buried almost to the second knuckle in her cunt. Her thumb plays across her clit. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," she repeats. Her shapely hips rotate and grind against the couch cushion. Like before, your eyes are drawn away from the depravity on-screen to stare at her.

Unlike before, she turns to stare at you, too.

"Do you like watching me?" Cerise asks. She spreads her legs further apart to give you a better view.

"Yes," you moan.

"I like watching you, too," she says. Her eyes are fixed on your red, swollen cock.

"Fuck-!!" she cries, hunching over suddenly, an orgasm tearing through her. This removes her last vestige of shame. She flings her shirt off and sits upright again, completely naked.

She stands up. "Come on," she says, and grabs you by the hand. All you can do is follow her.

First, she turns up the volume on the hentai movie, making it so loud that it causes your ears to ring, and ensuring that anyone passing by can hear it.

On her way to the front of the room, she picks up your underwear as well as hers.

Then she sits down on the teacher's desk -- a spot plainly visible from the hall through the window in the door.

She puts the musky crotch of your boxers in her mouth and sucks on it, teasing her nipples.

...Even all of this seems a little risky to you, but you're hot enough that your cock wins out over logic.

"Sit here," Cerise says, her voice muffled through the fabric. She pats a spot on the desktop beside her. "Let me sit in your lap..."

You do as asked. You sit down on the desk, and Cerise climbs into your lap, straddling you. You guess what's coming before it happens: she shoves the crotch of her panties into your mouth. What a wholesome bonding exercise this turned out to be.

Cerise's panties taste tart, but not unpleasant: oddly sweet, a sweetness that sticks to the back of your throat. As you swirl your tongue around in the cotton fabric, you want more and more of it. You savor it just as she savors yours. Together, you watch the projector screen from across the room.

Cerise rubs her cunt with a flattened palm, stopping every few seconds to give the mound a sharp and sexy little slap. You think about the fact that the garment in your mouth was against that cunt, and almost faint from excitement. Her womanly scent infects your synapses and shorts them out, making you dizzy.

Your dick is between Cerise's crotch, and only her masturbating hand separates it from her drooling labia. With her in your lap, you can't reach yourself to relieve the mounting need boiling inside you. Sucking the cummy fabric of her panties deeper into your mouth, so it touches the very back of your tongue and almost gags you, you nuzzle her neck impatiently. You hope this will send her the right message: you need some attention, too.

Cerise pulls her hand away and quickly squeezes her thighs together, trapping your cock in between them. She humps up and down, rubbing you against the entrance to her pussy without letting you inside.

The two of you grunt and heave like animals as you taste each other's sex and use each other to masturbate. You hold Cerise by her slender shoulders, guiding her motions. Cerise brings her hand back down to grip you around the base of your member, rubbing the cockhead directly against her clit.

Cerise's other arm loops around your neck, and she draws herself as close to you as she can, her back against your chest. Leering up at you through half-lidded eyes, she looks indescribably lewd with your boxers shoved inside her mouth. She draws you into a kiss -- a kind of indirect kiss, because your tongues have to poke and prod at one another through two layers of cotton, but a kiss nonetheless.

The underwear between you becomes wet with your collective drool. It runs freely down your chins. Your own rank, sweaty odor mingles with hers in the space between your mouths and floats through your nostrils, driving you over the edge. As your dick rubs against her hot pussy and her hand inexpertly but lovingly tries to coax the cum from you, this feels like the next best thing to actually mating with her.

"Mff-- mff~" she moans.

You bask in her little muffled sounds of pleasure and the spasms of her pussy. But then you hear the unmistakable sound of someones shoes squeaking on the tile floor out in the hall -- whose, you have no idea.

Cerise's eyes bulge open, but neither of you can stop -- you're both too close. In those few seconds of fear, you feel a tingling sensation all over and start squirting your hot cum all over your older sister's cunt. You don't care who sees or what the consequences are. Let the whole world see. You WANT the whole world to see you cumming all over your sister.

Cerise shrieks with pleasure and panic, her cheeks puffing out as she mashes her lips to yours. The footsteps recede, and whether they saw you or not, you have no idea.

Cerise throws her head back, the boxers falling from her mouth, and she repeats a familiar mantra as she cums herself stupid: "fuckfuckfuckfuck--" she draws in a sharp breath and shouts loud enough for the world to hear: "I'm cumming, Alabaster, I'm cumming! I'm cumming on you!!!"

And she does. She cums so hard that she becomes a quivering lump, and melts out of your lap to the floor, shivering, covered in pearls of sweat. Your own orgasm subsiding, you come to your senses and quickly shut off the movie, ushering Cerise into a part of the classroom not visible from the hall.

"That was..." Cerise heaves, out of breath. "...amazing."

You walk back home with Cerise. You carry with you the plastic enclosure that houses Smatters, the Transhumanism Club's pet rabbit.

"I can't believe you're taking that thing to Palau," Cerise says. "It really flies?"

You hold the kennel up in front of your eyes and tap against the wall. But Smatters is sound asleep, and like its owner, isn't easy to disturb. "Oh it flies, all right," you say. "Like a furry little predator drone."

"How on Earth did Rose and the Student Reichsleiter give the okay for a club like that exist? It's insane."

"Ms. Carte says that when she went to the council with her proposal, they approved it as soon as she said 'transhumanism.' I guess they thought it meant something else."

Cerise kicks a pebble along the grimy sidewalk. Staring at it instead of you, she says, "I guess I should be thankful to Ms. Carte for helping us, huh? I mean, she's getting us away from Darkbloom, and it's because of her we've got Spancer--"

She turns to indicate Spancer, walking a couple paces behind the two of you. He nods placidly in acknowledgement.

"--But I sort of feel like she ruined our lives. Is that unfair? And-- she's so intimate with you, too. The way she lies on the couch with her legs in your lap, the way she gives you shoulder massages--"

"Don't pout, now. You're free to massage me anytime."

"Ugh. Please. That isn't the point. The last thing I want is to fondle your fucking bacne."

"I haven't had bacne in like six months. Besides, it's not any worse than the laundry hamper of horrors you keep in our bathroom. But do I complain about how gross YOU are?--"

"All the fucking time."

"Well, it's the principle of the matter..."

Banter is one thing, and it always comes easy with Cerise. But you're not sure how to respond to the underlying issue. Cerise is jealous, but you like seeing Ms. Carte and you don't intend to stop anytime soon.

Thankfully, she changes the subject on her own.

"I feel a bit gypped to think how Ms. Carte gets to run a crazypants club like hers, and I couldn't even keep anime club around."

"We kept it around in spirit, right?"

"Mm. Do you know that when Rose called me to say she was disbanding us, the first replacement she suggested before a cultural appreciation club was a tabletop gaming club?"

"What, you mean like Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, God. That would be awful."

You both take a moment to reflect on how close you came to such indignities. Cerise focuses on her little game of kicking the pebble. In the overbearing afternoon sun, her pale face is sheened with sweat. For as much as she mocks your otaku tendencies, she gets out even less than you do.

"Anyway..." she murmurs, keeping her head down. "I wanted to say thanks. You know, for cleaning up the clubroom. It's nice that they'll have a better place to hang out in when we're gone."

She glances over at you, her face suddenly reddening a bit. "God, the heat must be going to my brain. I'm rambling."

[ ] (tsun) It's no more annoying than you usually are.
[X] (dere) I like it. Today was fun.


Cerise's face turns a spectacular shade of crimson. "What, just because you got your rocks off?" she says, trying to adopt a sarcastic tone.

"Partly. --Didn't you get your rocks off, too?"

Cerise simmers and looks away.

"That's not the only reason, though," you say. "Before a couple weeks ago, we hadn't really hung out in years. What happened to that?"

"You became a jerk, that's what."

"And you became a bitch."

Cerise leans her head against your shoulders as you stroll down the quiet suburban streets in your housing development. Neither of you are in much of a hurry.

"Don't think just because you did something nice for me, and just because you tricked me with some cute crossdressing boys, that I'm not still mad at you."

Even though she says this, her voice has an unusual tenderness in it.

"When are you ever not mad at me?" you ask. "I'd be worried if you weren't."

"Hmph."

You continue the rest of the way in silence.

You sleep in your own bed for the first time in several nights.

Tonight's session with Ms. Carte was disappointing. She jerked you off into a vial while whispering dirty things in your ear: no penetration of any sort. Sure, it felt good, but not nearly as good as pouring it directly inside her. There's something about cumming directly in a panting woman's womb that you'll never get tired of.

Well -- greater good, etc. Hopefully the sample she took will give you guys some answers.

As you sleep, you find yourself plagued by bizarre dreams of Rose. She collars you and parades you around town on a leash. Besides the humiliating collar, you wear nothing but a thin negligee, pink silk with frilly hems, that barely comes down to your crotch.

She shows you off to hundreds of anonymous townspeople, some of whom you fear may do more than leer at you. Rose doesn't seem to care; in fact she encourages it. Then she parades you in front of Whitney, Ms. Carte, Mom, Vivian, and finally Cerise, each in turn. They all laugh at your predicament. Cerise, in particular, takes perverted joy in the erection poking up through the sundress, your precum darkly staining the whorish pink garment.

The worst part is that, in the dream, you LIKE this treatment. You even thank Rose for doing it.

In the morning, you take a long shower that still doesn't make you feel clean. Or even make your erection subside.

At school, Whitney isn't in the lunchroom for breakfast. You figure she must be goofing off in the auto shop again, but she isn't there, either. Nor is she on the track or soccer fields.

Growing worried, you skip out on homeroom to spy on Whitney's homeroom instead.

This visit confirms your fears. She's absent today.

You try to call her cellphone, but yesterday was her service end date, and she must not have purchased additional minutes.

You massage your temples and try not to the adrenaline overwhelm your reason.

There are plenty of logical explanations for why she isn't at school today that don't involve Darkbloom chaining her up in a torture dungeon.

...Right?

First thing's first. How will you investigate?

[ ] Cautiously.
[ ] Passionately.
[X] Tie Vote

You dial Whitney's home phone. It rings and rings without answer. After two minutes, you're just about to give up and have Spancer take you to Whitney's place in person -- but finally her drunken failure of a father picks up.

"Whazzat?" he grumbles. You can tell he just woke up.

"Mr. Price," you say, swallowing your revulsion toward him. "Is Whitney home?"

"Who?"

"Whitney. Your daughter."

"Pfft," he says. "How the fuck'a should I know?"

"Please check," you say, wishing you could punch him through the line.

"Please wait warmly," he says, feigning civility. You hear him setting the phone down and then, a few seconds later, his muffled voice crying out: "Whitney! Ey!" --you hear what must be Mr. Price banging against his daughter's door-- "you in there? Some fuckin boy wants to talk'a to ya!"

There's a long pause. You tap your foot, burning with anxiety and frustration.

After an agonizing delay, he picks the phone up again.

"Says she's sick," he tells you curtly. "Been pukin' her guts up all morning. Quote-unquote. You got yourself a message for'er?"

You hang up, your blood turning to ice.

You try to attend classes as if everything is normal. But it's no use.

Whitney... she really couldn't be-- could she?

You've been paying for her birth control. She's supposed to be taking pills to prevent this kind of thing.

Did she forget? Did she do it on purpose?

Is what you suspect even true?

At lunch, Vivian corners you in the hallway, practically begging to suck you off. It's a testament to how worried you are that you decline the offer.

"But..." Vivian says, clearly dejected. "I spent all night practicing. I estimate my technique has improved 17% since the last--"

"Some other time, okay?"

Vivian shakes her head sadly. "You vacillate so much. I don't understand you, Alabaster Soliloquy."

"Of course you don't," you snap. The words come tumbling out of your mouth without conscious effort. "You're just a little girl. And you're not as smart as you think you are. Now please, get out of the way."

You shove her aside. She stumbles back from the force of it and doesn't make any attempt to stop you as you briskly walk away.

In the school parking lot, you have Spancer hijack a black Harvey-Davidson motorcycle. He pulls a mess of wires from engine block and hotwires it easily. Following orders, he speeds you to Whitney's trailer park at 70 MPH, weaving in and out of traffic.

Surprisingly, Whitney is outside -- behind her ramshackle corrugated tin trailer -- when you arrive.

Her backyard is a tiny parcel of patchy brown grass on hard, dusty red soil, surrounded by a chain link fence. One of many such yards connected to one of many such trailers. The park is drowned in the incessant cacophony of barking dogs, screaming children, and rumbling engines -- it's redneck central in this part of town.

Whitney has an axe in her hand. She's chopping tiny logs of wood on an old tree stump.

You know from experience that she does this whenever she has nervous energy she can't get rid of.

You link your fingers through the diamond-patterned mesh and rattle the fence to grab her attention. She looks up.

"Hey," you say. "I thought you were sick."

"I feel a little better now," Whitney says. She hefts the axe up and brings it down again, cleaving the current log in two. She replaces it with another.

"Besides," she continues, drawing the axe up once more, "once your little phone call let dad know I was home for the day, he started bugging me to cook and clean and shit."

"--Even though you're sick?"

She chops the log before her. This time she brings it down so hard that the axe gets stuck in the stump. She has to brace one foot against it as she tugs at the axhandle with both hands. When she pries it free, she goes tottering backward, and almost falls over.

"Should you really be doing that?" you ask, concerned.

"Why not?"

"I mean... because--"

[X] (be direct) Whitney, are you pregnant?
[ ] (be indirect) You shouldn't exert yourself if you're ill.

"How the hell could I be pregnant?" Whitney asks.

You push your forehead against the fence and sigh. "Well, you see, when a man and a woman love each other very much..."

"Don't be an ass. I'm on the pill, remember? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course," you say -- although honestly, you're not sure. You try a more tactful approach, though. One that gives her an out if she wants to come clean. "Sometimes the pill can fail, right?"

"I'm not preggers, Ally. God. I ate some seriously old hotdogs for dinner and spent all night puking up my insides. That's it. Stop being paranoid."

She resumes her amateur lumberjacking, the steady thunk of her chopping replacing conversation.

You breathe a tremendous sigh of relief. Whitney has a bad poker face, and with her weakened state -- the food sickness has left her pallid and baggy-eyed -- you trust that she's telling the truth.

"Does that make you happy?"

"Huh?" you ask.

"Does it make you happy? That I'm not pregnant?"

"Why not? We can't be parents."

"That was true before. Is it true now?" She tosses the axe aside and approaches the chain link fence. She pokes her fingers through to hold your hands through the mesh. Standing on her tiptoes, she looks you in the eye.

"We're going to some island paradise to hide for the rest of our lives, right?" she asks. "No responsibility to anyone but ourselves. Would it be so bad if I was pregnant?"

You dither. "We still have futures ahead of us, even in Palau. It's something we'd have to think about--"

"Why think? Thinking is all you ever do. I'm sick of it. You think too fucking much, Alabaster. "

Whitney never calls you by your full name.

"You're my future," Whitney says. "Aren't I your future too?"

"Yes."

You say it with conviction, but Whitney frowns. She steps back from the fence, releasing you. Turning, she takes the axe goes back to work.

Somehow, you feel like you said something wrong, but you can't pin down exactly what.

After dinner, Ms. Carte explains the significance of the test results.

"Sort of like anemia, then," you summarize. "Only it gets worse over time and the pheromone reverses it."

Ms. Carte nods.

"Is... anyone I've been with at risk?"

"Blood samples from me didn't show signs of weakening. Good counts on red cells, white and T-cells, iron, magnesium... everything Vivian is deficient in. It's her augmentations that make her require the X-11. But..."

You frown. Buts are never good.

"Darkbloom's notes confirm what I suspected. You're addictive."

"Joy."

"So that's the plan," she says. "Produce your special blend on an industrial scale, get the world addicted, and then make them need it."

You rub your eyelids and shake your head slowly, taking all the information in. It's a lot to digest.

Ms. Carte cocks her head and looks at you quizzically. "Is something the matter?"

"Other than the fact that my cum is going to cause Armageddon?"

"Yes."

"Seems like everything I do is a mistake. Whitney, Cerise, Vivian-- I always say the exact wrong thing." You don't know why you're revealing this to her, but it seems as good a time as any.

Ms. Carte sets Damon's file to the side and slides closer to you on the living room couch. She puts a reassuring hand on your knee. "Things are a little hectic right now. Just ride it out. I'm sure that they'll come around if you don't press things."

You look from her delicate hand resting on your leg up to her face. She smiles back. Drawing her closer, you peck her on the lips, but stop yourself short: "does that X-11 stuff work both ways? Sometimes I feel like I'm addicted, too."

Ms. Carte giggles. "Hmm. Maybe. Do you want to get a fix together, my fellow junkie?"

As you kiss her more deeply, you get the odd sense that the two of you are not the only ones in the room.

Never breaking the kiss, you push Ms. Carte partly supine as you tug at her blouse. She kicks off her socks and unzips her pants, trying to disrobe as quickly as possible.

Your lips trace a path from her mouth down to her chin and neck, and further down still, to her naked chest. She arches her back then falls flat underneath you, letting out a a high-pitched, adoring whine.

"Don't make me wait," she says. "Just fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me..."

"Are you two going to do this every night?" comes Mom's voice from the entryway.

You and Ms. Carte freeze in place, still locked in an embrace. Mom flips the wall switch, turning on the overhead light. Blinking from the sudden illumination, you and Ms. Carte squint at her.

"Err-- hi Mrs. Soliloquy. D-did we wake you?"

"Tonight, and last night, and the night before."

She steps past the threshold and approaches the couch where you're still hunched over Ms. Carte's body. You can feel Ms. Carte's embarrassment from the increase of her body heat. You pull away and sit against couch's back. Ms. Carte gropes around on the carpet to grab her clothes and cover herself.

"Honestly," Mom says. "What do you see in this slut? She's just some drunken old maid..."

"Who the hell are you calling old, grandma?" Ms.Carte yells. She swings her legs over the edge of the couch and sits forward. She clutches her pants against her tits to cover them -- but doesn't seem to realize that her pussy is on full display.

"And just look at that chest," Mom says. "Pitiful. Did you stop growing when you were 14?"

"Only a cow like you would think these things are small!" Ms. Carte tosses the garmet aside and stands. Her tits jiggle as she does, and she's right: calling those delicious round knockers "small" is hard to fathom.

Mom glances from Ms. Carte to you. Only now do you realize that your erection is evident even through your denim jeans.

"And on top of everything else-- she leaves you in need like that--"

"I WAS taking care of him, before you so RUDELY interrupted me-- hey, what are you doing?"

Mom kneels down before you, despite Ms. Carte's protests. She peels her shirt off of each shoulder in turn, tugging it down so that it bunches up around her tummy. Her enormous breasts come free. As it turns out, she wasn't wearing a bra.

"Mom--"

"Shh. Don't worry about that awful woman. I'm going to take care of you now."

You watch quietly -- as does Ms. Carte -- while Mom pulls a bottle of baby lotion from her pocket. She flips the cap open and pours a generous amount on both her tits, using her free hand to rub it in. They shine under the light like something laminated.

With a thumb and forefinger, Mom unzips your pants. She fishes a hand into the fly, and suddenly you feel her warm fingers wrap around your aching dick. She pulls it free.

"Oh, look at it throb... how dare she leave you so frustrated... she has no idea how to treat you right, does she?"

Ms. Carte sits next to you. Her eyes are fixed on the lascivious scene below, but there's still a trace of anger in her voice when she says: "come on, Alabaster... I thought we were going to fuck. You're going to settle for this instead?"

You glance at her and shrug. What are you supposed to do?

Mom slathers a helping of oil on your cock. She must have warmed the bottle beforehand because it comes flowing out at a delightful temperature. The thick rivulets of fragrant liquid run down your cock and make you grunt with pleasure.

"Shh, baby, shh," she coos. She rubs you up and down with both hands, working your shaft like a vase on a pottery wheel, applying just the right amount of pressure.

"Just let Mama rub your cock milk out..."

She lets go of you and pushes her tits together. They're so large that her hands sink into the flesh and you can no longer see them, only the indentation their pressure leaves behind.

Smiling up at you, she leans forward and pushes your oil-slick cock into the equally oil-slick crevice of her cleavage. It's hot and perfectly smooth, better than the best cocksleeve you've ever used. You can't help bucking your hips against her.

"Do you like Mama's titjob, baby? Do you like fucking my tits?"

Ms. Carte clasps your chin in her hand and draws your face toward hers. She kisses you, trying a seductive approach: "come on, that's boring, isn't it? Don't you want to fuck my pussy instead? I'm so hot for you..." She spreads her legs and sensually rubs her soft, wet mound.

"Don't listen to that tramp. Just sit there and cum to your heart's content. I'll do all the work..."

You lean back and shut your eyes. The underside of Mom's breasts presses against your balls every time she pushes down or you involuntarily hump up. The result is a lewd and arhythmic slapping sound that adds to the thrills of pleasure coursing through your horny dick.

"Ugh," Ms. Carte groans. She slinks to her knees beside Mom. "I can do that kind of thing just as well! Look!"

Without further warning, she shoves Mom aside. The sudden removal of pressure, softness, and warmth from your dick drives you to frustration. Your nuts are begging for release.

Ms. Carte scrambles across the floor on all fours to pick up the bottle of oil. She quickly pours some across her perky breasts and, balling her hands up into fists, presses them together in imitation of Mom's technique. As Mom clambers back to her knees, Ms. Carte mounts you.

"See?" Ms. Carte says, smiling up at you and fucking your cock gusto. "My titjob is even better, isn't it?"

"Unf," is all you can say.

"Nyah," Ms. Carte gloats, sticking her tongue out at Mom.

"Bitch!" Mom hollers, and body checks poor Ms. Carte. She falls to the side and Mom takes up her position again.

"You like Mama's tits better, don't you? Some stupid girl like that doesn't know how to do it properly..."

"Oh, you cunt!--" Ms. Carte says, sitting up again.

Even in your fuck-crazed state, you sense this is going to turn ugly if you don't intervene.

"I need to try both of you," you say. "I can't judge if you keep going back and forth like that..."

Ms. Carte mashes her oiled tits together again. "Me first, then," she says. "She's the one who interrupted."

"No way! I'll be the one to make him cum first--"

"Together," you moan impatiently, your voice low and gravelly. "Do it together."

They look at each other warily, but as you put your palms against each of their backs and beckon them toward one another, they don't resist.

Mom even swivels around to give Ms. Carte room. They sit at either side of your lap, their voluptuous breasts pushed together, nipple-to-nipple. The way the light glints off of them is tantalizing, like ripe fruit.

At first, they grit their teeth and stare at one another like sparring lionesses, but as you push your cock through their tit-meat, they become fixated instead on your slowly invading shaft. Their eyes lose focus as they both stare lovingly at your fucking cock. Both women squeeze their tits tightly together with both their hands to make the fit as snug as possible.

A new, more deviant synapse fires off in your mind. You grab for the bottle of baby oil and open it. You upturn it and let it pour out with steady glug-glugs into the crevice of their breasts. The added lubrication floods into every cranny and seeps through, across the undersides of their tits and all over your nuts. The warmth, heat, and wetness are divine.

But you're not done yet. A large amount of oil remains in the bottle, and you want to use it all.

You pour the remainder out, first over Ms. Carte's head, and then over Mom's. The translucent fluid runs in little streamers down their wanton faces, and neither of them mind the degradation. In fact their rounding mouths seem to indicate they enjoy it. Their hair becomes slick and shiny, their faces blurred and puffy-looking. Their jaws hang open as the wetness creeps down their necks, their backs, and their chests.

You fuck them with increased pace now, getting ready to shower them with cum. Your thighs slap so hard against them that you're sure it will leave bruises on their tender tit-flesh. Instead of shying away from the abuse, they just push together even closer, making the fit even tighter. You run your hands all over their slimy faces and bodies, the oily sensation making them feel like human onaholes.

"I'm going to cum," you say.

"Cum for Mama... pour it all out..."

"No! Cum for teacher... you want to cum for me, right? Shoot your cum, just for me...'

"Ugh! Fuck!" you moan. "I'm cumming for both of you! Stop fighting! You're both the best!"

You seat your cock so the head just barely pokes out from their cleavage, and let yourself blow. The spurting cum looks like a white geyser, emptying into a transparent ocean of oil. 

In the shower afterwards, you earlier vision of being pressed between the two women as they soap each other down comes true.

"Be honest, now. I was the best, wasn't I? N-not that I care, of course, I just can't let a skank like that beat me..."

"Please. Tell your mother that nothing can compare to the purity of love between a student and his mentor. Besides, mine are perkier..."

Letting your hands roam free, across their round, plump asses and well-formed thighs, you alternate between kissing both of them.

"I was telling the truth..." you say in between kisses. "You're both the best."

You're not sure whose hands are working you over or whose tongues are mingling with whose after a while, but together they bring you off to another grunting orgasm in the shower before you finally go to bed that night.

That Thursday, Ms. Carte gets a definite date from her contact in Palau: on Sunday, the weather should be good enough to charter a plane.

That means you have to go to the Quiz Bowl competition on Saturday. And potentially to David Darkbloom's house.

"What do you think about taking Vivian?" you ask over dinner that evening -- a dinner Whitney is also present for.

"Great idea," Whitney says, chewing down a mouthful of food. "She's super cute and totally into you. The more the merrier!"

"I thought the point of this was to get AWAY from people named Darkbloom..." Cerise says.

"Well, she kind of needs me to live," you point out. "I don't want to kill her."

Ms. Carte wipes her mouth with her napkin and sets it aside. She clears her throat and says, "I agree. Vivian is a good girl. She doesn't deserve any of this. But we have to ask ourselves if it's worth the risk... and in any case, I have to believe that David would find a way to keep her alive if you disappear. He's kept her alive through worse."

"But he had you to help," Mom offers.

"This is fucked," Cerise says, pushing her plate away in frustration.

"Language," Mom chides.

"So the choice is between saving ourselves or letting a little girl die?" Cerise asks, ignoring the admonition. "There has to be another way."

>What say you, Alabaster?

[X] No other way. You will go to David's house on Saturday and steal Vivian away from him.
[ ] You'll send for Vivian after we get to Palau and things settle down. She can survive that long.

Quiz Bowl on Saturday is another 22,000-0 drubbing. The team captain for the other school, a mousy-looking girl, threatens suicide as she exits stage left at the end of the match. Mr. Langley tells you and the rest of the team not to worry; that girl has a history of attention-seeking behavior.

To be honest, you weren't that worried anyway.

Today's match happens to be on home turf, and Rose is in the audience. Only the tiniest hint of a smile serves as evidence that she enjoys seeing you dominate the opposing school.

Also in attendance: David Darkbloom himself. It's the first match he's come to watch personally.

Mom, Cerise, and Whitney sit in the back, far behind Darkbloom, and they watch him at least as much as they watch you up on stage. Spancer is with them.

The entire atmosphere in this little auditorium is unbearably tense.

When you step down from the stage, you head for the back of the auditorium first, to confer with your loved ones.

"Are you sure about this?" Mom asks. "You don't have to go. You could say you're feeling sick."

"I'll be fine," you insist.

"You better be fine," Cerise grumbles.

"Yeah," Whitney adds. "If you die, I'll kill you!"

"Just make sure your things are packed and ready to go," you say. "We may have to be quick about getting out of town..."

"Alabaster!" booms David's voice as he approaches. You turn, and he throws his arms wide. "Watching you and Vivian up on stage is so impressive."

Vivian, at his side, is stony-faced. You also notice Rose off to the side, a few rows away, watching this little gathering.

"Mrs. Soliloquy," Darkbloom says, playing cordial. "I hope you don't mind if I steal your son for the afternoon. I promise to return him in one piece!"

Mom can't help herself: she growls.

"I'll take that as a yes," Darkbloom says, smiling. "Are you ready to go, Alabaster?"

[ ] Do you mind if my friend Spancer tags along?
[X] (leave Spancer to protect the harem) Let's go.

Darkbloom leads you and Vivian to a black limousine and orders the chauffeur to drive you to the business district.

As you step inside, Mom, Cerise, and Whitney wave you off. They try to look chipper, but it's obvious that they're worried.

Rose watches you leave as well.

"How are you feeling today?" Darkbloom asks once the car is on the road. He sits across from you in the limo's plush red-velvet interior, a hand on his daughter's knee. "Relishing the thrill of victory? Savoring the taste of success?"

"Mm," you say.

Darkbloom nods as if you just said something sage. "Now, then -- Alabaster, I just want to thank you again for all you've done to help Vivian. She's really coming out of her shell."

He pats her knee. It's not very fatherlike.

In the business district, Darkbloom ushers you out of the limo. You stand outside a skyscraper, the oldest in town, an art-deco throwback.

"I own this building," Darkbloom says.

"You have offices here?"

"No, I own the entire building. Every floor. $200 million -- what a steal." He nudges you with his elbow. "We'll ride up to the roof and take a helicopter back to my home in Palo Alto. This way, please..."

He steps up to the pane-glass door and pulls on a large gilded handle, motioning for you to enter.

Stepping out, Vivian hurries around the back of the limo to walk beside you. She whispers: "Maintain your calm... please don't try anything foolhardy tonight."

Darkbloom takes you through the cavernous, granite-tiled lobby and then on a minutes-long elevator ride.

On the roof, a helicopter waits. Darkbloom hands you and Vivian some ear protection when you get inside.

The pilot flicks some switches and the blades begin to rotate.

"You're well acquainted with Vivian," Darkbloom shouts over the roar of the rotors. "But maybe you'll like my other daughters too."

You give Darkbloom a wan smile.

"That's the spirit, Alabaster. I've got so much to show you!"

--

"Would you please pass me the butter?"

"Dalton!" David Darkbloom claps his hands, beckoning his manservant to the oak dining table.

Dalton, perfect image of butlerdom, clad in white gloves and a tuxedo with long tails, steps forward. He stands at attention before his master.

"Please give Alabaster the butter platter," Darkbloom tells him.

"Mmyes sir."

He takes the lidded dish and walks across the room with the pomp and precision of a soldier marching in a parade. He sets it down in front of you and then returns to his vigilant post alongside the far wall, hands behind his back.

Darkbloom's dining room is a long, tall, vaulted hall that feels positively medeival in decor and ambiance. A blond-and-crimson carpet accents an enormous oil painting of Darkbloom on the wall opposite the heavy double-doors.

You sit between the billionaire and his daughter -- Darkbloom at one end and Vivian at the other. Vivian is quiet as death, and picks sullenly at her food.

"Are you excited about attending the national competition?" Darkbloom asks you.

"Oh yeah. Totally."

Usually you're a better liar, but the current situation creeps you out, and Darkbloom has a domineering energy that makes it hard to even attempt outmaneuvering him. He watches you, resting a chin on the backs of his palms.

More and more you feel a mounting sense that coming here was a mistake.

"I'm glad Vivian found a friend like you, Alabaster. I admit I was skeptical when she first took a liking to you -- you're not from money, you're a product of the public school system... I hope you'll forgive me for my prejudices."

"Uh, no offense taken."

"Good. And I do hope you enjoy her fellatio, as well."

You choke on your coq au vin.

"Oh? Did I say something upsetting? Hopefully her technique has improved. I've been buying her cucumbers to practice on."

Vivian turns red as a beet. "Father, this is hardly appropriate table-talk--"

Darkbloom laughs. "You two are cute when you're flustered. Young love, hmm... don't be bashful, Alabaster. I know Vivian is a real firebrand when she wants to be. If a girl like her came after me, I wouldn't be able to resist either."

[ ] (play it cocksure) Vivian definitely knows how to please a man. I don't mind helping teach her.
[X] (play it demure) Your daughter is a nice girl. I hope you approve of me.
[ ] (play it inscrutable - say nothing)

Darkbloom is quiet for several long moments. He frowns and appears contemplative. You can feel the sweat pearling on your brow.

"Why don't you tell me how you really feel," he says, his voice flat.

"That-- that IS--"

Darkbloom pushes his plate away and snaps a thumb and forefinger, beckoning his manservnt forward again. "I believe we're quite done with tonight's meal, Dalton. Please see that the mess is taken care of."

"Mmyes sir."

Dalton begins to gather the plates and platters from the table, but Darkbloom stops him. "I should have been clearer. Get Maribelle to take care of those," he says. "I need you to help retrieve number 27 from isolation."

"Mmyes sir."

Dalton turns on his heels, throws the double doors of the dining room open with a flourish, and exits. The tails of his dinner jacket flap behind him.

You have no clue what to make of any of this.

"Did you enjoy the food, Alabaster? This dinner was in your honor, after all."

"It was fine. Err, more than fine, actually -- send my regards to the chef." You wince at your own painfully phony etiquette.

Darkbloom stands, making a cordial sweeping gesture with his arm. "Now that this stuffy formality is out of the way, we can get down to business. Now, I need to go help Dalton for a moment, but..."

He glances at Vivian. "Perhaps," he continues, "Vivian would like to show you some entertainment in her bedroom before we move on to the main event. I'm sure you two are itching for some alone time. I will call you down when the preparations are complete."

Vivian closes her eyes, looking mortified.

[ ] This is your chance. Go with Vivian to her room.
[ ] Accompany Darkbloom on his preparations.
[X] Tie Vote


"Thank you, Mr. Darkbloom," you say.

"Please-- call me David. Over time, I hope you come to think of me as a father. Vivian will show you to her room -- see you soon, Alabaster."

You help Vivian stand as Darkbloom makes his exit, but some impulse compels you to call out to him.

"What is it?" Darkbloom asks, standing at the threshold of the dining room.

"I appreciate the time with Vivian... but if it's all the same to you, I'd like to see your work personally. I'm interested in your research. Always have been."

Darkbloom pokes his chin up, apprising you. He seems pleased.

"I told you on the way over here that there is much to show you. I suppose we can start sooner rather than later, if you like. But please, enjoy Vivian's body while I help Dalton. You may view the rest of the preparations a bit later."

What you don't say, of course, is that you intend to be long gone, with Vivian in tow, by the time he comes back to get you.

Darkbloom walks briskly away, his shoes clacking on the marbled tile of the mansion's grand lobby.

"Is there a place we can speak in private?" you whisper in Vivian's ear.

"Mm." She leads you by the hand through the labyrinthine home.

It's now or never.

Vivian's bedroom is like a crypt. At first, you don't even recognize that she took you to her bedroom at all -- the deep black carpet, the black wallpaper, the bizarre cruciform decorations and bloody artwork on the walls -- when you step inside, you think this must be some kind of guest-room-as-macabre-conversation-piece.

Vivian takes the gothic loli thing seriously, it seems.

"Are we alone?" you ask.

"Yes."

Wasting no more words, you grab her by the shoulders -- roughly. She's so small and light that she's like a ragdoll in your hands. You draw her into a passionate kiss, your lips pressing into hers with a hungry insistence.

"So you did want to use me now," Vivian says when as you pull away -- a bittersweet note in that.

"Not now. We don't have time."

Vivian stares at you blankly.

"I'm leaving the country," you tell her. "First thing in the morning. And I'm never coming back. Come with me."

You explain about Palau. Vivian doesn't say anything. She just turns and sits down on her four-post bed as you speak. The frame is so tall that she has to do a little hop to sit on it. The mattress is so downy that even her small body sinks into it.

"Please," you say. "Don't stay with that crazy person."

"I told you not to do anything foolhardy. This is the precise sort of thing I was warning you about."

"Vivian--"

"I cannot accompany you. Many apologies. I wish you, your family, and your lovers all the best. Goodbye, my love."

"Christ. Stop talking like some heroine in a bodice ripper. This is our chance. This is YOUUR chance. We can go where he'll never find us."

"He'll find us."

"No, he won't. And if he does... we'll stop him. We'll put a stop to whatever he has planned."

"You think you can stop my father?"

"I know we can."

"You know nothing, Alabaster Soliloquy."

"God fucking dammit, you little loli twerp. Do not make me kidnap you. I swear to god I will carry you out of here in a burlap sack if I have to."

"Alabaster."

"I will bonk you over the head and drag you by your feet to the airport--"

"Alabaster."

You stop ranting.

"Do you honestly believe he doesn't anticipate this? He's waiting for you to try and take me. You would be playing right into his trap."

"We can still get away-- we just have to be careful-- you could come to the airport tomorrow--"

"Stop. Just stop." She seems on the verge of tears. "I have been living the past three years on borrowed time. Do you see? I'm just a dead girl anyway. Don't risk your life for me."

You sit beside her. You hug her tight, drawing the side of her face against your chest, and lie down with her. But no amount of pleading, begging, cajoling, or ranting will convince her to attempt escape with you.

"You're an idiot," you tell her, petting her hair.

"You have a pulse," she says, her ear against your ribs, apropos of nothing.

"What?"

She draws up against your torso and tugs lightly at your fingers, drawing your palm flat against her own board-flat chest. She grips you around the wrist by both hands, holding you in place.

She has no pulse.

"Do you understand?" she asks.

You shake your head and can't think of anything to say.

She looks into your eyes, forcing a smile on her forlorn face. "Have fun in Palau," she tells you.

A few moments later, there's a light knock against the door. "Are you ready?" Darkbloom asks from the other side.

Vivian nods reassuringly.

Vowing to yourself that you'll rescue her, you extract yourself from her embrace and go to face the music.

Darkbloom leads you down a long hallway at the end of which sits an elevator. He pulls up the diamond-mesh metal barrier and beckons you inside.

"Did you enjoy your time with Vivian?" he asks, stepping in.

"Uh-huh."

"Wonderful. Just wonderful." He gives you a meaningful look. "I'm glad you're here."

The elevator travels down. You close your eyes and let the sensation of weightlessness overtake you. It feels like a descent into hell.

When you step out, you find yourself in a clean, sterile-looking laboratory. Bright fluorescents illuminate perfect white walls, glass equipment, and -- at the far end of the room -- a rounded portal that looks to be made of heavy steel.

"We do the blood work in this room," Darkbloom tells you. "Your friend Rene Carte used to work here. I'm sure she's fed you a great deal of lies and misinformation about my company does."

"Um--"

"Never mind. This way, please."

You follow him through the portal and into a white tile hallway. This underground facility encompasses a great deal of acreage, if the number of doors is any indication.

Dalton is waiting for you here, now clad in a sharp-looking lab coat and khaki dockers.

Beside him is a little girl who looks exactly like Vivian -- only blonde and chipper.

"This is Viv-tan," Darkbloom says. "Number 27. Viv-tan!"

"Fathah!~" Viv-tan cries, hugging him around the waist. She nuzzles his hipbone, staring up at him with dewy blue eyes. "I missed you! Let's play!"

Darkbloom smiles warmly and ruffles her hair. "Please be patient, dear. I have business."

"Aww~" She pulls back and pretends to pout, folding her arms.

"This is the first in what I hope to be a long line of cybernetic companions," Darkbloom says. "The Viv-tan you see here is modeled on my daughter, naturally--"

"She doesn't seem like Vivian at all," you can't help saying.

"The current Vivian? Heavens, no. Viv-tan is modeled on the way Vivian used to be, before she decided she would be difficult and depressed all the time."

"With your help," Darkbloom says, "maybe the real Vivian will begin to shape up, too."

Right now, the Viv-tan preoccupied with trying to drag Dalton off. "C'mon," she says, "let's play hide and seek!" Dalton is impassive.

"You say you're interested in my research. Well, there's a problem with the Viv-tan -- with all cybernetic companions, honestly -- that I need your help to solve."

You look from the Viv-tan to him.

"Without your special pheromone," Darkbloom says, "these poor things malfunction quite easily. Watch."

He taps the Viv-tan on her -- its? -- shoulder. The Viv-tan turns, smiling toothily. "Let's play! Let's play!"

"All right," Darkbloom replies. "Let's play the adding game."

"Ooh! I love the adding game!"

"Hmm. Find first Mersenne prime higher than 2 to the power of 12 billion, minus 1."

"Oooh, that's a toughie~" the Viv-tan puts a finger to its lips and stares off into space, thinking. You watch, uneasy.

"This-- is a hard quessstion--- a harrrd--- q-u-e-ssss-- vvvvvvvvvvvv"

"Viv-tan...?" you say reflexively. "Are you--"

"vvvvvvvvv"

The Viv-tan hums and shakes like a paint-mixing machine, its whole body vibrating.

You reach out to grab ahold of her, but too late. The Viv-tan falls to its back, flapping wildly like a fish out of water. Electricity arcs from its eyes, nose, and ears. Dark smoke rises from its body. You detect the odor of burning plastic.

Then abruptly, it goes still. The electrical arcing halts, the smoke putters out.

Dead.

The Viv-tan's eyes lose their shimmer, and now you can see that all along they were just glass beads, two little monitors set inside a fake skull. The Viv-tan's face is partially melted, revealing a metal frame underneath.

Darkbloom sighs. "Dalton, please dispose of that. And get me another Viv-tan from isolation, please."

"Mmyes sir."

"You see," he says to you. "And that one went without X-11 for just three days."

As Dalton drags the charred carcass away by its ankles, you feel close to puking.

You stare at Darkbloom with wild eyes, unable to speak. Some moments later, Dalton returns with an identical-looking Viv-tan. Number 28, you suppose.

"Cybernetic companions come in a variety of different styles," Darkbloom explains. "That's the key. We use modular personality units -- MPUs -- to modify behavior."

Dalton, taking his cue, opens some kind of tiny portal behind the new Viv-tan's ear, just a few millimeters in diameter. He inserts a tiny cathode into the opening.

"The 'dandere' module," Darkbloom says. "More similar to the Vivian you know. Viv-tan!"

"Greetings, father. What do you require of me today?"

Dalton removes the MPU and inserts another.

"The 'tsundere' module," Darkbloom says. "Viv-tan!"

"W-what is it, y-y-you dummy? It's not like I like having you for a father, you know! Don't get any weird ideas!"

Dalton removes the MPU and inserts another.

"The 'yandere' module," Darkbloom says. "Viv-tan!"

"Who is that boy?" Viv-tan asks, pointing at you. "Why are you hanging out with strange people like that? Even after I told you not to! I bet he wants to steal you away from me! I... I won't let him! You'll be mine forever, father! Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and--"

Dalton removes the MPU and inserts another.

"Stop," you say. "Oh my God."

"Do you see the potential now? Will you help me, Alabaster? With your help-- we can prevent the cybernetic companions from experiencing the type of suffering you just saw. And on top of that, we can change the world."

"I--"

"Before you answer," he says, "let me show you one final thing. Once you see it, I'm sure you'll be on board. And if you're not -- you have my solemn word that you can go. I'll even still give you the million dollars I promised."

"What is it?" you ask, setting your jaw.

"Oh, but that would ruin the surprise. Well-- here's a teaser. It has to do with your sister."

[ ] I've seen quite enough.
[X] All right.

Darkbloom sends Dalton away with Viv-tan #28 and takes you further down the hallway.

Behind one of the portals is a tasteful little room -- like an atelier or a small loft, sparsely furnished and not at all lab-like.

Sitting on a hassock in the center of the room, legs folded, is Cerise.

Your stomach drops.

"Cerise!" you cry, rushing over to her. "What are you--"

"Alabaster," she says, cocking her head. "It's so nice to see you. Let's play!"

"What did you do to Cerise?" you growl, spinning on your heels.

"That's not Cerise. That's Cer-tan."

He steps past you and brushes his palm lovingly against the android's face. "The very first model. She has the standard Viv-tan MPU right now, so she isn't very like the Cerise you know...'

"I missed you, Alabaster," Cer-tan says. "Can we go get some ice cream?"

"This is sick," you say. "You're sick."

"I just want to help you. I want to help everyone. Think of how difficult Cerise is. Think of how many times she's spurned you, shunned you. Imagine if you could make her instantly docile! Imagine if you could turn her off whenever she annoyed you!"

"That's not..."

"This is only the start. Think of it!" Darkbloom booms. "A Whitney in every garage, a Mrs. Soliloquy in every kitchen, a Rose in every basement. A Cerise in every bedroom! Why keep them to yourself, Alabaster? You can share them with the world! All you have to do... is just -- say yes."

You set your jaw and grimace. "I love Cerise the way she is," you say firmly.

"I understand. I love Vivian the same way. I can make an MPU that exactly mirrors Cerise's personality -- with your help. The only difference between your Cer-tan and the flesh-and-blood Cerise is that the first one will be better, more resillient -- changeable! I can make MPUs based on your entire harem. But I need your help in this endeavor, Alabaster."

"What happens to the originals if I say yes?"

Darkbloom circles the Cer-tan and strokes its cheeks from behind, staring at you. Cer-tan sits there docilely.

"Alabaster, don't let your shortsightedness ruin mankind's greatest technological advancement. There's more to think about here than just yourself."

"I'm not thinking about myself."

"Cerise will be Cerise, no matter what her form is. Let her be the best that she can be. Stop holding your sister and your other loved ones back because of petty sentimentality. Say yes."

[ ] Yes.
[X] No.

"Never," you say. "I will never sell you the people I love."

Darkbloom's smile crumples.

"I'm so disappointed in you, Alabaster. You could have been like a son to me."

"Seeing how you treat your daughter, it looks like I dodged a bullet."

"You have no idea how much that hurts me. But I suppose it's my own fault. I misjudged you."

Darkbloom opens the panel behind the Cer-tan's ear and pulls out its MPU. It powers down, appearing to fall asleep.

"I will destroy this model, if you wish," Darkbloom says. "This is the only one of her type."

"Do it. But not in front of me."

"I hope one day you'll come around, Alabaster. I will always be here for you if you do. -- Shall I have my pilot take you home now?"

You do a double take. "You're letting me go? Just like that?"

"I said I would, didn't I? I'm a man of my word. Unlike some people."

Dalton comes into the room and leads you away. He brings you up the elevator, out of the Darkbloom mansion, and to the private helipad at the foot of the rolling green hills behind the opulent residence.

But as Darkbloom's personal pilot takes you home, something doesn't feel right.

The helicopter touches down in your quiet cul-de-sac, hovering a few inches above the asphalt. The air whipped up by its rotors makes the brown autumn leaves spin in a giant vortex. Your neighbors gather outside and watch, transfixed, as you step out of the chopper.

Mom, Cerise, and Whitney rush outside and smother you with a group hug. The helicopter lifts off and putters away, leaving you to your reunion.

"You're alive!" Whitney yelps. "Being alive is the best!"

"You idiot! You idiot!" Mom cries, eyes full of tears. "Making me worry--!!"

"What took you so long?" Cerise demands, over and over. --But you were only gone for about five hours.

Inside, Ms. Carte is equally overcome with relief -- but after a tearful passel of kisses, she's the first to realize that you're missing something. "Where's Vivian?"

You explain everything that happened. They listen, growing increasingly somber.

"Egomoniacal fuckwit," Cerise summarizes. "Ugh, my skin is crawling just thinking about it... sharing me with a million fat otakus..."

"What will happen to Vivian?" Whitney asks. "You know, once we're gone."

An uneasy silence settles over the room.

"Darkbloom will keep her safe," Ms. Carte avers. "Physically, at least. He's a sick twist, but he does love her. In his own way."

"Let's all try to get some sleep," Mom says. "Tomorrow is a big day."

Whitney spends the night at your place, her bags packed and ready to go.

She doesn't intend to tell her father where she's headed.

She and Ms. Carte spend the evening slobbering all over your cock and riding it to dozens of howling orgasms, but now is not the time to go into detail.

This will have to work as your double-date, you suppose. Whitney approves of Ms. Carte now, at least.

In the morning, you and Ms. Carte decide to go to the airfield first, before the rest of the family. She has personal knowledge of Darkbloom's operation and will be the best judge of whether the escape plan has been compromised by his agents. Mom will drive the rest of them there to meet with you when the plane arrives.

Spancer takes you and Ms. Carte on the stolen Harley-Davidson. The airfield is a small, sandy affair. There's only a single terminal at one end, but it has a steady stream of foot traffic. Ms. Carte sits between you and Spancer, wearing sunglasses and a scarf, scoping the terminal out for potential threats.

"I wish this stupid plane would hurry," you say.

"You and me both," Ms. Carte says. "He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago."

"When we get to Palau... what happens then?"

Ms. Carte shrugs. "We spend our days drinking rum out of coconut shells, fucking like animals on the beach, and singing kumbaya at the campfire."

"Will you miss your old life?"

"Yeah right. My old life was living in fear 24/7. No thank you. I'm... just sorry you had to get caught up in this."

You sigh. "What about your science? I doubt Palau has many research facilities."

"Gustav actually has a very nice lab of his own I can work out of. He's already trying to rope me into his research projects. But to be honest... I sort of want to leave that stuff behind."

First Whitney with soccer, and now Ms. Carte with science -- weird.

"What the...?" Ms. Carte says.

You look up to see Vivian standing in the doorway of the terminal, parasol in hand.

"Vivian?" you say, confused.

"Run."

The skylights of the terminal shatter as a tactical assault team, clad in black riot gear, drops down on ropes. The civilians in the terminal scatter in a hundred different vectors, shrieking madly, covering their faces against the shards of falling glass.

Spancer leaps to his feet. He pulls a sawn-off shotgun from out of his coat that you never knew he had. He fires at the descending strike team, blowing a few of them away in a shower of gore. But their numbers are great, and his ammo is limited.

Vivian whips her parasol like a cat-o-nine-tails, and in front of your astonished eyes, it transforms itself into some sort of extendable sword. She joins Spancer's side and uses her weapon like a sort of lasso to attack the strike team as they touch down on the ground.

Ms. Carte scrambles out of her chair. She falls to her hands and knees but quickly rights herself. She grabs a pistol from her waistband.

Is everyone packing heat but you, or what?

All you can do is sit there, stunned.

The attackers fire on Spancer with assault rifles, but their bullets do little more than glance off him, leaving sparks in their wake. The rounds leave nicks in his face and puncture some holes in his clothes, but he's unfazed by it. He steps forward, firing on them. In just a few moments, he runs out of shells.

He tosses his gun aside and switches to hand-to-hand. He grabs one of the strike team by the throat and crushes it. He punches a hole through another's chest.

Ms. Carte is firing wildly, but her little pea-shooter can't penetrate their protective vests.

"Run!" Vivian yells again, cutting a man in two. "Get out of here!"

You and Ms. Carte turn toward the exit. But Darkbloom is blocking your way.

[ ] Attack
[X] Escape

"Where are we going?" You ask. You have to shout to be heard over the whipping wind and roaring engine of the motorcycle.

"My orders for this contingency are to take you to a safehouse in the Nevada desert and wait for further orders from Carte's contact in Palau."

You massage your forehead. "This is intense. Get a grip, Alabaster..."

You ride for several silent moments before asking: "what was up with Vivian's parasol? How did it do that?"

"Her parasol is made from a mimetic poly-alloy. Liquid metal. It can transform itself into a variety of weapons."

"Then why doesn't she turn it into a bomb or a machine gun?"

"It doesn't work that way. It can't form complex machines. Guns and explosives have chemicals in them, moving parts. Vivian's parasol can only form solid metal shapes."

"Like what?"

"Knives, and stabbing weapons."

"Well, forget the safehouse. We have to go back home first. We need to keep the others safe, too."

"Negative. Darkbloom will definitely try to reacquire you there."

"You sure?"

Spancer glances back at you. "I would."

"Well, I don't care about the danger. We have to save them."

"Negative.

"I'm not going to Nevada, you lumbering fuckwit. I'm giving you new orders. Take me home."

Spancer doesn't reply, but a few moments later, he throttles the hog and turns in the opposite direction, heading back to town.

As you approach your home, you see black smoke pouring into the sky on the distance. When Spancer turns down your street, your worst suspicions are confirmed.

Your house is on fire.

An intense blaze consumes both levels, tongues of flame darting from the windows and the partially caved-in roof. The fire department is already there, blasting it with high-pressure hoses, but it's like spitting on hell.

As Spancer pulls to a stop, you get off the motorcycle in a panicked daze. Amongst the firefighters, you spy a familiar face: Fazil, all dressed up in reflective yellow heat-retardant gear, and helping to man one of the hoses.

You run over to him.

"Ala-bast-or!" He says. His face is smeared with black soot. "We put this shit out! Don't worry!"

"What are you--"

"I volunteer for fire department on weekends. We put this out, no worry. I promise!"

"Is there anyone inside? Oh god..."

"None we have seen. We send in men to look-- hey!"

Fazil and several of the other firefighters call out in surprise as Spancer dashes across the lawn and through the blazing front door. When one of the men tries to stop him, he tosses him aside like a paper doll.

The heat of the fire is almost unbearable even a dozen yards back. Through the melting window panes, you catch glimpses of Spancer's shadow moving around, searching.

Only a few moments later, Spancer leaps out of a second story window in what used to be your bedroom. A small fire burns upon his shoulder blade. He pats out with his hand. The firefighters stare at him, mouths agape.

"Your family is not inside. I believe Darkbloom must have them already."

When you speed off again with Spancer, you haggle with him and eventually convince him to attempt an extraction mission at Darkbloom's mansion. He refuses to take you along, however: he's going to go solo after leaving you at the safehouse.

Yet all of this planning quickly comes to naught.

As the motorcycle tears around a corner and onto a four-lane artery, you're blinded by the rushing headlights of an oncoming truck. Spancer tries to swerve, but his reflexes aren't quick enough. The bike shatters like glass underneath you. Spancer goes tumbling away along with the rest of the wreckage.

A hand reaches out of the truck's window just before impact and saves you from death by grabbing hold of you.

It's Darkbloom.

Holding you by the scruff of your collar just as he did with Ms. Carte, he steers the truck with one hand. But Spancer is holding onto the truck's tailpipe, holding on tenaciously as Darkbloom drags him down the road. Glancing at him in the rearview, Darkbloom sighs.

He stops the truck and drops you in the road like a sack of turnips. He steps out.

As you crawl away toward the sidewalk, Spancer approaches Darkbloom and attempts an attack. Darkbloom easily deflects it, grabbing Spancer by the throat and tossing him backwards. Spancer lands against the curb, his head making a loud thunk.

Darkbloom grabs a stop sign by the pole and rips it whole from the sidewalk. A cone of crumbly cement remains attached to the bottom. He twirls the pole through his fingers like a marching baton.

Spancer charges a second time. Darkbloom steps to and wields the sign like a giant bat. He hits Spancer in the face. Spancer, reeling, falls flat. For good measure, Darkbloom gives him two more hard whacks with the broad steel octagon of the sign. The thin sheet metal makes a wobbly, woozy swishing noise as he slices it through the air.

The metallic whump of the sign bashing Spancer's face in sounds fatal. Spancer convulses on the hot sidewalk, and finally goes still.

Grinning evilly, Darkbloom throws the stop sign aside. It lands with a clang in the middle of the street. He turns to face you.

"What... what are you?" you breathe.

"God."

You swallow hard. "You're not God. You're just a crazy person who thinks he's God."

"Call me what you like. But you cannot stop me. The essence of world diegesis flows through me. I am a walking monomyth."

"Where is my family?"

"Burning your house down was only a warning. The only one I will give you. Your choice is to ascend to my level or die in ignominy. Make the right fucking choice, Alabaster Soliloquy."

A limousine pulls up beside you. Dalton hops out and circles around the back, opening the rear door. Darkbloom motions for you get inside.

[ ] Get in
[ ] Refu--

Oh, who are you kidding. You don't have a choice in the matter. You get in.

Darkbloom gets in, too. Dalton closes the door and jogs back around the car, getting into the driver's seat. He pulls away.

You watch Spancer's prone form as it recedes into the distance.

Darkbloom sits right beside you, a hand on your knee. You've never felt more alone in your life.

Darkbloom drops you off at his towering skyscraper downtown.

Dalton leads you, in manacles, down to the buildings sub-basement. This level houses a sort of makeshift prison. As you pass a series of heavy metal doors, you can see your loved ones through the plexiglass portholes, each one in an individual padded cell.

Whitney lies on a cot, tossing a rubber ball against the ceiling and catching it as it bounces back. Mom lies with her face buried in her pillow and appears to be weeping. Dad reads his newspaper.

Only Cerise notices you as you pass. She dashes to the porthole in her cell and peers out at you. Her mouths form words, but you can't hear them.

Dalton deposits you in a cell at the end of the line.

"Master will be back in the morning. He will take you and the others to his home after further preparations. Please wait warmly."

"I'm going to kill him."

"Duly noted, sir. Please wait warmly."

He swings the door shut and leaves you to your thoughts.

You spend what could be hours or what could be only just minutes stewing with inchoate rage that matures and blossoms like fire inside your chest with every passing moment.

You pace the length of your cell back and forth, full of righteous energy that you can't dissipate. Every once in a while, you peer out of your tiny porthole, but every time it's the same: you can't see shit, just the grey wall opposite your cell.

This is the end of the line.

You lie on the uncomfortable cot and try to sleep, but sleep won't come. You toss and turn, trying to think, trying not to panic, trying not to despair.

This is the end of the line.

Was there something you could have done to prevent this? Was there a choice, somewhere along the way, that would have stopped this from happening?

This is the end of the line.

Vaguely, muffled and in the distance, you hear two quick pings. But you don't pay them any attention. You're probably going to be dead in a few hours. Or a slave. Or worse.

This is the end of the--

Your cell door swings open. You flip over on your cot and sit upright, scooting back against the wall far wall. Your jaw hangs open.

Standing at the threshold is Rose.

She has a gun in her hand.

"Come with me if you want to live," she says.

You step into the hallway with her. Glancing to the opposite end, you see Dalton lying in a bloody pool at the foot of a wooden stool.

"You... did you do that?" you ask, even though the answer is rather obvious.

"Of course."

You look again at Dalton's corpse. His head is a gory mess. The two shots Rose fired were bullseyes.

"Where did you get that thing?" you ask.

"My dad's gun safe. Duh."

"Your DAD owns guns?"

"Oh, yes. He doesn't just believe in the first amendment, you know." She turns the gun over in her hand, checking the chamber. "He's been taking me to the firing range every weekend since I was little. I never imagined I'd have to use those skills, though..."

"Jesus Christ. How the hell did you know I was here?"

"I've been following you since yesterday. No one who gets mixed up with a multi-billionaire is into anything good."

"And so... you decided to save me, then. But-- why?"

"It's obvious," Rose says. "You're mine. I'm not going to let some shitlord one-percenter like Darkbloom mindbreak you before I do."

[ ] Ruffle her hair and say thanks.
[ ] Say nothing.
[X] Custom: Kiss her deeply

You ruffle her hair. "Thanks," you say.

She swats your hand away. "Honestly. How infantilizing."

"No, really. You totally saved my ass." She frowns at you, so you continue egging her on. "Good pet. Goo-oo-d pet."

You stroke her hair again, smiling. And again she swats your hand away.

"Bad pet," she says. "Bad! You're forgetting who's the owner and who's the pet here! Just remember--"

You cut her off by grabbing her shoulders and kissing her deeply. She tenses up, and tries to resist, but quickly melts like putty in your hands. She opens her mouth to yours, mewling, and shares the kiss with you. She draws her knee up and sensually rubs her thigh against yours.

You could lose yourself in that embrace forever, but there are things to do.

"The others," you say, pulling back. "We need to get them out of here."

Rose pulls a keyring from her pocket and jingles it in front of you. "Way ahead of you. I lifted this off numbnuts back there when I shot him."

She walks down the line, opening the cells one by one.

After tearful reunions all around, the million dollar question is: how are you going to escape the building?

Rose has an answer for this, too. "There's a helicopter on the roof," she says. "All we have to do is take the elevator up."

"But can anyone here actually fly a helicopter?" Mom asks. "Dear, can you?"

Dad's silence indicates a 'no.'

"Oh, what rotten luck..." Mom pouts.

"Regardless..." you begin, demurring. "We're missing two people. We can't leave without them, anyway."

"Yeah!" Whitney chimes in. "We can't just abandon them. They both eat pussy way too good! Err-- and they're both cool, too, I guess."

"That nebbishy little buttbuddy of Darkbloom's said something about Ms. Carte being in the building," Cerise says. "After he got done manhandling me. Something about making sure she completes her research."

Rose rubs her chin. "We could check in the CCTV room. I left the asshole rent-a-cop there tied up so there shouldn't be any problems with security."

[ ] You guys wait here. I'm going alone.
[ ] You guys wait here. Rose and I are going alone.
[X] Let's go.

Rose puts her gun in the waistband of her skirt and covers it with her blouse. "Yes," she says. "Let's all try to maintain a calm demeanor, now... if we stick together, we should be fine."

You leave the sub-basement and take the elevator one level up, to the basement. You step out into a cold, dank-smelling concrete-and-tile security suite. The wall of the lobby has an enormous logo on it bearing the letters "DE" -- Darkbloom Enterprises -- which is illuminated by shaded amber mood lights.

You lead the head of your motley crew, and Rose brings up the rear, walking in reverse and ready to draw her gun at the first sign of trouble.

It's nice to have a girl like that on your side.

In the security room, an enormous bank of screens shows the activity on all 88 floors of the building, from multiple angles. There's probably more than a thousand screens here in all.

Lying tied up and gagged on the floor behind his swivel chair is a balding security guard, just like Rose said. He squeals in terror when you and the others walk in.

Rose kicks him in the stomach, eliciting an 'oof.'

"Shut the fuck up, you fascist pig," she says. He shuts up.

You scan the monitors, one by one. The others do the same.

"There she is!" Mom cries, pointing at a feed from the 66th floor. Ms. Carte is working on a Viv-tan. The Viv-tan's chest cavity is open and Ms. Carte is tinkering with its components. A riot of prostheses and other parts lies strewn all around the benchtop and floor before her.

Ms. Carte is chained to the ceiling by a metal hoop latched around her waist. She has a glum, defeated look on her face.

"And hey -- there's Vivian!" Whitney says, pointing to another monitor. This feed is from floor 86, the top level. Vivian is lying on a bed in what appears to be a spacious penthouse suite, also looking glum. The windows of the suite have bars on them.

[X] Let's get Ms. Carte first.
[ ] Let's get Vivian first. 

You step out of the elevator on floor 66 to find yourself in a cherry-paneled reception area. A security guard sitting at the crescent-shaped desk stands up.

"What the fu--" he says. Rose shoots him in the kneecap. He falls to the carpet with a thud.

As he howls in pain, Rose kneels over him. "The next one goes in your head if you don't start talking." She puts the gun against his temple. "Where's the woman your boss kidnapped?"

"T-through there!" he says. "Straight through the next set of doors after those, in the research lab!"

"Do you have the key to her restraints?"

"Take them!" he cries, pulling a keyring from his pocket. Rose snatches it up.

Turning to face you, and the shocked expressions of the rest of your little harem, Rose shrugs. "Comes natural, I guess," she explains.

You hurry through to the lab. As you enter, Ms. Carte looks up, shock playing across her features.

"Jesus," she says. "You're alive-- you're all alive..."

As Rose undoes the metal hoop around Ms. Carte's waist, you pull her away from her workbench and hug her tight. "Did he hurt you?" you ask, pulling back to look her up and down.

"Not much," Ms. Carte says. "He needs me healthy." Her eyes dart around for a moment, then: "Vivian's here, too. She's--"

"We know," you say. "Let's go get her."

You head for the elevator again, leaving behind the sniveling, injured guard to nurse his wound.

As you ride the elevator to the top floor, the ceiling begins to rattle. Plaster floats down around you like snowflakes. You hear a menacing whump from the other end, inside the elevator shaft.

Gazing up, you see the emergency exit hatch pop open.

Dalton's ruined, gore-spattered head pokes inside. His nose and one of his eyes is missing -- the left half of his face is concave -- electricity arcs from his neck and ears -- but he's still alive. God help you, he's alive.

Rose draws her gun and fires some hip shots, but Dalton withdraws back into the elevator shaft before she gets them off.

The elevator stops with a cheerful ding at your floor. You rush out with the other girls, Rose once more drawing up the rear. She holds her gun in front of her, aiming it at the open elevator, but the doors soon close and you can hear it slide away without incident.

"Go get Vivian," Rose calls over her shoulder. "I'll watch your six."

The only way is forward, to the opposite side of this small marble lobby. You hurry up a set of short, broad stairs that surmount a pair of heavy double doors.

Locked, of course.

"Vivian!" you call, pounding with balled fists. "We're here!"

You and the girls act in unison, pressing your shoulders against the doors and ramming against them. With Mom, Cerise, Whitney, and Ms. Carte helping you -- even Dad gets in on the act despite being absorbed in an article about the NSA scandal -- you bow the doors in far enough to force them open.

Vivian stands on the other side and watches as you bust through. She stares at you, face slackened with disbelief.

"Alabaster," she says flatly. "I thought I told you not to do anything foolhardy."

"Oh, shut up!" you say, grabbing her by the hand. You lead her back to the elevator. Fearing taking it, Rose points out an alternative -- an entrance to the stairwell in the corner. You hurry into the claustrophobic space, clattering quickly up the corrugated metal steps with the others.

And then, pushing through a creme-colored metal door, you're met by blinding sunlight -- and the glinting frame of a helicopter just waiting to be hijacked.

Two problems. One: you still don't know how to fly the damn thing. Two, and more pressingly: Dalton is here, too, with what appears to be a katana in his bloody, sparking hands.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Cerise groans, terrified -- and that about sums it up.

Rose fires at him, but he sweeps to the side with inhuman speed and dodges the bullets.

Righting himself, he sweeps across the gravel rooftop in a single bound and draws the katana savagely upward, cutting Rose from tummy to shoulder.

"Gaaahhh--!!" Rose cries, falling to her knees and dropping her gun.

It's Whitney who acts first. She pounces, latching herself onto Dalton's back. He goes windmilling in a spastic circle, but then jabs his katana through Whitney's calf.

The sword penetrates all the way through, protruding from the opposite side. Whitney's firm, tanned skin is stained by crimson blood. She falls to the gravel with a howl.

Dalton walks forward with measured, menacing, purposeful steps and grabs Cerise by the neck. He dangles her over the edge of the roof.

You vision goes red -- it literally goes red -- and you lose your higher reasoning faculties.

You charge Dalton like a bull, head down, arms out in front of you.

You catch him around the waist, wheeling him around and causing him to drop Cerise safely to the ground.

He hugs you close with both arms, and stabs you through the back.

The katana comes out of your stomach. You stare at it, disbelieving, as black blood burbles out.

"Alabaster--!" several voices call out behind you.

Time seems to slow to a crawl. You hunch forward. You grip the sword handle behind you and force your stomach against Dalton's, imapling him on his own katana.

Dalton lets out a horrid death rattle and his one remaining eye loses its shimmer.

But in a final act of vengeance, he pulls you with him as he steps backward, off of the rooftop.

You come tumbling down.

Your limbs flail as window after window passes you by..

You hear a rushing sound, as of air whipping around you, and feel a sensation like freefall. And then there is only black.

Death is instantaneous.

END OF EPISODE 9.

December 25, 2001

It's Christmas morning at the Soliloquy household. Sitting on her haunches underneath the garland-covered tree, your sister opens the last of her presents: a VHS box set of Sailor Moon, her favorite show.

You've been here before. You remember this.

You remember the look of joy on Cerise's face as she tears the wrapping away to reveal the VHS packaging.

You remember her jumping up and down and shouting "thank you thank you thank you!!!"

You remember her hugging mom, then stopping herself short from hugging dad because he's busy poring over the assembly instructions for her new bike.

You remember her running upstairs to watch the tapes right away.

And you remember sitting sullenly in the corner, watching this unfold, waiting impatiently for your turn to open your next present.

What you DON'T remember is being a disembodied consciousness spectating on all of this from above.

"Where am I?" you ask. None of the Soliloquys below notice you speak.

"Watch," comes the baritone reply from an equally disembodied entity, somewhere to your left.

(Whatever 'to your left' actually means, since you're -- you know -- disembodied.)

It's been years since you thought about those stupid old VHS tapes Cerise received today. Sneaking them into your room while she was at school was your first experience with anime.

Err-- *will be* your first experience with anime?

The flow of time seems a bit wonky right now.

And if this is the Christmas Cerise received those tapes, that means--

"Alabaster," your mother says. "There's one more present for you, I think. Right... there." She winks at your five year old self.

"Of course," you -- the five year old you -- says. "I can see it. I'm not stupid."

You crawl over to the box and drag it out from under the tree. It's practically as big as you are, and heavy.

"I know we've been struggling a little bit," Mom says. "I'm sorry we couldn't get you more."

You don't respond. You just tear at the ribbon and wrapping paper, shredding it into streamers that you trail haphazardly behind you.

Underneath the wrapping is a shinily laminated, black-and-green package that says XBOX in giant block letters.

You stare at the gift, your dimpled cheeks depressing with a bratty frown.

"Well?" Mom asks, expectant, her hands wringing in her lap. "Do you like it?"

"I wanted a Playstation 2!" you spit with venom in your voice. "I told you that last month!"

"T-the man at the store said they're basically the same--" Mom begins.

"They're NOT the same! You're so stupid! You're the worst mother ever!"

"I-- I just--"

"You can't get anything right! I hate you!" You spring to your feet and storm out of the living room, leaving the Xbox underneath the blinking tree and your mother sniffling back tears.

"I thought they were the same..." she mumbles, over and over. "I thought they were the same..."

"Jesus Christ," the disembodied you says. "What the fuck was wrong with me?"

"It's true," the voice beside you says. "The first woman a man ever hurts is his mother. But you picked up the skill rather quickly. There's a lot more to show you."

"What do you--"

You feel gripped by a sudden centrifugal inertia, like being flung against the wall of a rotating carnival ride. A sick whirling sensation roils in your stomach and you see a billion starlike points of light flooding past you in vorticial tendrils.

November 8, 2005

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, smartest third grader in West Elementary's Gifted and Talented Education Program. You and a smattering of other intelligent children attend this supplemental class every Tuesday and Thursday, while the less gifted attend PE.

"What the fuck was THAT-- Oh Christ, I'm about to be sick--"

"The incorporeal cannot be sick," your guide says.

"I'm going to be incorporeally sick all over the fucking place--"

"Shut up. Watch."

Amongst these dorks, you are king: your word is law for everyone, from the lowly first graders up through the much-larger fifth graders. You sit in the back and dictate the course of all group assignments, making sure to give yourself the least amount of work. The others kowtow to you, and you enjoy it: these are the only children in a two-mile radius who actually respect intelligence in their peers.

"We have a new student joining us," your GATE teacher announces at today's session. "Her name is Rose Mallory. She's in the first grade. Rose, say hi to everyone."

Watching from above, the disembodied you registers surprise. "Rose was in my GATE class?" you say. "I don't remember that."

"Hello everyone," comes Rose's demure voice from the head of the room. She speaks so softly you can barely hear her.

"Heh. New meat," third-grade you snickers to a nearby friend. He laughs.

"Rose," says the teacher, "please tell everyone a little bit about yourself. What are your hobbies? What's your favorite subject? What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Ah--" Rose says, stammering. She obviously isn't comfortable with the spotlight. Quite the contrast to her current-day demeanor.

"W-well, my main hobby is reading, I guess. I really like Goosebumps and Harry Potter... I think my favorite subject is history... and when I grow up-- when I g-grow up, I want to be President of the USA."

You laugh loudly and obnoxiously, slapping your knee, purposely drawing attention to yourself. Everyone in the room turns to look at you. Rose freezes in place, petrified.

"Is there something you'd like to share with us?" your teacher asks, annoyed.

"Oh, no," you say. "It's just, I think Rose's real calling is standup comedy."

"W-why is that?" Rose stammers.

"No woman could be president of anything," you say. "Except maybe the United States of Kitchens. That's just common sense, right?" You wink and make pow-pow finger-guns at her. "It's a man's world, baby."

If the disembodied-you had a face to do it with, you'd be cringing at your behavior.

The entire class jeers and laughs at your crass remarks.

Looking at her from above, the expression of humiliation and heartbreak on young Rose Mallory's face as she stands there taking it, signals to you the beginning of a new course in life for her.

"You don't remember her," the mysterious baritone voice says, "because you got expelled from GATE two weeks later. But there's much more to show you and not a lot of time left. Let's go."

"You're not going to do that spinny vortex thing again, are-- ughhhff--!"

The universe goes topsy-turvy as you fly through years in seconds.

August 25, 2008

Your first day at South Junior High is not much different than your last day at West Elementary was.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, friendless loser.

"Give me a WARNING when you do that, at least--"

"It never gets any easier. Trust me."

Your younger self wanders the halls of your new school alone. At 11 years old, you consider yourself above hanging out with "normal" children, but you're no longer accepted by the dorks and geeks who used to worship you. Instead you drift aimlessly through school life on your own, a reject from all social circles.

In English, you take what has become your customary seat: second from the back, by the window. In academics as in peer relationships, you have slipped considerably. You've been stuck in the remedial classes.

Just before the tardy bell rings, a boy rushes in, panting, and takes the only open seat -- directly behind you. He wears spats and a cotton tank, and he's drenched in sweat from running.

The smell is not unpleasant. And the sight of him makes you feel things that you don't understand, which in turn makes you irrationally angry.

The teacher gives a spelling test to gauge the class's weak areas. You ace it. Your problem in school isn't performing on exams: it's doing homework and other projects that take concerted effort. You'd rather sit around and watch cartoons.

After the test, the boy behind you pokes you in the back. "How'd you do?" he asks.

"None of your business," you grouse, not looking back at him. "And don't poke me. That's assault."

The boy seems unfazed. "It looked like you did really well. I couldn't get any of them myself... spelling is hard..."

You spin around in your seat to glare at him. "Were you copying off of me? Why were you watching me?"

The boy shrugs. "I dunno. I get bored sometimes. You looked cute."

"Homosexual!" you cry. "Deviant!"

The boy just laughs. "You're a weirdo," he says. He holds out a hand to shake. "The name's Whitney. What about you?"

"Oh -- so you're a girl. You know, girls should dress like girls. Anything else is unseemly."

Whitney stretches her back, interlacing her fingers over the crown of her head and baring her armpits. She stares at the ceiling. "Ah, I never cared about that stuff. Girl's clothes are so uncomfortable. Shorts are comfy and easy to wear. Hey, what does 'unseemly' mean?"

"It's obvious that you're mentally unbalanced. Stay away from me."

Whitney grins toothily. Her adult teeth are oversized in her little jaw. She sticks her tongue out at you. "Make me," she says.

The disembodied you is surprised. "I forgot Whitney had freckles when she was little," you say, staring down at her spackled face.

"You forgot a lot of things about her," your guide says. "Like how the first words out of her mouth when she met you were 'you looked cute.' Do you think she ever stopped feeling that way?"

"Really though," Whitney says down below. "What's your name? We should hang out at lunch."

"My *name* is Alabaster," you say with an imperial flourish. "And I'd rather eat alone. First of all, quiet medidation helps my digestion. Second of all, I don't 'hang out' with people who are so clearly working-class."

Whitney slaps her knee. "You're a riot, Ash Blaster."

"It's Alabaster."

"I like you."

At lunch, you hurry to the cafeteria. It's there you meet a young and portly boy named Boyd Stackleford. But he prefers to be called Naruto.

His choice of nickname is amazingly cool -- you like that show, too! And just like the Naruto from TV, Stackleford knows all kinds of jitsus. Watching him display his ninja moves leaves you in actual awe. You wish you could be that awesome.

For the first time in a while, you have a friend.

Your fun is cut short by the arrival of Chad Esquire, your old nemesis from the fifth grade. The kid hit puberty circa age 9 and hasn't stopped growing. Now, by the start of sixth grade, he sports a visible -- if pubey and wispy -- mustache. He stands nearly six feet tall.

He also has his old retinue of toadies with him.

"Hey Ala-DORK-ster," he says in his bizarrely deep voice. "Found a new butt buddy, huh? Looks like I get to beat two faggots for the price of one!"

"Fuck off," you say, triumphant. It's the first time you've been so defiant to Chad. "My new friend is a black belt ninja and he'll--" you turn around, but Stackleford is nowhere to be seen.

You look back at Chad, gulping hard. He laughs his gonadish little laugh and pops his knuckles, one by one. He approaches you, his shadow engulfing you like a venus flytrap swallowing a fly.

You take a couple halting steps backward but you know what's coming and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Chad shoves you to the ground. His minions laugh and jeer.

Then, grabbing you by the collar and raising his fist, Chad--

"Haaaah----!!!" a voice to your left cries out savagely. You see a humanoid blur slide across the ground, tripping Chad's legs out from under him. Chad goes cartwheeling to the ground, landing on his nose.

The blur stops instantly, leaping from a sliding position to a standing position, defying all laws of momentum.

It's Whitney.

Chad stumbles to his feet, rubbing his now-bleeding nose. "D'yew wabba die?" he moans, almost unintelligible.

"You get one shot, faggot, make it count!" comes Whitney's reply.

Chad looks around at his expectant friends. He looks down at you. He looks at Whitney.

He takes a hesitant step forward as if to accept Whitney's challenge.

But when Whitney stands her ground without even flinching, he loses his mettle.

"Led's geb oudda heah," Chad says. "Dis bidge id crady."

He hurries away, nose leaking blood like a sieve. His cronies follow fast on his tail -- laughing at him now, instead of at you.

The threat gone, Whitney's expression softens. "Are you all right, Anapaster?" she asks. She smiles and grabs your arm to help you up, but you push her away.

"It's Alabaster," you grumble. "And I didn't need your help. I could have handled it on my own."

Shockingly, Whitney seems to believe this.

"Well, okay," she says. "But if you ever need my help, just ask."

"I won't."

"Hey, we should trade phone numbers."

"Why would I want your phone number? I hardly even know you."

"We could hang out on the weekends and stuff! Build forts, play dinosaurs! Or soccer!"

"That sounds asinine."

"As-in-ine...? You're so weird, Abadabster."

"It's Alabaster. Al-a-bast-er. Get it right."

"Hey, do you want to share a milkshake? I only have enough money to pay for half..."

"Go away."

"...All right. Maybe tomorrow."

"Maybe never."

"Uh huh. I'll see you tomorrow, Ala-- um-- Ala... I'll see you tomorrow, Ally!"

You scurry off to get away from this annoying girl and go looking for Naruto Stackleford, your new best friend.

"She's dumb as a bag of unmixed cement," your guide says. "But somehow you've always managed to be the stupider one. Funny, that."

You don't say anything to defend yourself before he whisks you through time.

July 4, 2009

You family's trip to the beach has been a resolute failure. Somehow you guys got turned around and wound up on the wrong highway for the better part of the day. You'll be lucky to make it to the shore before sundown now. You may miss the fireworks entirely.

Your harried mother drives, far above the speed limit, fanning herself with one hand in the stuffy station wagon. Dad sits in the passenger seat acting as navigator, nose buried in a road atlas.

With all the family's picnic supplies shoved into the back, available space is at a minimum. You sit wedged in next to your big sister Cerise.

Cerise, wearing her typically slutty Hot Topic apparel -- ugh, does she have no taste at all? -- brushes a sweaty forearm against yours. You jerk your hand back. "Watch it!" you spit.

"Oh, shut up, you ass-munch!" she shouts. "You're the one who touched ME!"

"Now you two behave back there--" Mom chides, glancing at you in the rearview.

"When was the last time you took a shower?" you ask Cerise. "I swear, sitting next to your stink all day is going to give me herpes by proxy."

"You're one to talk," Cerise says. "You know, they make a thing called deodorant now. You might want to check it out!"

You both huff in unison and turn your heads away from the other, staring out your respective windows.

"Were we always that bad?" your incorporeal self asks.

"Just watch," your guide says patiently.

Your family finally does arrive at the beach. The air is balmy and rank with the smell of sea life. The sand is warm underfoot. The sky is blanketed by thick clouds, obscuring the stars and making the night pitch black and starless, but the sea glitters by the illumination of a hundred bonfires all along the oceanside.

"Do either of you want to go swimming?" Mom asks.

"Who swims at night?" you retort. "I know you're not the brightest, but don't suggest such silly things."

Mom rolls her eyes and unfurls a towel on the sand. She sits down with Dad and Cerise.

"I'm going for a walk," you announce. "Be back in a bit."

"You'll miss the fireworks," Mom says.

You shrug, saying nothing else, and wander off.

You follow the curve of the beach, passing by family after family. They all seem happier than yours, laughing and joking and having a nice time. You wonder what the difference is.

Eventually you come across a small outcropping of rocks. You climb over it and stumble upon a tiny cove nestled away from the prying eyes of the public.

Jackpot.

You pull your swim trunks down and sit in the welcoming sand, rubbing your adolescent dick to hardness. Having only recently discovered the joys of self-abuse, you take every opportunity you can to indulge.

You sit in the sand panting and masturbating, the thrill of doing it in the open air adding to your pleasure. But sudden movement in your periphery jolts you with a surge of adrenaline. You fall forward, onto your elbows, and reach back to tug your shorts up.

"Pfff-- were you-- oh my GOD, Alabaster!"

It's your sister. Of all the people to walk in on this...

"What are you doing here? Go away!"

"I was looking for you, you little dork. Mom was worried."

She sits down in the sand beside you. You can feel the heat coursing through your skin, the physical manifestation of embarrassment at having been caught.

"You're such a pervert," Cerise says. "Only someone like you would do something like that in a place like this."

"I don't want to hear it," you say, turning the accusations back around on her. "Or maybe you think Mom would like to know about that copy of Limewire you keep hidden on the family computer in a folder labeled 'homework.'"

Cerise chokes on her laughter. "Y-you-- how do you know about that?!"

At this moment, a brilliant burst of green pyrotechnics in the sky illuminates your blushing faces. As the light fades, the crackling boom reaches your eardrums.

A few quiet moments pass. You stand. "I'm going back," you tell Cerise.

"Wait--" she says, reaching out to clasp your hand. "Why don't we stay here for a second?"

A blue burst of light flashes like a strobe in the sky, and you can see her expectant look.

"What?" you ask. "Why should we?"

Cerise shrugs.

"If you want me to do your summer homework for you," you announce, "you can just forget it. You're not going to butter me up so easily."

"That's not it. It's just... it's so nice and quiet here. I thought we could watch the fireworks together."

You pull your hand from hers and step back, looking her over. The fireworks begin to come in a continuous stream now, the bubble-wrapping pop of explosions and white smoke accentuating the glittering panorama of color.

"I'd rather choke on a rusty fork," you say, "than spend time with you."

Cerise's face crumples. You turn, climb back over the outcropping of rocks, and leave Cerise behind in that isolated cove.

"How could I have been so stupid--" your disembodied self begins to ask. But your viewpoint carthweels upward and the tendrils of the fireworks surround you as you go flying up, up, up and far away.

December 17, 2011

Vivian sits propped-up in a hospital bed. A mess of IVs, wires, and other devices are connected to her. A bandage is wrapped around her skull, covering the left eye. The other eye has no glimmer whatsoever. She stares ahead blankly.

The only sound in the room is the steady beep of her heart monitor.

The door opens, and David Darkbloom enters. His clothes are wrinkled and his signature goatee is nothing more than a scruffy five o'clock shadow. He has deep bags under his eyes and his hair is mussed. It's likely he hasn't slept in quite some time.

He sits down in a stool beside the bed.

"Vivian."

No reply.

"Vivian, we need to talk."

No reply.

Darkbloom reaches out and takes Vivian's hand in his. She refuses to even look at him.

"Vivian, I'm sorry. We couldn't save her."

No reply. Darkbloom, still holding his daughter's hand, leans his forehead against the beige plastic rail on the side of the bed. His enormous body is wracked by silent sobs for several minutes before he finally goes still. Another silence descends.

When he can speak again, Darkbloom says: "we'll get through this. Vivian, I want you to think of today as a second birth. And -- and you have a second mother to thank for that. You remember Ms. Carte? She saved you."

No reply.

"I'm not going to let you grow up without a mother. We'll be a family again, I promise. I'll marry Ms. Carte right away. How does that sound?"

"You changed me," Vivian says.

Darkbloom is taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly. "You're a little different. Yes. Better."

"I never asked you to do this."

"We had to. If we hadn't done this, you-- would be--"

"You didn't save mom. You could have. If you saved me, you could have saved her. You let her die."

Even with an accusation so damning, Vivian's voice is flat and affectless. The same way it is in the present day. She continues to stare straight ahead.

"I had to choose. I'm sorry. There was only enough time--"

"You should have let me die."

Darkbloom can say nothing in response.

"Please go," Vivian says.

Darkbloom obeys, his hangdog expression going from bad to worse.

When he's gone, Vivian picks up the oversized remote control from her nightstand and turns on the wall-mounted television.

She flips through the channels, but gets static on all of them save the local PBS affiliate. She sighs in a way that suggests, "just my luck," and turns up the volume.

"--back to the California State High School Quiz Bowl Championship. Today's match: The North High Mindbreakers, led by team captain Alabaster Soliloquy, versus the Glengary High Brain Trust, led by team captain Jen Kennings."

Vivian sits forward, wiggling around a bit to get comfortable. She watches the screen intently.

"Let's get to know our team captains a little bit. Alabaster-- it says here your hobbies are video games and animation?"

"That's right."

"Interesting. Those don't seem like normal hobbies for a quiz bowl champion. Most of these other guys sit around reading history books for fun -- but somehow Mr. video-games-and-cartoons is outclassing them. How is that?"

"Well, that's because I'm not normal. Normal people are beneath me."

The host seems a bit lost for words at this. He recovers, flipping through his note cards. On her hospital bed, Vivian cocks her head, entranced.

"Ahem. Yes. In just three games this tournament, you've racked up a stunning 15,300 points -- that's more than the next three players in the top 10 combined. So tell me: what makes you such a fierce competitor? What drives you to succeed?"

The camera focuses in on you. You grin a sneering grin. "It's not enough for me that I should succeed," you say. "Others should fail."

Vivian blinks. She turns the volume higher still.

February 7, 2013

You come home from school to find Cerise sitting at the dining room table, doing paperwork.

"Oh, so my lazy older sister is finally looking for a job?" you snort as you stroll past the table toward the kitchen, looking for a snack. "Did you get tired of mooching off the rest of us, then?"

"Shut the fuck up, Alabaster. Don't you have little girls to be molesting?"

"Don't you have strangers to be blowing? For money in an alley?"

You sit down across from her, cracking open a can of soda. As Cerise focuses on filling out the current form, you take a moment to snoop from afar. You read the watermark at the top of one of the forms: "University of California, Berkeley."

You snatch one of the trifolded papers from the tabletop. Cerise's handwriting -- a bizarre amalgam you can only describe as sloppy-neat -- fills the blank field below the header.

"My greatest disappointment in life..." you begin, reading Cerise's words aloud. Cerise's head snaps up and her eyes widen when she sees the paper in your hands. "In my first summer after starting high school, my family visited the beach for Independence Day--"

Cerise snatches the paper from you. "Get the hell out, Alabaster!"

"What IS that?" you ask.

"It's the essay portion of my admission application to UC Berkeley."

"You know, they have a thing called word processors now--"

"A handwritten essay is more personal! It increases odds of acceptance!"

"If they can read it..."

Cerise grumbles, putting her essay underneath a few of the other papers as if to hide it from you.

"Besides," you continue, "do you really think they'd accept someone like you?"

"I don't see why not--"

"And what are you planning to major in, oh genius sister of mine?"

"..."

"Come on, don't be shy now."

"...Electrical engineering," she says. "Not that you would care."

You laugh derisively.

"What?" she says.

"You? An engineer?"

"Is it really so shocking? ...Y-you don't think I can do it?"

"What was the last math class you took? Trig? You do know an engineer has to be good at math, right?"

"..."

You stand up from the table, taking a swig of your drink. You chuckle again. "I think you should keep your goals realistic," you say. "You're supposed to be looking for work right now. Maybe if you get lucky, you can learn a trade or something."

You crush the empty aluminum can and toss it on the table.

As you walk upstairs, Cerise puts down her pen and stares pensively at her application form. After several long minutes of contemplation, she gathers up the papers and takes them to the trash bin in the kitchen.

Watching from above, you wish you could reach through time and throttle yourself.

"Stop," you disembodied form says. "Just... stop. You've made your point."

"I made my point all right," your companion says, "but I wonder if you've understood it."

Once again the universe twirls all around you like water going down a drain.

You have a body again.

You come to in a long, dimly-lit hallway. It appears like the hallways at North High: dull white linoleum tiling, plaster panels on the ceiling, ugly cream-colored walls dotted with posters and bulletins at regular intervals.

The only difference is that this hallway seems to stretch endlessly in both directions.

You blink and raise yourself to your feet, using the wall to support yourself.

"Hello?" you cry. Your voice echoes down the desolate hall -- "hello?--hello--hello-hello--"

With a dazed swagger to your step, you start walking. You try doors at random, but they're all locked.

Through the windows set into the doors, you can see various people -- some you know and some you don't -- sitting alone in featureless, windowless rooms. When you knock or otherwise try to get their attention, they don't respond.

They're crying.

Mom, Vivian, Cerise, Whitney, Ms. Carte, Rose... and those other, strange-looking girls you don't know, too. All crying.

Growing panicked, your pace quickens, until at last you're just running blindly down the infinite corridor.

"Hello?" you scream. "Hello? Where am I? Where--"

Suddenly, you collide with a human shape. You fall to your butt. Looking up, you see a redhead with a petite frame and a fiery glint in her eye staring back at you.

"Alabaster," she says. "There you are."

You stand up and grab her by the shoulders. You shake her to and fro, a crazed twinge in your voice. "Who are you?" you demand. "Where have you taken me?"

She shakes her head, and extracts herself from your grip. Her expression becoming menacing.

"Don't you recognize me? Is this some kind of joke? How dare you bring me to this awful place and play games like this--!" She slaps you across the face, sending you reeling and clutching at your cheek.

When you look back, she's gone.

"Wait--! Help! What is HAPPENING to me?"

"Stop crying, you drama queen."

This is a different voice: the baritone rumble of your guide from before.

You guide is corporeal now as well. He seems familiar, but his outfit makes identification difficult. He wears a hooded black robe, like some kind of monk or friar.

What little of his face isn't concealed by shadow is striated by deep, angry-looking scars.

"Where am I?" you ask.

"Think of this like a waiting room," he says.

"Am I-- am I dead?"

"You got impaled through the stomach and fell 86 stories. You tell me, Alabaster."

"Oh god..."

"Let's focus on the issue at hand." He sweeps his hand like a priest delivering a blessing. You notice a pentagram branded into the back of his palm. "I've shown you all these things, now: what is the common element."

You gulp and gather your bearings. "Me," you say, your mouth desert-dry. "I'm the common element."

"You must be more specific. What is the common element. What about you connects the events."

"They involve the people I care most about."

"But it isn't about them. It's about you. It's always been about you, hasn't it? So what is it about you that ties these events together. What is the common element.

"I'm... I'm an asshole."

"Why are you an asshole."

"I don't know."

"Let's investigate this. What makes a man a man, Alabaster."

"Masculinity?"

"That's a tautology. Perhaps you're an asshole because you lack the intelligence to be any other way. You think the measure of a man is how many women he ejaculates inside. How demeaning he can be. How many people he can subjugate and terrorize to answer to his every beck and call. Do you call this being a man?"

"But-- what else could you call it?"

"I call it a quick way to lose everything you love."

You clutch your forehead. "I didn't know. Oh God. I wasted my life."

"Most people only get one chance. They live and die as assholes and never know. Look at me, Alabaster, goddamn it. You're a man, aren't you? Face the person speaking to you."

You look at him.

"How do I stop being an asshole?" you ask.

"Answer the question. What makes a man a man."

[X] (Custom): "A man protects the ones that he loves, at any cost."

"A man protects the ones he loves. At any cost."

The scarred face of your spirit guide curls into a grin.

"Hmm. So you're actually learning. But -- can you protect the ones you love from yourself?"

"I don't... I don't know... tell me how, if you know everything!"

"You're not living your life correctly, Alabaster. That much is obvious. So be the man you were meant to be. Be conscientious and receptive. Fill your mind with equanimity and understanding. Be patient. Don't kowtow, but don't be an obstinate little shit either. Pay attention to what your lovers need and want. Prioritize accordingly. Be kind, for fuck's sake."

"That's all easy enough to say-- but to DO--"

"You have a lot to do. The road ahead of you is long. Did you think Darkbloom was bad? This is easy mode. I only wish I could have it as easy as you do right now."

"I don't understand..."

"You will. Trust me."

He puts a hand on your shoulder.

"The ones you love mean more than anything. Remember what I told you."

The symbol on the man's palm glows with blinding technicolor light that spreads rapidly, engulfing your field of vision.

You hear a rushing sound, as of air whipping around your head, and feel a sensation like freefall. And then there is only white.

MEANWHILE...

"Rose, you're getting kind of pale--" Whitney murmurs.

"I'm fine..." her head droops to a critical point, causing her to jolt awake again. But she quickly begins to fall back asleep.

A steady stream of blood flows from an IV in the crook of her elbow, into a plastic bag, and from there into Alabaster's unconscious -- medically dead, in fact -- body.

"Forceps," Ms. Carte says.

Mom, wearing a surgical mask and gloves, snaps to and hands them to Ms. Carte from off a tin platter.

"Turbulence ahead," Spancer warns from the cockpit of the helicopter.

The girls brace themselves against the wall of the chopper as it rattles. Cerise examines the circuitboard on the table in front of her, and barely catches it when it falls off the edge of her workspace.

"You can really modify that thing?" Ms. Carte asks. "The way I said?"

"I... I have to try, don't I?"

She picks up a jeweler's screwdriver and bites her lip.

"Rose!" Whitney leans on Rose's knee and snaps her fingers in front of Rose's face, but she's nodding in and out of consciousness.

"That's enough, don't you think?" Whitney says. "You'll kill yourself..."

"I'm the only one here with AB blood..." Rose murmurs. "He needs it--"

Ms. Carte reaches for the rubber tube connected to Rose's arm. "Whitney's right," she says. "You really should--"

Rose jolts upright, suddenly alert, and points her gun at Ms. Carte.

"You keep that thing in my arm or I'll put a bullet in your fucking brain," she says.

Ms. Carte backs away, turns around, and resumes her work.

Vivian, standing beside the operating table, looks down at your moribund face. "You won't have a pulse anymore," she murmurs. "But that's okay, as long as you wake up. We can both be pulse-less..."

The helicopter putters forward over the azure waters of the Pacific.

END OF INTERLEWD 5.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, nee protector and 600 million yen man. 

You wake in a clean, white room under clean, white sheets. The recirculated hospital air smells faintly of lemons and bleach.

Your vision crossing and uncrossing, doubling and undoubling, you squint underneath the bright fluorescent bulbs and look across the room. Ms. Carte sits at a small table, eating a papaya. She uses a paring knife to cut chunks from the fruit's succulent flesh and pop them into her waiting mouth.

When she notices you looking at her, she puts the knife and papaya down on the tabletop, swallows, and smiles warmly.

"The dead has arisen," she says.

"That isn't funny," you grouse.

Ms. Carte laughs and wiggles all ten of her fingers in front of her as if trying to tickle the air. Dropping her voice an octave, she says, "It liiiives! Arise, my minion! Arise!"

You sit up in the hospital bed, propping some pillows by your coccyx.

"Yesss!" Ms. Carte bellows. "Yesss!"

You toss a spare pillow at her, growling your frustration. She bats it away, laughing.

Composing herself, Ms. Carte stands and strides over to your bed. She sits on the edge. She runs a warm palm across your damp forehead.

"I missed you," she says.

You kiss her deeply, savoring the sugary residue of papaya in her mouth before pulling back. "How long was I... you know..."

"Two days," she says.

You look down at your hand, flexing and unflexing it into a fist. "I feel..."

"It takes getting used to. You feel like you're bigger than you really are, right?"

"Yeah. And-- and tingly, especially in my arms, like I'm hanging on the edge of a cliff."

"That's normal. It passes." She strokes your forehead again, pulling your mussed up hair from your eyes. "You're my best work yet," she says. "But you have a lot of people to thank for that. Not just me."

"I know," you say.

A brief silence settles over the room. You take the moment to readjust yourself to your own body. You feel alien to yourself, altered. You're crawling in your skin. You're afraid to ask her the full extent of the changes.

"I don't get it," you finally say. "I don't feel the sum of human knowledge pulsing through my brain. You could make Vivian the world's biggest genius but not me?"

"What are you talking about?" Ms. Carte asks. "I never tinkered with either of your brains. There was no reason to."

"Wait. So you're saying Vivian--"

"Vivian's just an incredibly smart little girl. She always has been. She was visiting UC Berkeley to speak to an admissions rep when the accident happened. And as for you -- your brain came out of the fall bruised, but intact. You're incredibly lucky."

"Am I-- still human?"

Ms. Carte leans in close, frowning.

"What kind of question is that?"

"Please just answer me. I can't take this."

"Don't go all Vivian on me now."

"It's just--" you start.

"Listen here, you little buttmonkey. I fixed you. I made you better. And that's it." She raps you lightly on the forehead. "You're a real human being. So is Vivian. If anyone tells you otherwise, punch them in the fucking face."

You close your eyes and swallow hard.

After a moment, you ask, "where are we?"

"Belau hospital, Koror. Nation of Palau." Ms. Carte smiles and folds her arms.

So you really made it.

"Where are the others?"

"They went on ahead to Gustav's. It took a lot of convincing. They wanted to stay around for the big moment."

"When can we go?"

"If you feel up to it, we can go now. But--" she points across your bed, to the space between your bed and the window. "There was one person who refused to leave. We might want to bring her along, too..."

You turn, glancing over the edge of the mattress. Splayed out and sweating on top of a sleeping bag, half naked, you see--

[X] Cerise
[ ] Mom
[ ] Rose
[ ] Vivian
[ ] Whitney

You reach down to brush the hair from her face, but it's tamped down by humidity and sweat.

She snores, her mouth hanging slightly open. You let your fingertips roam the delicate contours of her face, until suddenly she jolts awake.

Sitting up, she looks left and right, dazed. Her tee lies crumpled beside her on the ground. All she wears is her white cotton bra and white cotton panties.

"Whozzat?" she slurs.

"Good morning," you say.

Cerise glances up. Her face goes through several permutations: surprise, elation, then false apathy. She averts her eyes, trying to seem aloof.

"So you finally woke up..." she says. "Took you long enough."

"I know you like to bitch at me, but bitching at me for being dead is a new low."

"Maybe you shouldn't have died!" She springs to her feet. "Did you ever think of that?"

"I promise not to die again," you tell her. "At least for the foreseeable future." You hold a hand to your heart and your other one flat in the air as if swearing an oath. "God as my witness," you say.

Cerise surprises you by hugging you tightly. Her sweat-pearled skin sticks to your hospital gown as if you've been glued together. "Never do that to me again," she says.

When you're ready, Cerise and Ms. Carte help you out of bed. Your gown is split up the back and you become acutely aware that you're naked underneath.

But -- it's nothing they haven't seen before.

You ditch the gown and change back into your street clothes in front of them.

"My, my," Ms. Carte says. "Aren't you forward."

As you change, you take a second to check your body. You detect no obvious cosmetic differences, except for a patch of discolored skin where Dalton impaled you. When Ms. Carte sees you examining Alabaster Jr., she steps forward and cups you lightly in one hand.

"He still works, too," she whispers. "I can show you when we get back, if you're skeptical."

"Eugh," Cerise says. "Gag me."

You finish getting dressed and step into the hallway with them.

Sitting in a chair outside the hospital room is Mom.

"Mrs. Soliloquy...?" Ms. Carte says. "I thought you went back with the others--"

Mom ignores her, jumping to her feet and latching onto you like a woman possessed. She showers you with kisses on your cheek and forehead. You feel yourself pushed back against the nearby wall as her luscious body presses against you insistently.

"Geff offffa meee-" you groan, your voice muffled under her lips.

"You idiot! You stupid, horrible, awful idiot!" she cries. "You're the worst son in history!" Her hands hold you around the back as she pecks you over and over. You sense passersby watching.

"You know, I'm pretty sure Palau has laws against incest..." Cerise grumbles.

"I don't care!" Mom says.

Finally, you get wedge your arms between your bodies and push her away. "Nice to see you, too..." you say, grimacing. "But let's save it for when we get back. I'm sure everyone else is waiting, too."

Together, the four of you head out.

Ms. Carte's contact in Palau lives on an island in an archipelago. The archipelago is tucked into the island's interior, to the southeast.

You pile into a beat-up pickup truck in the parking lot of the hospital. Ms. Carte drives.

Space is limited, and Cerise selfishly calls shotgun, so you have to sit in the cramped cab with Mom on your lap. The roads are well-paved and well-maintained but the terrain is natrually bumpy, and she bounces up and down on your lap as the vehicle rumbles onward.

Ms. Carte drives past a long suspension bridge on the way. Cerise points it out, informing you that it's the Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge. "We moved to a country of weebs," she says. "Joy."

The truck hits a small tree branch and the cab heaves upward. Mom's body bounces wildly, her breasts jiggling obscenely.

You get the sense that if she really didn't want to, she wouldn't be jostling around nearly as much.

Still, with her body pressed against yours -- and given how long it's been since you had any form of release -- it's hard not to react.

"Hmm-- this truck rides a little rough doesn't it?~" she says. She looks over her shoulder at you, smiling.

All the while her plump ass -- covered only by a pair of stretched denim jeans -- grinds tantalizingly against you.

[X] Hey, are you doing that on purpose?
[ ] Ignore it.

Cerise stares disinterestedly out her window, watching the emerald palms and low-growing bushes whizz past. Ms. Carte keeps her eyes firmly on the road. Neither seem to be paying attention to the stealth lapdance Mom is giving you in the back.

You put your chin on her shoulder. Short of breath, you pant: "are you doing that on purpose?"

"Hmm? I have no idea what you're talking about..." she murmurs. She pushes her ass against your crotch with extra oomph as if to underline this obvious lie.

"You're trying to tease me," you breath into her ear.

This makes her lips curl into a sly smile. "You perverted boy."

"It's hardly perverted if you're the one doing it to ME--"

She snakes her hand down and molests you through the crotch of your pants, still rubbing her body unashamedly against you like she's in heat.

"Your perverted body makes me do it," she says. "I can't help myself."

You say a silent prayer of thanks for the loud hum of the truck's A/C, preventing this lascivious conversation from reaching the ears of Ms. Carte and Cerise.

Her hands grope and feel you up, making your muscles tense in need and anticipation. Ms. Carte wasn't lying: you're fully functional and anatomically correct. Your rock-hard dick strains against the confines of your jeans and begs to be released.

"Scootch forward a bit," you command.

"Mm?~ Like this?~"

Glancing to the front of the truck to make sure neither of the others are looking, you unzip your pants and unleash your oozing cock.

Mom settles back against you, trapping your shaft between her butt and your stomach. You stifle a satisfied sigh. Your erection pulses and throbs, pleasure coursing through it as she lets her weight settle against it.

"What is that, I wonder?" she says, playing coy. "It's warm..."

"Why aren't you moving like before?" you whine.

"Well-- you didn't seem to like it..."

You grab onto her pliant, fleshy shoulders and push her down, then release her. In this way, you force her to grind against your horny cock, controlling her humping motions.

"I knew you were a pervert," she says. Her voice has an obscene huskiness to it, laced with incestuous lust. "Using your own mother to masturbate... you're unbelievable.~" She brushes your hands off her shoulders and takes control. She humps herself against you in a long, slow, semicircular rhythm that drives you wild. It takes all of your willpower not to push her off you, tug her pants down, and fuck her brains out.

"You can use me to cum," she says. "Cum as much as you want on Mama."

That does it. You grab a handful of her hair and wrench her face around to kiss her, not caring who sees. Ms. Carte and Cerise look up, watching in the rearview as you give her a delicious, wet, sloppy French kiss and blow creamy ropes of cum all across her plush ass.

Ms. Carte's friend meets you by the docks. His speedboat is ready and waiting to ferry you across to his private island.

"Gustav!" Ms. Carte cries, throwing her arms open and embracing the squat, balding man.

His dome glints redly under the tropical sun and his push-broom mustache wiggles like a dead caterpillar caught in a breeze. He kisses Ms. Carte on either cheek. Ms. Carte returns the gesture, pecking him twice with wet 'mwah' noises.

You would feel a twinge of jealousy if he weren't so old and hideous. But he's no competitor.

"Zis must be the boy you vere telling me about," Gustav says, indicating you. His voice has a nasal curtness to it.

"Yes. This is Alabaster. I'm afraid I've gotten him and his loved ones into quite a bit of trouble..."

Gustav elbows Ms. Carte in the ribs, grinning at her. "You told me he vas young, but you didn't say ZIS young. Since when vere you a robber of cradles?"

Ms. Carte's cheeks take on a pinkish cast. "Gustav, you're terrible!" she laughs nervously.

"And zis is... Frau Soliloquy? And the lovely daughter?" He kisses their palms in turn. Mom fidgets uncomfortably, fully cognizant of the cum plastered across her ass.

"Come!" Gustav says.

"Wh-what?" Mom stammers. "T-that's not--"

"Come! Let us go to the place where you vill be staying. I have prepared rooms for you all."

Inside Gustav's spacious and tasteful living room, the rest of the girls are waiting for you, all decked out in swimwear. You'd ask where they got these clothes from, but they're too busy smothering you in an orgy of hugs for you to get a word in edgewise. Whitney wraps her arms around your neck -- Rose around your midsection -- and Vivian, sitting on her knees, nuzzles your thighs.

The only one in the room who doesn't leap up to swaddle you is your father, who's busy reading a copy of Palau's national paper, the Island Times.

Mom hurries off and quickly changes her clothes. She returns in a rather revealing bikini of her own while you're still in the midst of being cuddled half to death.

Through the pile of flesh surrounding you, you see Mom whip her hair back into a ponytail, tying it off with an elastic band. She shakes Gustav's hand.

"Thank you so much for having us," she says. "Please, allow me to cook for you and the others."

"Vell, I vould not be averse--"

"Wait," you say, extricating yourself from the group hug. Whitney and Vivian pout, Rose watches on with her lips pursed in catlike interest.

You clear your throat. "There's something I want to say."

You didn't plan your words beforehand and now with 12 expectant eyes set on you, you feel somewhat abashed.

You decide to keep it short and to the point.

"I'm an asshole," you tell them.

"We gathered that, dear," Mom says.

"Yeah, you're not exactly shocking us here," Whitney says.

You notice that Whitney has a thick gauze bandage wrapped around her leg and that she's standing awkwardly, keeping her weight off of it. Rose's onepiece has a bulge in the tummy that you suspect is another, similar bandage.

You swallow hard and continue.

"I love all six of you," you say. "So... just keep that in mind."

"I love you, too!" Whitney chirps. "Always have, always will!"

"My feelings are much the same," Vivian murmurs, blushing and looking away.

"You're not half-bad for a lowly dog..." Rose says. She trails off, rubbing her elbow.

"You're an awful brat and I love you with all my heart," Mom says with a grin.

"Even though you're a pain in my ass, I guess you're not so bad. I mean, I don't HATE you," Cerise says. She looks you in the eye and pecks you on the cheek. "But-- don't make promises you can't keep. Once an asshole, always an asshole."

"I never said I'd stop," you say. "But as long as you're a bitch, I think we're even." You kiss her back.

Dinner that night goes a lot more smoothly than the first time you all ate together. Gustav is a wine aficionado, apparently, and he keeps the Cabernet Sauvignon flowing like water.

"If zere's one zing you filthy French get right," he says, "it is vino. God bless you frogs."

The alcohol keeps all of you feeling pleasantly warm in the balmy night air.

Over a leathery, overcooked slab of steak, you point your fork in Rose's direction and ask, "so are you staying here, too?"

Rose shrugs. "I guess so. Darkbloom probably wants me dead, too."

"What about your parents?" you ask.

"I guess I should call them at some point, huh..."

"Are we gonna live here forever?" Whitney asks.

No one seems to have a proper answer for this. You glance at Ms. Carte, but her eyes are fixed firmly on the newspaper in Dad's hands. She seems to want to get ahold of it.

"You are all velcome here as long as you like," Gustav says. "Make yourselfs at home. The data I can pull from you and Vivian is vell vorth the trouble."

"Gustav, I told you these two aren't your guinea pigs," Ms. Carte says, annoyed.

"It's all right," Vivian says. "If it helps in any way against my father, he can study me."

[X] He can study me too.
[ ] Vivian, we don't have to worry about that stuff anymore.

Vivian gives you a wan smile. Just the barest hint of her thin lips turning upward is enough to melt your heart.

"Wunderbar!" Gustav says, pounding the table with a palm. "Vonderful, vonderful. Tonight ve can begin vith just some vitals and such. Simple. Zen you can go to bed and rest."

Following dinner, you accompany him, along with Vivian and Ms. Carte, down an elevator and into an underground lab that reminds you eerily of the facility at the Darkbloom mansion.

Gustav explains that he used to work there with Ms. Carte and that he based the design of this lab off of it.

"A little too closely..." you grumble.

Gustav puts up a silk privacy screen and has you take off your shirt. He holds a cold metal stethoscope to your chest and listens to your breathing. On the other side of the screen, you see the shadowed form of Ms. Carte doing the same to Vivian.

Images of Ms. Carte playing nurse with Vivian's flat, bare-chested body play through your mind as Gustav does other rudimentary checks -- blood pressure, reflexes, and so on. He hooks you up to a few biometric scanners, the purpose and design of which totally escape your understanding.

"Ahn~" Vivian sighs on the other side of the screen. "Please, not so roughly..."

"Shh..."

"Ahhhh---~~~"

You can't tell what's happening over there, but that just makes you imagination fly into overdrive.

"You are as healthy as a horse," Gustav says finally. His breath smells of medicated cough drops -- perfectly vile. "And as strong as one too, I zink."

He roots through a cabinet and hands you a solid steel I-beam. It's about a foot in length. "Bend zis in half," he tells you.

Skeptical, you grip either end and push.

The I-beam buckles and folds in on itself like a piece of flimsy cardboard. You gawk at it.

"Renee did a number on you," he says. "Your older sister, also."

"Cerise...?" you say, looking up. This shocks you more than your newfound strength. "What does she have to do with this?"

"On-ze-fly modifications to the Viv-tan's integrated circuit system -- in the middle of a turbulent helicopter ride, no less -- truly quite remarkable, I have never seen anyzing like it. Do make sure to show your sister some gratitude, young man."

He tosses you your T-shirt and you hastily pull it back on.

You think about those words for a long time as you and the others head back up to the ground level and you saunter off to bed.

Your room is cozy and plushly carpeted, just like any decent bedroom back in the states would be. But the house's central air conditioning can't do much against the oppressive tropical atmosphere. You lie naked on top of your covers, tossing and turning, and sweating. The buzz of insects outside doesn't do much to lull you, either.

In the darkness, you hear your door click open and see a shadowy form slink inside.

"Are you awake?" comes Ms. Carte's voice.

"Yeah," you mumble.

She comes over and lies in your bed with you, uninvited. Not that you mind. She runs a hand idly up and down your bare chest.

"You're all sticky," she says. "You didn't start without me, I hope."

"It's the humidity..." you say.

Ms. Carte leans forward and in the moonlight, you see her dart out her tongue. You hiss in surprise as she runs it across your nipple, the wet surface as smooth as the inside of her pussy. She teases your nipple to hardness, savoring the thin coating of sweat on your heaving chest. You hold the crown of her head in your hands, enjoying the strange new pleasure.

Finally, wordlessly, Ms. Carte takes your hand in hers and guides it to her crotch. You realize that she isn't wearing anything below her blouse. Your fingers brush against the damp landing-strip of neatly-trimmed hair above her cunt. You sweep your fingers back and forth, tickling her, and eliciting low giggles. She moves your hand lower still, and your fingertips come into contact with the soft, warm, inviting wetness of her labia.

"Fuck me," she whispers directly in your ear as you finger her sloppy pussy. Your scalp tingles from the warmth of her breath against your eardrum.

You roll over, straddling her. You kiss her, mashing your lips to hers, merging your mouths into one. But just as you seat your cock inside of her and she gasps in sudden pleasure, your door opens again -- and Whitney enters the room.

"Tch-- geez, Ally!"

You groan, fucking yourself in and out of Ms. Carte's lewdly squelching cunt. Even being caught like this, you can't stop. You grip Ms. Carte's ass and spread her cheeks as she buries her face against your neck and bites her thumb.

"H-hi," you stammer. "Want to join in?"

"Of course I do, you stupid jerk! You should have invited me before starting!"

She climbs onto the bed, waddling across the mattress on her knees, to peer lovingly at the spot where your genitals are mated wetly with Ms. Carte's. She runs a palm up and down Ms. Carte's madly humping ass -- and then, without warning, she gives Ms. Carte a sharp spank.

"Ghh--!!" Ms. Carte chokes, but her pace quickens against you. Her roiling pussy clamps down around you and sucks your pulsing cock almost to her cervix. You turn your head to the side and suck one of her nipples into your mouth, nipping at the tender, delicate pink nubbin with your teeth.

"Nnngh--" Ms. Carte chokes, again. She's being overwhelmed, her pussy stuffed full of your hard, raw dick, her ass getting molested by Whitney's pervertedly curious hands, and your tongue swirling around her nipple. Only recently she was a virgin, and now she's getting worked over like a trained whore.

"Let's see how you like this," Whitney purrs. She jabs a thumb into Ms. Carte's cute little asshole and then twists it.

"Ugggfff--!!" Ms. Carte is delirious now, pain mixing with pleasure. You hug her curvy body close and jackhammer her cunt with deep thrusts. Your bed squeaks and your skin slaps against her as you bottom out inside her deepest parts.

"No fair," Whitney pouts. "I need some relief, too..."

"Come here," you beckon. She gets the message.

She circles around. You push Ms. Carte upright as she wiggles out of her bikini bottom. Swinging one leg over your head, Whitney straddles your face. Your nose fills with the tangy musk of her arousal. Her wet, horny pussy drips its love on your forehead, cheeks, eyes, and lips.

And then Whitney slams down, rubbing her slimy pussy directly against your face. Your let your mouth hang open and collect her nectar on your tongue as she rides you.

"Fuck, fuck!" she pants. She interlaces her fingers with Ms. Carte, keeping the two of them steady as they use you to get off. Ms. Carte grinds against you, taking you all the way, as Whitney luxuriates in the decadent pleasure of your lapping tongue.

You can't see it, but you can hear the wet, muffled mewls of Whitney and Ms. Carte sucking on each other's lips, violating each other's mouths.

Sweat, drool, and sexual emissions coat all three of you in various places as you lewdly mate, getting closer and closer to orgasm. Ms. Carte's hot cream coats your balls and pools on the sheets under you, ruining them. And Whitney's cream coats your face, pouring out too much for your overtaxed mouth to drink down. It runs in tiny streams down your temples and cheekbones. So too do Whitney and Ms. Carte's mingled saliva drips down in viscous ropes against your chest.

Neither of them have any shame as they soil you, your bed, your body.

Whitney's engorged, puffy labia begin to quiver and she cries out: "Ohhhh-- Oh fuuuuck!" She throws her head back and cums all over your face. This sets you off. You blow a thick load inside Ms. Carte's mature, spasming womb.

"Is he cumming? Get pregnant!" Whitney shouts. "Let him knock you up!! Let Ally knock you up!" All Ms. Carte can do in reply is cry out her own orgasmic delight. Whitney kisses her again as you empty every ounce of cock-juice you have inside that tight, hot, slutty hole.

You wake up a little bit past 10 AM, limbs entangled with Ms. Carte as she snores and snoozes. You try to nudge her awake, but her sleep is the sleep of the dead. She won't move an inch.

Her cunt is still milky with your cum.

Extricating yourself, you root through the dresser in your bedroom and find several pairs of clothes -- including some comfy swim trunks.

You pull the trunks on and wander out onto Gustav's little wooden patio that faces toward the sea. The morning is bright and suffused with seagull call.

The only other person who seems to be awake is Whitney. She's changing the oil in Gustav's speedboat over by his private dock, a few dozen yards away.

You walk over, calling out to her. "Hey," you say. "What's up?"

"I think I'm going into town," she says, pouring the viscous amber liquid through a funnel. "Rose isn't in our bedroom and the other boat is gone. She was saying something about going to town yesterday before you got back..."

"You and Rose share a bedroom?" you ask, incredulous. "She actually went along with that?"

"Went along with it? She asked for it..."

[X] Well, let's go see what she's up to.
[ ] Let me know if you find her. I'm going to enjoy the ocean.

As Whitney climbs aboard the boat and sits in driver's seat, you notice a limping gait to her step that concerns you. You worry what the long term consequences of that wound will be.

Whitney fires up the motor and pulls away from the dock. As you zip between islands and across the tranquil, azure waters, you can't help but marvel at her skill. "How did you learn to pilot a speedboat?" you shout over the roar of the engine.

"Rose showed me," Whitney replies, pulling on a pair of sunglasses. "Yesterday. Her family's fucking loaded so of course she knows how to drive these things."

You watch the turbulent spray of water all around the boat, and the foamy white wake it leaves behind. You grin. Whitney has no head for school, but she's almost supernaturally adept with anything mechanical. After only a couple hours of practice, she's a pro.

You lean back in the white faux leather seat beside her and enjoy the ride.

Sitting beside Whitney in Gustav's truck, the ride into Koror is quite short. Palau is not a very large place.

"This car is in terrible shape," Whitney complains. "You'd think for an eccentric millionaire, this Gus person would have better vehicles..."

"It seems fine to me. What do you think is wrong with it, exactly?"

Whitney gives you the kind of pitying look people give the mentally deficient. "Just from the way it rides, you can tell the tie rods are all fucked up-- the pinions are probably shot, too-- and the way it chugs, there's gotta be something wrong with the fuel pump. Not to mention the wicked bad knock in the engine... I mean, can't you hear that?"

She pauses, but you don't hear anything. "I hear it," you lie.

"No you don't," she says. "Anyway, it could be almost anything. Wouldn't be surprised at all if it seized up completely." She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. "And that's just for starters. This thing is a certified fuckin' jalopy."

You shrug. "Fix it, then. It should give you something to do if you're bored."

Whitney throws on the A/C, clicking her tongue in frustration. "You know," she says, "you really should learn a bit about working on cars, too. It's kind of sad that your girl knows more than you do."

"You focus on cars," you say. "I'll focus on literally everything else."

Whitney slugs you in the shoulder. "Jerk," she says, smiling warmly. "Don't think you're getting out of this. I'll make a real man out of you yet, just you watch."

Neither of you are sure where to look for Rose first, but she solves the issue for you: as you drive past an open-air flea market, you see her sitting at a booth, offering pamphlets to apathetic passersby.

Whitney slams on the brakes when as you pass Rose's booth. Traffic backs up, eliciting angry honks.

Whitney rolls down her window and flips the bird to the angry motorists as she pulls a highly-illegal u-turn and parks alongside the curb.

You get out of the truck, but Whitney doesn't seem keen on the idea of walking: "I'll wait here, she says." She watches as you jog across the street toward Rose's booth.

"Hello ma'am," Rose says to a passing woman. "I'm trying to start a society-- ma'am? I have some literature here-- ma'am?"

"What are you doing, Rose?" you ask, disapproval in your voice.

She looks up at you, scowling. "Shut it! I'm trying to effect some very important social change in this-- hey, I didn't give you permission to take a pamphlet!--"

"Society for the Prevention of Violence Toward Women," you read aloud. You peer at her. "Really?"

"This is important, you pig. One in every three Palauan girls is sexually assaulted by the age of 20! That's a fact! I read it online!"

You continue reading: "For the edification, education, and empowerment of underprivileged women. Rose Mallory, President."

You grin. "Are you sure this isn't just your way of making a replacement for the student council? You can't stand one second out of the spotlight, can you?"

A man passes by, holding his young daughter by the hand. "Sir?" Rose says. "Sir, I'm trying to start a new-- sir?"

"Doesn't look like they're taking the bait," you say.

"They don't seem very receptive to the message... I only want to help them, but they don't care..."

"Ahh, the white woman's burden. Keep at it, maybe you can Christianize these savages yet." You toss the pamphlet back at her, whanging her in the face. She swats it down angrily.

"Fuck you, Alabaster. I swear to God, I will rape you half to death."

"Maybe that should be the slogan of your little society."

Rose tries to stand, glaring at you menacingly. But she suddenly grows woozy, and stumbles back.

Reflexively, you reach out to catch her fall. You sweep her into your arms, holding her around the waist and head, just like that famous photo of a sailor kissing a nurse in Times Square.

"Hey--" you say. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, it's just-- I'm still a bit messed up from all the blood loss."

"You lost that much blood from a little scrape?"

Rose gazes at your with her lapis-blue eyes. She seems on the verge of saying something important. She prevents herself from doing so, whatever it was.

"You're the worst prig I ever met," she says, still swooning from the blood deficiency.

"Be careful who you insult. I could drop you if I wanted to."

"You won't drop me."

You don't.

Rose wants to stay and peddle her silly little pamphlets, so you decide to leave her to it. But before you head back to the idling truck, an adjacent booth catches your eye. A native is selling handmade trinkets. One of them, a gleaming white necklace made from tiny shells, makes you think of a certain someone.

"How much?" you ask, pointing at the necklace.

"Two dollars," comes the man's gruff reply.

"You take American?"

He looks at you like you're a moron, so you assume that means yes. You pull out your wallet and fish out two crisp dollar bills. Handing them over, you take your prize.

"Can I get something to put this in?" you ask. For another fifty cents, he hands over a tiny teak jewelery case.

This will do quite nicely. You can't believe you almost forgot what today was. Of course, it wouldn't be the first time.

"Who's that for?" Whitney asks as you climb back into the truck.

"Oh, no one," you say, smiling.

"Pfft. You didn't get anything for ME--"

You reach your hand over, snaking it across her inner thigh.

"You got something for someone else, but not for-- oh. Ohhh--" Whitney squirms and purrs as your rub your fingers inside her pussy.

"Here's something for you," you say, your smile taking on an evil cast.

She drives you the ten kilometers back to the dock as you finger her and rub her clit, bringing her cute little cunt to three or four wet, squishy orgasms. Her juices darkly stain the seat in front of her. The plush interior of the truck will smell like female sex for weeks after this.

The other motorists have no idea what obscenity is happening so close to them. Except for Whitney chewing madly on her lip, they can't see anything out of the ordinary. "Make me cum," she hisses over and over. "Ohhh-- fuck yes!" She mashes her thighs together and traps your hand in place.

Life in Palau isn't so bad.

On the boat ride back to the island, Whitney says: "so when are we gonna fuck Cerise?"

"Wh-what?"

"I'm getting kind of tired of waiting for us to fuck Cerise. I mean, honestly."

You shake your head.

"Come onnnn," Whitney goads. She pounds her fist against the dash of the speedboat. "I know you two have been jerking off together. She told me so herself! How much worse is it to just go ahead and stick it in her?"

"You... you didn't say that to her too, did you?"

"Of course I did!" Whitney chirps. "GOD, what is this hangup you two have? Fuck your sister already!"

You massage the bridge of your nose. "When the time is right," you tell her, "MAYBE."

"Pussy." She pulls down her eyelid and sticks her tongue out at you.

Back on Gustav's private beach, Whitney waddles into the water and gets into a splash fight with Mom.

You'd join in, but you get more pleasure as a spectator, watching Whitney's nubile form clashing with Mom's well-developed one. They both seem to be having fun, even if the battle is heated.

Cerise is lying on her stomach on a towel, underneath the shade of a beach umbrella, also watching. You sit down beside her.

"You could use some sun," you say. "The umbrella sort of defeats the purpose..."

"Please," she groans. "I'm not a fan of melanoma. No thank you."

"Just saying," you laugh. You poke her fleshy butt with an index finger. "You're kinda pasty, is all."

She slaps your hand away. "You're one to talk!"

Your conversation stops short as a frisbee whirs past, curving perfectly around the metal pole of the beach umbrella.

"Yo, brah, catch!" you hear from your left. You look up: it's Spancer. Only... not Spancer. Not the Spancer you're used to, anyway. He's smiling, first of all. And wearing swim trunks.

Then you look over to the person he's playing with. It's also Spancer. Blank-faced and robotic and leather-clad as always. He plucks the frisbee from the air.

"Nice catch, me!" Spancer says. "Toss that shit back!"

Spancer tosses the frisbee. Spancer dives for it, but the momentum behind it knocks him out of the air, onto his back. He wheezes.

"N-nice throw, man..." Spancer heaves. Spancer nods in acknowledgement. Walking over, Spancer reaches down and helps Spancer to his feet.

"Thanks, Spancer," Spancer says.

You lie back on the sand and think of less complicated times. "I'm missing so much anime right now..." you complain.

"Yeah, well, join the club," Cerise says. "And that's not the worst of it. In case you forgot, your stupid ass got our house burned down. My figmas, my manga collection..."

"My blu-rays..." you add.

"My furbies and circuits..."

"My porn..."

"My toys..."

You share a pained moment of silence in memory of the things you lost.

As you lie on the beach beside Cerise, you feel a shadow pass over you. Looking up, you see Vivian. She has what looks like a metal detector in her hands.

"Alabaster Soliloquy," she says.

"Vivian, I think we've been through enough that you can just call me Alabaster."

She blushes.

"Ahem," she coughs, covering her mouth daintily with a fist. "Alabaster. Please perambulate along the shore with me. I am searching for hidden treasure."

[X] All right.
[ ] I'm fine here with Cerise, thanks. We can hang out later.

As you walk along the shore, Vivian turns on the metal detector. It instantly lets out a shrill whirm that signals nearby treasure. Vivian's eyes widen -- a rare glimpse of childlike enthusiasm -- and she drops to her knees, digging at the wet sand. But she comes up empty-handed.

"How odd..." she mumbles.

"What kind of treasure do you think we'll find out here, anyway?"

"All kinds," Vivian avers. "Palau was part of the Pacific theater in the second World War. Who knows what the Japanese concealed from the allies on these islands?"

She flips on the detector again, and once more it whirs. Vivian sweeps it around in a circle, but the whirring doesn't stop. She waves it around the air, and still it thrums incessantly.

You see Ms. Carte approaching from the house, wearing a bikini of her own. Her top is a size too small, you think -- not that you're complaining about how the fabric clings and digs into her well-proportioned breasts. You believe this is known as 'skindentation.'

"I believe this device is broken," Vivian says.

"I think it works just fine," Ms. Carte says.

Vivian turns, noticing Ms. Carte for the first time.

"You and Alabaster have-- a lot of metal components inside of you, remember," Ms. Carte says.

Vivian's eyes glimmer with recognition. "Oh," she says flatly. You sense dejection in that. She drops the metal detector in the sand, not even looking down at it.

You glance around, trying to think of something to cheer her up. "Hey--" you say. "I haven't been swimming yet. You want to test the water with me?"

Vivian looks up at you. "Test the water..." she repeats. Then she shakes her head curtly. "I apologize. I am unfamiliar with the mechanics of treading water."

You gawk at her. "...You don't know how to swim?"

"Correct," she says.

You sigh. But glancing back at Gustav's house, you notice some bodyboards propped up against the wall.

"That's no problem," you tell Vivian. "I'll take you swimming anyway."

Vivian lies prone on the pink bodyboard you select for her. You hold her, one hand on her little butt and one between her shoulders, as you guide her into the ocean.

Vivian winces as the water rises around her and flows over the underside of her belly. Her onepiece becomes sodden and clings to her pale skin.

"Please don't let go of me," she says, voice trembling.

"I'm not going to let go..." you grumble. "Geez."

Ms. Carte walks beside you, petting Vivian's hair to encourage her.

"What's up with the two Spancers, anyway?" you ask, jerking your head back toward the beach where Spancer 1 and Spancer 2 are still horsing around.

Vivian dogpaddles weakly against the surface to no discernible effect. All she manages to do is kick up a few tiny splashes. "Mmph--" she hums, struggling. Her cheeks puff out in a cute pout.

Having waded out until the water reaches your knees, you and Ms. Carte stop. Vivian floats between you, immobile.

"One is Spancer, and one is a model Gustav made," Ms. Carte says. "Like a male Viv-tan."

"So... which one is the real Spancer?"

"That's a question for the philosophers, I think."

"Mmmph," Vivian pouts. You look down at her. "Why has our progress ceased?"

You grin with a sudden mischievous impulse, and pull the bodyboard out from underneath her. Her face slackens with terror. But at the very same instant, you sweep your arm under her, keeping her from falling into the water.

You pull Vivian upright and against your body. She's so thin that you can feel her little ribcage against your fingers as you hold her.

Ms. Carte grabs the bodyboard before it floats away, and holds it by her side.

"What are you doing?" Vivian demands.

Keeping her held tight, you back away, deeper into the cool sea, the water slowly submersing you to the waist. The warmth of Vivian's body translated through her slick swimsuit is heavenly.

"Alabaster," Vivian says, kicking her feet underneath the water. "I-- I admit to being rather terrified at this juncture."

"Why are you scared?" you ask. "I've got ahold of you."

"Please don't let go."

"You're like a broken record, you know? I'm not going to let go of you."

"Not ever?"

"Well," you laugh cruelly, "I can't promise THAT much--"

"Alabasterrr--" she whines.

You nuzzle the top of her head to let her know you're joking. She sighs sweetly.

"Just so you're aware," Ms. Carte says, "I recommend against vaginal intercourse. For a number of reasons. First of all, we don't know what kind of effect it will have on either of you. Secondly--"

Ms. Carte sighs as she watches your mutual nuzzling become a deep and tender tongue-kiss. You and Vivian stare at one another with heavily lidded eyes.

"Well, I guess you're going to do what you want to, huh?" Ms. Carte says. "Just try not to cause Armageddon. And don't say I didn't tell you so."

She turns and wades back to the shore.

"Intercourse..." Vivian repeats, pulling back from you. "Should we...?"

"Well-- if you want," you tell her.

You rub her board-flat chest through her swimsuit, teasing her nipples to hardness. She oohs and aahs at your touch, lips contorting into a lustful grimace. You nibble on her tiny earlobe.

"There are-- others, nearby," Vivian says. And she's right. There are plenty of people around now. Cerise is still sunbathing, Mom and Whitney are still tussling in the water a couple dozen yards away -- the two Spancers are playing around on shore, Ms. Carte is conversing with Gustav -- even Rose is returning to the island from her little excursion. All around you, the beach buzzes with activity.

"It's fine," you whisper. "No one can see what's happening under the surface."

You step out of your trunks, reveling in the sinful feeling of being a skinnydipper. Your hot cock presses insistently against Vivian's bottom. She chews on her lip and flushes, turning a shade of crimson.

"What do you want?" you ask, running kisses up and down her face and neck, groping her lasciviously. If anyone from civilized society saw you right now, they would certainly brand you a molester -- after all, that's exactly what you're doing -- but here in this island paradise, it doesn't matter. Underneath the surface, Vivian rubs her legs against your thighs and her feet against your knees.

"I-I want..." she stammers. "S-sex."

"What was that? Didn't quite hear you."

"I w-want you to please... have sex. W-with me."

"Hmm, I'm not sure how to do that. What does that kind of thing involve, exactly? Be specific."

Vivian cranes her head back, straining to look up into your taunting eyes. "I want you to take your-- your penis-- and then..."

She trails off, blushing.

"My penis, check," you say. You thrust your cock in between her thighs, rubbing it against her darling cameltoe. "What should I do with it?"

"I-inside," she says. "Inside of me."

You turn her around in your arms so that she faces you. She braces herself against you, palms flat against your chest, as you reach down and tug her onepiece to the side far enough to permit entry.

"Here?" you ask, rubbing your thumb against her puffed-out, pulsing slit. "Inside your cunt?"

"Y-yes," she says, nodding. "Inside my c-c-cunt." She stumbled adorably on the profane language.

You pull her close. She hugs you, her spindly arms linking together across your back. You grip your cock by the base and guide it home, rubbing your head against her impossibly small pussy lips.

"This might hurt," you warn her.

You thrust.

"Ah!" she moans. Even though only the head is in, she registers pain at the sudden invasion. She locks her legs around your waist and hunches up as if trying to curl into a ball around you, as you tear away her virginity.

You push forward, meeting rubbery resistance as inch by agonizing inch of your cock shaft slides into the suckling tightness of her insides. Her walls cling against you, stretching to their very limits. It's almost painful even for you.

You aren't halfway in before your cockhead hits the hard nubbin of her cervix and can't progress further.

You begin to pull out, but she stops you, tapping you on the back. You stare into her eyes.

"More," she tells you. "I want all of you..."

You marvel at this tiny, birdlike creature in your arms. "Are you sure?" you ask, feeling her cunt muscles contract around your dick -- your dick that is much, much too large to be raping itself into such a small body.

"All of you," she repeats.

You thrust forward again. This brings a new round of pained mewls from poor Vivian. She digs her fingernails into your back but endures it as your force your cock past the ring of her cervix and forward, forward into her very womb. Her uterus balloons out and expands to grip the head of your dick, like a tiny little onahole, but the position still leaves a couple inches of your shaft outside of her body.

"More..." she pants. "All of it..."

You push forward, completely violating her virgin body. Her womb expands and stretches to accomodate your fuck-shaft.

When you're fully inside of her, you allow her a moment to adjust. She squirms and wiggles, impaled on you.

"It feels--" she begins. She looks up at you. "It feels good."

"Really?"

"It feels very good. Very... mmm~... very good. I'm full with you. I'm completely full with you."

"Oh God, Vivian, if you say things like that--"

"It's okay," she says. "You can ejaculate inside of me whenever you want. My womb is made to hold your sperm."

"Fuck, Vivian..." You pull out and thrust into her, jostling her small body, causing her teeth to clatter. "Fuck. You're so tight. You're so little..."

"Yes," she agrees. "Then -- please accept me as your little cum receptacle."

"Fuuuck," you groan. Her womb, cervix, and pussy spasm all around you. It's hot, snug -- and so incredibly nasty. You lay your cheek against her head and fuck yourself in and out of her child-sized hole to your heart's content.

You could break her, completely ruin her, and she wouldn't mind it at all.

"Say that again," you tell her.

"Please use me as your little cum receptacle."

You rub her clit with a thumb as her reward. "I love you," you tell her.

"I... love you, too."

"I'm going to cum inside of you. I'm going to let all of my cum out inside of you."

You pound yourself into her three more times, each one harder than the last. Slam-- slam-- SLAM-- and then you drain your aching balls into her little loli fuckhole, her little quivering womb that exists only to hold your cum. Your cock spits and spews and blows rope after slimy rope of cum inside of her, marking her as yours forever.

You kiss her, and she screams her own orgasm into your mouth.

GIRLS FUCKED: 4/6

As you go back inside, Vivian trails behind, rubbing her cum-filled belly with both hands. "It's so warm inside of me..." she says.

She heads toward her room to rest, and you figure she's earned it. The idea that she will drift to sleep with your cum sloshing around inside her womb is a nice thought, anyway.

As you pass by the bathroom on the ground level, you see Rose through the open door, sitting on the edge of the tub. She's looking into an adjustable mirror propped up on the ground and tugging uncertainly at the hem of a broad gauze bandage wrapped around her left side, where Dalton slashed her.

"What are you doing?" you ask, stepping inside.

She glances up at you. "I have to dress the wound," she says.

"Let me help," you offer.

"Oh, please. I don't need YOU to--" but you're already on bended knee and tugging back the bandage.

Rose tilts her head up toward the ceiling and closes her eyes. "It needs antiseptic and a fresh bandage," she tells you. Using a forefinger, she indicates the supplies sitting at the foot of the tub.

"On it."

You peel back current bandage. Her wound is a long, vaguely S-shaped slash running from her navel to her armpit, just barely having missed the bottom of her left mammary. The cut looks moderately deep, but not very wide.

Rose keeps her eyes clenched shut as you dispense a dollop of the foul-smelling iodine onto a washcloth. She gulps audibly.

"Please be quick..." she begs.

You rub the solution into her wound.

"Thhhhh--" she hisses, drawing a sharp breath through gritted teeth. Then: "It hurts! It hurts it hurts!"

"Don't be such a wuss," you chide jokingly.

"Fuck you, Alabaster! Ohhh-- ow, ow!" 

You try to make the process as quick and tender as possible, but it's no use. Finally the terrycloth completes its transit to Rose's armpit. You cap the iodine bottle and begin to apply the new bandage.

"Why are your eyes still closed?" you ask after a few moments. "It doesn't still hurt, does it?"

"I-- really don't want to see, if I don't have to." She peeks at you through one eyelid. "Is it very bad? Is my body ruined forever?"

"It's fine," you say. "If there's a scar, it'll be hardly visible."

Rose breathes a sigh of relief. She opens her eyes. She smiles in a way that indicates she's trying to stifle it and it won't stay back.

"Of course," you add, "I'll still know about it. And I can still tease you about it..."

"You fucking pig!" she shouts, and punches you in the side.

"Hey!" you say, laughing, but then notice a bandage in the crook of her elbow. "What's this?" you ask, taking her arm in yours.

She jerks it back. "It's nothing," she says. "Mind your own fucking business, you-- fucking, chauvinist-- body shaming-- piece of, piece of shit--" she stammers and stutters her insults, even as you finish applying the bandage.

[X] Push the question.
[ ] Drop it.

"I told you, it's nothing!" She tries to stand up and stomp off. You grab her by the wrist, wheeling her around to face you.

"Don't lie to me," you say gently, and peck her on the forehead. "You didn't become a heroin junkie in the past 48 hours, did you?"

"I told you already," she says, looking away. "I lost a lot of blood..."

"Through a cut in your arm? What happened?"

"It's not a cut," Rose says. She peels back the transparent adhesive tape and pulls aside the blood-dabbled cotton swab so you can see the little borehole in her arm.

"You have AB blood..." she says. "And-- I have AB blood..."

You blink. "You donated blood to me?" you say.

"Rather a lot, I should think."

"Oh Jesus," you say, the full understanding finally hitting you. If she's still woozy from it two days after the fact, it must have nearly killed her.

"What on Earth was I supposed to do?" Rose says, her voice at once tender and frustrated. "I couldn't just sit around while you died."

"Rose."

"I'm not going to give up a pet like you so easily, Alabaster. I still haven't broken you yet--"

"Rose." You clasp her chin in your hand and stare into her eyes.

You kiss her, and she returns it eagerly. She has to stand on tiptoes to reach your mouth.

"You owe me," she says.

"What do you want?"

She trails off, thinking. Then she pounds a fist lightly against your chest. "As much rape as I can handle!" she says.

"Hmm," you muse. "Going in which direction?"

She looks genuinely confused. "...Does that really matter?"

You kiss her again.

Dinner is a completely mangled surf-and-turf dish with a deliciously smooth white wine to help you all force it down. After two straight nights of mangled haute cuisine, Gustav helpfully offers to resume his duties as the house cook, but Mom won't hear a word of it.

"I'm your guest," she insists. "I should contribute!"

"Ah-- but-- you see, ze zing is--"

"No! Stop with that nonsense this instant!"

It's kind of awkward, frankly.

And yet -- as always she redeems herself with the dessert. This time it's some sort of papaya-based pastry dish that you've never seen in your life and find it hard to fathom she could have possibly known about all these years without sharing it. Wrapped inside a flaky, buttery crust is a fruity filling with the consistency of jam that melts in your mouth and coats your tongue.

You think at least a few of the girls have micro-orgasms as they demolish the sweet treats. Ms. Carte's little hiccups of delight certainly aren't chaste. Neither is Cerise's animalistic moan whenever she takes a bite of hers.

After dessert, Mom begins to clear the plates from the table. You stand, stopping her. "Let me help," you say.

She stammers, looking side to side at the other dinner guests. "I-- I don't need any help," she says.

"Maybe not. But it's nice to have help sometimes, anyway."

You begin gathering plates, too.

You and Mom stand side-by-side at the sink, scrubbing dishes.

"I don't know what you're playing at... but it won't work!" she huffs.

"Geez. I can't just do something nice for you?"

"A twerp like you?" she laughs. "Let me fall over dead!"

You take the spray nozzle from the back of the sink and, with a flick of your wrist, nail her with a quick blast of warm water.

"Alabaster--!" she shrieks. Looking down at her soaked-through bikini top, her angry expression turns to a devious grin. She feints to the side, distracting you long enough to snatch the nozzle from you, and blasts you back in kind.

Dripping wet and annoyed, you barrel into her, tackling her to the ground. She cries out, laughing, as you you pin her under you.

"You brat!" she squeals.

"Be quiet, hey--" you grab both her wrists in one hand to keep her from hitting you. Reaching into the pocket of your swim trunks, you produce the teak jewelery box.

"For you," you say.

You lean back and let Mom take the box in her hands. She goes completely silent as she sits upright, examining it.

Her fingers are trembling as she opens the lid.

"You remembered..." she says.

"So how old are you today?" you ask. "Like 104 or something, right?"

Mom reddens and kicks you in the shin. "You're unbelievably crass!" But then, pulling the necklace from the case and holding in front of her: "this is beautiful..."

"Sorry it's not something more. Short notice-- I swear I had something much fancier hidden under my bed before the house went up in smoke..."

"Yeah right," she says. She unclasps the necklace and strings it around her delicate throat.

"Is it okay?" you ask.

"I love it."

She fixes you with a dewy gaze. "I know this isn't proper-- but-- can I sleep with you tonight?"

"--Excuse me?"

"O-only because your father's snoring keeps waking me up! That's all!"

"Don't slander my father. He sleeps like an angel."

Mom grouses, looking away.

"Let's go. The dishes can wait for tomorrow." You take her by the hand. 

You drift wordlessly to your bedroom together. Her quivering, dainty hand is warm in you palm.

There's something freeing about dropping the facade. As you patter softly across the carpet of your bedroom and lie down, you both know what's about to happen, and neither of you are putting up fake insults to resist it.

You lie down. She curls up beside you.

"You've been having sex with other girls in here, haven't you," she says. "It's in the air..."

"Yeah."

"And with Vivian earlier today, too... in broad daylight, no less."

"Yeah."

"What am I going to do with you? A girl that young has no idea what she's doing."

"Well, that's sort of the appeal..."

She clucks in disapproval.

You run a hand through her hair and pull her in, kissing her on the lips. And there's something to be said for the methods of an experienced woman, too. Your nostrils fill with her flowery scent as her tongue dances across your mouth. Your past month or so of experience -- while extensive -- can't compete. She has you completely outclassed, so you decide to surrender to her while you can. Her lips, tongue, and even the pace of her breath, ravish your pliant mouth. She does exactly what she wants with you.

"I've waited so long for this..." she sighs, finally and completely honest.

You slide a hand under the straps of her bikini top and pull them down. She helps, wiggling out of the garment and letting it bunch around her belly. You admire her round, full, heavy breasts with their firm dark nipples, so tender and soft.

"You can... suck on them-- i-if that's the kind of perverted thing that excites you..."

You cusp one of her breasts lightly and draw the nipple into your mouth, pulling on it with forceful suction. It's warm and tantalizing against your roaming tongue. You half expect -- and sort of want -- her milk to pour down your throat. It would be warm and sweet like sugar, but nothing comes out despite your best efforts. 

She reaches down between you and pulls at the hem of your trunks.

"Let me see it..." she purrs.

Just as she helped you, you help her, kicking off the nylon swimwear. You roll onto your back, lying before her, completely naked and painfully hard.

Mom props herself up on one elbow and stares admiringly at your member. It twitches and drools a tiny strand of precum on your stomach.

"It's so big," she says. "My son's manhood..."

She reaches out and clasps it in her hand, tugging the foreskin deliciously back and forth, smearing the glans with the slimy precum. Involuntarily, she licks her lips.

"Can we..." she starts, but trails off.

"You're the birthday girl," you say. "And besides, you're supposed to be showing me how it's done, right?"

Mom smiles. She pulls down her bikini bottom. But instead of throwing it aside, she holds it up, dangling it in front of your face. The crotch is sodden and darkly stained. You can smell her special scent -- it's like a combination of your own genital musk and your sister's, fittingly enough. It's intoxicating. It makes your eyes cross.

"Look," she says. "Look how wet you made your mother... you make me this wet every single day. That's not fair, is it? You need to treat me better."

She sets the bikini bottom aside and rolls onto you, straddling your waist.

It feels different than you expected as she rubs her cunt lips against your swollen cock. You look down, and your jaw hangs open in surprise.

"I did that for you," she says. "Do you like it, darling?"

Her pussy is shaved completely bare -- it's as smooth as little Vivian's was. Her pussy lips in all their pink glory wrap wetly around your member, gliding up and down with barely any friction.

"It's--" you choke.

She reaches down and takes your hands in hers. Kissing you in the precise opposite way a woman should kiss her son, she allows her saliva to mix with yours and her tongue to once more explore your wanting mouth.

"Perverted woman," you say. 

"So you like it, then?" she asks, rubbing herself against you indecently, her arousal coating your dick.

"It's great ...You're great."

She smiles.

"This cunt is yours now," she says. You inhale sharply at these words. "Use it whenever you want. Please-- use it every day..."

She slides up the length of your cock so the head is positioned at her welcoming entrance. And then, cooing wantonly, she fucks your prick inside of her, taking the entire length in one hard thrust.

You grunt. Her hands clasp yours tightly and she nuzzles your neck.

"Mmm-- we fit together so well... don't you think?"

"Yes," you moan. The folds and crevices of her interior walls perfectly cradle your churning cock. You pump as she bounces atop you, stirring up her lewd insides. Her firm calf muscles and belly strain with the exertion. Sweat coils down her body.

"Am I better than those other silly girls?" she asks.

You shower her with open-mouth kisses and tender groans of affection, but she presses the issue. With her cunt rhythmically massaging your aching, needful cock, she asks again: "am I better?"

"Yes... yes, you're better... you're the best--"

"Alabaster!" she cries, cumming herself. "I love you!"

"I love you, too--"

"Cum inside of me! I want all of it inside of me! Ahhhnnnn~~"

You clasp her soft, pliable butt and force her down, holding her in place. She bites her lips so hard they bleed and wags her hips back and forth like a fucking dog as she orgasms around you, again and again and again.

"Mom--" you pant. "Mom, I'm gonna--"

"Do it! Do it!"

You cry with sweet release as your cock flexes, pulses, and ejaculates inside your mother's hot cunt. You fill her with your incestuous seed. You cum with such force that you can actually hear the muffled spurt of the creamy explosion. The cum dribbles out around you, all over her pussy lips and your balls, as you share a deep, dreamy, loving kiss.

GIRLS FUCKED: 5/6
HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY! 

You wake to the obnoxious squawk of seagulls and the glare of tropical sun streaming through your sheer satin curtains.

The one saving grace is Mom's arms and legs wrapped snugly around you, cuddling you close to her warm and buxom figure. You could lie against that softness forever.

Like Cerise, she has a bad habit of kicking you in her sleep, but you're slowly learning to sleep through it too.

Whitney is sitting in a wicker chair in the corner when you come to.

"Incest is wrong, you know," Whitney says, smiling.

"So is coming into someone's room unannounced. How long have you been there?"

She shrugs. "About an hour. You Soliloquys sleep so late. I came here for a midmorning quickie but you were so cute all cuddled up with Mrs. Soliloquy like that, I figured I'd watch you for a while. It's peaceful."

You pull away from Mom's sleeping form and sit up in bed.

"Do you think I'll have a body that rockin' when I'm 97, too?" Whitney asks.

"One can only hope."

Whitney looks down and grabs her mosquito bites in either hand, pushing them together and creating a rather pitiful faux cleavage in her bikini top. "I wonder if these will grow once I'm pregnant."

"Once you're--" you sputter.

But Whitney changes the subject before you have time to object. "You keep breaking rule 1..." she pouts, looking back up at you. "...Oversexed motherfucker."

You doubt she even realizes her pun. "I never agreed to your rules," you say.

"Well, I'm making one more," she says. She stands up. "Rule 5: no rules."

"You're not very bright, are you?"

"But-- only with us-- err--" she stops to count on her fingers. "--Only with us six. No holds barred. And I'm changing rule 1, too. You have to let me join in whenever I want. No questions!"

"Allow me to reiterate: I agree to nothing."

"It's settled, then." She climbs onto the bed and looms over Mom, shadowing her.

"Ally, let's give her a massage."

"We aren't fucking her if she doesn't want it," you warn Whitney as she takes Mom's fleshy calf in her palms.

"Oh please. I'm not some kind of sex pervert. Besides...." she trails off and grins dreamily. "I jilled off in that chair a few times thinking about you two fucking each other, so I'm set for now."

"Not a sex pervert. Right."

Mom snaps into consciousness from Whitney's ministrations on her calf muscles. She sits bolt upright, looking down at Whitney's dextrous hands and impish face.

"Good morning, Mrs. Soliloquy."

"W-what are you--" she says. You quickly position yourself behind her and grip her at the union of shoulder and neck, pressing your thumbs into the bundle of muscle fibers that you recall from anatomy as the superior trapezius. See: cramming for quiz bowl can pay off.

Mom's face melts, her lips going all trembly and her face slackening from the dual sensations of you and Whitney double-teaming her. Looking over Mom's shoulder and down to her pale crotch, you can see her cream-spattered pussy begin to glisten with arousal.

"Your muscles are really tense, Mrs. Soliloquy. Are you stressed?"

"Y-you awful children are-- you're assaulting me-eeee--" she moans.

Whitney works her wandering hands up and down, exploring Mom's fleshy thighs, bulging calves, arched feet, and pear-shaped hips. She doesn't seem to have a definite pattern to her massage and probably doesn't know how to properly administer one. No matter. You're no maseuse, either. This is all just a pretext to lovingly grope her, anyway.

There's something deliciously perverted about molesting your mother with your girlfriend joining in. So sure, Whitney is a sex pervert -- you wouldn't have her any other way.

Mom throws her head back, cradling the back of her head against your shoulder. Her silky hair tickles you all over as you work her shoulders, neck, and back.

"S-stop-- stop--" she pleads powerlessly, but there are no brakes on this train.

Whitney's fingers draw nearer and nearer to Mom's cum-filled cunt every time she reaches the upward apex of her massage.

And then suddenly, despite her promise not to, she buries her face in her pussy. Her nose touches Mom's fat clit and you can hear the sound of her wagging tongue siphoning your cum from Mom's ravaged body. Mom bites the side of her hand to keep from squealing.

"Alabaster--" she groans, but doesn't finish the thought.

"Your pussy's so warm, Mrs. Soliloquy..." Whitney purrs. "Ally, turn her over."

You guide her down so she lies on her stomach. Mom's fat bottom and barest hint of lovehandles are somehow even lewder in contrast to Whitney's boyish figure. Whitney climbs onto her, lying tummy-to-back, and spreads Mom's luscious ass cheeks as wide as they'll go. The look on Whitney's face when she reveals her pulsing rosebud is like a little kid given a lifetime supply of candy.

Whitney dives in in and suckles, poking her slimy tongue into a probing tip. She moans sensually to herself as she orally molests her. She laps at her ass, perineum, and the bottom of her sopping pussy in long, slow, drooling strokes. Mom bites her pillow and tries to squirm away, but Whitney has her pinned.

"Mmmmf--" Whitney heaves, licking and sucking hungrily. At random intervals, she slaps Mom's ass. You watch the flesh of her butt jiggle with milky waves every time it happens, the surface slowly turning red under Whitney's assault.

You can't help yourself. You grip Mom by the hair and turn her face to the side, rubbing your horny cock against her flushed cheeks and full lips.

"Your dyke girlfriend is raping me..." she says. "Aren't you going to do something... ungf~... about-- unnnn~~"

She gulps hard as ripples of pleasure course through her.

"You like it, don't you? We can stop if you want."

"T-that's not the point-- you... you s-stupid..."

Even despite her weakening protest, she reaches out and takes your throbbing dick in her hands. You let go of your shaft and let her soft, damp palms work you. She jerks you off against her sweat-sheened face as Whitney's tongue works its magic on her from behind.

Maybe it's hereditary. You climax at the same moment she does. Mom practically shrieks as she cums herself silly, her jaw hanging open and making the perfect target out of her warm, inviting mouth. You push forward and lay your cockhead against her tongue, grunting as she milks rope after rope of semen directly into the back of her throat. She swallows it like ambrosia, savoring the taste. A few stray strands land on her chin and lips, which she dutifully scoops up and licks down as well.

There are few sensations better than relieving yourself in your own mother's mouth.

Whitney pulls Mom onto her back and shares a long, passionate kiss with her. A kiss Mom returns. Whitney's tongue roots around in her mouth as if trying to lick up the vestiges of your essence from here, as well. At the same time, Whitney paws and fondles Mom's enormous breasts. So much for this massage being chaste.

Whitney leaves Mom a twitchy, shuddering mess by the time she heads out to enjoy some sun on Gustav's beach.

You stay behind for a several more minutes to pick up where Whitney left off, tonguing wetly with Mom on your bed. You can taste the faintest hint of yourself in her mouth, but it's not unpleasant: it just adds to the wanton sensation of taboo. You lie atop her, practically smothered in her breasts and fleshy body, nursing on her tongue. Your still erect cock is nestled against her tummy, drooling precum into her navel.

And hey -- the massage actually worked, after all: Mom's muscles are loose and limber now. She lies limply on the bed, hardly able to move, and certainly not able to stand. Her pussy is engorged and coated in Whitney's thick saliva -- her inner thighs and ass, too. You know from experience how obscenely sloppy Whitney's blowjobs are, and her muff-diving isn't any different.

You finally stand. You walk to the window. From the bed, Mom stammers: "y-you'll be doing that again, right? -- N-not that I enjoyed it! I just... I just need to know so I can prepare myself for your awful abuse in the future..."

You grin. "We'll be doing lots more together."

Behind you, Mom whimpers.

Outside, Whitney is sitting in the sand with Vivian, helping her construct a sand castle. You figure Rose, Cerise and Ms. Carte are probably still sleeping in their respective rooms, and Gustav should be in his lab. The two Spancers are playing in the ocean, far away -- two white specks you can hardly make out. It's a Saturday, so the town should have interesting things going on, too. And there's lots of other things to do besides.

So:

>What do you do?

[X] Visit Rose.

Gustav's living room is enormous, the ceiling double tall. As you pass through, you hear a strange sibilant hiss above your head. You look up.

Smatters is gliding in languid circles, near to the ceiling, jet thrusters swiveling this way and that with tiny bursts of blue-and-yellow flame to stabilize the flight path. He (she? it?) seems to be nibbling on some sort of leafy tuber.

Finally, Smatters comes to rest atop a crystal chandelier, wiggling its fluffy butt around to get comfortable. The chandelier sways from the sudden force of Smatters's landing, swinging back and forth like an enormous pendulum.

You smile to yourself. You had assumed Smatters perished in the house fire.

But -- right now, you have more than bunnies on the mind. You hurry toward Rose's bedroom.

Rose is lying in bed, gazing out her window, when you enter.

Her head whips around to regard you once she hears the shuffling of your feet. Her surprise gives way to a cute little pout. "Oh. It's you."

She tries to prop her weight on her elbow, but this clearly causes her pain. She winces and falls back against the mattress, clutching at the bandage wrapped around her torso. She grits her teeth to keep from crying out.

"Ha. I have you right where I want you," you say, play-acting at menace.

Rose rolls her eyes. "Don't think just because I'm hurt that I can't fuck you up, Alabaster."

You look more closely at her bandage. A curving streak in the shape of her wound has formed on the surface, yellow-red with seeping iodine and blood. It looks agonizing, and not exactly hygienic.

"Is your wound all right?" you ask.

"I have to change the gauze every morning and evening. Otherwise it gets like this."

>How will you handle this situation?

[X] Change her bandages for her.

You approach her bed. Rose rolls onto her side and bares her teeth, apparently ready to fight back if you try anything sketchy. But in her weakened state, it wouldn't be much of a fight anyway.

You sweep your arms underneath her and haul her up, cradling her like a groom with his bride on the wedding day. With your newfound strength, she seems to weigh almost nothing.

"Let go of me, you fucking creep!"

She kicks weakly at the air but doesn't gain any traction against you. You do an about-face and carry her gently out of the bedroom, down the hall, and to the bathroom.

You set her on the edge of the bathtub. Finally, she seems to get the idea.

"You don't need to do this every time," she says, trying to give her voice its old hostile edge.

"What if I want to?"

Rose can't formulate a response to this. Her facial muscles twitch, oscillating between a smile and a sneer.

"Besides," you say. "It's pretty obvious that you need a strong man to protect you."

"You are such a fucking chauv-- ahhh--" she sighs in sudden pain as you peel back the gauze. The thickly weaved cotton sticks to her wound as you pull on it. The inner layers are sodden with blood.

"Is the wound getting worse?" you ask with concern.

"It bleeds a lot more at night, that's all... I toss and turn a lot."

She closes her eyes and lets you work, hissing and tensing at even the tenderest touch. You slowly unwind the bandage, revealing the deep, unsightly gash in her porcelain skin.

You remember that this wound exists because she was protecting you.

Even though you try to make it easy on her, she isn't taking it well. A lot of her suffering seems to be psychic -- she's afraid of pain way more than she's actually experiencing it.

"Please don't hurt me..." she begs in a tiny, trembling voice.

"I don't want to hurt you," you say.

You say it before you can think about it. Rose's eyes pop open and she looks down. You stare at one another for a few long, wordless moments.

"I'm going to put the iodine on now," you say. Rose curls her toes, bracing herself for the new ordeal.

Getting an idea -- completely selfless, you swear -- you coax her butt forward to the edge of the tub so you can pull down her panties.

She opens her eyes to slits and watches. You puff a few hot breaths on her puffy labia with its bright pink clitoral hood.

"What are you doing..."

"Focus on the pleasure, all right?"

You open wide and envelop her pussy completely. You snake your tongue out and wiggle it into the soft folds of her vulva. At the same time, you work the antiseptic-coated washcloth up her torso.

"Ala-- Alabaster--" she says, her voice breathy and quiet.

You stare into her eyes. Her face is deeply flushed and caught in flux between ecstasy and agony.

Her pussy is sweetest you've tasted. The warm juices coat your tongue like a sugary drink. They flow to the back of your mouth, down your throat. You drink her greedily as you service her: your reward for a good deed. Your fingers trace the contours of her wound, disinfecting her, as you bring her to a shuddering orgasm.

"Alabaster-- I'm-- I'm cumming! Ohhh--!!" Her breaths are shallow and ragged. Her cute tummy heaves with the effort of climax. Her pussy ripples and cums in your sucking mouth. You tease her clit with the tip of your tongue as her cream pools under your tongue.

When she loses consciousness, you spring to your feet and catch her, keeping her from falling head-first into the tub.

She wakes up as you're finishing with the new bandage.

"How do you feel?" you ask.

"Better. Shaky."

You help her to her feet. She stands several heads shorter than you, and you muse on how adorable her compact yet still fully developed form is.

"This isn't fair," she says, glancing around the green tiled room. "You promised me rape..."

You shrug. "Are you strong enough to take it?"

"Take it?" Rose says, looking up at you. Her eyes simmer. "Who said anything about taking it?"

>What do you do?

[X] Pretend to be raped

You grin broadly, ear to ear.

"I'm not going to let you win just because you're putting up this damsel in distress act," you say. "What do I look like, an idiot?"

"As a matter of fact, yes..."

Rose darts for the sink on still-wobbly legs. Opening the cabinet underneath, she produces a pair of stainless steel handcuffs. She slaps one of the bracelets around your wrist, latching it in place.

"What the hell--" you say. She pivots around you and tugs your other arm back, cuffing you.

You could fight her off if you wanted -- you can break these cuffs -- but you're interested in seeing how far this goes.

"Why the hell were you keeping those things in here?" you ask.

"After you changed my bandage yesterday... I thought you might be stupid enough to do it again today. I was a girl scout, you know. I'm always prepared."

You make a show of pulling against your restraints. Rose grins smugly when you can't break free.

"Come with me," she says. Then, standing on her tiptoes to whisper in your ear: "you're my prisoner, now..."

She brings you back to her shared bedroom. Laying you on her bed, she tugs down your swim trunks.

"You bitch!" you say, pretending to struggle and playing up the anger. "I'll make you pay!"

"Shut up, you fucking dog," Rose says. Her voice drips with loathing but is still weak.

"I'm going to fucking RUIN you--" you begin.

She slaps you across the face. And even though you're a lot stronger now, you're not immune to pain. It stings like hell and leaves a nasty red welt behind. The sudden violence startles you enough to distract you as Rose momentarily uncuffs your wrists.

She tosses you a sheer sundress and matching bra and panties from her dresser. The underwear is dark black, lacy and slutty. The dress is white, practically transparent, and whorishly short -- especially for a person of your height.

"Put that on," Rose commands. "Or I'll beat you bloody and put it on for you."

>Will you put the outfit on?

[X] Yes, but no.

"Like hell," you stammer.

This time your resistance is genuine. You're willing to give Rose a lot of leeway after everything she did for you, but this is too much. You're not gay, for godsakes.

Rose tries to smack you again, but you sit up and grab her wrist, stopping her mid-swing. She looks at you with wild eyes. Panicking, she tries to smack you with her other hand. You grab that one, too.

Wrenching her arms apart, you say firmly, "that's enough. I'm not wearing a dress."

"Oh yes you are!" she insists.

She headbutts you.

You involuntarily release her as you fly back, knocked prone against the mattress. Rose grabs the bra and straddles you as she tries to force it on. You push her arms away every time she makes the attempt.

You really don't want to hurt her, but she's getting carried away.

"Fuck you!" she shouts. "You promised!"

"I didn't promise you THIS! Get off of me! I'm warning you--"

"Put it on! I'm your mistress and I'm ORDERING you!"

"Arrrg--" you heave and push her back, off of you. She falls prone as well, her body pointed in the opposite direction to you, panting and heaving, clutching at her wound.

"Goddamn it," you say. "I didn't want to do that..."

You sit up. Reaching over, you try to help her. But she waves you off.

Clambering to her knees on her own, she looks at you with fiery eyes.

"Put it on."

"No. There are other things we can--"

"Put it on!!" she yells.

You feel yourself blasted back by some powerful, alien force. Your spine and arms are pinned against the headboard, immobilized. You try to move but it's no use.

Rose isn't even touching you -- how is this possible?

You begin to feel genuine fear.

Rose's shocked expression says she understands what just happened as little as you do.

"Alabaster?" she asks. "Are you all right?"

"I-- I can't move--"

Rose grins. "How sweet of you..." she murmurs to herself. She must think you're acting again.

"No..." you say "Rose, I'm serious. I can't--"

Rose ignores you and loops the bra straps over your shoulders, securing the garment in place against your flat chest. You think it looks ridiculous on you, but Rose coos in delight when she leans back to admire it.

"Rose... for the love of GOD..."

"Shut up." She takes the panties next, holding them by her thumbs and hiking them slowly up your straining legs. No matter how you try, you can't make yourself so much as budge an inch.

Next comes the sundress. You groan with humiliation as she forces it down around you. The fabric is light and airy, barely-there, and yet at the same time it clings persistently to your skin. The underwear is plainly visible underneath.

"So cute," Rose says. "You're such a cute little slave."

The hem of the dress barely covers your ass as you sit there pinned against the headboard. You could just about die from embarrassment and shame.

But then, as suddenly as it came, whatever magic force has you held in place dissipates. You fall forward, doubling over.

"Look..." Rose says. She directs your attention to a mirror mounted on her dresser. Clasping you by the hand, she helps you to your feet and makes you look at yourself.

Cute...?

You look like a complete fucking tramp.

Rose hugs you from behind, running her hands up and down your stomach as she admires your reflection.

"The perfect outfit for my perfect pet," she says. She really means it, you can tell.

You grimace.

But even though you're free now, you don't take it off.

"See?" Rose says. "You're so hard..."

You glance down. And it's true. Your dick is fat and throbbing, straining against the silky fabric of the panties. You can see the bulge it makes in your dress. You feel your crotch slowly wetting the girly outfit with precum.

"You'll lie back down, right? You won't fight me anymore, right? This can be fun for you, too..."

Well. You're already wearing the damn thing. You might as well go with it, right?

Besides, if you resist, who knows what crazy Carrie shit Rose will pull next.

This is the rationalization you tell yourself, anyway.

You lie back on the bed. Rose secures the handcuffs a second time, looping the chain through a wooden slat in the headboard, your wrists resting on the crown of your head.

"Wait here," she laughs, her voice low.

You watch, growing anxious, as Rose roots through the nightstand. Her fleshy little butt sways this way and that, straining against the confines of her bikini bottom, as she searches the drawers. After a few moments, she finds what she's looking for.

With a triumphant laugh, she produces an enormous, flesh-colored, two-sided dildo set in a black harness.

The rubber toy's business end is fat and real-looking, covered with veins and topped by an angry crimson head. The dildo's other side is smaller. Squatting down on her heels, Rose inserts this smaller end inside herself, sighing with perverse contentment as the appendage penetrates her sopping cunt.

She wiggles her hips in an obviously masturbatory way for about half a minute, before finally reaching back and securing the harness around her waist.

The dildo is an almost perfect match for her milky skin tone, and when she stands, arching her back just a little bit, it looks like she has a real, pulsing cock of her own.

"What are you doing?" you ask, but you're at least 95% certain what the answer is.

Rose saunters over to the bed and props one of her feet on the mattress, leaning in to rub her new cockhead against your face. You grimace, shutting your eyes and turning away, but Rose is persistent. She slaps your cheeks over and over with her dick, making wet little plops.

Rose's cock smells just like her pussy does. Whitney must have used the toy on her very recently, you realize.

The scent of Rose's arousal coating the fleshy tool in your face makes the illusion that it's a real penis all the more convincing. You can feel your brain slowly turning to mush inside your head.

And yet -- you can break free anytime you want. If you just pulled hard enough, you could stop this... why aren't you stopping this?

Staring down at you, Rose is the perfect image of depraved sadism.

"Lick it," she commands.

You lick it. You can taste her on it, the same sugary taste as before, and it isn't unpleasant. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you're eating pussy instead of sucking cock. But as Rose pushes herself past your teeth and to the back of your throat, that illusion proves short-lived. You gag around her, choking and sputtering. Drool runs freely down your chin.

"That's right-- suck it," she grunts. "suck it. Suck my fucking cock, you whore."

You can feel every vein, ridge, and curve of Rose's cock with your lolling tongue as she rapes your gagging throat. You can can feel the piss slit and the fat tube on the underside that cum would pump from, if it were real.

Rose runs her fingers through your hair, pulling you closer, burying your nose against her pubis. Her cock bends to the shape of your tightening, asphyxiating throat.

Is this what it felt like for her, when the roles were reversed?

You hate this -- you hate everything about it -- but at the same time you can't deny the spreading warmth in your chest, or the small pride you feel every time she sighs and moans.

All things considered-- being Rose's personal cocksucker is oddly satisfying.

She pulls away from your mouth. Your cheeks and lips smack lewdly as she does so, a streamer of saliva linking your mouth to her cockhead. She puts a pinky to her mouth and winks.

"Thanks for getting it ready," she says.

"W-what?"

The old terror comes back as Rose climbs onto the bed and circles around to your feet. You kick weakly at her, but for reasons you still can't understand, you put no force behind it. Rose slaps at your kicking legs, laughing cruelly. She grabs your ankles and slings them over her shoulder to pin them in place. Using her free hand, she reaches past the hem of your sundress and grips your panties.

"Stop--" you plead. "That's enough-- that's enough... s-stop..."

"Shut up," she says. "You want this. You're fucking ASKING for it... it's your fault for getting me so horny..."

With a single savage motion, she tears your slutty underwear away, shredding the fabric. The elastic band hangs uselessly around your waist, covering nothing.

Rose spreads your legs and scootches her butt forward, her glans poking at your asscrack. She hunches over you, her giant, soft tits smushing opporesively against your chest.

She kisses you, her mouth hanging open, and lets her intoxicating saliva flow into your waiting mouth. Swiping a strand of hair behind her ear, Rose murmurs tenderly, "I'm going to fuck you."

"N-no-- don't--"

"You're a man, aren't you? If you want me to stop, then stop me!"

She leans back and grabs a bottle of baby oil from the nightstand. Uncapping the lid, she dumps a generous amount over her dick and into the crack of your ass.

"Well?" she says. "If you don't stop me, that means you must want it."

"Rose..."

"I'm going to fuck away your manhood, Alabaster. You'll be my little sissy whore..."

Rose draws one of your legs up, holding it perpendicular to your body and grabbing it for support.

And then she surges forward, raping away your virginity forever.

"Ah--!!" you cry, choking on your pain.

She holds on tight as she humps herself into your quivering asshole. Inch by inch the cock disappears into your anus.

"Slut," she grunts through gritted teeth. "Little fucking faggot. You took it on the very first try. Don't pretend you didn't want it."

Rose gyrates her hips, burying herself to the hilt and riding out her own orgasm. Your anal muscles loosen and suddenly you feel a delicious tickling sensation from deep inside -- Rose's dick scraping against your prostate.

You can't help yourself. You moan, high pitched and girlish. Your precum leaves a huge, dark stain on the fabric of your sundress. The entire room stinks like cock now. You feel close to fainting.

Rose reaches into the nightstand drawer and pulls out a short tube connected to a rubber bulb. She secures the open end of the tube to the base of her raping fuck-shaft, smiling evilly.

"What... what is that?" you ask, watching through slitted eyes.

"Mm, this is a deluxe model. It can ejaculate~"

Your breathing goes erratic and -- even though you don't have a pulse -- you can feel the flow of your blood increase. Your whole body feels warm.

"Of course," Rose says, "I would never cum inside you if you didn't want me to." She licks your face in one long, nasty motion. "That would be rape, after all."

You stifle a groan of frustration. Rose fucks herself in and out of you with a quickened pace, still hugging your leg for support.

"But--" Rose continues, panting with exertion, "if you asked me to... that would be a completely different story, wouldn't it?"

You whimper pathetically. Your ass stretches around her cock and produces lubrication of its own, like a little pussy. The head of Rose's dick rubs back and forth across your throbbing prostate, milking a steady stream of translucent precum from you. You wish you could reach down and jerk yourself off to a mind-breaking orgasm, but all you can do is lie there helplessly as Rose has her way with you.

Soon, all you can think about is the image of Rose emptying herself inside of you, pumping you full of her girlcum. You feel yourself losing your grip on sanity. You feel yourself surrendering to the violation.

You feel yourself becoming a girl.

"A-all right..." you say. "I-if that's what you want... c-cum inside of me..."

"Uggh!!" Rose cries in triumph. She squeezes the bulb, and you feel a surge of warm, viscous liquid pouring into your abused boy-pussy, washing over your twitching prostate. She howls, and her entire plump body trembles with her climax as she squeezes the bulb again and again. Her cum spurts into you like a dribbling hose.

When it's over, Rose pulls out of your ass with a sick squelch. A rivery deluge of thick white cream pours out after her. Your gaping ass oozes with her cum.

"Look at that," Rose sneers. "Forced to wear a dress, pumped full of jizz by a woman... and your dick is still so hard... you're a fucking mess. Absolutely pathetic."

"Please..." you beg, all of your pride and dignity destroyed. "Can you let me cum, too?"

"Welllll--" Rose puts a finger to her lips, pretending to mull it over. After a moment, she says: "since you've been such a good pet, I guess you deserve a reward."

You sigh with relief.

"But," she continues, "you have to ask the proper way." She tugs on her cock, smearing the cum and ass juices all over, making the fleshy shaft gleam in the sunlight. "You have to say: 'please let this pathetic cumdump piggy have an orgasm.'"

She stares at you, waiting for you to reply, stroking languidly on her still-leaking cock. Her enormous tits, wide hips, and hard, cummy cock -- she's like some ancient goddess of sexual pleasure gazing down at a puny mortal.

For now, for better or worse, you are Rose's plaything.

You swallow hard and close your eyes. "P-please-- please let this pathetic, c-cumdump piggy have an orgasm... please, mistress, please let your slave cum..."

She never told you to say that last part.

Rose claps her hands together and practically swoons she's so delighted. "Very, VERY good," she says. "For that, piggy gets to cum today."

Rose hikes your dress up and holds her mouth open over your twitching cock. She lets herself salivate freely, drenching your already well-lubricated dick with her drool. The sight of it is obscene and incredibly erotic but offers no relief.

She lets this continue for a minute, two, ten. You start to go out of your mind with need. She doesn't so much as lick you in that whole time-- she just lets the warm liquid flow over you, your shaft, your balls, you ass. And you really are a mess: a squirming, fucked-out, wet, lewd mess.

Finally Rose takes you in her mouth, raking her searing hot tongue over the head.

You cum almost immediately, your ass clenching, feeling oddly empty. You blast your cum into Rose's mouth in burst after deliciously agonizing burst. Her eyes bulge, but she doesn't pull away until you finish emptying yourself inside her of her completely.

When she pulls back, she licks her chops. "Good piggy," she says. "You're such a darling cunt, Alabaster."

Rose follows you like a hurt puppy as you pace around the bedroom, tossing off the tattered remains of your clothes and stepping back into your swim trunks.

"You're-- you're a rape person!" you stammer. "You're a person who does rapes! That is not okay!"

"What's gotten into you?" Rose asks. She sounds sincerely confused. "I thought you wanted it--"

"What part of 'no, stop' don't you understand? No means no!"

"But you're stronger than God now. If you really wanted to stop me--"

You gesticulate wildly. "I couldn't move! I told you that!"

"...That was for real?" Rose shakes her head, jaw slightly open.

You head toward the door, but Rose is standing between you and the threshold. You nudge her aside. She wheels around, reaching out for you. "Wait," she says. "I'm sorry!"

You ignore her, going out the door and down the hallway. Your step has a slight limp to it for reasons you'd rather not get into. Behind you, Rose's footsteps follow. She catches up and grabs you by the hand.

"I'm sorry!" she says again. "Okay? Please believe me!"

You turn and make your voice low so no one will overhear. "I trusted you," you spit.

"I didn't mean to hurt you. If you want to punish me-- all right? You can! Do whatever you want!" She draws your hand to her tummy, pushing it to the soft, cool cotton of her bandage. With her other hand, she curls your fingers inward so they form a loose fist.

"Y-you can hurt me as much as you want..."

You pull your hand back. "I already told you. I don't want to hurt you."

Rose's lips tremble. She covers her face with both hands, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. Her knees knock together. She falls to her butt, legs splayed to either side.

She starts to cry.

"I'm awful... I'm the worst ever..."

"Rose--"

"I'm sorry!-- I'm sorry... I'm sorry, I'm sorry--"

She repeats the apology over and over until the syllables become blurred together, unintelligible.

You sigh.

You help her to her feet and lead her back to her bedroom.

You sit her, still sobbing, on the edge of the bed. You get down on your knees in front of her so your faces are level. You hold her by the shoulders and stroke them until she can bring her crying under control.

"We need to lay down some ground rules," you say.

Rose sniffles. "Like what?"

"First of all, no more putting things in my butt. My butt is off limits. It is not a repository for objects of any make or model. Am I getting through to you?"

Rose wrings her hands in her lap and stares at them ashamedly.

"Second of all, we need a safeword."

Rose looks up at you, her face still wet with tears, but her expression is suddenly a little hopeful. "Why?" she asks.

"So no can mean yes, and the safeword can mean no. Try to keep up."

She sniffles again, thinking. After a moment, she says: "how about 'green'?"

"What? That's stupid."

"--Excuse me? What's so stupid about that?"

"First of all, what if one of us happens to say it by chance during sex--"

Rose cuts you off. "When the hell would you ever say the word 'green' during sex?"

"It happens more often than you think! And besides, 'green' means go, not stop. If anything it should be 'red'."

"You're way more likely to say the word 'red' during sex!" Rose says. All her contrition is gone, replaced by annoyance.

"What? Why would you say 'red'--"

"Why would you say 'green'?! Red is a more sexual color, and way more likely to come up!" Rose gestures with her hands, acting out hypothetical play-rapes: "'I'll beat you red,' 'I'll choke you until you turn red'--"

"That's stupid. No one talks like that."

"Fuck you! Maybe I talk like that!"

"If you talk like that, you should stop."

"God. You are such an asshole. I don't need you mansplaining to me--"

"Oh my sweet Jesus," you groan.

"Fine," Rose says. She folds her arms and kicks her feet impatiently. "No colors. What, then?"

"How about 'Stackleford'?" you ask. "That's got to be the least sexual word in history."

Rose dry heaves. "Oh God," she says. "If I heard that fatso's name during sex I think my pussy would dry out forever."

"Stop being such a fat-shamer," you say. 

You think for a moment.

"Tenderness," you say. "The safe word should be 'tenderness.'"

Rose blinks. A warm smile slowly spreads across her face. "Tenderness," she repeats. "I like it."

A few moments later, Rose sniffles back the last of her tears, wiping her face with the back of her wrist.

"...Do you mind if I ask why are you're just sitting there?" she asks.

"Err-- my butt kind of hurts. I'm resting."

A silence settles over the room.

"And why are you just sitting there?" you ask back.

"My wound hurts. I'm resting..."

You lean your forehead against her knees and stay there like that for what feels like a long time.

When you finally have the strength to go out on the beach, Vivian and Whitney are still working on their sand castle. The structure is intricate, mind-bogglingly so -- featuring spires, domes, and minarets almost as tall as you, the entire thing looking more like a sand metropolis than a sand castle. Vivian and Whitney, using toothpicks, carefully carve windows into a cathedral. Their knees and stomachs are flecked with grains of wet sand: they've been working hard.

Cerise is fueling one of Gustav's motorboats. Her black two-piece is conservative, for a bikini, but accentuates her voluptuous form. The deep black makes a stark contrast to her near-albinism.

It's hard to think of your sister, petulant Cerise, as a woman -- but she certainly is.

Through the window of Gustav's kitchen, you see Ms. Carte and Mom speaking to one another. Ms. Carte leans against the counter, arms folded, wearing a lab coat over her swimsuit: an odd combination. Mom is wearing an apron and not much else. The two women seem to be getting along -- for now.

Rose is still resting in her bedroom. The strain of raping you made her wound open up a little bit. Karma.

Gustav, apparently, is servicing one or both of the Spancers down in his lab. Or maybe they're servicing him. You noticed several issues of bodybuilder magazines in his living room and you somehow doubt pudgy Gustav reads them for exercise tips.

Dad is in the living room as well, reading the paper, passive as usual.

>What will you do?

[X] Go see Cerise

You head over to the docks and ask Cerise what she's doing.

"Going into town," she says, screwing the cap back onto the bright red gas can. She hands it off to you, pushing it unceremoniously into your hands. "You mind bringing that back to the boathouse over there?"

"Oh, sure. No problem. Quick question, though: when did I become your maid?"

"The day you were born. It's the younger brother's duty to serve his older sister. Haven't you learned anything yet?"

You grumble, setting the cannister down on the weathered wooden dock. "Anyway-- I'd like to come with you. If her highness doesn't mind, that is. I sort of need to get away from this place for awhile."

Cerise quirks an eyebrow. "I'm just going to the grocery store for a few things. I'll be gone for a few minutes, tops."

You climb aboard the boat and sit in the passenger seat. "Let's go, then."

Cerise gets in as well and turns the key in the ignition. She pulls a sunhat from under the driver's seat and puts it on. The floppy brim waves in the wind as she spirits you to the main island.

"Let me guess," you say as Cerise secures the boat to the dock at your destination. "Rose taught you how to drive that?"

"No, Whitney did," she says. "I try to stay away from Rose. Bitch gives me the heebie-jeebies."

You walk side-by-side down a sandy footpath, sticking to the cooling shade of the surrounding palm trees where possible. When you reach Gustav's pickup in a nearby parking lot, you realize that you don't have a licensed driver with you, even though Cerise has the keys. Town is a couple kilometers away -- bit of a walk.

>What will you do?

[X] Carry Cerise

You walk down the highway together, following the curve of the road around the island.

Your tropical dreamscape quickly becomes oppressive. The sizzling tarmac sucks in heat like a magnet, and you no longer have access to the cover of palm trees. The cloudless summer air is stagnant and sticky with humidity, cloying. Your body quickly becomes drenched with flowing beads of sweat.

Augmentations or not, 100 Fahrenheit at 80% humidity is still awful.

Cerise is having a much worse time of it, though. Her pace becomes sluggish and adopts a drunken swagger. Her entire body glistens with perspiration and her face is ruddy from the heat.

"This... really... really... REALLY sucks," Cerise pants, summing it up.

You can see the edge of town on the distance now, but you still have a kilometer or more to go and Cerise seems close to fainting. She may be suffering from a low-level heat stroke. You do the only thing you can think of: you sweep her into your arms and carry her.

At first, Cerise is so delirious from the sweltering heat that she doesn't seem to realize she isn't on solid ground anymore. Her feet sway back and forth in the air as if she's still trying to walk. Finally, she glances around, gathering her bearings again.

"I don't need any help," she says. Her voice is weak and slightly hoarse.

"Yeah. Sure. Weren't you just complaining that it's the little brother's duty to serve his older sister?"

"Well-- yes, but--"

"Then shut up and accept my service."

You grab her on either side of the waist and haul her higher still, lifting her over your head with ease.

"Whoa," Cerise says, despite herself. "You're strong--"

You park her butt on your shoulders. When you release her, she wobbles a bit before grabbing frantically onto your head for support. You hook your arms over her soft thighs and piggyback her down the road.

"This is lame," Cerise complains. "This is so unbelievably lame. What am I, six years old?"

"You act like it sometimes."

"Tch-- you're one to talk."

As you walk, you're acutely aware of Cerise's sweat-damp crotch pressing warmly into your head. You can feel the softness of her mound against you. In only swim trunks, you try your level best not to let yourself become aroused.

"...Thank you," Cerise says, quietly, after a lengthy silence. She squeezes her thighs against your neck in the best imitation of a hug she can give from this position.

"Do you like it here?" you ask.

You feel her shrug. "I could learn to live with it. It beats being hunted by a billionaire. And I think I'd be happy as long as I'm with--"

She coughs and trails off.

"Love you too, Cerise."

She raps you on the top of your head with her knuckles.

It isn't long before you arrive. The main stretch of town has a number of businesses. These include restaurants, gas stations, massage parlors, and -- of course -- the supermarket. There are some stray specialty businesses, too: a pet shop, a gift shop, a comic book store, and others. A sign points the way to Koror's public park and another points the way to Koror's largest public beach. The Japan-Palau friendship bridge is visible to your right. It leads to the less populous north island and has some comfortable-looking shade underneath the trusses.

>Where will you go?

[X] Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge

"Let's rest for a second," you tell her, taking cover in the bridge's shadow.

"Only for a second," Cerise allows. "Until I catch my breath again."

Underneath the bridge, there's a patch of cool-looking grass and a local vendor selling ice cream from a pushcart. You carry Cerise to the cart first and look over the laminated menu taped to its front.

"So? What do you want?" you ask Cerise.

"Nothing," Cerise says. "We're supposed to be going to the store, remember. Don't start treating this like some kind of date--"

"A bottle of water," you tell the vendor. "And two soft-serves."

"What kind?" he asks gruffly.

"We prefer vanilla."

You pay the man. You hand Cerise the water and she sucks it down greedily, draining 500 mL in a few sucking gulps. When she tosses the bottle away, you pass the waffle cones up to her for safe keeping.

You take her to the grassy knoll and set her gently down. When you sit beside her, she hands you your cone.

Cerise leans back, running her free palm through the damp soil and enjoying the view of the ocean this vista affords. She licks lazily at her treat, drawing swirled tracks through the cream. Her way of eating is lazy, like a kitten, as she enjoys this dessert she insisted she didn't want. The low sloshing of waves against the shore and far-off cries of birds are the only sounds.

"How do you feel?" you ask, biting into your cone instead of savoring it the way Cerise does. You were never one for patience.

"I think I'll be okay." She grins at you and runs an index finger down the slope of your nose. It comes away with a dollop of stray ice cream that had been smeared there. She sucks her past her lips and licks it.

"You've got cream on you," she says sarcastically, now that it's gone.

In retaliation, you smush the tip of the cone lightly against her nose. She jumps from the sudden shock of cold against her skin.

"You've got cream on you," you say.

"Asshole!" she laughs, swatting you on the shoulder.

"I'm getting that a lot recently," you say. You repay her earlier gesture in kind, wiping away the soft-serve and licking it from your thumb.

Cerise makes a sour face that soon unfurls itself into a devilish grin.

"Look over there!" she says, pointing. And you fall for it, like the sucker you are.

Having suitably distracted you, Cerise pushes her ice cream cone to your face -- directly against your lips.

"What the--" you stammer, looking back at her.

Cerise leans in, supporting herself on one hand, her chest hanging over your lap. "You've got cream on you," she says.

Cerise presses her mouth to yours. You tense, then relax, and Cerise's searching tongue laps up the sugary cream. Her tongue is small but it warms your chilled lips, wetting them. You hug each other, and you can feel her ice cream cone pressing into your bare back, melting and leaving a sticky trail, as Cerise loses herself in the kiss.

You don't mind. You lose yourself in the kiss, too. Cerise's mouth is tender, and a perfect fit for your tongue.

It occurs to you how strange this is, to display this level of affection -- in public no less-- with your own sister. But it feels right. Under the shade of this monument to Japanese friendship, you mingle tongues with your onee-san and nothing in the whole wide world could be more perfect.

You kiss for half an hour or longer, swimming in waves of pulsing pleasure as your hum and moan and caress each other.

The sun starts to dip lower in the sky, and you remember yourselves. when you lean back, Cerise's eyes are slits and her mouth hangs open, strands of spittle suspended between her teeth.

Your ice cream cones are completely melted by now -- nothing more than a runny white goop in between your fingers. You and Cerise toss the cones away. Acting wordless but in tandem, you put your fingers into each other's mouths.

As your push past Cerise's full, plump lips, you prod around with your forefinger, feeling the delicate texture of her swirling tongue and her pouting cheeks. She closes her eyes and enjoys the sensation of your curious fingers. Her pearly teeth scrape just so slightly against you.

At the same time, Cerise scissors her fingers inside your mouth, splaying them at various angles to allow your tongue access to all the nooks and crevices between them where the ice cream seeped.

It feels like you're taking possession Cerise's body, completely, and she of yours -- each claiming the other for your own.

Her fingers are small and spindly. Your sensitive tongue can feel the ridges of her fingerprints, can taste the hint of her salty sweat hiding beneath the saccharine cream. You suckle and nurse on her fingers like it's the last little bit of sustenance you will ever have.

"Alabaster," Cerise whines when you pull your hand away from her mouth. Her voice drips with need and frustration, but also trepidation. "I-- I don't want to-- I mean-- not here-- a-and we should really be going--"

You pull her hand from your mouth and audibly kiss each of her dainty knuckles in turn. She moans and arches her back, whining once more: "We should go to the store... they're waiting for us back at Gustav's--"

>What will you do?

[X] Go to the grocery store

"We can go," you say. "But-- I'm kind of..." You glance down at your crotch, directing Cerise's view there as well.

"I see," she says, staring down at the sizable bulge. You both watch it for a moment, as if it's a lurking monster waiting to strike.

Finally Cerise grins up at you and pecks you on the nose. "My pervy kid brother..." She takes off her sunhat and hands it to you.

Walking down the busy main road in Koror, trying to look natural while holding a sunhat to your crotch, is... a bit embarrassing, to say the least.

It takes a lot longer for your erection to subside than it normally would, with Cerise's warm hand nestled inside yours, your fingers clasped tightly together.

The supermarket is blessedly cool. You sigh with relief as you step through the automatic doors, a pressurized blast of central air conditioning washing over you.

Cerise grabs a tiny cart and pulls a folded piece of paper out of her cleavage, damp with sweat. She unfolds it, revealing a shopping list in Mom's curly-cue handwriting.

Unfortunately, as modernized as Palau is, it's still a remote island in the south Pacific -- the selection isn't that great and the prices are obscene. As you walk the aisles up and down, Cerise complains: "they don't even have half the things on this list..."

You make do with what you can find. Surprisingly, the fresh produce section is the most robust, with bins full of lime, lemon, avocado, carrots, and others. Though half of the refrigerated produce stands are dominated by a single type of leafy tuber you've never seen before. Signs advertise: "Taro. 4 corms $1"

By far, it's the cheapest item in the store.

"What the fuck is corm?" Cerise asks.

"I don't know," you admit.

"I thought you were the quiz bowl genius here."

You pick one up. It's hard and lumpy like a potato. "They must be local grown. It wouldn't hurt to try a couple," you say. "Besides, we can feed the leaves to Smatters."

You put a few corms in the cart and move on to the next stand, which holds cucumbers. Now these, you're familiar with. You grab a nice fat one and wave it around in front of Cerise's face.

"If you've been missing your toys..." you say suggestively.

"Oh my God, Alabaster. You're so fucking juvenile."

You chuckle cruelly and set the cucumber down again.

But Cerise murmurs, "...I didn't tell you to put it back..."

You gawk at her, surprised. She blushes and looks away, rubbing her elbow.

"Well-- which one do you want?" you manage.

"Erm..." she shifts her weight to the sides of her feet. "Compare them against yourself, I guess."

You examine the cucumbers and pick the one that you figure most closely mirrors your own dimensions.

The odd perversity of this -- choosing a sex toy for your older sister that feels most like your cock -- makes you require the cover of her sunhat again.

As Cerise, still blushing, pushes the cart down another aisle, you happen to notice a poster on the far wall, next to one of the fruit stands.

>PALAU INDEPENDENCE DAY CELEBRATION!
>OCT 4. 10 AM - 10 PM
>KOROR PUBLIC BEACH

>10 AM: Parade
>12 PM: Dedication of Roman Tmetuchl Memorial Statue -- Presidential Speech
>2 PM: Ms. Palau Beauty Contest
>4 PM: Windsurfing Competition
>6 PM: Independence Day Feast
>9 PM: Fireworks

October 4th is four days from now. You make a mental note of the upcoming festivities.

The beauty contest in particular seems interesting, but you're not sure who you know, if anyone, you'd want to compete.

Glancing away from the sign, you look down one of the aisles, toward the head of the store, and see Cerise at the checkout stands.

>What will you do?

>12 PM: Dedication of Roman Tmetuchl Memorial Statue -- Presidential Speech - Rose
>4 PM: Windsurfing Competition - Whitney
>9 PM: Fireworks - Cerise

You know that Rose will enjoy the Presidential speech -- maybe if you're suave enough, you can sneak her backstage to meet the President himself, and make her feel important. It might heal some of the rift that recently developed between you.

Whitney would love the windsurfing if she competed, but you'll have to convince her to take part -- she doesn't seem too hot on sports these days.

And of course, the night's final event is a no-brainer.

The other events, you're not certain about, and need to mull over.

Who will you take to the parade?
[X] Vivian
[ ] Kaa-san
[ ] Ms. Carte

Who will you take the feast?
[ ] Vivian
[X] Kaa-san
[X] Ms. Carte

Who will you suggest participates in the beauty contest?
[ ] Vivian
[X] Kaa-san
[X] Ms. Carte
[ ] Whitney
[ ] Rose
[ ] Cerise
[X] You

After Cerise pays for the groceries, you step outside with her and hail a cab. It drives you back to the docks where Gustav's boat is parked. From there, you make the journey home.

When you pull up to the private island, the beach is empty. All that remains as evidence of the day's activities is Whitney and Vivian's incredibly complex and humungous sand castle. The tide is getting depressingly close to it -- it will be gone in just a few hours. What a shame.

You take the gas canister from earlier and haul it to the boathouse where it belongs as Cerise gathers up her shopping bags from the back of the boat.

The tiny shack is musty and filled with various tools resting precariously on old wooden shelves. Motes of dust spin complexly through the air, illuminated by sunlight streaming in through slats on the roof.

You use your foot to slide the gas can underneath one of the shelves, next to a tightly coiled garden hose. As you do so, you hear the boathouse door creak open and then closed again, then the rustling noise of plastic bags being set on the wood floor.

You turn around. Cerise is standing before you. She's holding the cucumber you picked out for her.

"Is this... really like yours?" she asks.

"Pretty close," you say, feeling a thrill of adrenaline course through you.

"It seems so much bigger than I remember... fatter..." Cerise says. She cocks her head and stares at it from the side, transfixed. "Holding it in my hand like this is-- different, somehow."

Despite how dusty this little cabin is, you can actually smell her growing arousal, mingled with the slightly sour odor of her sweaty body.

>What will you do?

[X] Compare and contrast

"We could do a side-by-side comparison if you want."

Cerise's eyes sparkle in the dim half-light of the boathouse.

"H-here?" she says.

"You're the one who came in here asking about it," you say. "And you closed that door for a reason, didn't you?"

Cerise twists around to look at the closed boathouse door. "I guess I did," she says, turning back to face you.

"Go on, then," you tell her. "Take a look."

Cerise approaches you. Her hand is trembling as she reaches out and hooks a finger in the elastic of your trunks. The back of her hand brushes against your hips as she tugs the shorts slowly down. The contact tickles. And knowing that it's her hand -- thinking about what's going to happen -- makes your member twitch, filling with blood.

The trunks slide past your rapidly hardening penis. Free of its confines it springs up, bouncing obscenely in the warm air.

Cerise gasps when she sees it, holding her hand to her mouth. Your shorts crumple around your ankles and you step out of them, pressing your body to hers. Both of you are slick with sweat.

"I showed you mine..." you say. You undo the string on her bikini. She stands rigid as the garment splits apart and falls to the ground.

The tiny boathouse reeks of your collective horniness. The musk of your cock mingles with the womanly scent of her leaking pussy and makes a heady odor that almost overpowers you.

You hold her by her slender shoulders and kiss her -- not the gentle kiss from under the bridge, but forcefully, roughly, forcing your tongue into her mouth. She accepts it all, breathing in your passion. You pet her lustrous hair and cradle her delicate neck. She sighs in pain as your hand rubs against a raw spot on the back of her neck -- the beginning of a sunburn.

Cerise goes to her knees. She lays one palm flat against your calf, and with the other she juxtaposes the cucumber to your pulsing shaft.

Her eyes dart back and forth between the two.

"I think I did pretty good," you say. "Don't you?"

Cerise takes her free hand and runs a forefinger across the length of your cock. You revel in a delicious but frustratingly brief burst of carnal pleasure.

"It even has the same little curve to it," she says. Her breath comes out hot against your aching cock.

"I... want to test something..." she says. She leans her neck way back, baring the tiny, vulnerable, and pale hollow of her collarbone. Opening wide, she slides the cucumber past her pink lips and into her yawning mouth, coating the vegetable with her saliva. She pushes it back, inch by inch, as far as she can take it. She makes it about two thirds of the way, until she begins to gag and sputter around it. Her narrow throat bulges from the invading object.

When she pulls it out, it makes a delightfully nasty wet squelch.

You run your hands once more through her jet black hair, rubbing her from from forehead to crown and back again. She stares up at you, waiting for what comes next.

"I-- I think I'm losing my mind..." she says.

"Me too..."

You buck your hips forward, touching your cockhead to her lips. She parts her mouth and lets you in.

The warmth and wetness sends shudders up your spine. Cerise's mouth is better than a million cocksleeves, better than any mouth or any pussy you've ever had. Her saliva, her limber tongue, her smooth cheeks -- and her eyes that never, not for a second, look away from yours -- it's paradise.

You let Cerise control the pace, simply petting her as she does the work. She bobs her head, taking you in slowly, almost agonizingly so. At the same time, you see her reach down and rub the cucumber against her sopping pussy, letting her the cream from her labia run down its length.

When Cerise has your shaft as deep as she can tolerate, your glans resting against the back of her tongue and her clenching gullet, she rises to her haunches and penetrates herself with the makeshift toy.

"Mmfff~~" she moans around you, the vibration traveling through your manhood in ripples. She wags the tip of her tongue, just barely brushing it against your balls, as she humps herself against the cucumber that has become the vehicle of your ersatz incest.

There's something lovably perverted and yet heart-rendingly pure about this. Cerise's needful cunt makes an audible sound -- 'schlick' is an appropriate onomatopoeia -- as she slides it in and out of herself at an increasingly erratic pace. So too does her cocksucking produce truly filthy noises that make you grit your teeth and grunt as she violates her own throat with your leaking prick.

But the way she stares into your eyes, as if looking into your very soul -- there's something still sisterlike underneath the animal desire, a bond between the two of you different from anything else. You love your older sister. She loves her younger brother. And because of that, you're about to cum directly in her throat.

Who said you're not a romantic?

"Cerise!" you cry. "Cerise, I'm going to cum!"

"Mmf-- mmff!" she mumbles. The tone sounds like encouragement, and her eyes smolder impishly, so you decide this is the all-clear. As Cerise vaults off the cliff and into her own messy orgasm, spraying her juices all across the ancient wooden floor in geyserlike blasts around the fucking cucumber inside her, you paint her throat with every drop of semen you have. You cum inside of her, completely, in her mouth, down her throat, into her stomach. You empty yourself inside of her as you hold her by the ears and gaze longingly into your eyes.

"I love you!" you yell. "I love you!"

And her mumbled grunts are not intelligible as English speech, but you know she's saying the same thing back to you.

You fall back against one of the shelves, you knees slightly bent, as Cerise stands up. She pulls her bikini bottom back on. Wrapping the soiled cucumber in a spare plastic bag, she hides it amongst the rest of the day's shopping. Her kneecaps are scuffed and scraped from the unforgiving floor.

"Alabaster... has anyone told you..." she pauses, trying to find the right words.

"What?" you pant, still out of breath.

"That-- your dick is perfect. I mean, bizarrely perfect." She licks her lips. "It really is like a drug, or an addiction... the smell, the taste... shape, everything... it gets inside my head... it makes me feel like I'm falling."

This pleases you at first, but then it kind of disturbs you.

Does she love you for you, or for whatever crazy sex hormone you produce?

You wonder about that as you head back to Gustav's house together.

Once inside, Cerise goes to the kitchen to put away the shopping. Mom is also there, busy making dinner -- Gustav also, trying futilely to assist despite her protests. Ms. Carte is in the lab, according to Vivian, who's lying on her tummy in the living room. Her chin rests in her hands and she kicks her stockinged feet in the air, watching Palauan TV.

"What about Rose and Whitney?" you ask her next.

"Whitney is in her bedroom with Rose. I believe Whitney said something about tending to Rose's wounds. In as many words, that is."

>What will you do?

[X] Visit Ms. Carte

You descend the elevator and arrive in the underground facility. Most of the lights down here are off, casting the space in eerie shadow. At the end of a short hallway, one of the labs is aglow with amber light, and you figure that must be where Ms. Carte is. You step inside.

Ms. Carte has Spancer on a cold metal slab -- which of the two Spancers, you're not certain. His chest cavity is splayed open. She tinkers with his steel endoskeleton.

"Hello Alabaster," she says, not looking up from her work.

"Hi," you say sheepishly. You feel like you just walked in on something delicate and private, but Ms. Carte doesn't seem to mind. She still wears her odd lab coat and bikini combo that somehow makes her body seem even more tantalizing than usual.

Inching closer, you peer at the nasty business going on inside Spacer's chest. He lies there motionless -- turned off?. His insides are a bizarre mishmash of high-tech gadgetry and real, gory human innards.

"Is that what my insides look like, too?" you ask.

"Hmm?" Ms. Carte finally meets your gaze. "Sort of," she says. "Yours is slightly less extensive than Spancer here. A lot of your bones have been replaced, and some of your organs... I would say you're 40% synthetic."

"Which one is that?" you ask, motioning to Spancer.

"The original. The one you know best."

"Did-- did Spancer consent to this?"

"I'm afraid no one had any say in the matter. Darkbloom burned down his house just like he did with yours. Only Spancer and his family didn't make it out so safely. It was my fault, for getting him involved... I did what I could to save him."

She pinches Spancer's cheek. "Fun fact:" she says, grimly sarcastic. "You know that cyberskin stuff they use in your weird jerk-off toys?"

"How do you know about--"

"Spancer's skin is made from that now. His old epidermis was 99% burn tissue when I got a crack at him."

"HOW did you get a crack at him, anyway?"

"You do this sort of thing long enough, you learn how to rob morgues..."

Ms. Carte pulls her hands from Spancer and sets her tools on a nearby tin. She peels off her bloodied latex gloves and tosses them in a bin.

"I'm fine with you hanging out down here," she says, leaning against a benchtop, "but you seem weirded out."

"Obviously I'm weirded out," you say. "I mean, you just had your fingers playing ten-knuckle clusterfuck all up in my classmate's chest--"

"No. I mean in general. Is there something the matter?"

>What do you say?

[X] Ask about inability to move with Rose and about addictive cum

"This is kind of sensitive," you say. "But-- well, Rose raped me."

Ms. Carte shrugs. "Yeah. She's a rapey gal, that one. It'll happen."

You sigh and reformulate your words. "It's just that, when I tried to stop her-- I couldn't. I couldn't move at all. She pinned me against the wall without even touching me."

Ms. Carte blinks.

"Do you know what might cause that?" you ask. "Does my new body have some kind of override or something?"

Ms. Carte pulls a pack of cigarettes from her breast pocket and lights up. You quirk an eyebrow.

"Nervous tic," she says, shrugging. "It's been a long day." She crosses and uncrosses her ankles. She arches her back, blowing smoke lazy tendrils.

"No, Alabaster, your components have no external overrides. Certainly none Rose could activate without putting her fist down your throat, or up your ass, or something."

You grimace.

"So if she did anything at all," Ms. Carte continues, "it was simply scare you. Whatever paralysis you're describing would have to be purely psychosomatic."

"It was not psychosomatic," you insist, gritting your teeth. You feel yourself growing angry over the implication of weakness. "I know when I'm in control of my body and when I'm not."

Ms. Carte shakes her head and snubs her cigarette out in a nearby ashtray. "Well, that's the only rational explanation. There's no such thing as magic, Alabaster."

"Yeah? And what about my cum? That's pretty magical, isn't it?"

She narrows her eyes. "Not at all," she says. "I told you--"

The anger grows and coalesces inside of you, bubbling to the surface. You cut her off. "Do ANY of you-- you, Whitney, Vivian, Rose, Mom, Cerise... do any of you actually care about me, or are you just addicted to my semen?"

"I told you already. I chose this. And I warned you that you might wonder about these things when you found out the truth--"

"What about the others? Are they just addicts?"

"There's no such thing as magic and there's no such thing as psychic powers," Ms. Carte says. "What the others feel about you is something only they can tell you."

"But--" you start. "But you really love me."

"With all my heart." Her voice drops to a near-whisper, suddenly tender. "I've been watching you for years, you know. I think I loved you from the moment I saw you."

"I love you, too," you tell her, your voice catching with a new wave of emotion. You step forward, quaking with insecure need. You grab her roughly by the waist. She startles, throwing her hands back and clutching the edge of the benchtop for support. Her fingernails clack against the white polyurethane surface, and she lets out a little yelp of surprise. Nipping at her neck, you pull aside the tails of her lab coat and embrace her warm body.

"I love you," you repeat, kissing her up and down her neck. She cranes her head back to gives you better access as you bite and suck on her.

"Alabaster--" she groans, cupping your cheek in her hand as you suckle on her. "Alabaster, this isn't really the proper place-- OH!" she cries out and tenses as you give her a particularly hard nip.

"It has to be here," you breathe. "Right now. I need you. Right now."

Ms. Carte rocks back and forth on her heels. You can feel her trembling against you -- her taut stomach, her full breasts, her birdlike neck -- every part of her is shaking with trepidation and anxiety.

You pull her bikini bottom down. You slide her breasts free of the bikini top. They hang, round and slightly jiggling, perfectly smooth, right in front of your face. You suck her nipples into your mouth, each in turn, teasing them to hardness.

"Okay," Ms. Carte sighs, her tone filled with the sweet relief of relent. She kisses and nibbles on your ear, the only part of you that her searching mouth can find. "Fuck me. If you need me, fuck me. Make me yours. I need you, too."

You tug your cock free of of your shorts but don't bother pulling them down. With a low growl, you hunch yourself forward and seat your dick in the velvety folds of her pussy. You and Ms. Carte both let out a simper of ecstasy that echoes off the tiled walls.

You pump yourself inside of her, frantic and rough -- rougher than you've ever really been with her. You molest her tits, squeezing and plying them, running your hands across the underside, pushing them together, watching them bounce. You grab her cheeks in your hand and turn her face this way and that, planting wet kisses wherever you feel like. You push her tailbone against the hard edge of the benchtop and hump her with jackhammer thrusts. She does nothing to resist: she's like putty in your hands, giving herself to you completely.

Her pussy milks and massages you from the inside out. In the past month or so of enjoying her body, she's trained herself to please you with expert finesse. Her cunt is permanently embossed with the shape of your dick, and your dick only. It spasms and twitches all around you, a perfect, snug fit.

"That's right," you tell her, kissing her on the lips, thrumming your fingertips on her neck. You're out of your mind with crazed lust. "You're mine. You're mine, you're mine... only mine..."

"Cum inside me," she begs.

"So you are addicted to it--"

"No-- I'm addicted to you-- I'm addicted to YOU--" she runs a hand across your forehead in a maternal gesture of reassurance, still humping back against you. "And-- and I want you to cum inside of me..."

"Here it comes," you grunt. "Take it!!"

You fuck into her so hard that the force of it lifts her dainty feet from the floor. She stays there, pinned in midair between your erupting cock and the benchtop, as you pour her womb full of hot cum.

"Ahhh--" she sighs, her voice trilling from low to high and increasing in volume as her orgasm races through her. Eventually the orgasm becomes a senseless scream: "aaaaahhh--- aaaaaaahhhh--!!"

Your mouth clamps down on her neck and you gyrate your hips. Ropes of milky cream seep out around your member as you spurt and spurt endlessly into her cunt. She holds your face in both hands and accepts it all, the anger and love, the need and passion.

You want to take Ms. Carte to bed with you and retire early, to lie with her in the moonlight, just the two of you, but she insists on finishing her work with Spancer. She goes upstairs to shower and then right back to the basement lab.

You sit in the living room, still a little dazed, watching television. Whitney is sitting in a recliner here, and her breath smells suspiciously like Rose's special scent, even from a distance. The wolfish smile on her lips tells the story, too.

Gustav's doorbell rings, startling you from your reverie. You hurry to the foyer to answer the door -- so does Mom. You open the door first.

Standing there, of all people, is Rose's mother. She appears to be alone.

"What are YOU doing here?" Mom asks. There's a tone of disdainful recognition in that.

"Where is my daughter?" she asks.

"How--" you stammer. "How did you find--"

"Where is she?" Mrs. Mallory demands again.

>What do you do?

[X] Ask her to wait

"P-please wait here--" you stutter. "I'll, uh, go get her."

Whitney and Vivian watch with interest from the living room as Mrs. Mallory steps into the foyer. Mom shuts the door behind her.

"So you're Rose's mother," Mom says. "I should have known... oh God, my son is sleeping with a Mallory..."

You turn on your heels and speed-walk down the hall. Your head is swimming. You hear the murmurs of conversation between Mom and Mrs. Mallory through Gustav's wall. Mom's voice grows in timbre quite quickly as they speak, but Mrs. Mallory's remains firm and level. You can't make out any words.

Rose is lying on her bed when you burst through the door. She bolts upright, wincing in pain and clutching at her wound.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Your-- your mother--" you begin, incoherent. "Your mother is here..."

"Oh Jesus. How on Earth did she find me?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell ME. You didn't tell her that you're here?"

"Of course not!" She pounds her fist against the mattress. "I didn't tell anyone..." she looks around, growing nervous.

"Do you want to go see her?" you ask.

"NO-- I mean-- well, yes, of course, she's my mother, but... I just spent the past couple hours eating pussy and my stomach is slashed all to hell. I'm not really presentable, in this state..."

"Well she's kind of frantic, you know? She wants to see you right now."

Rose's brow furrows with worry.

>What do you do?

[X] Get her cleaned up

You root through Rose's dresser as she stumbles awkwardly to her feet. You can't find anything in her drawers that will cover her midsection, but in Whitney's dresser you find a tanktop and some spats that should work for your purposes.

Still, it would be better to dress her in two layers. Without thinking about it, you grab the soiled sundress from earlier as well.

Balling up the clothes under your armpit, you grab Rose by the wrist and tug her squealing through the hall, into the bathroom.

You toss the clothes on the ground and root through the medicine cabinet. You pull out a bottle of Listerine, unscrew the cap, and fill it with the mentholated green liquid.

"Gargle," you say, pressing the lid to her lips.

"Whuh-- pfff--" she grunts as you force the liquid into her mouth. She swills it back and forth, each cheek puffing out in turn.

Meanwhile, you rip off her bikini and try to pull on the spats. Rose spits into the sink and takes another dose of the mouthwash as she steps into each leghole. You tug the spandex garment up, but it's small on her, and the going is difficult. Her thighs bulge and look fat in the clinging material. Rose gropes for her toothbrush as you force the spats to her waist.

"Arms," you say. Rose stops brushing long enough to raise her arms over her head. Her mouth is foamy with toothpaste. You force the tank on first -- which covers practically nothing, tented out by her obscenely huge tits -- and then the cummy sundress.

"Thif iff thtained," Rose mumbles through her sudsy lips.

"Hold on," you say. You grab the shower head from the wall in the tub and turn the water on full blast.

"Wait!!" Rose cries. Too late. You blast her. She stands there shivering as you hose her down, cleaning the dress as best you can. She finishes brushing, pouting and shivering, as you do.

"Are we good?" you ask.

You spray some water into her open mouth so she can rinse the toothpaste out. She spits.

"I've been better," she says.

"Good. Let's go."
You lead the way down the hall. Both of you walk on tiptoes, sneaking, and listen to the growingly heated conversation in the front entryway.

"--should have known that you would be involved--" comes Mrs. Mallory's voice. "I knew that that Alabaster boy was bad news the second I saw him." Her tone is controlled but definitely angry.

"Excuse me? What did you just say about my son? That boy is a SAINT."

"A saint? A boy who slithered out of you is a saint? Excuse me while I die of laughter..."

"What the hell?" Rose murmurs, looking up at you. "Your mom and my mom know each other?"

"I guess," you say.

"Alabaster, I'm-- I'm a little nervous," Rose says. "What should we do?"

>What do you do?

[X] "Take my hand. It'll be okay."

"Take my hand," you say. "It'll be okay."

Rose looks up at you. "You promise?" she asks.

"I said I'd protect you, didn't I?"

You lace your fingers through hers. She clasps you tightly with her clammy hand, as if holding on for dear life.

"Alabaster-- I love you..." She flexes her little hand in yours, as if drawing courage from you by osmosis. "Whatever happens, I won't let her take me away."

"All right. Just try to keep calm. Remember that I'm here with you."

"Always?"

"Always."

Hand-in-hand and walking confidently, you step out into the foyer.

"Rose!" Mrs. Mallory cries, falling on bended knee and embracing her daughter. She tries to pull Rose away, but through all her tugging and pulling, Rose refuses to let go of your hand.

Finally, Mrs. Mallory relents. She leans back, looking Rose in the eye. "Are you all right?" she asks. "Are they hurting you?"

"I'm fine, mother--"

"Wait-- nevermind. Tell me at home. We can go right away."

"I am not going."

"--We can catch the first flight back. I already have your ticket. Your father will pick us up at LAX and--"

"I am not going," Rose says firmly.

Awkward silence.

"W-what are you saying?" Mrs. Mallory asks. "Your father and I have been worried sick. You can't just... just run away, for goodness sake. Think of what you're saying."

"I have thought about it." Her hand squirms, gripping yours more tightly. "I want to stay with these people."

"And you're just going to stay with them forever? What about your schooling? What about student council, what about Berkeley? Your father didn't donate $50,000 to the board of control for the hell of it. You're going to break his heart. Over some-- some whim--"

Rose glances away, unable to look her mother in the eye.

"You leave Rose alone!" Whitney yells from her seat in the living room. "She made her decision! Fuck off if you don't like it!"

You make a face at Whitney that tells her she isn't helping matters.

"Let's get away from these people for a minute," Mrs. Mallory says. "There's something we need to talk about in private. All right?"

"Can't you just let me be happy, for once in my life?" Rose asks, still not looking her in the eye.

"I want nothing less. But there are some things you need to know-- things I put off telling you for too long--" She looks at you, then back at your mom. "Give us five minutes alone. That's all I ask."

>What will you do?

[X] Ask Rose

You ask Rose how she feels about this.

"You won't change my mind," Rose tells her mother, by way of answering you.

"Then you have nothing to lose, do you?" she replies.

Rose lets go of your hand. "Five minutes," she says. "Then if you don't change my mind, you promise to leave me be?"

"Yes."

The two Mallorys step into the den, shutting the door behind them.

[ ] Listen in on the conversation.
[X] Talk about the situation with Mom and the others.
[ ] Custom.

"So you-- you know this woman?" you ask Mom.

"Yes," Mom replies, never taking her eyes off the door to the den. "Sara is my cousin."

"...Your first cousin?" you ask.

"Yes."

"Oh my God. So that means Rose is-- she's my--"

You pause, darting your eyes this way and that, trying to mentally map the family tree. "...Wait, what does that make Rose to me?"

Confused glances all around.

"Your second cousin," Whitney pipes from the living room. "Geez, is everyone here stupid?"

Even though you elected not to listen in, you do catch confusing snippets of a heated conversation from the other side of the door. Rose's mother says something about "looking for ages ... a crying spell (?) ..." to which Rose yells in a shrill voice, "enough with that bullshit!! How did you really find me?"

"She went over to the dark side," Mom continues. "Marrying a Mallory-- honestly, how could she?..."

"The Mallorys wield a considerable amount of political power in the state of California," Vivian offers. "Their activism has done much social good. I would hardly call them the dark side."

"That isn't the point!" Mom shouts. "They're evil! Totally irredeemable!"

"This is some Hatfields and McCoys shit..." Whitney murmurs, and you're surprised she knows enough history to make the reference.

"Why do you hate the Mallorys so much?" you ask.

"It's every Soliloquy's duty to hate the Mallorys," Mom says. "We're natural enemies, like cobras and mongoose, or wolves and sheep, or geese and dogs."

"--Geese and dogs are enemies?" Vivian asks.

"That's not the point!!" Mom yells. "Don't lose the script. Sara betrayed the Soliloquy clan by marrying into that family. Obviously her daughter has more Soliloquy in her than that skank ever did, which is why she was attracted to us..." [1]

"Don't flatter yourself," you say, smirking. "She was attracted to me, not you."

"That's not the point!!"

"How long does this feud go back?" you ask.

"Oh-- as long as anyone can remember, I suppose."

"Why?" you ask. "What started it?"

"That's not the--"

"Right, right. Not the point. Geez."

From the other side of the door, you hear snippets of Mrs. Mallory's impassioned pleas: "...before you had the chance to express ... exacerbated by proximity ... this Alabaster boy is the worst ..."

This entire situation is -- highly irregular. And it makes you feel anxious.

Rose and her mother exit the den, both of them visibly shaken by whatever conversation transpired between them.

"It's in my bedroom," Rose says. "Just down the hall, third door on the right. I put it in my nightstand. Bottom drawer."

Without further conversation, Mrs. Mallory heads toward the bedroom that Rose and Whitney share.

"Hey!" Mom calls. "Get back here, you tramp! Who said you could--"

"I did," Rose says, very quiet.

"What's going on?" you ask.

"She'll be leaving soon," Rose avers.

"You're still staying with us, right?" Whitney asks, unable to hide her concern.

"Yes," Rose says. "I just need her to look at something first..."

You hear the sound of her bedroom door open and close as Mrs. Mallory enters.

>What do you do?

[X] Talk to dad

"Excuse me," you say. "I-- I need to go talk to someone."

You head down the opposite hall. There's a small study here you know Dad has been using as a hideaway.

You step into the musty room, taking in the heady smell of old tomes. As expected, Dad is sitting on a plush leather recliner, feet resting on a settee, reading the paper.

"Dad," you say uncertainly. "Do you know what's going on out there?"

No response. You continue, "I know we don't talk much anymore... I guess we've both been so busy the past couple years... but I really need your help."

No response.

"That Rose girl who I'm seeing -- well, she's a Mallory. Her mom is here right now. I didn't know you guys had this beef with them-- and when I asked her, Mom was kind of hedgy about it. You know how she can be..."

You pull a hard wooden chair away from a nearby desk and sit down. You cross your legs and cradle your head in your hands, thinking.

"You see, I've kinda gotten myself into a-- I guess you could call it a predicament. You know, a romantic predicament. Because even though there's all this bad blood between our families, I do care about Rose, regardless--"

You scratch the back of your head. Your dad turns the page.

"And I'm in a relationship, you know, with Whitney. She really likes Rose, too. And then there's Ms. Carte... and Vivian -- err, she's more mature than she looks, honest -- and-- well, other girls are involved too-- I won't bore you with all the details of my romantic life... but things are really complicated right now."

"..."

"The point is, I'm not sure what I should do. I mean, first of all, I guess I want your blessing to stay involved with Rose."

"..."

"--Err, actually, you know what? No. I DON'T want your blessing. Uh, no offense. But I don't need it."

Dad turns the page.

"Yeah. That's right. I don't need your blessing. I'm my own man. And who cares if there's a feud or whatever? I didn't even know about it until three seconds ago. I'm not going to let it affect me."

"But-- there are some other problems too."

You furrow your brow and try to find a diplomatic way of putting this.

"There's another girl I really like. A whole lot, in fact-- maybe even more than anyone else-- and would you believe I haven't even been intimate with her? I know she feels the same way I do, but for some reason we've both been so reluctant to take it to the next level."

You shuffle your feet. You're not sure why you're talking about this when there are other pressing matters, but it's been on your mind for awhile and you want to get it off your chest.

"Maybe part of why I'm so reluctant is because if I do get involved with this-- this person, whose name doesn't really matter-- I want our first time to be special, not some kind of weird kinky experiment. I want a deeper connection, or something, I guess."

Dad turns the page.

"And to make matters worse, I have to manage all my other relationships, and... you know, I'm young, I want to sow my wild oats and all that-- but it's like, wow, how do I juggle all of this?"

You listen to the sound of birdcall out the shaded window. It's a peaceful afternoon.

"Mom always said you were a cassanova when you were my age. I guess maybe I want some tricks of the trade."

"..."

"I just keep remembering all the stuff you said to me when I was younger. About how even the strongest man ever is always going to be scared and unsure inside, how what separates the strong from the weak isn't that the strong always know what they're doing but how they always LOOK like they know what they're doing."

You stand up, pushing the chair away with your foot.

"That's the kind of man I want to be. But I don't know how to get there. I feel like I keep taking all these wrong turns and fucking up."

Your dad turns the page.

"When I almost died, I had a kind of revelation... I realized how hurtful I've been to the people I care about. And I want to fix it, all of it, but how? How can I?"

"Then I also keep remembering how you'd tell me it's important to always go after what you want, 100%... but what do you do when you don't know what you want? I can't keep going after things half-way, I have to commit to something, right?"

"..."

"Wait-- remember how, when you'd take me and Cerise to the park, you'd always say -- 'go on now, you're young, have fun'?"

"..."

"Maybe that's it. Love should be fun for Godsakes, right? Maybe that's the solution to this problem, and the Rose problem, and all the rest of my problems. We should all forget about the drama and just have some goddamn fun, for once. Right?"

"..."

"It's not much. I don't know, maybe it isn't anything. But it's a start. It's something to latch onto. Something to pursue... yeah..."

You look at dad with a smile.

"Thanks, dad. You're the best!"

You run off feeling a hundred times better. As you do, your dad turns the page.

Mrs. Mallory is back in the foyer when you return.

"An entire unit," she says to Rose. "It's impressive, I have to admit. Are you sure you can manage on your own if I leave you here?"

Rose nods but says nothing. Mrs. Mallory hugs her. The two of them exchange words of affection, apparently reconciled.

"Tell the bastard you married that the Soliloquys send their regards," Mom says as Mrs. Mallory turns to leave.

"Saul is a wonderful man," Mrs. Mallory says, setting her jaw. "You don't even know him. And I'm not going to stand here and debate the legitimacy of my marriage after you kidnapped my daughter--"

"KIDNAPPED? She came of her own free will--"

"--After you kidnapped my daughter!" She stomps her foot. "This is ridiculous. For the love of God, S--"

"I will NOT be insulted like this--"

"You won!" Mrs. Mallory yells. "You won, okay? Learn to take yes for an answer. Good lord. Just..."

Mrs. Mallory trails off. Her eyes glimmer in the sunlight streaming through the transom. "Just treat my daughter right, okay? I guess she really is more Soliloquy than Mallory, after all."

Mom pokes her chin up and folds her arms, but after a lengthy pause, she finally says: "I'll treat her like my own daughter."

Mrs. Mallory breathes a sight of relief. Turning, she steps outside. Mom closes the front door behind her.

You suddenly think of something you want to tell Mrs. Mallory. You rush past Mom, swinging the door open again. But when you step out onto Gustav's front patio, she's nowhere in sight.

The time has come. After Mrs. Mallory is gone and dinner is over, you decide to get a jump on telling the girls about your plans for Palau Independence Day.

Drinking a glass of juice, you watch out the kitchen window as Whitney limps along the shoreline, backlit by the setting sun. Ms. Carte is sitting on the dock, kicking her feet in the water, looking pensive. Mom works hard next to you, scrubbing dishes, and Vivian is back in the living room watching TV. Cerise is snoozing in her bedroom -- or maybe playing an otome, you're not sure.

Who do you discuss things with first?

[X] Whitney

You catch up with Whitney on the beach.

"Ally~" she says, smiling. You keep pace with her as she strolls barefoot along the edge of the ocean. Walking appears to be a bit painful for her, even still. You try not to make your worried glances at her bandaged leg too obvious.

"Rose's mom is sort of a cunt, huh?" she says.

"It must run in the family."

Whitney laughs. "Which one?"

"You're not calling me a cunt, are you?"

"And your sister, and your mom... buncha cunts, all of you." She grabs you by the arm, leaning against your shoulder.

"Well," you say, "everyone knows you love cunt, so..."

Whitney slugs you in the chest. Even after the augmentations, that smarts.

"There's a holiday coming up," you tell her. "Palau independence day. They're having a bunch of events in town."

"Mm," Whitney murmurs. She doesn't sound enthused. This is what you were afraid of.

"They're doing a windsurfing competition. I signed you up to compete."

"You WHAT?" Whitney says. She stops dead, and you continue a couple steps more before realizing it.

You thought your lie about signing her up would give her incentive to compete, but now she just looks upset.

"I've never windsurfed in my life," Whitney says. "And... my leg..."

"It's not for four more days. Do you think you'll be in better shape by then? I could help--"

"You don't understand," she says. Her voice is beginning to tremble. "I can't. Okay? I just can't."

"What's gotten into you?" you ask. You step forward, but she steps back, as if avoiding you.

"Look at this," Whitney says. She sounds on the verge of tears now. She plops down on her butt in the sand, drawing up her knees. You watch as she unwraps the gauze around her leg, revealing a nasty-looking and partially healed-over dimple on either side of her otherwise unblemished calf, like two impact craters on the surface of a virgin planet.

It's obvious just from looking that Dalton did permanent damage to her muscles and tendons.

"Renee says a soccer career is completely out of the question. Other competitive sports, too." She laughs ruefully, leaning back, supporting her weight on both palms. "Isn't it hilarious? I stop caring about sports when I'm still well... but then when I can't play anymore... somehow, it hurts..."

She doesn't sob or heave, but bitter tears begin to come. She lets them spill silently down her cheeks in twin rivulets.

"And who would want to see me, anyway?" she asks, sniffling. "With my leg like this, I'm disgusting."

You kneel and run a hand over her injured calf. You examine the wound in her leg. It has the shape of a blooming dandelion, soon to become scar tissue. You raise her calf and hold it to your lips, kissing her squarely on the blemish.

"It gives you character," you say.

"Yeah, well." She pauses, thinking, tears still flowing. Then: "You were always into fucked-up shit like that. I'm not surprised you're a cripple fucker, too. You're hardly the best judge."

"Hey-- that's not fair. You know, I'm a cripple too now. And Rose also-- we can all be crippled perverts together."

"YOU are not a cripple," Whitney says. She looks you in the eye and smiles sweetly despite the tears. "You're like some kind of inside-out Tony Stark now."

You crawl across the sand, lying over her, and kiss her on the lips. She opens her mouth to yours, and you enjoy her taste as your tongues wrap around one another's.

"Renee made me an offer..." Whitney murmurs. "I could... I could be like you..."

"What?" you ask, your stomach lurching.

"Remember when I said I'd be your bodyguard? I kind of failed, didn't I? And now you're so much stronger than me-- so I could never protect you even if I tried."

"It's fine," you say, kissing her again and again. You kiss her on her cheeks, lips, nose, and forehead, running your hands up and down her shoulders and arms, trying to force this dangerous thought from her head. "Stop talking like that. It's fine. You don't need to--"

"I do need to. It's-- it's WEIRD, okay? The way things are, it's so weird."

"What does that mean?"

"You're my Ally. Aladorkster. Dorkus malorkus, world's biggest gaylord. You can't be stronger than me. I should be the one who protects you, not the other way around. And if I do this, I still can. I can do it right this time. Renee said I could be better than Spancer. She said I could be better than 20 Spancers--"

"You don't have to do this," you say. "I love you just for who you are--"

"And this is who I am. I'm the woman who protects you."

[X] If this is what you want, go ahead.
[ ] I can't let you. I love you for you, and I can't let you change yourself for my sake.

"You're not going to end up like Spancer, right?" you ask.

"That was my first question," Whitney says. "Getting ripped as fuck is one thing, but what's the point if I can't enjoy it? She said it would be like your operation. You're still you, right?"

"And when would she do it?"

"If I'm going to be in shape for that windsurfing thing-- I guess I'd better go see her tonight, huh?"

You gulp. That's a bit sooner than you expected. "What would she do to you, exactly? What would change?"

"Muscles, skeleton, some of my vital organs... all completely new, and 100% better. Gustav has the parts just lying around, apparently. First time I've ever been happy to hear about a guy keeping body parts in a fridge in his basement..."

You lean back, sitting on your knees in the cooling sand. The sun is an orange half-disc at the bottom of the pink sky. Whitney glows red in the twilight.

"I still don't know about this," you say.

Whitney clicks her tongue in admonishment. "Same Ally as ever," she says. "You think too fucking much."

Still lying on her back, Whitney hooks her thumbs under her bikini bottom and pulls it down, wiggling her shapely butt.

"C'mon," she purrs. "Last chance to fuck me before I'm a robot."

You embrace Whitney, wrapping your arms around her back as you lie atop her. Whitney thrills to your touch, her rhythmic heartbeat quickening beneath her tiny breasts. You hold your hand against her chest and feel her pulse through the palm.

"Pervert~" she coos. "Molesting me like some common--"

You look up, meeting her gaze. "Tell her not to take out your heart, okay?"

"Huh? Gustav has a special pump we can install that's way better than a normal--"

"Don't let her take your heart. Do whatever else you want, but keep your heart."

Whitney entwines her legs in yours and kisses you on the nose. "You're a real idiot for a super-genius, you know? Fine. If it means that much to you--"

You kiss her deeply. She surrenders to it, arching her back as if offering her body up to you. Reaching behind her, you untie her top and toss it aside, baring her perfectly formed breasts -- barely A cups.

The past months have taught you to appreciate busts of all varieties, but nothing beats the old standards. Whitney's chest is perfect. Two little mounds that fit perfectly in your hands. You hold them, rubbing the tender flesh in circular motions. You rake your thumbs over the nipples.

This indecent groping elicits a sensual moan from Whitney. She arches her back even farther, so that her belly goes taut and her calves strain. You hunch forward so that you can kiss her up and down, from her delicate neck to her navel and then back again. Her entire body is yours for the taking. You can do whatever you want with it.

"What are you waiting for?" Whitney whines. "Don't make me wait. Please..."

You rub her inner thighs. They're already slick with desire. You run your searching hands higher still, toward her bare mound, and finally swipe a forefinger across her dewy slit.

"Ally-- fuck, fuck-- PLEASE--"

You free your straining member from your trunks and pull her into another kiss to silence her moans. She forces her tongue past your lips and her eyes droop dreamily as you writhe around in the sand with her. And then you push yourself inside.

"Ally... Allyyyyy--" the syllables of your name become an incoherent sigh of pure pleasure as her silky, milking pussy envelops you. She humps herself against you as you pump inside of her. Your lovemaking is not gentle. Your flesh slaps wetly together, echoing against the sea's stillness. You pant like animals in heat as you relieve yourselves.

Her engorged labia rub against your shaft, sucking inward and smearing you with commingled fluids. Her muscles tense every time you bottom out inside her, and she bites her lips so hard you think she'll bleed. Her little hands grip your shoulders as if holding on for dear life, and she rides out climax after shuddering climax against your fucking cock.

"I'm cumming!" she cries. "I'm cumming on you! Can you feel it?"

"Yes," you groan. Her inner walls contract and spasm around you in fluttery ripples, like a warm wet mouth suckling on your cock. The velvet softness and perfectly snug shape that conforms like a glove to your manhood makes you delirious with lust.

Your fucking becomes less fluid, more uncoordinated and spastic, as you stab into her again and again, luxuriating in the tingly sensation of impending orgasm.

"I'm going to cum inside of you," you tell her through gritted teeth.

"Do it! Fuck me full of cum!"

"Ugff-- fuck!" you hiss. You let go of your load, throwing your head back in delight as your cock twitches and pulses and sprays a creamy mess in Whitney's cunt. You mash your lips against hers and breathe in her scent as you fill her with your seed.

After getting dressed again, you and Whitney visit with Ms. Carte, who's still sitting on the dock. She smiles coyly as you approach.

"That's quite a show you two put on over there," she says. "I could hear it from over here. Whitney's like a dog in estrus sometimes."

"I-- don't know what that means," Whitney says, smiling.

"It was our last chance to be together before you do the operation," you say.

"Oh?" Ms. Carte hums, turning to Whitney. "So you decided to get augmentations after all?"

"Can we start tonight?" Whitney asks. She stands on her tiptoes, clearly excited.

Ms. Carte nods. "If you want. The procedure should take about three days. You'll be anesthetized, of course."

"Err--" Whitney begins.

"Asleep," Ms. Carte explains. "You'll be asleep."

The three of you head back to the house. Ms. Carte confers with Gustav. Heading down to the basement laboratory with him, she begins the necessary preparations.

The soonest they can start is in a few hours, so that leaves Whitney with a little bit of time to kill. She decides to spend it with Rose.

"I'm gonna fuck her brains out!" Whitney chirps. "I don't know if she told you, but I've been keeping a wicked strapon in our bedroom..."

"I... think she might have mentioned something about that, yeah..." you murmur, glancing at your feet.

"So I'll see you in a bit, I guess. Unless..." Whitney smiles seductively, "you want to join in?"

"Ah-- that's okay," you say. "You two have fun."

You sit down in the living room, taking a moment to rest. Vivian is still here, lying in front of the TV and watching a movie. You watch her for a few minutes as she stares at the screen.

"That stuff will rot your brain, you know."

"My brain is in peak condition."

"Oh yeah? If that's the case, why weren't you able to stop this?"

"Stop what?" Vivian asks, turning. Her eyes widen and she tries to roll away, but too late. You already have hold of ankles, tickling the bottoms of her stocking feet.

"I've always wondered," you say, grinning cruelly, "are cyborgs ticklish too?"

"Stop!" Vivian shrieks, clawing at the carpet in front of her and trying in vain to squirm away. "If you want-- hahaha-- if you want to-- hahahaha! STOP!-- if you want to know, tickle yourself!"

"It's not possible to tickle yourself," you say, still tormenting her. Her feet are so tiny that you can easily hold both ankles in place as you run your fingertips across the well-defined arch of her soles.

"S-shtoppp!" Vivian begs, slurring it through her peals of laughter like she's drunk. "You know I'm-- hahaha-- HAHAHAHHH-- shhhhhtoppp-- you know I'm ticklish now-- SUH-TOP!!!"

You wrench her legs back, tugging her across the carpet. Releasing her feet, you grab hold of her wrists, and pin her to the ground.

"You're a beast," Vivian pouts, still panting for breath. "This mistreatment is completely unacceptable."

"Shush," you tell her. You have to tuck your chin in to your chest just to see the top of her head.

"Unhand me," she says.

"Do you want to go out somewhere?" you ask, ignoring her demand.

"Do you mean-- on a date?"

"There's a parade in town on the 4th. I thought you might like it. If you want to call that a date, then I guess..."

"I see."

She says nothing more for a minute or so, lying motionless beneath you. You listen as her breathing becomes normal again.

"I will accompany you," she says, "but only if you admit that you are asking me on a date."

"So you still have some smugness in you after all. Who says I need you to keep me company? I've got five other--"

"Kukuku~" she laughs, and it actually comes out sounding exactly like that. "I know you want my company," she says. "I've had you under my spell from day one."

"I think you've got the roles reversed," you say. "You're the one who's addicted to MY semen--"

She begins to wiggle her pantied butt against your crotch, purposely egging you on. "But YOU'RE the lolicon," she says. "You can't hope to resist me..."

"Well," you say, hiking up her skirt, "if I can't resist you, then you can't blame me for what's about to happen."

Vivian's superiority dissolves in an instant. "Alabaster," she says, a worried catch to her voice. "This is not an ideal location--"

"It's fine," you insist. "No one cares where we fuck. If someone walks in, let them see. And you need a dose, right?"

"Well, yes, but--" she squirms a bit against your grip.

"No 'buts'. You told me just the other day that you'd be my cum receptacle. Don't back out now."

"Unf--" Vivian half whimpers and half gulps as you remind her of her words to you.

You reach underneath her and tug down her panties. Her puffy slit is sticky with arousal already. Whatever she says, her body tells the truth: it aches for your seed.

You release her wrists and allow her the opportunity to free herself, but she doesn't take it. Instead, she looks back at you with wide eyes.

"If-- if you want me to be your cum receptacle, I suppose I'm not... averse... to that..."

That's all you needed. You spread her plump ass cheeks wide, and surge yourself forward. Vivian's taut little stomach bulges as you fill her with your cock. Her pussy twitches around you, stretching to accommodate your member.

No longer worried about harming her after your first encounter, you hump her to your heart's content, raping her womb full of hot cock. Vivian's satisfied mewls and murmurs underneath you drive you to be rougher and rougher with her, but she doesn't seem to have a limit.

"Please cum," she says. "Please cum please cum please cum--"

"You want it that badly?" you ask, still pumping her. Her little uterus shudders with wanton desire.

"Please cum please cum please cum--"

She can't say anything else as you rail her. She just balls up her little fists and tightly closes her little eyes and stutters the same two syllables over and over. With her shameless begging and slippery onahole cunt gripping you, you blow your load rather quickly.

"Ahhhh---!!" Vivian sighs as she feels your hot cum pouring into her. You arch your back and push against her little loli butt as hard you can to seat yourself as deep as possible, and paint her deepest parts with semen. The tightness of her pussy clamping down around you draws your orgasm out. Cum trickles from your cockhead in a slow stream for minutes on end.

Done with your orgasm, you begin to pull out of Vivian's sucking cunt, but she reaches out to stop you. She grabs you by the wrist and pleads: "no... I want all of it..."

"What?" you say, confused.

"Please..." Vivian murmurs. "Your ejaculate isn't the only bodily fluid that contains X-11." Her eyes shimmer as you piece together what she means.

"Alabaster--" she says. "Please-- use me as a urinal..."

You turn her over so she lies on her back, your cock still mated to her. Cum seeps out from around her deliciously overstretched pussy lips and down the contours of her ass. Her belly pokes up where your dick is raping into her.

Vivian stares up at you with droopy eyes, her expression completely fucked-out and delirious. You reach out and probe her mouth with your thumb. She lets her jaw hang open and her tongue loll out to accept your violations.

You fishook her cheeks and spread them apart. You squeeze and pinch her tongue. You reach down to the very back of her throat with your fore and middle fingers. She does nothing to resist any of it. She just drools around you and gags slightly on your invading fingers. The inside of her mouth is as as soft and velvet-smooth as her cunt, and even wetter.

"Pleashe," Vivian says around your probing thumb, "ushe my toiret womb to relieffe yourshelfff--"

You flex your abdomen and force out a steady stream of piss into Vivian's undeveloped pussy. Her belly starts to inflate, like a water balloon, before she can't hold anymore. The searingly hot liquid pours out of her cervix and all around your dick, pooling underneath her. Her cunt spasms and milks your piss from your bladder.

You work your fingers in and out of her mouth like a second cock, keeping her jaw pried open to allow access. She chokes and sputters obscenely around you as you fill her with your urine. Her orgasms turn into full body convulsions, the pleasure overriding her nervous system's ability to keep herself under control. She shakes and trembles like a seizure victim, so full of cum and piss that she looks six months pregnant.

"You're a fucking wreck," you tell her, still pissing into her. "As usual..."

"Pleasshheee--" she begs around your probing fingers, "Messsh me uppp-- mmmmf~~... ruin me..."

You finish emptying yourself inside her and pull out with a nasty plop as you stand. Like a bursting dam, Vivian's cunt unleashes the pent-up semen and piss, pouring it in a milky, amber, steaming puddle all over Gustav's expensive carpeting. Without your fingers to gag her, Vivian gags herself, jamming practically an entire fist down her throat as she coughs and chokes around it. Her own bladder releases too, and her mess joins yours. She writhes side to side, cumming obscenely, her face smeared with spit and mucus. Her clothes are completely ruined and caked with filth.

"Thank you," she moans over and over as you prod her with your toe. "Thank you for making me your toilet..." 

Even though Vivian insisted on trying to lick it up, you pulled her away from the wet spot on the carpet long enough to get Mom on the scene for emergency cleanup.

Now, she kneels over the stain and scrubs it with a bristle brush, using a bucket of hot sudsy water to aid her. A second brush bobs on the surface of the water.

Vivian, naked and splattered with filth, sits pouting in the corner. She's refusing to take a shower -- you think she's probably waiting for you to join her, but she won't admit it.

"HONESTLY," Mom says, "You're an animal. A complete animal. Raping a little girl in our host's living room and then urinating all over the floor--"

"Don't call it rape. She asked for it. Didn't you, Vivian?"

"Hmph," Vivian says, folding her arms and looking away.

"The thought of you forcing yourself on poor Vivian like that makes me quiver!" Mom says, pushing against the brush with all her weight.

"Why? Because you didn't get to see it?"

Mom blanches.

"Listen," you say. You get down on your knees and take the spare brush from the rinse bucket. "This might be a bad time to bring it up, but... there's this Independence Day thing happening in a few days. I thought maybe you'd like to come with me."

Mom pretends not to be interested as she focuses on cleaning the carpet, but you can see her ears perk up. You start scrubbing alongside her.

"There's a beauty contest," you continue. "Open to any and all."

Mom stops. She looks up at you. "You-- do you mean to say you want me to--"

"Sure. It'll be fun, don't you think?"

"B-but... I'm just an old lady. I could never compete against all those younger women--"

>How will you respond?
[ ] Tsuntsun
[X] Deredere

"Please," you say. "Just because you remember the dinosaurs doesn't make you OLD..."

She slaps you on the shoulder with her yellow-gloved hand, a foamy string of bubbles springing from the fingertips. "You're awful!" she cries. "You're the worst, most misbehaved son--"

You take her hand in yours. She freezes up, going silent and rigid.

"You are not old," you tell her. "And if you sign up, you'll blow those Palauan skanks clear out of the water. Koror won't know what hit them."

"Alabaster..."

You peck her on the forehead, chaste as can be, but she responds by kissing you on the mouth, parting her lips and pushing her tongue against yours. Her breasts heave up and down as she breathes and purrs around your lips.

"You really think I have a chance?" she asks.

"Absolutely. You'll be the top contender. The swimsuit contest alone--"

"Ha!" comes a derisive snort from the entry to the hallway. You look up. Ms. Carte is standing there.

"Go away, Renee!" Mom shouts. "I'm having a tender mother-son moment here!"

"Yeah-- whatever, you cow. If you think I'm going to let you compete unchallenged, you're sorely mistaken!"

"Wait--" you start. "No-- I was planning to take you to--"

Ms. Carte holds a hand up to silence you. "Let me give you a taste of my curriculum vitae. I won three beauty contests when I studied at CalTech! I was voted prettiest researcher at Darkbloom Enterprises three years running! I was the wet dream of every male student at North High! My elan and grace are unmatched! If anyone thinks she can beat Renee Denise Carte, let them try!"

Mom leaps to her feet. "You're on, you snotty little bitch--"

They approach one another, butting foreheads and baring their teeth, like two primates in a battle for dominance.

"I'll crush you!" Mom snarls.

"The bigger they are the harder they fall," Ms. Carte sneers. "Looks like Palau's going to be under a tsunami warning after I'm finished with you."

"Fuck you!"

"Eat me!"

You sigh. This could be... troublesome.

You sit on the edge of Whitney's bed, legs splayed, as she sucks your cock.

Standing on the mattress, Rose straddles your face and humps her cunt against your lapping tongue. Her fleshy little mound presses insistently against your nose, and your brain is overloaded with her honeydew scent.

This is the last chance for the three of you to enjoy some quality time together before Whitney has her operation. You intend to make the most of it.

Rose's nectar is delicious and warm, pooling on your tongue in wet dollops. Even more thrilling is the magic of Whitney's cocksleeve mouth. She chokes down your entire length, burying the head of your dick deep within the confines of her gullet.

With her nose buried in your pubes and her cheeks puffed out obscenely, she swallows. Her entire throat, from uvula to esophagus and in all 360 degrees ripples and pulses as she gulps around you. She wags her tongue against your balls, coating them in saliva, as she swallows again and again, massaging your aching fuckmeat to relief with expert precision.

You try to stare up at Rose's face, but all you can see is the underside of her massive udders. You trace your fingers across and then around her fleshy thighs. Without forewarning you plunge two fingers past her pale butt and into her asshole. Rose tenses, half-shrieking. Her knees go wobbly. You use your free hand to prop her up by the belly so that she can't get away from the abuse. As you service her cute pink pussy, you savage her tiny asshole. Caught between pain and pleasure, Rose can only whimper.

It isn't long before you blow a creamy load down Whitney's constrictive, gurgling throat. With almost supernatural acuity, Rose senses this. She leaps from the bed, turning 180 degrees in midair, and tackles Whitney to the floor with a thud. She forces her mouth against Whitney's, their lips parting as if yawning into one another.

Rose groans like a bitch in heat as she sucks your cum out of Whitney's mouth. Her pink tongue swirls around, coated the half-translucent white slime, as she siphons it all up. But Whitney isn't in the mood to share. Her tongue slides over Rose's, claiming your semen once more for herself.

This battle of tongues turns sloppy, and leads to a messy overflow. Your cum drools out from their mouths in viscous strands. Delicate strings of it spiderweb between them, but the bulk gets smeared all across their lips, cheeks, noses, and chins. They lick it off of one another, snowballing it back and forth, their fight transforming into more of an exercise in bonding with every moment.

You watch the show approvingly, your still-dripping cock hardening once more. Whitney's tanned, toned, thin body lies pinned beneath Rose's pale, pliant, plump one. They form their legs into twin V's and force their cunts against one another's, rubbing each other off as they lick and slobber.

Whitney coos devilishly and suddenly spits a cummy gob of seed directly into Rose's open mouth. Rose is only taken aback a little. She swills it back and forth, grunting with lust, before spitting it back.

The two start spitting back and forth now, like animals, coating their faces so completely with slime you'd think twenty men just unloaded on them. They use their fingers to smear it in to each other's skin. Meanwhile they continue to mash their engorged clits together, leaking girlcum all over one another and mewling in delight.

You fall to your knees and plant yourself in the first warm hole your dick can find: Whitney's ass. She gasps in shock, and Rose takes the opportunity to snake her searching tongue down Whitney's throat.

Whitney's asshole is like silk, almost unbearably hot and so small you could mistake her for Vivian. Just as with her pussy, Whitney can rhythmically flex her anus to massage your cock like a milking machine. Even with Rose violating her, Whitney has the focus to service you with her ass like this, the way she spent so many years practicing.

As you fuck her, you think about how long Whitney has been at it, that practice -- since the very first day she met you, apparently -- years and years of nights spent up late, vegetables and hairbrushes and other foreign objects stuffed painfully inside of her, training her muscles to be the perfect conduits of pleasure. The image of a young teenage Whitney training her body for you makes you moan, loud and unashamedly, enough for the whole house to hear, as you pump her ass full of cock. For the fourth time in a little over two hours, your feel a delicious tingling course through your spine as you drop a load directly inside one of your lovers.

You slump back, your cock sliding out of Whitney's gaping hole with a slurp. Your twitching dick still rests obscenely against Whitney's crack. Rose twists around, pulling herself into a 69 position with Whitney, and buries her face in Whitney's ass and cunt. The two girls rim each other out. Rose, cumming herself silly, sucks your semen out of Whitney's ass and off of your oozing cock, alternating between the two. The noise of it is like someone drinking the last dregs of an icy soda with a straw. Rose guzzles it all down, just like the filthy fucking cumpig she is. You couldn't be happier.

After Rose and Whitney finish, Rose helps Whitney clean up. You share a three-way kiss that feels oddly chaste -- perhaps only by comparison the debauchery that just went down in this bedroom that still reeks of sex.

"I'll be back and better than ever before you know it!" Whitney promises.

"...you better be," Rose grumbles.

The three of you say your final pre-surgery farewells and Whitney leaves for the basement laboratory. Rose, wiping her own face clean and sitting down on her bed, sighs pensively.

Rose is the last person besides Cerise who you've yet to tell about the plans for Palauan Independence Day. And you still haven't gotten the full story about what happened with her mother.

You decide to try approaching the latter issue in a roundabout way. You sit next to her and -- without consciously intending to -- you lay you palm on hers. You both startle at the intimate contact, but neither of you pull away. You settle down again, looking away from one another.

"Your mom is... interesting," you begin.

"Mm," is all she'll say in reply.

"I can't believe she let you stay," you say. "She seemed really close to losing her head for a second there."

"I don't want to talk about it," Rose says. "I'm already so worried about Whitney and the extra stress might trig-- I mean, it really upsets me, all right?"

>What will you do?

[X] Invite Rose to the President's speech

You run your hand up Rose's back and to the crown of her head. You let the strands of her flaxen hair fan through your splaying fingers. Rose bristles to your affection, turning a deep shade of red.

"Alabaster," she says, gritting her teeth. "I told you not to do that. It's incredibly patronizing."

"You're cute when you're embarrassed."

"I am not-- your fucking pet--" Rose stammers.

"Whatever you say, pet."

Rose gives you the evil eye, but makes no attempt to stop your aggressive hair ruffling.

"Listen," you say. Her hair is like silk in your hands as you slowly continue to pet her. "There's an Independence Day celebration on the 4th. The President is supposed to make some kind of public speech. Do you want to go?"

Rose looks up at you. "Why would you--" she begins. She swallows hard, trying to compose her thoughts. "Together, you mean?"

"You are still interested in politics, right?"

"On the small scale, sure..." She wiggles a bit under your petting, her redness abating-- but now replaced by a strange shyness in her tone. "Identity politics-- and local issues-- things like that. Nothing on the large scale."

"Palau is pretty local," you say. "Even though it's the President, this country smaller than most cities-- he's basically an overblown Mayor."

Rose shrugs.

You pull your hand away and look her in the eye. "Besides, your interest in politics can't stay local forever."

"W-what do you mean?"

"You used to say you wanted to be President of the USA. Isn't that right?"

Rose's jaw hangs open. "How could you possibly know-- I mean, that was YEARS ago... I was a little kid, for goodness sake--"

"Crazier things have happened to us these past couple months. I wouldn't be so quick to shelve the concept. Just saying."

Rose's eyes twinkle like a flame rekindled.

You give her a reassuring nudge. "What do you say? Do you want to go? I could even sneak you backstage for a one-on-one."

Rose stares at her feet. You think she's considering the proposition. But after a few moments, she snaps her head up and cries out, suddenly indignant: "Tommy Remengesau is a crook and a phony! I would never meet with him!"

"--Huh?"

"The Palaun President is a criminal. Not to mention a chauvanist pig! Haven't you read any news since we got here?"

She pushes herself off the bed. Getting on hands and knees, she pulls a shoebox out from under her bed, full of news clippings and printouts. You watch, stunned, as she shows you select articles, filled with her own margin notes and highlights.

"Palau is FILLED with cronyism and corruption and nepotism, through and through... it's disgusting--"

"Sounds a little bit like a certain student council I could name," you say.

Rose glares at you. Then, rifling through the shoebox again, she continues: "Remengesau is the worst of the worst. He's GARBAGE. Just last year, he signed a bill to cut funding for social services so his corporate buddies could--"

You hold out a hand to stop her fishing through her little dossier. "So you do care after all," you say.

"Well -- how couldn't I?" Rose snaps. "Anyone with half a brain would care."

"Then come with me and give him a piece of your mind on the 4th."

Rose's mouth twitches. Despite herself, a grin forms on her lips.

---

MEANWHILE...

"Clothes off," Ms. Carte says curtly, stepping up to the sink at the back of the operating room. She washes her hands with diligence and care, rinsing each in turn with high-grade antiseptic. Behind her, Whitney obediently strips naked.

As Whitney sheds the last of her skimpy clothing, she can hear the clattering sounds of Gustav and Spancer in the operating room's annex, selecting the proper components. They will be assisting Ms. Carte over the next few days, working in shifts. The idea of these two men seeing her naked body makes Whitney blanch. Then again -- knowing that one is gayer than the 1890s and the other is an unfeeling cyborg helps.

Ms. Carte turns around. In the harsh fluorescent lighting, she can plainly see the glistening trail stippled down Whitney's inner thighs.

She approaches Whitney, hips swaying. The power dynamic is completely inverted, now: Whitney is vulnerable -- cold, naked and shivering, very much frightened; Ms. Carte is in her element, fully clothed in surgeon's scrubs and completely confident.

She eyes Whitney. She grins. "You're not clean," she says.

"Err-- Ally and I fooled around some more-- you know, for luck, or something?"

Ms. Carte chuckles at Whitney's discomposure. With uncharacteristic boldness, she runs a finger up one of Whitney's muscled legs, daubing up a bit of the cream. For all surgeons, the godlike sensation of being in the operating room is transformative -- and this is true for Ms. Carte as well. Whitney's skin turns to gooseflesh along the path Ms. Carte traces with her finger.

"Naughty girl," Ms. Carte purrs. She licks her cum-spattered finger, slow and luxurious, savoring the musky taste of it. She knows this means she'll need to wash her hands again -- no matter.

"Do you like it when Alabaster cums inside you?" she demands.

Whitney's teeth are chattering now. "O-of course," she manages.

"Wonderful. I'd like to see him do that to you."

Whitney blushes and Ms. Carte frowns playfully.

"There's a shower across the hall. Soap yourself down and clean up that mess between your legs. You need to be as sterile as possible for the procedure. And use the toilet there if you need it, too."

Whitney nods her understanding. Naked, she steps out of the room.

Alone for the moment, Ms. Carte sits down on what will be Whitney's operating table. She glances at the pile of clothes Whitney has left discarded on the green tile floor. Grinning pervertedly, she reaches over and takes the panties. They're stained white and still wet with the combined sex fluids of three different people. With neither shame nor dignity, Ms. Carte holds the garment's crotch to her nose, breathing in deeply. She darts out her tongue and tastes the gooey filth as she listens to Whitney showering.

All surgeons have a ritual to calm their nerves before a procedure. Compared to smoking, this seems much less dangerous. She thinks she may adopt this in the future, as she twirls her tongue through Whitny's underwear, licking the soiled fabric and inhaling the heady aromas of teenage lust. Her cunt is so wet she may go insane.

---

"Cerise."

You nudge Cerise's shoulder. She snores and rolls over to her other side, her limbs a gangly tangle on the bedsheets. You shake her more insistently.

"Cerise. Wake up. Christ."

Cerise's eyes flutter open. For a split second you think you see an honest-to-god bubble form and then pop in her left nostril. She wipes her nose with the back of her palm and sits up, her hair all mussed, her face pale and puffy from too much sleep.

"You look like shit," you tell her, smiling.

"Ugghh," Cerise moans. She sounds like a wounded animal. She rubs her temples. "I drank too much last night..."

"You don't say. Gustav was throwing a shit-fit earlier this morning about someone getting into his vintage Grand Cru. I didn't even know someone's face could be red and green at the same time. You drank $13,000 of wine in one go."

Cerise's face turns even paler than it already is. "D-did I?" she asks, aghast. "I was only drinking beer-- at least, that's what I remember--"

"You must have blacked out. On the plus side, it's not entirely your fault."

Cerise gives you a skeptical look.

"Ms. Carte's the one who actually raided Gustav's wine cellar last night. Celebration for finishing Whitney's augments, I guess. You just helped her go to town on it."

You climb across the mattress on your knees and draw the blinds. Cerise winces, shielding her eyes from the harshness of morning's glare.

With another groan, she flops back against the pillow and rubs her face. "I think I vaguely remember-- something about... sea shanties?"

"Oh yeah. You and Ms. Carte just about woke up all of Koror with your rendition of 'What do You do with a Drunken Sailor'. Between you and her, I'm not sure which one is the worse singer. You sounded like a couple of dying cats."

"I'm so embarrassed..." Cerise says, still hiding her face. She gropes blindly in front of her, her hand playing across the wrinkled sheets in wide spastic arcs. Finding a spare pillow, she brings it up to her face and hides beneath it.

"You should be embarrassed," you say. You try to tug the pillow away from her, but she grips it tightly, refusing to let you take it. You scuffle playfully for a few seconds but finally let her have her way.

"You're lucky," you continue. "Ms. Carte has it worse. She's not even lucid yet."

"Neiffer amf I," comes Cerise's muffled reply.

"Not as bad as her. She's gonna miss Whitney's great awakening. After all that work--"

Cerise tosses the pillow aside and sits bolt upright. "Is it today? When is it?" she asks, suddenly sounding alert and enthusiastic.

[ ] It's right about now. Hey, I thought you hated Whitney.
[ ] It's right about now. Get up already if you want to be there.
[X] TIE VOTE

"It's right about now. Are you coming down with the others or not? Get up already if you want to be there."

Cerise stumbles out of bed. She sways side to side, threatening complete collapse. Finally she braces herself against the end table for support. She blinks, hard and slow, trying to regain her equilibrium. When she can stand on her own without tottering, she tries to pull on a pair of pants over her underwear. The results are predictable. Raising one leg and trying to loop it through the pantleg, she falls ass-over-teakettle and whangs her head against the bedframe.

"God FUCKING damn it," she says, writhing side to side and rubbing at the bump on her skull.

You stand over her. "Need a hand, oh sister of mine?"

"I'm FINE," she says. "Give me a second, will you?"

"You seem excited. I thought you hated Whitney."

Cerise gets on all fours and uses the bed to help haul herself up. This time, she manages to put on her jeans without murdering herself.

"Whitney is-- all right," Cerise says, shrugging.

You frown. "'All right'? That's it?"

"Well, she's not the worst."

"Admit it. You were worried about her."

"Don't push your luck, Alabaster," Cerise says, breezing past you. "I'm too nice to YOU as it is. I don't need to be nice to your lesbian concubine, too."

You follow close behind her, playfully poking her in the back and forcing her to quicken her pace. She's still not well-coordinated and it makes her stumble a bit. "You like her," you taunt. "You didn't sleep at all the night I told you that she was having that operation."

"I have insomnia sometimes!" Cerise insists.

"Yeah? Is crying like a scared little girl one of the symptoms of insomnia now?"

"Fuck you. Just, fuck you. I'll cry whenever I want to!"

You smile to yourself. Together, you and Cerise head down to the basement lab.

"Oh, if it isn't vine drinker number two," Gustav says gruffly as you and Cerise come into the lab. Vivian, Mom, and Rose are already here, standing around Whitney's bed. Whitney herself is wired to a number of beeping monitors and dripping IVs, unconcious. "Vill vine drinker number one be joining us?" Gustav asks.

"Dead as a stone," you say.

"Vell, ven she wakes up, tell her zat she owes me thirteen thousand American dollars. And not a penny less!"

"When is she supposed to wake up?" Cerise asks, impatient.

Mom answers. "It's supposed to be any time now. Gustav stopped administering the sedatives at 5 AM."

You approach the bed. Whitney's face is smooth and placid, peaceful. You watch her breathing for a few moments. "I hope she wakes up soon," you murmur. "She'll miss the--"

Whitney's eyes shoot open, as if in response to your voice. The first thing she sees is you. "Ally~" she coos.

"Hey there, Rip van Winkle. How do you feel?"

Rose rushes to the bed, gripping the railing on the opposite side. "Are you okay?" she demands. "Does anything hurt?"

"I'm fine," Whitney says. "Actually--"

She sits up. Gustav reaches out to caution against haste, but ironically, he isn't quick enough. Whitney rips the IVs from her arms and pulls off all her monitors.

She scoots to the edge of the bed and stands on her own two feet. She doesn't seem at all abashed that the slit of her hospital gown reveals her bare ass.

"I'm better than all right," Whitney says. "I feel like a million bucks!"

Rose grabs Whitney by her cheeks and latches onto her lips like a lamprey. It's cute, if strange. When Rose pulls away, you take her place, giving Whitney a long and passionate kiss. Even Mom and Vivian kiss her, though those are a bit more chaste than the ones you and Rose administered.

Finally, Whitney looks at Cerise, the only one besides Gustav who hasn't greeted her. Whitney gives her a winning smile, but Cerise blushes and looks away, seeming unsure of herself.

>What do you do?

[X] "You know Whitney, she couldn't sleep at all last night because of you"

"You know, Whitney," you say, nudging her with your elbow, "Cerise couldn't sleep at all these past couple nights because of you. She's been worried sick."

Cerise's face, neck, and shoulders turn almost purple she's blushing so hard.

"Is that true?" Whitney asks.

Cerise folds her arms and twiddles her fingers agains, still looking at the ground. "So what if it is true?" she snaps.

"Aww, that's so sweet," Whitney says. "You're as big of a dork as your brother, aren't you?"

Cerise looks up, indignant. "What did you just say to--"

Whitney cuts off the tirade before it can even begin. She wraps her arms around Cerise's midsection and plants a kiss directly on Cerise's full lips. Cerise goes bug-eyed.

"Mmff--!! Whff fff, mm fff mf!!" Cerise tries to protest, but her words unintelligible as she speaks directly into Whitney's mouth. Whitney hums with delight.

Finally Whitney pulls back. With an index finger, she boops Cerise on the tip of her nose. "I'm glad you care about me," Whitney says. "I care about you, too."

Cerise is like a deer in headlights with everyone in the room waiting for her response. She can't say anything, but merely stands there, her breath uneven and shallow.

"I-- I need to go do something," she says. She turns and briskly leaves the room. But the grin on her lips as she hurries away says it all.

Whitney spins on her heels and pounces you again, drawing you into a bear hug. She grips you so tightly it actually hurts.

"Jump!" she cries, looking up at you with bright eyes.

"--Excuse me?"

She steps back. "I said, jump! I'll catch you. I want to test my strength."

Now the expectant eyes are on you. You shakes your head and sigh. But what do you have to lose by appeasing her? You glance back at Gustav to make sure it's all right, and he just shrugs, which is good enough for you.

You rear back and make a little hop toward Whitney. Nothing too forceful or quick. She throws her arms wide and pulls you into her embrace, supporting your entire weight without any apparent difficulty.

"Rawrrr!" She cries, princess carrying you in a small circle. Then she adopts the valiant tone of a comic book superhero: "Whitney Price, world's strongest girl! Don't worry, Alabaster, *I'll* protect you--"

You swing your legs around, touching your feet to the floor again and getting off Whitney's wild ride. "Thanks," you say. "Really."

"Wait--" Whitney says, grinning like a lioness. She drags you by the hand to a small card-table at the back of the room. Sitting down in a metal folding chair, she beckons you to sit across from her. "One more test of strength," she says. "Let's wrassle."

She props her elbow on the table, inviting you to arm wrestle her.

"Whitney--"

"Come on. Come ooonnn," Whitney goads. "What are you, chicken?"

"I just don't think that so soon after your--"

"Bawk bawk! Bawwwwk bawwwwk!"

[X] You're on.
[ ] That's enough. 

You sit at the table and take Whitney's hand firmly in yours, palm-to-palm. The others crowd around the small table to spectate.

"Fuck him up!" Rose hoots.

"Show her how a real man does it!" Mom cries through cupped hands.

You flex your palm repeatedly to psych her out, wiggling your eyebrows at her. She grins toothily back.

"On three," she says.

"One--" you say.

"Two--" she says.

"THREE!" you shout in unison.

Pushing against Whitney is like trying to topple a brick shithouse. Impossible. There's no give whatsoever as you strain your neck and heave, your biceps bulging. For her part, Whitney grunts and pants, gritting her teeth, but she isn't gaining any purchase either.

"Come on, you PUSSY," she hisses. "You can do better than that--"

"Take this!" you cry, surging with a burst of energy, but you remain locked in stalemate.

The table underneath you begins to creak and groan. So do the legs of your little metal folding chairs.

"Zat's quite enough--" Gustav cautions, but no one pays any attention.

Suddenly, the table gives. It breaks in two along the middle, across a previously unseen fault, and collapses to the ground. Your hand remains locked in Whitney's, your forearms entwined and perspiring in midair.

"HAAAAHH--" is all either of you can manage by this point.

Next go the chairs. They snap in half underneath you and Whitney, almost simultaneously, sending you spilling to the ground. You both lunge forward so that you land on your stomachs and can continue the battle from a prone position. When you land, the tile cracks underneath you, noise like the snapping of brittle glass.

"Murderize her! Murderize her!" Mom calls, getting too into it.

"Kick that little faggot's ass!" Rose counters.

"Please be careful," Vivian murmurs.

You try to regulate your breathing and focus on the fight, but Whitney is beginning to wear you out. You decide to try a little bit more of the psychological tack.

"You're a hundred years too early to defeat me!" you cry. Your elbow grinds a borehole into the tile floor as you struggle against her, and the friction is so great that you can actually feel the linoleum beginning to melt a bit around the edges.

"Is that so?" Whitney says. "Looks like I have no choice, then. I have to use that!"

"--That?"

Whitney lets out a beastly howl. Her eyes momentarily glow red and fiery, and you feel a dark strength course through her that even you can't hope to counter. In the blink of an eye, it's over. She forces your arm down, slapping the back of your palm against the ground so hard it sends one of the floor tiles airborne. It careens in a parabola, terminating at a cabinet on the other side of the room, where it embeds itself like a throwing star. It just barely misses poor Gustav's mustached face.

"Booyah!!" Whitney cries, hopping to her feet. Gracious in victory, she reaches down and helps you up.

You stand, massaging your shoulder and rotating your arm in its socket. "I think you fucked up my rotator cuff," you whine, grimacing.

"Oh, don't be a baby. You're fine. Except maybe your ego..."

You sigh. "Congratulations," you say.

Whitney kisses you, rubbing a soothing palm against your hurt shoulder. "Sorry," she whispers. "I don't know my own strength."

Gustav stomps out of the operating room in a huff. "Alvays destryoing my thinks," he grumbles, but you pay him no mind. You kiss Whitney back, nuzzling her.

"You'll make a good bodyguard," you say.

Whitney purrs, grinning like a spoiled kitten.

Upstairs, Vivian goes to her room and slips into her Sunday best. You don't know why she insists on wearing such a baroque and oppressive dress in this heat -- no one is going to judge her if she wears a swimsuit to the parade. But she won't stand for anything else.

"So what do you say?" you ask Whitney as you lounge together in the living room, waiting for Vivian to finish dressing. "Do you feel up to windsurfing now?"

"I've never really been..." she says.

"Watch some videos online. I'm sure you'll pick it up. You've still got--" you check the time on your cell. "--six hours. That's more than enough time. Rose will buy a board for you when we're in town."

Whitney demurs.

"Come on," you say. "What do you have to lose? You're not... you're not chicken, are you?"

Whitney kicks you in the shin from the other side of the couch. "Don't turn my words against me, you-- you-- you word turner againster."

Battles of verbal wit with Whitney don't tend to be very taxing, apparently even after her augmentations.

She hasn't changed at all.

You catch a glimpse of Ms. Carte stumbling across the adjoining hall, trying to straighten her hair at the same time as she applies mascara. It isn't working out that well for her. Her oversleeping means she has less time to prepare for the beauty contest than she would have liked.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck--" you hear as she stomps down the hall, her voice bouncing away like an echo inside a cave.

"You snooze, you lose!" comes Mom's chirping voice from the hallway bathroom. "Let that be a lesson to you!"

You hear a loud thud against the bathroom wall -- Ms. Carte throwing something at Mom, you surmise -- and Mom's cruel laughter in return.

Glancing back to the other end of the living room, you notice Cerise sitting glumly on the recliner. She seems sad.

Vivian arrives, dressed to the nines, looking almost albino against her dark black wardrobe. "I am ready to depart," she announces.

"You look like you're ready to depart for good," you say. "You're going to a parade, not a funeral. You do know that, right?"

"Please, let's hurry. It should be starting any time now."

You glance worriedly back at Cerise. "One second," you tell Vivian. You approach your sister and kneel beside her, but she won't even look at you.

"What's up?" you ask.

"All these dates..." she mumbles. "Parades and wakeboarding and who knows what else... I'm not jealous or anything. But-- what about me?"

"What about you?" you ask. Cerise winces, so you pet her cheek with the back of your palm. "Here's what's about you. Meet me under the Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge at 8:45 PM tonight."

Cerise glances at you, narrowing her eyes. "Ice cream isn't going to cut it," she says.

"Then it's a good thing I've got more planned than ice cream," you say.

Cerise looks at you strangely, but says nothing more. Standing, you stretch your back and hold out your hand for Vivian. She takes it. Her fingers feel tiny and fragile in your grip.

"I'll see you tonight," you tell Cerise. And then, to Whitney: "I'll see you in a few hours."

Stepping out into the already blazing heat of morning, you walk with Vivian to one of Gustav's watercraft. It's time for your big day out. First stop: the Independence Day parade.

On the main island, you dock the speedboat and help Vivian step out. But of course, you face the same issue you had when you came here with Cerise: neither you nor Vivian is a licensed driver.

"It's not a problem," Vivian says. "I am fully capable of operating a motor vehicle."

"Can you even reach the pedals?" you ask. You indicate the height disparity between you and her with your hand.

Vivian blanches. "Do not mock me, Alabaster Soliloquy."

"I'm not mocking you. I'm just saying--"

"If we wish to arrive on time, there is no other viable solution. Now, please kindly continue to the parking lot where Gustav keeps his vehicle. I will chaperone you."

>What will you do?

[X] Lewd things with Vivian in Gustav's truck

In the parking lot, you find Gustav's pickup amidst the dozens of other autos and step inside the sweltering driver's seat.

"What are you doing," Vivian says flatly. "That is the driver's seat."

"I know," you say. "Hop in."

"You cannot drive a car. I know for a fact you cannot drive a car."

"Right. And you can't reach the pedals. So this will work out pretty well, don't you agree?"

Vivian makes an angry puff of air through her nostrils. But she obeys. She hikes up the lacy hem of her hoop skirt and steps into the truck. You pull her the rest of the way in, sitting her on your lap, her springy little butt squarely on your crotch. You hand her your key from your jeans pocket, and she fires up the engine. It rumbles to life.

"Just tell me when to go," you say.

Vivian throws the car into gear. "Go," she says.

You press down on the gas, and the car rockets out of its space. Vivian, panicking, cuts the wheel. The tires screech against the asphalt as the car peels around in a 270 degree spin.

"STOP!!!" she cries, closing her eyes. You jam on the brakes just before you crash into a parked sedan.

Vivian stares at the ceiling and sighs. "This is not going to work out," she says.

"Shush," you say. "Once more. With feeling this time."

Vivian puts the car into reverse. "Go," she says. "But softly."

You gently accelerate. Vivian pulls the steering wheel back to the customary 10-and-2 position, straightening the truck out. "Stop," she says. Then, putting the car in drive again: "go."

And you're off.

The ride after that is smooth. You keep the car at a relatively constant speed while Vivian manages the steering. The winding roads of Palau are no match for your one-two driving combo.

Of course, the bumpy roads have another effect. Vivian's butt keeps bouncing against you, and your body's reaction is inevitable.

The beast is awakened. You can't help yourself. As Vivian navigates, you reach up, running your palms along her sides. She's thin enough that you can nearly encircle her waist with both hands. You rub her up and down, the velvet of her gothic-style dress soft and warm in the sunlight streaming through the windshield.

"Mmm~" Vivian can't stop herself from letting out a sensual little moan. She quickly composes herself. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you lie. You rub her board-flat chest in lazy circles.

"This is preposterous," she says. "We're supposed to be paying attention to the road."

"You are," you say. "I'm just the pedal-pusher." You turn your face down and nuzzle her neck.

Vivian startles in your lap when you begin to suckle on her, and the car lurches to the left as she momentarily loses control. "Alabaster..." she whines, growing desperate.

"Focus on driving," you say. "I'll just be back here, playing with you..."

You reach around her front, pushing your palm beneath the tight collar of her dress. The fabric clings to your hand like a form-fitting glove as you rub her bare chest. She isn't busty enough to need a bra, so you can fondle her to your heart's content.

Her nipples are like two tiny stones, erect and firm between your fingers. You can feel her ribs underneath, and still further down, her flat tummy. You suck salaciously on her neck as you molest her fragile body. Vivian raises her chin and arches her back to give you better access, gyrating against you, getting into these violations in spite of herself.

"Jerk me off," you say, voice low with lust.

"Alabaster, we can't. We can't."

"I don't care. Jerk me off."

Vivian gulps audibly. She takes one hand off the wheel and reaches down between the junction of her legs, pushing aside her dress to reach your crotch. She unzips your jeans, and fishes out your pulsing cock. It stands proudly at attention, jutting up almost to the base of the steering wheel.

Vivian's grip is weak and her palm isn't even enough to completely envelop your shaft, but the forbidden nature of the act makes it all the sweeter. You inadvertently speed up as Vivian tugs on your drooling member and you give her a series of wet hickeys.

"Fuck, that feels so good..." you tell her. "Just like that. Make me cum."

Your fun doesn't last long. Suddenly, you become aware of a police cruiser behind you. Your heart sinks. Worse still, it pulls into the adjoining lane, speeding up to pull alongside.

This is bad. How much prison time is it for letting a minor drive while she gives you a sloppy handjob?

You reach up and put your hands on the steering wheel, pretending to be the vehicle's main operator. You hope that's enough to fool the cop if he glances over.

But what you can't hide is your throbbing cock, or Vivian's continued tugging on it. You want to tell her to stop, but the delirious sensations of pleasure coursing through you are too much.

She must know the risk, too, but she can't stop either. Vivian masturbates you shamelessly.

The cruiser is right beside you. You glance out the window. The officer glances back at you. And as he nods, smiling warmly at what appears to be a loving brother letting his little sister pretend to drive, you blow a smelly, creamy load in Vivian's tiny palm.

Your jaw hangs slack and you throw your head back in ecstasy as you orgasm. Luckily, the cruiser passes before the officer has a chance to see that as well.

Vivian licks up your slimy cum, slurping it from between her fingers, as you arrive at your destination.

You step out of the truck, your knees weak and wobbly. You take Vivian's hand again and walk with her along a promenade that borders Koror's public beach. With the festivities in full swing, parking is a nightmare, and you have to walk half a mile before you get to the parade grounds.

The narrow streets of Koror are packed, men, women and children in floral regalia and patriotic dress. Others lean out of open windows in apartment buildings up and down the avenue. It isn't quite 9 AM, but it's already 95 degrees, and humid. You're sweating like a fiend. You can only imagine what Vivian's poor body is going through underneath that dress.

"Alabaster," Vivian says. "I can't see."

"There's nothing *to* see," you reply, craning your neck back and forth to survey the cordoned-off street. "It hasn't started."

"Help me up. I don't want to miss it when it does start."

You look down at her, smiling. "So you're saying you want upsies?"

"Do not infantilize-- hup!" Vivian gasps as you put your hands under her armpits and haul her up. You plop her on your shoulders.

"Can you see now?" you ask.

Looking up, you see Vivian nod curtly. She turns her head this way and that, perched high over the crowd, waiting with anxious excitement. You can hear the far-off sounds of brass instruments and booming drums rehearsing, but the marchers aren't anywhere to be seen.

Apropos of nothing, Vivian says: "the team should be having their next match right now. It's still Saturday morning in California."

"What made you think of that?"

"I'm... uncertain. I think about it sometimes. Can they win without us?"

"They should be okay. Hank and Paula know a lot, just between the two of them."

"And yet... there's no chance of them proceeding to the national competition now that we're gone."

"Aw, who cares about that?" you ask, trying to sound chipper. "Why would anyone want to go to Boise, of all places?"

"I wanted to go. It sounded -- fun."

"More fun than Palau?"

Vivian doesn't respond.

The parade begins. A float in the shape of a giant brown head -- a paper mache monstrosity in the depicting some figure from Palau's republican history, though you can't say who -- rolls down the street, heading up the procession. A man and a woman stand atop, visible only from the waist up, their bottom halves concealed inside the giant head. It looks rather macabre.

The woman is wearing a sash that says "Ms. Palau."

She looks about 20, mocha-brown, not a blemish on her. An elegant dress accentuates a supermodel's wafer-thin figure, and when she smiles, two dimples form in her cheeks.

Stiff competition.

"That woman looks like a harlot," Vivian says. This makes you feel a bit better.

Behind them, a pep band -- teenagers in red marching suits with frilled epaulettes -- marches in military formation. One of them carries Palau's flag, and they play what must be the National Anthem, judging by the number of people with their hands to their hearts.

Vivian holds her hand to her heart, too, in solidarity.

The next float that passes represents Palau's armed forces -- all twelve of them, apparently -- marching alongside with guns that obviously aren't real. It's kind of sad, frankly.

After them comes a group that makes Vivian so excited, she can't help kicking her feet a couple times when she sees them. It's a group of men and women in traditional tribal dress, grass skirts and tops. Some of them spin fiery batons, twirling and skipping as they do, dazzling the crowd with their dexterity. The ones along the perimeter toss handmade bead necklaces to the crowd from burlap sacks.

"I desire one of those," Vivian says. Despite the grownup phrasing, her voice drips with childlike glee.

You're at the back of the crowd, and everyone is packed in like sardines. Getting to the front in time is no easy proposition.

>What will you do?

[X] "BOOSTO!"

You push your way through the crowd. "Boosto!" you say. You part the assembled onlookers like Moses at the Red Sea.

"Please do not say that," Vivian sighs.

"Boosto!" you shout, even louder.

"I'm sorry--" Vivian says for you, glancing back and forth between the people you're shoving aside. "Terribly sorry-- excuse us-- sorry -- please forgive us -- apologies--"

"Boosto!" You hold your arms in front of you, imitating a jet, to amp up Vivian's mortification.

You come to the barricade and stop. Vivian waits patiently for a necklace to come her way, but one never does. Soon the group is passing you by, and a float representing some sort of political party is rolling up to take their place.

Vivian looks on the verge of tears.

You turn and follow the parade route, pushing yet more people aside, to keep pace with the fire-dancers as they continue down the street.

"Wave at them," you tell her. "Get their attention."

"That's juvenile-- hup!" You speed up, cutting her off.

"Boosto!"

"I asked you not to say--"

"If you want to stop the boostos, get yourself a necklace!"

Vivian, dithering, finally gives up on dignity. She flails her arms wildly as you speed alongside the marchers. "Here!" she cries. "Give me one! I desire a necklace! You, with the face! Please!"

A fat man in a green skirt looks over and grins approvingly. He reaches into his bag and tosses three necklaces Vivian's way. She nearly falls from your shoulders reaching out to catch one.

Looping it around her neck, she coos with delight, and the fat man continues on. Palaun Santa Claus, that guy.

"It's a shark's tooth..." Vivian says happily, fiddling with it.

"I don't think it really matches the outfit..." you say. Vivian gives you a little kick to show her disapproval at your opinion.

"So, how about now?" you ask. "Is this better than Boise?"

Vivian thinks.

"In all likelihood, yes. Thank you, Alabaster."

The parade ends with an enormous rolling float adorned with tropical flowers and a banner that reads, "Palau: Peace - Progress - Prosperity."

You identify the man at its head as Tommy Remengesau, the President. He wears a gauche, ill-fitting suit and bizarrely tiny rectangular glasses. He looks less like a head of state and more like a Polynesian Doogie Howser.

As he waves to his adoring constituents, you wonder if he knows the world of hurt he's due for in less than an hour.

After the parade is finally over, you take Vivian, sweating and exhausted, to the shade of a cafe's veranda. She drinks a milkshake to cool off, sitting at a chair too high for her feet to reach the ground.

"Will you be okay hanging out here until the beauty pageant?" you ask.

"Yes."

"Good. I'll be right down the street if you need me." You point toward the city park, where Remengesau is due to give his dedication speech, and where Rose is no doubt already waiting. "I'll see you in a little bit." You turn to leave.

"Wait."

You glance back at her.

"Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. She sounds unsure of herself. She rotates her ankles, swiveling her feet in nervous circles, and fiddles some more with her shark tooth necklace. "Alabaster Soliloquy..."

"What is it?"

"I love you."

She stares madly at the table in front of her, blushing.

You peck her on the forehead. "You're not half-bad yourself."

She looks up. "You love me too?"

You poke her cheek with your forefinger. It's adorably squishy. "I love you. You little twerp."

Rose also overdressed for today's events. She wears a conservatively lengthy skirt that comes past her knees, long stockings, and a blouse that leaves everything to the imagination.

This is Rose in full StuCo mode.

"There you are," she says as you sidle up to her. The turnout at the park is rather small -- less than fifty, you estimate. People variously stand and sit in the cool grass, facing a makeshift wooden stage draped in Palau's colors. A podium stands at the center, and officials mill about. Some of the crowd snap photos or film video on cell phones.

"Is he late?" you ask, checking the time.

"Of course he's late. Probably snorting cocaine in a bathroom somewhere."

"If that's the case, do you need a bump too?"

"Hardly. I don't use substances, thank you very much."

"Sure you do. Don't you think a little cum would give you the pep you need--"

Rose sighs loudly.

"Don't give me that," you tease. "I could pin you down and fuck you right here in front of God and everyone if I wanted to--"

"Oh? Maybe I could do the same to you," she threatens. She hardly even glances at you as she speaks, instead keeping her eyes peeled on the stage, and her lips curled into a phony grin.

"Did you buy a wakeboard?" you ask.

"Yeah. Whitney's practicing with it as we speak."

Good news. She'll compete after all.

"Do you know how expensive those things are?" Rose asks. You shake your head. "Let's just say it's a good thing my parents haven't frozen my personal accounts. Oh, and I paid off Ms. Carte's little debt too."

You whistle. "Thanks," is all you can say.

"Don't thank me," she says, finally looking you dead-on. "I didn't do it out of the kindness of my heart, after all. I now consider myself the owner of that debt. And she will pay me back in full, one way or another..."

You raise your eyebrows. "Don't hurt her," you say firmly.

"Oh, I'd never think of doing that," she says. "But I wouldn't mind testing out that mouth of hers."

You can't say you hate the idea. 

Minutes pass. Most of the small crowd appears to be growing restless, but Rose remains perky and at-attention, hands linked in front of her. You notice she has her shoebox of news clippings and cataloged corruption with her. 

Finally, a band on-stage begins a sour, out-of-tune and out-of-sync arrangement. Tubas bellow and trombones trill impotently. Drums syncopate without discernible rhythm. It sounds like the theme song of a hot air balloon deflating, or clown's funeral dirge. It's certainly not the pomp and circumstance befitting a head of state. But sure enough, onto stage waltzes Tommy Remengesau, President.

Despite the anticlimactic entrance, Rose seems to have the wind knocked from her at his appearance. You sense that she may be having second thoughts. 

"What's wrong?" you ask her.

"I'm not sure I can do this," she whispers back, as Remengesau holds up a palm to quiet the band. 

There's a smattering of applause from the crowd, but most of the assembled citizens seem preoccupied with their own murmured conversations. 

"SILENCE!" Remengesau yells, microphone feedback screeching. The crowd obeys.

"What do you mean you can't do this?" you hiss. "Don't give me that loser talk. Be the change we can believe in."

Rose, eyes on Remengesau, swallows hard. Remengesau pulls a piece of paper from his breast pocket and unfurls it against the podium. He clears his throat and reads aloud: platitudes about growth and progress, and the legacy of Roman Tmetuchl, the man whose statue he is here to dedicate. The statue in question sits in waiting underneath a white sheet beside the stage.

"I was going to confront him publicly," Rose says. "Now-- I don't know. Dealing with students at North High is one thing, but this man is a career politician. He could probably run rhetorical laps around me..."

[X] Do it. Believe in the me who believes in you.
[ ] I'll take you backstage after the speech, and you can confront him one-on-one.

Rose rolls her eyes. "Are you quoting your fucking cartoons at me? That sounds like one of your cartoons."

"Jesus," you say out of the corner of your mouth. "All right, let me put it like this. Don't be such a wuss. How's that?"

Rose rolls her shoulders instead of her eyes this time. She looks indignant at that one -- but also fired up. 

At the end of Remengesau's tedious speech, he unveils the statue. More muted applause. He smiles a broad, phony smile. 

Rose takes a deep breath and steps forward. 

"Excuse me," she says. "Excuse me, President Remengesau?"

He peers over his gaudy sunglasses at Rose and decides to ignore her, turning back toward the statue. But Rose is insistent. "I just wanted to ask a couple questions," she says.

"This is not a question and answer session," Remengesau replies. He sounds much less formidable without his voice booming over a loudspeaker.

"Please," Rose says. "I'm a student from America and I came all this way just to see you. I have an interest in politics and wanted your advice..."

Rose takes on that same sweet, innocent tone that you've seen sucker countless people in the past. That smile of hers could melt the heart of Rei Ayanami herself. It's Rose's deadliest trick.

Remengesau glances side to side, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead. The remaining audience members watch with renewed interest, obviously on Rose's side. "Let her talk!" one of them says. "Don't crush the poor girl's dreams!" another adds.

The President, obviously reluctant, motions for someone to hand him a mic. He forces a pained smile of feigned congeniality and says, "of course. We in Palau care deeply about Americans and always want them to have their way. Please speak, little girl."

Rose takes her shoebox under one arm and approaches even closer to the stage. No one seems worried and you're surprised at the total lack of security. 

"What does it take to succeed in politics?" Rose says. 

"Good question, little girl--"

"Rose."

"Good question, Rose. Well, as I always say, it takes a lot of perseverance. A lot of perseverance. And you need good people skills, of course--"

"Hmm," Rose interjects. "Does that entail loosening financial regulations so your country can launder the proceeds of organized crime syndicates? Is that 'good people skills'?"

Remengesau blinks. His microphone makes a small feedback squeal that heightens the awkward silence.

"I'm sorry?" he says.

"Does it entail handing out no-bid construction contracts to Chinese corporations for public works projects, coincidentally just weeks before you buy a new yacht?"

"...Much fire--" Remengesau says, senselessly. He clears his throat, making weird phlegmy noises. "You have a lot of fire, little girl--"

"Rose."

"A little girl such as yourself should be more concerned with your studies--"

"I'm just trying to understand," Rose insists, smoothing out her blouse and smiling smugly. "Did your success require you to short funding for maintenance on the Koror–Babeldaob bridge, even though it collapsed once before? Do you *need* to put the lives of your constituents at risk to succeed, or is that just for fun?"

"He's cutting funding for the bridge?" an audience member asks, incredulous. "My cousin almost died when it collapsed!"

"Now, now," Remengesau says, trying to control the situation. He dabs his sweaty face with a handkerchief and appears to be going through palpitations. The crowd is murmuring excitedly. "These accusations are baseless. Totally baseless."

"Not at all," Rose insists. "I have documents here to prove it. It's all on the public record." A few of the more engaged onlookers approach, and Rose hands them some printouts from her shoebox. They read, growing angry.

Remengesau stammers. "Little girl--"

"Rose." 

"--I want only for Palau's success and well-being. I want ONLY--"

"Is that why you keep cutting social programs and infrastructure funding for rural islanders, even as you add to your millions? Can you tell me how that adds to Palau's well-being?"

Remengesau clutches at his stomach and almost doubles over. "Who put you up to this?" he demands. He points at Rose with a trembling forefinger "Was it that bastard Sugiyama? Tell me!"

"When are you going to pay your back taxes?" Rose asks.

Remengesau surveys the jeering crowd before him. They bray and boo. Someone throws a plastic bottle, and it hits him in the chest. He stumbles back.

"You're not half the man Roman Tmetuchl was," Rose says. "He'd roll over in his grave if he knew you were dedicating his statue. Tmetuchl fought against colonialism. What do you do? You're inviting it back."

Remengesau vomits. He falls to all fours and loses his lunch all over the base of statue. And Rose, seeing this, cackles. The rest of the audience laughs, too. An aide ushers Remengesau away, both of them stumbling and swaying. 

"That girl is the devil," you hear faintly over the microphone as they flee the stage. "She's the fucking devil..."

You hug Rose around the waist and let her bask in this triumph. She almost seems to glow.

Rose hands out her little documents to anyone who asks in the aftermath of the speech. Many do -- most of the crowd, in fact. Several of them indicate that they had been supporters of the President, but won't be any longer. Rose provides some names of politicians who oppose the current regime, and who may run in 2016. Her public scrutiny of Remengesau's policies might well spread.

"Did you see the look on his face?" Rose asks as you walk hand in hand back to the restaurant where Vivian is waiting. "Oh god! It was priceless!"

"Maybe you really are the devil," you say.

"The devil only punishes those who deserve it," Rose says. "I'm proud to be the devil any day of the week." She pauses, grinning up at you. "Hail satan, bitch."

"Hail satan," you say in faux solemnity.

You and Rose stop short as you approach the veranda at the cafe where Vivian is sitting. Whitney is with her. They're talking with one another and Whitney is smiling, laughing. You're too far away to hear the conversation and neither of them notice you.

Vivian reaches out, laying a palm flat against Whitney's flat chest. Vivian's face rounds with wonderment when she feels the pulse and realizes Whitney still has a heart. She takes Whitney's hand and lays it against her chest in turn. Whitney feels Vivian's pulseless state. Vivian appears monetarily sad, so Whitney leans across the table and gives her an encouraging hug.

[X] Let Vivian and Whitney have some time together.
[ ] Take them to the beauty contest to watch Mom and Ms. Carte compete.

The pageant is on Koror's largest public beach, a bit of a trek from the city center where you currently are. Rose doesn't want to come along, citing such complaints as the contest's objectification of women and its legitimization of male gaze. You ask her how the bikini she owns and often wears fits into this ideological framework. She punches you in the shoulder.

So you'll go alone, then.

However, you're not on the beachfront for more than five minutes before you notice Rose at your side, appearing as if suddenly materialized. 

"Jesus," you say, startling. "Don't sneak up on me like that." You give her an appraising glance. She's wearing her bikini again, as if trying to prove some kind of oblique point to you -- or maybe just to escape this godawful heat. 

"I thought you didn't want to come?" you say.

"Hmph," is all she'll say. 

This event is much better-attended than the President's dedication ceremony. Spectators fill the beach, milling around, dressed skimpily and drinking, like a browner version of Woodstock. 

The stage set up for the contest is larger, too, more garish: huge metal rigging supports a purple backdrop as well as curtains hiding a backstage prep area. A judge's table sits to the left, seating ten fat and balding suited men, like a congressional NTR subcommittee. 

The event's MC is a man you recognize -- he was on the parade float earlier with the current Ms. Palau. He stands center-stage, dressed sharply in a tux, and gives a speech hyping the beauty of today's contestants. There are 20, including the current champion. 

The MC steps aside, the curtains part, and the women step out.

Mom and Ms. Carte are conspicuous. Most of the contestants are dark-skinned, or else clearly Japanese. Mom and Ms. Carte are white as the driven snow. They stand side-by-side, wearing forced smiles and not very much else. 

The crowd goes wild for the assembled beauties. All you can do is pray nothing untoward happens between those two before it's all over.

Each woman steps forward to briefly introduce herself.

"I'm Naoko," one says, full of meekness. "I will do my best to please everyone here. My main hobbies are embroidery and doing whatever my boyfriend tells me." 

"I'm Ursula," says another, "and I like to exercise. I believe in veganism."

Compared to these stilted introductions, Mom's is a little more... eventful. 

"I cook and read in my spare time," she says. "But forget about that crap. Let's get to the real point. I solemnly promise that I will destroy everyone here--"

The MC, smiling, tries to usher her away, but she pushes him back and continues. 

"Do you hear me?" she snarls, grabbing the mic stand. "I will destroy EVERYONE on this stage-- I will completely-- hey!!" The microphone shrieks like nails on chalkboard as the MC finally forces her back into the lineup. He isn't smiling anymore.

Ms. Carte steps forward now, grinning. "My name is Dr. Renee Denise Carte, MD, PhD. I'm basically a genius. My research interests include bio-engineered symbiotic prostheses, bioelectronics, piezoelectric surgical techniques, carbon nanotube skeletal augmentation--" 

"Thank you, thank you," the MC says, trying to end it before it becomes a bore.

"--neural networking systems, synthetic flesh analogues--"

"Renee Carte, everyone!" the MC says. "Let's give her a hand!"

"--artificial intelligence, transhumanism--"

She cranes her neck to keep speaking into the microphone as the MC forces her back into the lineup as well. Finally she has to break off her verbal CV. Taking her place beside Mom, she sticks her tongue out at her as if she was already declared winner.

The first part of the actual contest is a question-and-answer session. The women are posed such toughies as, "if you were granted three wishes, what would they be?" and "in your opinion, what is the most difficult problem facing the world today?"

World hunger and world peace get brought up early and often.

"Mrs. Soliloquy," says one of the judges when it comes Mom's turn. "Who do you most admire?"

"That's obvious," Mom replies, folding her arms. "My two children. They mean everything to me." 

This surprises you. Rose elbows you in the side, snickering. 

Mom's eyes find you in the crowd, and she blushes deeply, her eyelids fluttering. "A-although," she adds, "my son is a complete idiot sometimes-- I suppose I only really love him because I HAVE to-- I mean, it's not like-- it's not like--" 

She trails off. The judges cast confused glances at one another.

"I mean-- Alabaster is obviously the most intelligent person in this whole country-- and the strongest, too-- aside from that dyke bitch-- but-- w-well--"

She's trembling and flustered. She keeps glancing back at you, abashed. So you do the only thing you can: you give her an encouraging smile and nod slowly. She clears her throat and continues.

"Anyway-- my daughter Cerise is also precious. She's extremely intelligent too, and kind-hearted, and sociable... err--"

The judges begin to whisper to one another and don't seem impressed at this rambling response.

Mom, thinking fast, adds one last bit: "you asked a different contestant what she would wish for if she had three wishes. This might be outside the scope of what you asked me, but I would only need two. I would wish-- I would wish to be even closer to Alabaster and Cerise."

The judges arch their eyebrows but seem to like that. So does the crowd. They applaud.

Next comes the talent contest. The current Ms. Palau, Yvonne, swallows fire, to the crowd's wild adulation; a girl named Midori recites haiku, to the crowd's much less enthusiastic reception.

Ms. Carte's talent is walking on her hands.

You never knew she could do this, and it turns out she's almost unbelievably skilled at it. She skitters around the stage like a Silent Hill monster after receiving a total makeover. She hops and dances with ease, and even walks on her fingertips for a few seconds. 

From the back of the stage where the rest of the girls are seated, Mom watches glumly. When Ms. Carte mounts a unicycle, pedaling it with her hands to oohs and aahs from the crowd, you think Mom might have a conniption.

But instead, she exacts revenge.

As Ms. Carte unicycles by, Mom reaches deftly out and tugs at the string of Ms. Carte's bikini bottom. That's all the coaxing it takes. The bottom falls away, leaving her pussy exposed to the eyes of every single man, woman, and child in attendance. Its inviting pink folds, the fleshy mound shaved bare and slightly coated in sweat, glisten in the afternoon sun.

Ms. Carte gasps in shock. She does a quick 180, baring her perfectly round ass. When her legs involuntarily split to help maintain her balance, you can even see her little puckered rosebud.

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god" you hear her saying from the stage, mortified.

Rose covers her mouth. "Oh, my," she says, never peeling her eyes away.

The rest of the audience hoots and hollers, eating it up. The judges and MC do nothing to intervene. They seem to be enjoying the show, too. 

"I can't-- I can't--" comes Ms. Carte's voice, barely audible over the wild crowd. She wheels around on-stage, unable to cover her shame, blushing, on the verge of tears. Her legs flail madly and her most private parts remain on lewd display.

>What do you do?

[X] Help her cover herself/help her backstage

You rush forward, sweeping up one of the beachgoers' towels as you do. You bound on-stage and tackle Ms. Carte off her unicycle -- the gesture is perhaps a bit rough, but desperate times and so on. 

Lying over her, you wrap the towel around her lower half before helping her to her feet. You guide her through the curtains that lead to the backstage area -- really just a section of beach that's been cordoned off. Ms. Carte bows her head, still humiliated. Mom looks a bit shamefaced as you pass. 

Backstage, security personnel at a table back here watches you inquisitively. Someone tosses Ms. Carte's bikini bottom back to you and you help her put it back on.

"I'm going to get her back!" Ms. Carte says in a rage after she overcomes the initial shock of embarrassment. "That bitch is going to pay!"

"Tone it down," you say, trying to keep her rational. "Let me deal with it later. All right? Don't make a scene--"

"I'll make any goddamn scene I want to!" 

Not exactly the wittiest riposte. She isn't thinking clearly, and that spells trouble. Worse, Mom's talent exhibition is beginning now. Ms. Carte pushes past you, returning to the stage.

Things might get ugly.

When you walk around the side of the stage and return to Rose's side in the crowd, Mom is well into her act. Her talent is speed-painting. She's halfway done with a stunning landscape of a beach at sunset. 

Unlike Ms. Carte's talent, you were already aware of this one, but it's been years since you last saw it. Mom stopped painting well before you hit puberty, when as a child you made fun of her work.

"And now," Mom says with a flourish, "we add some happy palm trees. Like so. And so."

She's so involved with the painting that she doesn't notice Ms. Carte's growing rage hit its boiling point. Nor does she notice when Ms. Carte rises to her feet, lets out a savage yell, and barrels toward her.

Mom's easel goes flying and her canvas topples to the stage floor. Her palette becomes trapped between their bodies as they tumble to the side. The two women struggle, rolling around and trying to pin each other. Their torsos become smeared and smudged with bright green paint.

"You bitch! You bitch!" Ms. Carte says again and again. She tugs cruelly at Mom's hair. 

Mom kicks and screams in pain and anger, spittle flying. "Get off of me, you crazy tramp!"

The judges are standing, watching in shock; the MC's mouth is agape; the other contestants are like deer in headlights.

"Learn to take a joke!" Mom cries.

"A joke?! A JOKE!? The only joke around here is the delusion that your saggy ass could win a beauty contest!"

Mom jockeys for position, rolling Ms. Carte onto her back and kneeing her roughly. "Screw you! The judges aren't here to elect 'worlds most drunken tramp,' you know! I'm much more beautiful than some used-up trollop like you!"

"Please! It's a good thing I didn't take off your bikini too! All the judges would have puked!"

Watching this unfold, Rose is laughing like a madwoman. 

But you know you need to intervene. And as it just so happens, Rose is going to help, like it or not.

You grab her by the wrist and haul her into a nearby mens' bathroom.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Rose spits as you push her into a claustrophobic stall. You lock the door behind you.

"I need your swimsuit," you say, turning to face her.

"What?"

"Take your swimsuit off. I need it."

"Why on EARTH--"

You don't have time to argue. You take Rose's swimsuit by force, kicking off your swim trunks as you do.

"This is hardly the time or the place," Rose begins. But when you start putting on her bikini bottom, she stops mid-sentence. 

"Um-- not that I'm strictly against doing something with you right now," Rose says, revising her previous position. She licks her lips as she watches you crossdress. You can see her naked pussy already beginning to cream itself.

"How do I look?" you ask.

"Good enough to eat," she says. Her eyes twinkle.

"Like a girl?"

"Like the nastiest, sluttiest girl who ever--"

"Good. Wait here," you tell her.

"--huh?"

"I need to stop that fight. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Rose slumps down, sitting naked on the lid of the toilet. "You can't just-- just LEAVE me here, naked, in a public bathroom! Are you crazy?"

"It'll be fine," you say. "Try not to get raped, okay? I believe in you. Wear my trunks if it'll make you feel better." 

You peck her on the cheek. "Love you. Bye." 

You dash out, closing the stall door behind you, as Rose wails in protest. "Wait! Wait, goddamn it!" But you're already gone.

You dash back to the beach and sneak around the side of the stage, into the prep area. A man in a black tee that says SECURITY in huge stencil lettering stops you.

"Sorry I'm late," you say, forcing your voice to unnaturally higher registers. "I can still compete, right?"

The man glances you up and down. "Name?" he asks, pulling a clipboard from the folding table beside him. 

"Err-- that's not important, is it?"

"I can't let you on stage if your name isn't on the list, lady. That's the rules."

You throw your head back, groaning. "Isn't there any other way?"

"Nope. If you're not supposed to be here, beat it."

Desperate times... 

Swallowing your pride, you saunter closer to the man. You run your fingertips up and down his barrel chest. "Come on," you say, trying to sound coy. "Who needs a silly list? Let me on stage. I promise to... make it worth your while, after the show..."

The bouncer gulps, pearls of sweat appearing on his forehead. The side of his mouth twitches as he looks at you with new eyes -- hungry eyes. It makes you a bit uncomfortable, but also kind of proud, too. He steps aside and lets you pass. 

"Uh-- wait--" the man calls out, his voice shaky. "I, uh, still need your name-- to pass on to the judges so they can announce you."

You look back at him. With a wink, you say the first thing that comes to mind. He nods his understanding, jots it down, and hurries to hand it off to the judge's table.

"I'll kill you!" Ms. Carte shouts.

"I'll grind your face into dust!" Mom shouts back.

They tug at each other's hair and try to slam each other's heads into the ground. It's vicious and terrible, and... well, kind of hot, too, but that's beside the point.

Yet when you walk on-stage, everyone falls still and silent -- the other contestants, the crowd, the judges -- Mom and Ms. Carte, too. The two women stare at you like they've seen a ghost, disbelieving, their faces lightly bruised and spattered with paint. Their mouths part slightly in shock.

"Ahem--" one of the judges announces, taking a notecard from the bouncer you seduced. "We, um, have a late entrant into the competition here. Everyone, please welcome-- Alabasterina Aside." 

You step to the center of the stage, swaying your hips as best you can, trying to look sexy. 

You notice Rose returning to the crowd, wearing your trunks. She covers her bare tits with her arms, and not very well. She looks glum, until she meets up with--

Oh, Jesus. Whitney is here. So is Vivian. And following close behind them-- 

You close your eyes, trying not to have a panic attack. This can't be happening.

Cerise is here, too. 

Mom and Ms. Carte are still lying on the ground, Mom on top, in exactly the position they were in before you took the stage. Their eyes follow your every move. Down below, so do the eyes of your other four lovers.

"Alabasterina," says the judge who introduced you, "what is your talent?"

>What is your talent?

[X] Answering trivia questions WHILE BENCHPRESSING TWO HOT OLDER WOMEN

You haul Mom and Ms. Carte up by the scruffs of their necks, like two naughty kittens. You toss them into the air and catch them by the butt, one in each palm, balancing them precariously. You raise them high above your head in a show of superhuman strength as they teeter and flail their extremities, trying not to fall.

Down in the crowd below, you see Cerise's lips form the words "holy shit." Whitney looks like she's about to faint from exhilaration. Vivian fans her to no effect, looking worried and majorly confused.

The rest of the audience cheers and screams. Soon a chant develops: Alabasterina! Alabasterina! Alabasterina!

"Your skill is... your strength?" one of the judges asks.

You pump Mom and Ms. Carte up and down as if they weigh nothing. "Oh, this?" you ask. "This is just how I warm up. My real talent is trivia."

"W-what are you doing?" Mom demands out of the corner of her mouth, still struggling to balance herself. "Why are you wearing those--"

"--Are those Rose's?" Ms. Carte cuts in. "Why the hell--"

"Shush," you tell them, keeping your voice low. "You're lucky I came when I did. You guys could have killed each other."

They shut up at that.

Standing here on stage with hundreds of spectators watching you instills a strange feeling in your gut -- though not unpleasant. You feel the residual warmth of Rose's cunt against your genitals and the silky smooth fabric of her swimwear clinging to you, your ass and your thighs. You do your best not to grow what would doubtless be a show-stopping erection.

"Trivia?" a judge asks. "We're not really prepared-- we have no questions prepared, that is--"

"When did the Spanish armada sail?" Ms. Carte interjects.

You grin triumphantly.

"August 8, 1588," you say. You give her mound a grateful little squeeze for helping you out, and she bites her lower lip in sudden pleasure. 

Mom, seeing this from her perch, and not to be outdone, counters with: "What was the first work of Picasso's blue period?"

"Casagemas in His Coffin," you say, and give her a squeeze, too -- it's only fair. Her soft pubis is like a toy in your hands. You feel the rapid spread of her wetness, her pussy going into overdrives from this incestuous, exhibitionist molestation.

"Who invented the phonograph?" Ms. Carte says. 

"Thomas Edison."

"Ohhh fuck," Ms. Carte can't help herself from groaning as you grope her. She bucks her hips, threatening to fall. The crowd is in a fervor of cheers and chants, and no one seems to hear this, or notice the sexual perversion happening right in front of them. 

"What year did A Farewell to Arms come out?" Mom says. 

"1929." -- of course!

"Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!" You rub her through the thin fabric, masking the obscenity with the motions of your continued lifting. Whitney, Rose, and Cerise seem to understand what's going on, and watch rapt -- even Vivian seems to understand -- but no one else does. Your public violation of these women becomes bolder still as they alternate questions in shaky timbre.

Mom and Ms. Carte, now in the throes of approaching orgasm, can't continue their grudge -- by necessity. They lean against each other for support, linking fingers as you get them off. They cum in your hands, gasping and shuddering. Their cream trickles wetly down your forearms and all the way to your elbows, their pussies throbbing in tune with their pulses. They lean their foreheads together and ride out their cum, screaming soundlessly into each other's mouths. And then you let them down. The crowd is ecstatic.

Your show of bizarre strength and mental acuity is the last event of the pageant. You stand with the other 20 contestants as the judges deliberate -- taking your place in between Mom and Ms. Carte, just in case.

Both women are complete fucking messes, their hair mussed, their bodies smeared with paint, their bottoms stained with their fluids -- they stink like acrylics and sex -- but both of them smile as if they've got it in the bag, as if they're sure to win.

But the crowd isn't chanting their names. The crowd is chanting YOUR name. 

The judges come to a decision. The head of the committee writes their collective choice down on a notecard and hands it off to the MC. The MC strides purposefully to center stage, the perfect image of showmanship. From somewhere to the side, a drummer gives a drumroll to amp up the suspense.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the MC says. Your heart flutters in your chest. Mom and Ms. Carte stare past you, at each other, with renewed rivalry.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today's contest has been one of the... strangest... that I've seen in many years doing this--" he pauses for laughter-- "but we finally have a decision. The winner of Ms. Palau 2014 is--" 

He looks down at the card, dramatically raising his eyebrows. 

"--Why, I never would have guessed this-- but she's a real crowd favorite, it seems, and the judges loved her too-- she took this entire competition by storm--!"

"Our winner is--!!!"

You puff out your chest, your breath growing ragged with excitement.

"--Yvonne Tamaguld!" the MC cries, throwing his arms wide and beckoning the champion to step forward.

"What." you say, flatly.

Yvonne, current and again Ms. Palau, puts her trembling hands to her mouth and starts to cry, as if this is some big fucking shock for her. The MC puts a tiara on her head, wraps a sash around her, and hands her a bouquet of flowers.

Mom and Ms. Carte appear less than pleased.

So do you.

"This is Yvonne's fourth win in a row and fifth overall," The MC says. And then, as that stupid, slutty harlot who isn't NEARLY as pretty as you are bows and blows kisses to the crowd-- seriously, who the FUCK does she think she is? -- the MC launches into a crooning melody.

"Sheeee's so pretty and graceful, Ms. Paaaalaaaau. She's so el-e-gant and looooovely, Mssssss. Palau..." 

You could puke.

"HOW DARE YOU NOT VOTE FOR ALABASTER?!" you hear Rose shriek from somewhere in the crowd. "THIS IS ERASURE!! THIS IS A HATE CRIME!!"

As the other contestants crowd around the winner to congratulate her, you turn on your heels and disappear backstage, worrying that if you stick around you'll start to cry. This is so unfair. Mom and Ms. Carte follow close behind.

"It's not FAIR," you cry, arms folded as you sit on a flimsy plastic chair backstage. Whitney fans you with a magazine. The others look on.

"Are you going to give me back my top?" Rose asks, still using her forearms to -- badly -- cover her udders. No one pays attention to her.

"You're still number one to me, Ally," Whitney says. 

"That's right," Mom says in an uncharacteristic display of tenderness. She strokes your hair. "You're the prettiest person in Palau." 

Cerise gives her a mean look.

"Um-- the second prettiest person in Palau..." Mom corrects. "I mean--"

"Oh, of COURSE," you moan. "Always the bridesmaid, never the bride!" You snatch a tissue from Vivian's outstretched hand. You blow your nose loudly, but the tears won't stop. You weep into the bunched-up tissue.

"Seriously, my boobs are completely exposed here..."

"I would have voted for you," Ms. Carte says, talking over Rose. 

"Me too!" Whitney says. "I would have voted for you SO fucking hard!" 

"They're obviously biased toward breasts," Cerise says. She pounds a fist in her palm. "Those judges simply can't appreciate the delicate body of a crossdressing boy!" 

"I would hardly call Alabaster's weightlifting 'delicate,'" Vivian says. 

"That isn't the point!" Cerise shouts. 

"I can feel everyone looking at me..." Rose mumbles.

"You should have beat those judges to pulp," Ms. Carte says, her eyes dewy with daydreaming. "That would have been justice. Not placing at least one of us in the top three was a travesty."

You glance over and notice the security guard from before -- the one you seduced to let you into the contest. He stares at you with lustful eyes. Only now do you remember yourself. "Let's get out of here," you say, sniffling. 

"My top!!" Rose shouts, powerlessly, as you stand up and head out. The other girls follow, Rose bringing the the rear. Her breasts ripple like an upset pond with every step, and sweat trickles lightly from the undersides. As expected of breasts.

Out on the beach, the crowd from the pageant is dispersing. A wind rolls in from the east, bringing with it long, flat, gray nimbus clouds that lie ominously on the far horizon. The clouds haven't overtaken the sun so and the day is still bright -- and oppressively hot. 

The fresh air does wonders to quell your despair over losing. You breathe normally once again -- and start to feel once again the strangeness of being in girl's clothes.

Vivian seems more interested in the lapping tide than your emotional turnaround. She tosses off her dress with a theatric flourish to reveal her spandex onepiece underneath. 

Ms. Carte, perhaps at least partially to wash herself clean of the acrylic paint that spilled on her in the fight on-stage, helps Vivian along as she dogpaddles into the ocean. She holds Vivian about the belly and spine to keep her from sinking as Vivian kicks her pale legs in the water.

Cerise unfurls a beach towel and sits down near the shore, watching the windsurfers as they gather at the other end of the beach. Mom joins her.

"I guess I'd better get ready," Whitney says. "The competition is starting soon." 

She hugs you tight, looping her arms over your shoulders. She kisses you on the cheek. "I like Alabasterina," she whispers. Her voice directly in your ear sends a jolt down your spine.

"I--" you begin.

"MY. TOP," Rose cuts, setting her jaw and stomping a foot. "Everyone is looking at me!"

You glance around. It's true: Rose's bare-chestedness is drawing a lot of leering.

"All right," Whitney says, pulling away. "Wish me luck!" She jogs toward the cabana where her board is being kept. 

You look over at Rose. She taps her foot expectantly, your boxers hugging her fleshy thighs. 

>What do you do?

[X] Mock indignation/tell her to beg

"Are you-- are you trying to body shame me?" you breathe, hugging your chest in mock indignation. "How dare you--"

"Alabaster, this isn't the time--"

"How DARE you?" 

She kicks at you -- a move she must have picked up from Whitney. But she's uncoordinated, only managing to graze your ankle. The move sends her tumbling backward and she collapses splay-limbed in the sand. 

Rose might copy Whitney's moves but she absolutely doesn't have the same grace. Mom and Cerise watch intently from their beach towel; Mom giggles to herself at Rose's misfortune. 

You help Rose to her feet and steer her away from the rubberneckers and cat-callers hooting at her exposed tits. 

"Fine," you say, yielding. "I'll give you back your clothes." 

Rose smiles. 

"You just have to beg me for them," you say.

Rose's smile freezes on her face. "I'm sorry--?"

You untie the bikini top's securing straps and slip out of the garment. Holding it out on a hooked forefinger, you say, "just grovel a little and you can have it back."

"This is RIDICULOUS--"

"Well, it's your choice," you say, turning away as if to leave her behind. Rose's face crumples and she reaches out to stop you. The desperate gesture momentarily exposes a bright pink areola which she quickly covers up again.

"Wait," she says. "You wouldn't really leave me naked in public, would you?"

"If you're misbehaving? Oh, sure."

Rose's lips tremble. Her eyes dart side to side, perhaps trying to get a read on your expression, to gauge if you're serious.

"Please," Rose says finally, her voice pinched.

"Hmm?" you say.

"Please," she repeats. "I'm-- begging you--" She swallows hard, looking at the ground, her face flushed. Her haughtiness is -- at least momentarily -- demolished. 

"All right," you say. "Will you admit that you're my pet, and not the other way around?"

Rose winces at this, like she's been slapped in the face. "Y-you're a dog," she says, still averting her gaze. "Taking advantage of me like this--"

You deny her the satisfaction of a response as she stands there trembling. 

Long moments pass, and then: "I'm you p-p-pet," she stammers. "Okay? Please don't-- torture your pet like this..."

You grin. "Here," you say. You toss her the top. She catches it, and with lightning movements puts it on. 

You tug down the trunks she's wearing and the two of you quickly swap bottoms. This bold maneuver draws some raised eyebrows and makes you thrill with adrenaline, but otherwise goes off without a hitch. Mom and Cerise, watching, cover their mouths daintily, looking almost like mirror images.

You lay a palm on Rose's tummy. The sudden contact makes her inhale sharply. You run a fingertip across the shallow striation that serves as the only remaining mark of her wound. She can't help but make a small moan at this -- the flesh there is still tender. 

You kiss her on the top of her head and say: "you pull off the bikini look better than I do, anyway."

"You'll pay for this..." she says, but there isn't any force behind her words. She snuggles closer to your touch.

The windsurfing competition begins about half an hour later. Buoys are deployed to demarcate the playing area and keep swimmers out of the way. A judge's table seats many of the same men who judged the beauty pageant. You begin to suspect Palau is some kind of oligarchy.

Whitney is an unknown, and hasn't ever competed before, so she's seeded at the very bottom. This means she's slated to compete in the middle of the pack, after the mid-seeded players but before the top-seeded ones. 

The competitors congregate underneath the shade of a long white tent, milling about and drinking gatorade. There are roughly two dozen, all men, of all different nationalities, and they all seem to know one another well. They laugh and joke and horse around. Whitney, usually a social butterfly, stands around looking lost and uncertain. 

[ ] Beckon her to your place on the beach with Rose, Cerise, and Mom.
[X] Go over there.

You climb over the rope cordoning off the players' area and head into the tent, not caring about the rules.

"Who're you, eh?" a man with long blond hair and an Australian accent asks as you pass. "Ain't supposed to be heah, mate."

"I go where I want," you say. The man puts a hand on your shoulder to stop you. You shrug him off. 

"Oi!" he shouts after you. "I'll call security!" But you don't even look back.

Whitney watches this little altercation with wide eyes. You hold her around the waist and guide her away, toward the opposite end of the tent. 

"That was Ty Fobbler," Whitney breathes. "You just pissed off Ty Fobbler -- WE just pissed off Ty Fobbler."

"Ty... who?"

"He's the number one windsurfer on planet Earth! Don't you know anything about this sport?"

"Precisely nothing, as it happens..."

You glance back. Ty is posing for pictures with the other competitors, who eagerly crowd around him. He's got a body like an ancient Viking god and hair like a modern Viking douchebag, and everyone in the tent is gaga for him.

"You'll kick his ass," you say. 

"Yeah fucking right, Ally!" She stomps your foot. "Two hours of practice and I can still barely change direction! That guy can do triple backflips in his sleep!"

"You'll kick his ass," you say again.

"You can't just-- just make something true by repeating it," Whitney says.

"It worked for Goebbels..."

"What the fuck do gerbils have to do with this?" Whitney shouts. She stomps your foot again. "YOU put me up to this and now I'm going to make an ass out of myself in public, dickweed. Oh god... I'm going to barf..." 

She grabs a paper bag from a nearby table and breathes into it, hunching over. The bag expands and contracts with her breath. You lay a comforting palm on her back, rubbing up and down.

An idea strikes you. An idea to help Whitney win -- but it's cheating, not to mention insanely risky.

[ ] Help her win, no matter the risk.
[X] I believe in Whitney. She can win on her own!

"Whitney." 

"I'm doomed. Fucking... goddamn it--"

"Whitney! Look at me."

You clasp her by the shoulders. She pulls the paper bag away from her face and meets your gaze.

You were planning something to say motivational here, but you're not exactly the Gipper. 

"It's not whether you win or lose," you say, "but whether you have fun--"

"Oh, FUCK you," Whitney groans."Fun is bullshit! In sports it's kill or be killed. The end!"

"Then," you say, "kill."

Whitney fixes you with a skeptical look. You launch into a pep talk.

"The Whitney I know always killed. Soccer, softball, basketball, it didn't matter. You sent a kid to the hospital in 6th grade from a tetherball injury. The first time you got on a skateboard you pulled a 720 off the roof of North High. And you're telling me you can't ride a couple waves?"

"You make it sound like it's nothing. But it's hard--"

"You love hard things!" you shout. You glance to the side, dithering. "Err-- you love *difficult* things. You once told me soccer is the hardest thing ever. That it makes you sore, and sweaty, and cranky, and that you love it."

"Well, yeah..."

"Then go out there and kill."

Whitney straightens her back and balls up her fists, fire slowly returning to her eyes. She glances over at Ty Fobbler.

"Metaphorically," you add. "...Kill metaphorically."

"You believe in me?" Whitney asks.

"I do."

"If you believe in me... I can do anything." 

The officiator blows the whistle that signals it's time for the day's first contestant to go up. As you watch him go into the water, Whitney says: "Knob Gobbler's going down."

The oncoming gale worsens over the course of the competition. The whipping wind gives players enough lift to perform stunts that you can only describe as death-defying. One man, a Saudi who insists on wearing his turban even in the ocean, hits the crest of a wave at the edge of the playing area that's easily two stories tall. He launches into a front flip and seems about to jackknife face-first into the tide. But he rights himself at the last moment to an uproar of applause.

Another man, a blond Kiwi almost short enough to classify as a true midget, turns into the wind at the perfect moment to go spinning like a top, lifting about a dozen feet into the air and completing almost as many revolutions. The wind is so loud you can barely hear the standing ovation. Even though he pukes on landing, the judges award him high marks. 

"Poor Tyrion lost his lunch," you joke, trying to lighten the mood, but Whitney doesn't even seem to be listening. Standing at your side, her face is ashen with anxiety as she watches contestant after contestant dazzle the crowd. 

Whitney's two hours of practice may not be enough.

"Seed 20," an announcer intones over loudspeakers. "Price, Whitney."

"That's me..." she murmurs. 

You give her an encouraging nod as she gathers her board and steps out onto the dock. She hooks the board to a speedboat, which ferries her out to the center of the playing area and releases her. And so it begins.

Whitney's performance isn't as immediately arresting as the other players. She curves her spine too far, you think, in comparison to the others, and leans precariously to one side because of it. And she really does have a hard time changing direction. She struggles to maintain even a cruising speed as she tries to keep up with the shifting wind. The crowd on the beach begins to get restless, a collective sigh passing through them. 

From the beach, Rose calls through cupped hands: "Come on, Whitney! Come on!" 

Mom joins in: "Give them heck!" 

And Ms. Carte: "Take them to Get-Your-Ass-Kicked City!"

Even Vivian offers: "You're performing admirably! Continue doing your best!"

Then, finally, Cerise: "We're all rooting for you!"

You would add to this chorus, but almost by serendipity, a hurricane-force gust buffets the beach. Angry black clouds blanket the sun, and the waters begin turning from azure to a frothy gray. 

The wind catches Whitney's board and she surges forward, uncontrolled, unable to adjust her sail or halt her advance. She wails in panic. The edge of her board kicks up a white wake. She almost topples over. 

Rapidly, she approaches the buoys. Passing by them would spell instant disqualification. Your heart sinks. "C'mon Whitney..." you mumble. "Come on..."

"Turn!" Rose shrieks over the wind. "Turn around!!"

Whitney steels herself and skirts the playing area's edge, turning 90 degrees in an instant. The maneuver doesn't seem physically possible. A wave lifts her from behind, but she outpaces it and goes airborne. 

Then she does something you've yet to see any competitor do. She kicks her own sail, along the underside. She kicks it, like a soccer ball. The blows taut in the wind, its momentum carrying her against all laws of physics into the opposite direction. She spirals into a backflip -- once, twice -- and lands in the trough of the wave, riding it out and coming to a stop just alongside the dock. 

The crowd goes wild. 

Whitney pukes, too.

The rest of the competition, Whitney seems drunk on the thrill. "I can't believe it..." she breathes. "I did it. But I can't believe it. But I did it. But... but I can't believe I did it..." 

The rest of the contest is marked by well-seeded players making mistakes in the high winds. Whitney barely pays attention, but you watch closely, and you believe Whitney may have an honest chance at placing. 

And then Ty fucking Fobbler does a routine that sends the audience into convulsions of cheer. Back- and front-flips, helical spins off of eddies and waves -- he performs with pure panache even as a gentle rain begins to occlude visibility and the wind howls all around him. 

So Whitney doesn't win the competition. She doesn't even place second or third. Yet when the judges announce the winners, she doesn't betray a hint of anger or disappointment. Her stupefied grin doesn't leave her lips for a moment. 

"You're not upset?" you ask as you watch Ty Fobbler hoisting up his gold trophy on the winner's platform. He puffs out his stupid dumb chest and brays with stupid dumb laughter.

"Not at all," she says, looking up at you. "I killed."

"Well. We could still kick Gay Faggler's shit in," you offer. "If you want."

"Fuck him," Whitney says. "He's not worth it. He has a trophy. I have you guys. I'm fine with how it turned out." 

You give her a playful slap on the ass. "Ally!" she cries in surprise, jumping. 

"Say, do you think they have a soccer league around here?" you ask, grinning.

"If they don't..." Whitney says "I guess could always start one, huh?"

Evening descends more quickly than usual because of the cloud cover. The surrounding landscape is cast in a gloomy gray-blue pall. You follow the beachgoers along the shore toward where a number of grass huts and firepits are set up for the Independence Day feast.

You and Whitney walk arm-in-arm, enjoying the coolness of the sea wind against your skin. You hope the rain holds off until the celebrations are over.

You aren't sure where the others are, but you figure you'll catch up with them soon enough. Ms. Carte is supposed to meet you when the main course at the feast is served -- which should be soon -- and then Mom at dessert. 

The warm beach sand is covered by straw mats underneath the cabanas, and whole pigs roast on rotisseries. Stalls offer games, trinkets, and snacks. Hundreds of celebrants mill around -- maybe the whole population of the island. Men go around lighting paper lanterns at the edges of the open-air huts. Other men, clad in tribal dresses, twirl torches. They wander around seemingly at random, their faces orange in the glow, giving the feast a warm ambiance.

"THERE you two are," comes Rose's voice from behind. She smiles warmly as you turn, standing near one of the booths. "Whitney, I thought you were going to drown out there."

"Whatever, clambreath," Whitney laughs. "You'd never get so lucky." 

Rose frowns and rolls her eyes, but doesn't seem to mind the ribbing.

[X] It's almost time. Leave Whitney with Rose and find Ms. Carte.
[ ] Take Whitney along for the ride.

You're not sure at first where to find her. The fairgrounds are large, and crowded, and noisy. But when you see a sign advertising "BAR" in giant hand-painted letters with an arrow pointing the way, you have a pretty good idea where she'll be.

The open bar is a large circular wood hut with a thatched roof, arrayed all about with stools. The place is mostly full, and two harried bartenders struggle to keep up with business. 

You almost don't recognize Ms. Carte as you approach. She sits with her back to you, straight-spined and ladylike, wearing a long and elegant black dress complete with lei. The transformation is hard to believe. 

She keeps a place reserved for you with an expensive looking leather purse on the stool beside her. You sidle up and sit, handing the purse back.

"Well hello there," she purrs. "Come here often, stranger?"

"You look amazing," you can't help saying. And it's true. Her breasts appear to defy gravity, pushed up and together by the sheer black fabric. She almost seems to glow under the soft relief of candlelight all around her. Her face is youthful-looking and rosy, belying her true age. 

She also might be a bit drunk, if the empty glasses surrounding her are any indication.

"Where did you get that dress?" you ask.

"I bought it," she says. "Just a few minutes ago. The purse, too. I could never have afforded this kind of thing before, but Rose has been awfully generous with her credit card. It's basically free money."

You laugh, rubbing the crown of your head. "Yeah..." you murmur, trailing off.

"Here," she says, pushing a bowl toward you. "They serve soup here. I looked all over for a booth that serves sandwiches but these uncivilized savages aren't into that kind of thing. So this'll have to do."

You pick up your spoon and poke at the noodles. "Is this ramen?" you ask.

"I believe so. Never much liked it... too many memories of grad school."

You start eating. Ms. Carte does, too. "I already had a bowl, while waiting for you," she says between mouthfuls. "The kind they serve here has a sort of curry in it, very spicy. And you'll find chunks of beef, too... this stuff could make me rethink my anti-ramen stance..."

"It's fine," you say noncommittally, slurping up spoonful. To be honest, you're more focused on Ms. Carte than the food. The slit of her dress reveals a glimpse of her child-bearing hips and thighs fills you with lust. You stare at her unashamedly.

"Contain yourself, young man."

You raise your eyes to meet her. 

"We're in public," she chides. But she spreads her legs wider so the hem of her dress bunches up a little further. She winks.

"Ever hear a song called Hot for Teacher?" you ask.

"Of course. Unlike you, I was alive when it came out."

"It came out in 1984. You were a baby. That hardly counts."

She narrows her eyes. "It SO counts, you little shit." She reaches out, putting a hand on your knee and swiveling around to face you. "Don't make me beat you."

"You couldn't even if you tried. You made me into Superman, remember?"

"Maybe. But *I* know where your off switch is."

"...I have an off switch?" you ask.

Ms. Carte swivels back around and brings her bowl to her lips, sipping at the dark broth. "Hmm, maybe..." she says. "That would be a hell of a design flaw, though, wouldn't it?"

"Be serious," you say. "You've got me a little scared now."

Ms. Carte sets her bowl down. She puts her hand on your leg again, this time much higher. She gives your thigh a squeeze. 

"I know where your on switch is, too," she says, her voice like silk.

"We're in public," you say, turning her words against her. The truth is, you don't want her to stop. But you can't resist getting one over on her, anyway.

Ms. Carte glances from side to side. All around, people converse and drink, laugh and shout. No one is paying any attention to two quiet lovers sitting at a bar together. You can see these conclusions clicking together in her mind just as they click together in yours.

"What these people don't see won't hurt them," Ms. Carte says. She runs her hand further still, her fingers twiddling with the drawstring on your swim trunks.

The bar has an overhang that casts the ground beneath it quite nicely in shadow. In combination with the descending dusk and the festival's dim mood lighting, it makes for a nice space to have some fun. 

[ ] I want Ms. Carte to service me.
[X] I want to service Ms. Carte.

Ms. Carte's forwardness is adorable, but you want to keep her on her toes -- the subtle gamesmanship of your relationship practically demands it. And you know if you turn the tables on her, she won't know what to do with herself.

You take your spoon in hand and drop it on the ground between your stools.

"Whoops," you say, voice flat. "I better get that."

Ms. Carte's face is shadowed with uncertainty. You slide off the stool and slink to the ground, concealing yourself in the shadows. You hold Ms. Carte by the knees and guide her around so she faces forward. She doesn't fight you as you push her thighs apart. The supple skin gives like a pillow to your curious hands. 

"Alabaster," Ms. Carte whines, trying to keep her voice low, "what are you doing down there?"

"You're not wearing panties," you say, tsking. "Bad girl." You hike her dress up almost to her butt, baring her soft pussy. The lips throb visibly with arousal.

Ms. Carte alternates between shooting paranoid glances all around to make sure no one is noticing, and staring longingly down at your ministrations. She bites the nail of her pinky, her eyes glimmering, as you breathe hot breaths against her wet cunt. 

"Stop teasing me," she begs.

You purse your lips and release a steady stream of air against the pink pearl of her clit, like blowing out birthday candles. "Unfff--" Ms. Carte grunts, hunching forward. You hear the thump of her elbows against the bartop and the clatter of glassware being pushed aside. There's a lull in nearby conversation and you can feel people turning to look, but no one seems to notice you underneath the stool.

"Please, please, please," Ms. Carte whispers. "Please..."

You lean in and inhale her scent. The deep headiness of it makes your mouth water. With no pubic hair to trap her juices, they pool lewdly underneath her.

Sensually rubbing her thighs with your fingertips, you push out your tongue and lay it flat against her cunt. 

Ms. Carte gasps breathily, once, twice, her entire body shivering. It sounds animal and primal, like a rutting dog finally finding its relief. "More," she heaves. "Fuck, I need more..."

You swirl your tongue around, focusing on the outer lips and hood. Sometimes the tip of your tongue pushes past her opening and explores the velvety insides of her drooling pussy as you lap her up and down. Better than a package of ramen, that's for sure.

You run a hand underneath her, stroking the milky globes of her ass and toying with her anus. Ms. Carte pants with lust and bucks her hips. "Inside," she says, "go ahead, put it inside. Finger me-- stir me up--"

You wet two fingers with her juices and push them past her rosebud. Her ass clenches around you as you force your the digits in and out. Ms. Carte's cream pours like warm honey, slightly viscous and sweet against the back of your throat. 

The stool creaks as she starts to hump you. Neither of you care. She pushes her mound and clit against your nose. Your tongue goes rigid and penetrates her deeply with each thrust of her hips. You scissor your fingers back and forth, violating her cute ass and eliciting new mewls. 

She grabs your hair and mashes herself against your face with abandon. Soon she cums all over you. "Fuck!" she half sighs and half screams. "I'm cumming! Drink it! Drink my cum!" 

You obey, though you don't have much of a choice. Ms. Carte's ass spasms rhythmically and she squirts a virtual geyser of girlcum all over your mouth, lips, face, and chest. The surrounding din grinds to a halt and you know everyone in the vicinity must be watching this older woman using your teenage mouth as a cum receptacle. Well, let them watch. You never minded giving people a show. 

"I love you!" Ms. Carte wails, her voice clear but trembling. "Eat me! Fucking eat me!! I love you!"

You drink her love, every drop.

Naturally, you beat a hasty retreat from the bar when Ms. Carte is capable of standing again on her own two feet. Leering eyes follow you as you lead her by the hand.

"I don't think I've ever cum that hard in my LIFE," she says, still sounding woozy. "I may faint..."

"You exhibitionist, you."

"I'm seeing stars. No, really..."

"Do you want to eat again? That might help. They should be serving those roast pigs soon."

"Oh, Christ," Ms. Carte says, leaning against your shoulder for support. She lays a palm on your chest. "I love it. Cumming our brains out in the open air wherever we want, and then eating wild boar... it all feels so, so-- primeval." She curls and uncurls her fingers against you, like a de-clawed kitten trying to scratch you.

"You sound kind of loopy."

"I am. A little bit."

You find your way to a cabana housing rows of extremely long beachwood tables, where hundreds of the festival attendees are already being served. Men with carts walk up and down the aisles, handing out paper plates of roasted pork and plastic cups of kava.

Rose and Whitney are here, with Vivian in between them. The two older are resting their hands on Vivian's inner thighs in a manner that certainly isn't chaste. They stroke her little legs languidly up and down, in sync. Vivian doesn't seem to be in distress over it. In fact she seems to rather enjoy the attention.

Ms. Carte plops down next to Whitney and you sit beside Rose. "Where are Mom and Cerise?" you ask.

"No idea on Cerise," Whitney says, leaning forward to catch your eye. "But Mommy dearest decided she wanted to help the dessert chefs herself. She should be out when dessert is served."

[ ] Go looking for her now.
[X] Wait for her here.

Whitney and Rose ply Vivian's legs. Vivian stares ahead, her eyes fogged over with a kind of low-level buzz from the groping.

"You're cute," Whitney says. 

"I agree," Rose says. "I completely agree."

Even in her own still-dazed state, Ms. Carte can see that this interaction is a bit racy. She watches with interest, head lying on folded arms. She doesn't intervene.

"That swimsuit is cute," Whitney says.

"I agree," Rose says. "I completely agree." 

"Your face is cute," Whitney says.

"I agree--"

"Um, excuse me," you say. "I hate to intrude, but this feels a little..."

"Oh, you're one to talk!" Whitney and Rose snap in unison. 

You'd press the issue, but then:

"Please do not stop..." Vivian mumbles. "I... enjoy these sensations."

"Oh, you ARE cute," Rose says, practically squeaking with delight. Her and Whitney's movements become yet bolder still.

"You're a slut," Whitney says, whispering directly in Vivian's ear. Vivian lets out a shocked little "mmf" at this.

"Not that there's anything wrong with being a slut," Rose adds, whispering into her other ear. Vivian squirms.

"Because you're *our* slut," Whitney says.

"Does our slut want us to make her feel even better?" Rose asks.

Vivian, bright red and trembling, can only nod her head. 

In unison, Whitney and Rose push their hands into Vivian's onepiece. The spandex is so tight and constrictive that you can see every line and curve of their fingers as they rub Vivian's crotch up and down.

"Mm," Vivian murmurs again.

"She's wet," Whitney reports.

"Dripping wet," Rose adds. 

They nibble on Vivian's earlobes as they masturbate her and whisper obscenities into her ears that you can't quite make out.

"Slut..." 

"...horny cunt..."

"...your little clit..."

"...until you pass out..."

"...meat toilet..."

"...whore..."

"...own you..."

"...whenever we want..."

Vivian writhes and suppresses her moans under this barrage of sexual violation. As demure as she usually is, she can hardly contain herself.

Vivian's jaw hangs open, her tongue drooling freely in her mouth, saliva trickling down her chin. Whitney and Rose kiss her up and down her neck and cheeks.

"I'm going to climaxshh," Vivian slurs.

"Darling," Rose says. "Darling, darling. Cum for your big sisters." She pushes Vivian's face against her cowtits, briefly suffocating her. 

"Ah- ahhnn--" Vivian sighs.

"That's it," Whitney says. "Right here in front of everyone. Cum!"

Vivian's eyes roll to the back of her skull and she falls backward. With perfect timing, Rose and Whitney dart their free hands back to catch her, never for a second letting up on the vicious molestation. 

"You're not getting away that easily," Rose says.

"You're not done cumming until we say you are!" Whitney says.

The girls' hands clench underneath Vivian's swimsuit, rubbing orgasm after orgasm from the exhausted little girl. The two are merciless and they work in perfect tandem, like two halves of one sick mind. Vivian never stood a chance. She goes limp and half-unresponsive, the only clue that she's still conscious being the little groans and sighs of her rolling, never-ending orgasm.

"Dyke bitch," Whitney says.

"You're addicted to cumming, aren't you?" Rose asks.

"Yessh... addicted... I love cumming-- I love cumming--"

She rolls her head side to side, repeating herself like a broken record. You can hardly believe no one else nearby is paying attention to this scene, but that's certainly for the best. Ms. Carte pushes her thighs together and apart, her eyes glued to the lascivious action before her.

A man with a cart of food rolls by, the wheels squealing, the tin exterior clattering. Rose and Whitney see it approach. Taking the cue to end it, they withdraw their hands from Vivian's swimsuit. The poor little cum-addled girl lurches forward and collapses against the tabletop. 

"Cum... cum..." she repeats, her eyes distant-looking. Whitney and Rose pet her hair, and it feels like two lions gloating over a felled gazelle.

---

Whitney and Rose devour their helpings of roast pork and taro, tearing at the food with their bare fingers like animals, washing it down with gallons of kava. Ms. Carte merely picks at her serving. And poor Vivian is still too much of a mess to eat at all. She lies slumped against the table, drooling.

"I think we fingerbanged her retarded," Whitney says between bites.

"Oh, she'll be fine," Rose says. She prods Vivian's shoulder and receives no intelligible response but the word "cum" slurred over again. 

"...She'll be fine, *probably*," Rose qualifies.

Watching that spectacle has left you in need of release too. But even you're not as crazy as Rose and Whitney were to do something so outlandish in such a public space. At the bar there were shadows to hide in; here, the beach is lit by hundreds of paper lanterns and you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with over a thousand Palauans. Whipping your dick out is just asking for trouble, isn't it?

A man at the galley table adjacent to yours flags down one of the cart-pushing food vendors. "Can I get some coconut pie?" he asks.

"Nnn," grunts the vendor, shaking his head. "Problem in the kitchen. Dessert won't be out for a while." 

"Problem? What problem?"

"Some crazy woman." The vendor shrugs and wipes his grubby hands on his apron. "American tourist is raising hell back there. Thinks she owns the place." 

"That's ridiculous!" the man cries. "I want my food--"

"Tell someone who cares," the vendor says, taking up his cart again and strolling away.

You tug at the man's apron as he passes. "Excuse me, sir. Where is the kitchen?"

The vendor points to a squat brick building on a hill overlooking the beach. He continues on his way.

You think you'd better go see what shitstorm your dear sweet mother is brewing now.

You excuse yourself from the table and leave the festival grounds. As you pass by one of the open bars, you see Ty Fobbler, champion windsurfer, chatting it up with Yvonne Tamaguld, champion slut. 

"The Fobster likes 'em dark," he says, obviously drunk, petting Yvonne's shapely leg. "Back home they call me Fobbler the FOB fucker." 

"Ty, I'm married--"

"Ah, that's no problem." He slaps Yvonne on her tits, hard enough to produce an audible thwack, but she just laughs. She runs a forefinger over his chest, smiling. You suppress a shudder and move on.

You head up a dirt path leading from the beach to the restaurant being used for dessert preparation. The dimly lit sign in the parking lot advertises itself as Tommy's Delicatessen. You can the shouting even before you set foot inside.

A sign hung on the door says "closed for Independence Day feast." But it's unlocked, and you poke your head inside. Chefs hurry to and fro in the grimy tiled dining area, clattering glassware and silverware as they rush to fill vendor carts. Beyond the counter, you see into the kitchen, where even more men in chef's tunics work, and where the source of the shouting is. The sounds finally resolve themselves into words:

"Come on you donkeys! Get your act together! This is amateur hour over here!"

You step gingerly through the white blur of activity and into the prep area. Mom is standing in the midst of the chaos like a culinary Rommel, barking orders and insults. She stops a man carrying a tray of desserts.

"What is this?" 

"J-just some pies--" 

"What the hell did you do to the crusts? Dance a jig on them?"

"I--"

"I wouldn't feed these to my dog! Start over!" She pounds her fist on the tray, knocking it from the man's hands, sending the desserts flying. "Come on, come on!" she claps the back of her hand against her other palm, turning in a semicricle and shouting at the frenzied chefs. "We've got mouths to feed, people! Fuck me..."

[ ] That's enough. Stop this.
[X] Join in.

"Alabaster," Mom says, finally noticing you. Her tone is softer, but still tinged with the manic edge of managing a kitchen. "You're supposed to be waiting on the beach."

"I heard you were causing trouble back here."

"Well-- o-of course-- these idiots wouldn't be able to tell a dutch oven from a jelly glaze..."

You smile at her reflexive defensiveness. Then, turning around and cupping your hands over your mouth, you yell: "let's go, assholes! You heard the woman! Work faster!"

Mom blinks. "Do you really think I need your help?" she demands, indignant. "You barely know how to melt chocolate. You're no cook." 

"I know how to yell at people. Are there any spare aprons?" 

She indicates a hamper in an open closet at the back of the kitchen. You grab an apron and lace up.

Mom marches up and down the aisle between the prep counters and the stoves. Men in tunics stir pots of pie filling and load ovens with trays of unbaked food. They part for her like a beaded curtain as she moves through them. 

She dips her finger into a saucepan of brown glaze and samples it. She grimaces. "Why the hell is this so bitter? Do they not have sugar in this godforsaken country?"

"It's because--"

"No excuses!"

A few men rip off their aprons and chef's hats, tossing them on the ground. "We quit," their leader says. 

You stop him at the threshold as he tries to leave. His friends hang back to see what happens. 

"And where the fuck do you think you're going?" you ask.

"Home. That cunt can't tell me what to do--"

You swing him like a ragdoll, tossing him clear across the kitchen. He collides against a back wall, plaster coming down like snowflakes. He lands in a dazed heap. 

"Anyone trying to desert will have to answer to me," you announce. 

The young man's friends go bugeyed with fear. They quickly gather their uniforms off the ground, put them on, and return to work. 

"Go, go, go!" you shout. "Time is money, and so on!" 

Mom, watching this, smiles slyly and bites a fingernail.

Mom is not above working alongside her -- employees? minions? slaves? -- and she often stops to show them how to perform a certain technique. She shows one person how to core a pineapple, another how to make a sweet roux. 

After your little demonstration of might, the men working the kitchen seem much more receptive to constructive criticism.

It isn't much longer before food that Mom deems serveable begins to leave the kitchen. Carts of pies, pastries, and vats of pudding trickle out, destined for the beach below.

But it turns out the festival-goers are growing restless, and want quicker service. 

The front door's bell has been ringing incessantly all night with vendors coming and going, so you can be forgiven for not noticing the arrival of a short, sweating man in an ill-fitting suit: Tommy Remengesau, the President. And, apparently, the owner of Tommy's Delicatessen. 

"What is this ruckus?" you hear his nasally voice demanding from out in the dining area. Your blood runs cold. "Why is the party being stalled?" 

You crane your head to see him as he approaches the kitchen, his cheap shoes click-click-clacking against the linoleum. "Shit," is all you can say.

"What's the matter?" Mom asks. "That man's been in here before. I sent him away the first time, I can send him away again."

"That's the president," you hiss. "And-- and I may have been involved in pissing him off earlier today."

"Oh, dear. If you want to avoid him, I could always stow you away in the walk-in refrigerator."

[ ] Let's go.
[X] Let's not.

"Forget it," you say. "I'm a bionic science abomination, I'm not afraid of some glorified mayor."

Remengesau steps into the kitchen, looking awfully imperious for a man who barely cracks five feet six. "You!" he says, pointing at Mom. "What is the meaning of this hold-up? Answer me!"

Mom taps her foot. "I told you earlier. This kitchen will not serve subpar food."

"Subpar! I saw a perfectly fine cake in the trash on my way inside! You're a crazy woman--"

"--and we ARE serving now. So what's the problem?"

"It's not quick enough! People do not want five-star service and so on and such like. They just want to eat something. For goodness sake, woman--" he stops, finally noticing you at Mom's side. He pulls his sunglasses down to peer at you over the rims.

"Hello, Mr. President," you say.

He dabs his forehead with a handkerchief. "Young man-- you're wanted by the law, you know?"

"Excuse me?" Mom says, darting her eyes between you and him.

"You and your blonde bimbo girlfriend," Remengesau says. "Public lewdness! You were seen naked on the beach this afternoon. Where is she, boy?"

This is news to you. You have no idea what to say.

"Well?" Remengesau demands. "Do you think you have free rein to just -- parade around, embarrassing elected officials and prancing shamelessly about? Where is she?"

"I--" you stammer. "I-- look over there!"

Remengesau falls for it. He glances to his left. You sweep Mom into your arms and feint past him, hopping on a food cart and riding it like a scooter out of the restaurant. 

"Wha--" Mom breathes in shock. You hold the cart by either handle, Mom in between your outstretched arms. 

"Hey!" Remengesau calls behind you. "You two get back here! HEY!!"

He chases you on foot, but he can't even begin to match your speed. You're rocketing down the hill toward the beach before he can even make it outside the restaurant.

The cart wheels squeak madly as you careen down the gravel path. The hill is steep and makes for a bumpy ride.

"What are you DOING?" Mom yells, half in a panic. "This is-- I was WORKING back there, you know!"

"They'll be fine without you!" you say. You have to yell to be heard over the wind whipping around you. "You imparted your wisdom to them! They'll be great!"

"You little brat! You and that Mallory skank get in trouble, and I'm the one who has to pay for it!"

"Not at all!" you say. "This way, you get to see people enjoying all your hard work! Isn't that the biggest reward of all?"

Mom glances over her shoulder. "We're going back to the festival?"

"Of course! We have to warn Rose the cops are after her, don't we?"

You reach the bottom of the path, skidding to an abrupt halt in the sand. The cart tips to its side, spilling its contents onto the beach. You pull Mom away, into your embrace, so she doesn't topple over, too. You steady her and set her down on her own two feet again.

"My heart is beating so fast..." she says, clutching at her breast.

"I know," you say. "I can feel it." And you can: your palm on her chest thrums with the rapid thump-thump of her pulse.

"Why-- why do you have to make things so complicated?" Mom demands. "Getting chased by the police... what's gotten into you?"

"Don't be like that. You love it, don't you?"

She wheels around and stares you in eye. She pounds a fist limply against your chest. "That's hardly the point."

"Consider this penance for embarrassing Ms. Carte on stage today, then."

Mom narrows her eyes. You think for a moment she's still mad, so what she says surprises you: "You still call her Ms. Carte?"

"Well, yes--" 

"She really wishes you would call her Renee, you know. N--not that I care what she wants, but it's annoying to see someone acting so careless. Especially toward a person they supposedly care about." 

"Tell you what. If you're nicer to her, I'll be nicer to her too."

She hugs you. You hug her back.

Unfortunately, you don't beat the fuzz to the beach. Three clean-cut looking men in a police uniforms walk up and down the booths at the festival grounds, showing people a photo of Rose from the President's speech earlier, asking if they've seen her. It won't be long before someone snitches. You hurry to the galley tables with Mom.

You find the girls where you left them, eating some desserts from the kitchen. "Mmff," Whitney groans through a bite of cream cake. "It's sort of-- if your mouth could cum, this is what it would feel like..." 

She isn't the only one having an orgasmic reaction to the dessert. Whole swaths of guests at the feast are groaning and moaning as they shovel the sweet morsels down. It's like an orgy minus genitals.

You tap Rose on the shoulder. She turns to face you, as does Whitney and a somewhat revitalized Vivian. Ms. Carte, on the other hand, has her face buried in a newspaper.

"I think it's time for you to go home," you say. "There are some... cops, looking for Rose--"

"Oi!" you hear a douchey voice from behind. Ty Fobbler is pointing at you and your girls, ratting you out to the officers from before. "That's the one, mate! Saw her hangin' out with that mad cunt from the windsailing match, just like I told ya. I knew those dyke whores were up to no good, yeh?" 

"Oh, fuck," Whitney says, stumbling to her feet. The trio of officers approach the table sternly.

"This isn't--" Rose slurrs, hiccuping. "This isn't good. We may be... a bit drunk on kava, right now..."

You glance to Whitney. She struggles to support herself against the beachwood table. Vivian watches, worried. Ms. Carte reads on.

"You guys just get out of here," you say. "Mom, take them home."

Mom nods curtly. She ushers Rose and Vivian away, but Whitney refuses to follow. She stays behind, swaying unsteadily at your side. The officers break into a jog when they see Rose fleeing. You grab a nearby food cart and push it into them. It barrels into them with the force of a mack truck. They fall to their backs like bowling pins.

"Hey! You can't treat the law like that!" Fobbler shouts, also breaking into a jog. "Someone stop those cunts! They're fleeing the scene of a crime!"

Fobbler bends to help the policemen to their feet. Yvonne Tamaguld stands far off to the side, watching with a frightened expression.

Behind you, there's a wild clamor as a few of the braver Palauans at the feast try to halt Mom's advance with the fleeing suspects. Rose kicks one of the men in the nuts; Mom punches another in the face. Even Vivian aids in the escape, latching onto one as he goes windmilling for the trio. She bites him in the calf. He lets out a horrendous shriek and falls to the ground. Murmurs of shock ripple through the crowd.

[ ] Whitney, get out of here. You're drunk and I can handle this.
[ ] You deal with Fobbler. I'll distract the police. 
[X] Custom: FOOD FIGHT!

The four men -- Fobbler and the police officers -- step forward in unison to confront you and Whitney. Fobbler stands at the rear of the formation, almost as if shielding himself.

You'd rather not get into a direct altercation with the police if it can be avoided. So you take a pie tin from the tabletop and launch it across the cabana. In the most loudest, most obnoxious voice you can manage, you shout: "foooood fiiiiiight!!!" 

Pandemonium breaks out. Plates, cups, and portions of food launch like military ordnance in all directions, almost as if they're launching themselves. Men, women, and children shout and squeal with laughter as the feast quickly devolves into an orgy of food-based violence. The fight makes the air opaque with blurs of motion, so much so that you can barely see even three feet in front of you.

Whitney uses the chaos to flank the harried officers and approach Fobbler. But she doesn't get to pounce him. Instead, literally as if from nowhere, Rose appears, sneaking up behind him. She whangs the aussie cunt across the back of his head with what looks like a wrench.

"Knock boots in the free world!" Rose shouts, caught in throes of sadistic ecstasy. "Whoooo!"

Fobbler stumbles forward, injured but not downed. Whitney is briefly stunned by the turn of events, but follows Rose's attack with a knee to Fobbler's chin, flooring him. 

"You FUCKIN' bitch!" he cries, voice choked. He tries to stand. Whitney kicks him in the kidney. He howls in pain. 

"Stay down!" Whitney says.

"Ty--!" Yvonne calls. She dashes through the madness, getting beaned with pies and cake and bits of cream, swatting uselessly at the air to shield herself.

Meanwhile, you pivot and sway and otherwise do your best to avoid the nasty-looking business ends of police tazers as the three officers surround you. "There's been a misunderstanding," you insist over the din of the foodfight. "Let's talk about this-- hey!" They lunge and try to subdue you anyway.

It's into this insanity that Tommy Remengesau enters. He perches himself at the edge of the raging battle, hands on hips, and bellows: "stop!! I bid you, stop! What is the meaning of this?"

But no one listens. 

Rose and Whitney sweep the legs out from two of the officers corralling you. So much for not assaulting them directly. You grab the girls, one on each arm, and march them away. The third officer begins to give chase, but seems torn between pursuing you and rendering aid to his downed comrades. Yvonne's sniveling seems to clinch it. He pulls his walkie-talkie out of his holster and calls for medical assistance.

You step with Whitney and Rose over Fobbler's prone form, fleeing the scene. Yvonne cries, hunched over him, alternating between "you poor man!" and "my poor clothes..." 

You leave the festival grounds, passing by Remengesau. "You three!" he demands. "Stop right this instant! You-- you devils have ruined everything! You filthy American brats-- you think you can do whatever you want--"

"Shut the fuck up, President Assmunch," Whitney says, sticking her tongue out as the three of you pass. Remengesau blanches and turns purple with rage. Being the ugly American never felt so good.

You see Rose and Whitney off, handing them over to Mom's care in the lot where Gustav's pickup is parked. Rose and Whitney pile into the truck bed. Mom sits in the driver's seat with Vivian beside her. 

"What about Renee?" Mom asks.

"She's back at the festival. I don't think the police were looking for her, so she'll be fine. I'll bring her back later on."

"You're not coming?" Vivian asks, concerned.

"I told Cerise I'd meet her at the bridge." You peer into the idling truck, checking the time on the radio clock. "--I told her I'd meet her ten minutes ago, in fact..."

"What about those fascist pigs?" Rose asks. "They'll be out for blood now. You can't be seen wandering around--"

"Don't worry about it. They won't be over by the bridge. They'll be too busy dealing with that food fight we started..."

"Oh good lord," Mom says. "Another food fight? You're incorrigible."

All you can do is rub the back of your head and laugh awkwardly.

"Well then," Mom says. "If you're so sure-- you'd better not keep Cerise waiting, huh?"

You run as quickly as you can to the Japan-Palau friendship bridge. Which in your new condition turns out to be record-smashingly quick. You don't time it, but you're pretty sure you break the barrier on the 3-minute mile. Even in the balmy and humid night air, you hardly sweat at all.

Cerise is sitting on a grassy knoll with her back to the concrete wall of the bridge's main support column, cheek resting against her fist. She only notices you when you draw close.

"You came," she says, turning her face to regard you. You can't help feeling guilty that she sounds surprised.

You sit beside her. "Hi," you say. "Were you waiting very long?"

"No. I just got here..."

You have a feeling that's a lie. You think she was probably waiting for you ever since the windsurfing competition ended five hours ago. But you decide not to press it.

"Well?" Cerise says. "You have the floor, Alabaster. What's the big surprise you wanted me to come out here to see?"

"Just wait," you tell her, smiling warmly. "I have a plan." 

You take her by the hand and stare her in the eye, warm feelings washing over your artificial heart.

"Alabaster," she says uncertainly. "You're acting weird."

"Trust me."

And just like that, as if on cue, the sky lights up.

Not with fireworks. With an angry blue bolt of lightning. 

Your smile collapses like a thing shot dead as you peer into the heavens.

"No," you say, your voice low. "No. You've got to be shitting me--"

The attendant thunder booms like an explosion, so loud you can feel the pressure differential against your chest. 

"No..." you say again. But there's nothing to help it. The clouds open up, and a torrential downpour the likes of which you have never seen unleashes itself. It falls in sheets, slanted, drops the size of silver dollars. Electricity arcs through the sky like magma in underwater fault lines. Rolling thunder rages amidst the awful patter of the monsoon. 

You and Cerise are instantly drenched, head to toe.

You find a door that leads into a spiral stairwell inside the bridge, used mainly as an access-way for maintenance crews. Luckily, it isn't locked. You and Cerise stumble inside, shutting the heavy door behind you. The sound of the storm outside is muffled and weirdly echo-y inside this cramped, fluorescent-lit space.

You pound a fist against the cream-colored wall, leaving a wet dent behind. "God damn it," you grunt. "God-- damn it--"

"Alabaster," Cerise says, "what's your deal? You're acting like a schizophrenic hobo off his meds." She wrings her hair out, head cocked to one side, heavy dollops of water squelching against the concrete floor.

"This was supposed to be a surprise," you say, closing your eyes. "It was--" 

You sit down on the corrugated metal stairs. "There was a fireworks show scheduled."

Cerise sits with you. "Fireworks?" she says. "That's a bit lame to be making such a fuss over, isn't it?"

You look at her like you can't believe what she's saying.

"I just thought it would-- I thought it would make things up to you," you say.

"Make up for what?" Cerise asks. "Taking your harem of used-up sluts on a bunch of dates when you could have spent that time masturbating to hentai with me?"

You narrow your eyes at her.

"I'm joking," she says. "...Mostly joking. Half joking."

She puts her hand on your knee. "I just wanted to do something nice, for once. Do you remember that 4th of July when we went to the beach--"

"Of course I remember," Cerise cuts in. "The fireworks weren't the important part. I could give a greasy shit about fireworks."

"It was me," you say. "I was the biggest disappointment of your life, wasn't I."

"No. The biggest disappointment of my life was us."

"*Was* us-- or is us?"

"Well, that depends on what your definition of 'is' is..." Cerise shoots you a wry smile. 

"I'm sorry, Cerise."

"Me too."

You lean forward and kiss her. She opens her mouth to yours for a brief moment -- but then pulls back, hands pushing against you.

"What is it?" you ask, and you can't help the note of frustration that sneaks in.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry for always pushing you away like this. It's just-- I'm scared, okay? I haven't..."

"You -- haven't?"

"Try not to look so shocked!"

"But... all that time in high school... I mean, you bragged nonstop about what a sl-- about how much you got around--"

Cerise fixes you with a simmering, vulnerable gaze and says:

"I'm sorry I'm a virgin, okay?! Now do something already!" (http://i.imgur.com/NkKdPN3)

>What do you do?

[X] Something

You take Cerise by her still-damp shoulders. She trembles like a wounded bird in your embrace. "You stupid," she says, half-senseless. "You stupid-- you really believed--"

She can't even bring herself to meet your gaze. Her eyes fill with tears. Her pupils are moist and her irises swirl with refracted colors in the light. You tilt her chin up with your finger. 

"It's all right if you're a virgin," you say. "That's sort of my thing, you know?"

Even through the anxiety and verging tears, Cerise giggles. Then her face turns serious once more. "That isn't fair," she says. "Did you ever stop to think that *I* like virgins, too? But you fucked just about the whole population of planet Earth before me..."

"I'm a virgin where it really matters," you say. You clench a fist in an open palm. "Blood-related sibling incest is the only sex that counts to anyone with taste!"

Cerise snorts. 

"So-- here?" you ask.

"Why not here?" Cerise counters. "It doesn't need to be perfect, you dweeb."

You kiss her again. This time she doesn't pull away.

Cerise's mouth is warm and inviting, but her lips and face are still cool from the rainfall. The contrast is strange against your searching tongue. She breathes heavy against you, her full chest heaving, her hands tracing invisible patterns across your dripping back. 

You turn her around so she lies against the stairs. She winces as you settle her in place.

"Are you comfortable?" you ask. "Those edges are sharp."

"I'll be a lot more comfortable when you're inside me," she breathes, her voice dreamy with anticipation.

You run your hands up and down her delicate body. She's damp all over, little droplets standing in neat rows along the micro-crevices of her gooseflesh. You poke your fingertips gently against her belly and watch the raindrops converge at your touch, forming little rivulets that trickle down into her navel, or even further, to the hemline of her bikini bottom.

This body of Cerise's is not exactly in the best of shape -- not fat and not scrawny, but un-toned, pale. It's the body of a girl who doesn't get out much, the body of a NEET. This body is your fault. So you feel guilty for adoring its every curve and bump. But you do, with all your soul. You maul her with kisses. You devour her and consume her with kisses, big wet smacks and little pecks and everything in between. Your lips find her dainty toes and fleshy calves, they find her long forearms and her taut belly, they find her hands and her neck. Your lips find her lips. And her lips find yours. Cracks and snaps of approaching thunder outside fill the space between your needful breaths -- breaths which come syncopated and strangely synchronized.

"I love you," you say, over and again: "I love you I love you I love you." She nuzzles your neck, her nose tickling your Adam's apple, as you repeat your mantra into the crown of her head. 

"You always did?" she asks.

"I always did."

"You always will?"

"I always will."

Cerise's reaches for your trunks, arms straining. You help her pull them off of you. Your member is already hard. She grits her teeth at the searing heat of it against the soft cold skin of her stomach. You grit your teeth at the contact, too. For a moment the tiny stairwell echoes with your collective sigh: an "ahhh" that dangles, unrelieved, in the air above you.

Your fingers find her bikini bottom. Like the rest of her, the crotch is damp. But this dampness is hot, and pulsing, and it runs through the folds of your fingers like ambrosia. You tug her bottom off with one swift motion. You enjoy the suppleness of her bare cleft against your hand, so wet and needing. You can practically feel her ache, the singing of her every nerve ending, begging for release. Your manhood twitches and sings and burns for the coming pleasure just as badly.

"Now," she says, "do it now, do it right now before I go crazy..."

You do it. 

You position yourself at the dewy entrance to her mound and slide into your older sister. Her silken inner walls surround your shaft and shudder deliciously around you as they accept you in. You let yourself savor it, sinking in slowly, millimeters at a time. Her neck muscles strain and her face contorts in a silent scream of ecstasy. 

She claws at her bikini top and tugs it down, out of the way, baring her nakedness and her vulnerability to you in full. She reaches out for you, stroking your face. Her breasts are two perfect white domes topped by two perfect pink nipples. You lean forward so she can wrap her arms around you as you finish pushing yourself in. Her nipples touch your nipples. Her chest is pillowy against your pressing weight. The head of your penis makes contact with her deepest and most intimate parts.

Cerise lets out another sigh, her voice staccato and high-pitched. It's a noise insane with lust and begging for more, but filled also with love. It's a noise that says "I am yours, I am at your mercy, do whatever you want with me." Her hands run in circles through your hair. You suckle on her neck as you lie there inside her, simply enjoying the throbbing wetness of your genitals mated so obscenely together, a brother fucked inside his sister.

You pull out, and it makes an audible sound that sends a new thrill coursing through you. Cerise's inner walls cling to you, as if they don't want to let you go. But she's so wet, and your cock is pouring so much precum into of her, that those walls can't hold on forever. You pull out almost all the way, hugging her neck for support as you raise your hips. Then you slide smoothly back inside -- all the way. In this manner you establish a steady pace. The stairs clatter beneath you. Cerise reaches at the ceiling for nothing, her hands curling and uncurling into fists. Sweat pearls with the rain on her skin.

"Cerise," you moan. "Cerise, I'm going to--"

"Yes! Yes!"

You rub your cheek with hers, and then lock lips. With one more savage thrust, out and in again, you plunge yourself to the root and fill her greedy body with semen. 

"Alabaster! Alabaster--!! aaahhhhnnn--"

You empty yourself completely, your mind going blank, your tongue mating with her mouth and your seed filling her tender womb. Your cock pulses; you grunt and heave; she trembles and cums -- and cums, and cums. She cums all around you, all over you, milking you off. You stare deeply into her half-lidded eyes as you cross this, the final rubicon.

GIRLS FUCKED: 6/6
ALL CLEAR
RANK: S

Basking in the afterglow, Cerise curled beside you with her head in your lap, you can't help asking. 

"All these years," you say. "Why? Why lie about it?"

"Lying about it is the first step to making it true. If I had a boyfriend or something-- then I wouldn't be lying around thinking about YOU all night--"

You pet her hair, dazzled at this revelation. "So even back when you were in high school-- in middle school-- this whole time?"

"Of course this whole time. Ever since I had a conception of what love really is."

"Even after I ruined your life," you say. "Even after I convinced you not to go to college."

"Oh, come off it. So I'm a 20 year old, alcoholic NEET. It suits me, doesn't it?"

You raise her face to yours and kiss her on the dimple of her cheek. "Not at all," you tell her. "You should be in school."

"Too late now. We're stuck in Palau forever."

You wonder about that.

The monsoon clears up almost as suddenly as it arrived. It's barely past midnight when you step back out into a much wetter Koror. 

You walk back to the docks with Cerise, holding hands. Colorful detritus from the festival, kicked up by the wind, blankets the landscape, paper and plastic and food and rigging caught in trees, bushes, and scattered across the ground. The roads are deserted, everyone having fled for indoors when the storm hit. 

Whitney is waiting for you at the docks when you get there, apparently just arrived from Gustav's private island by way of speedboat.

She sees your fingers interlaced with Cerise's, and quirks her eyebrows. Then, leaning forward and sniffing, she says: "you two reek like a French whorehouse. Did you--" comprehension dawns on her face. "Oh my God!" she shouts. She claps a hand to her mouth, hardly able to believe it. 

Cerise turns a shade of red so bright it's almost infrared.

"Welcome to the club!" Whitney says, grabbing Cerise by her other hand. "Finally! Jesus!" She jumps up and down, taking Cerise's limp arm through the air with her on each excited hop.

"Err--" you cut in. "What are you doing here, anyway?" 

Whitney remembers herself. She stops jumping, clears her throat and drops her smile.

"I'm here for you," she says. "You'd better come quick. I think Ms. Carte went crazy."

Back on Gustav's island, Whitney ushers you into a dune buggy. She cranks the engine and it roars to life, the stink of diesel filling your lungs. She drives you along the coast, fat tires leaving tracks in the sodden sand. After a mile or so, you find her.

Ms. Carte is stumbling around on the beach, chucking empty beer bottles at the ocean. In the moonlight, the bottles glimmer as they arc through the sky and then disappear into the blackened water, never to be seen again. With every distant-sounding plop of glass against sea, Ms. Carte pumps both fists in the air and yells a triumphant "whooo!"

When the headlights of the dune buggy catch her in their cones, she pivots, swaying unsteadily, and shields her eyes with the crook of her arm.

Whitney kills the engine as you step out.

"What're you doin' here?" Ms. Carte slurs.

"Looking for you," you say. "Everyone's worried." 

"Oh, how gentlemanly," she says, swatting at the air and leaning to one side.

"Ms. Carte...? Are you okay?"

She stomps her foot in the sand, kicking up a small spray of ejecta. "Goddammit. How many fucking times do I have to tell you? Call me Renee!"

"Do they have AA in Palau? Maybe you should attend a couple--"

"We shouldn't be here," she says, fixing you with a stern look.

"Yeah. We should be back at Gustav's, sleeping."

"No-- no--" she swipes at her face, massaging it. "We shouldn't be HERE. In Palau. We should be in California."

"Are you kidding?" You take a step forward and hold her by her shoulders so she'll stop twisting and turning and fidgeting. "What's gotten into you?"

Ms. Carte turns her chin up. Her nose brushes against yours, but it isn't with the tenderness of your habitual Eskimo kisses. Her breath reeks of hops and her eyes are crazed. 

"We-- were not supposed to leave--" she begins.

"Yes we were," you say firmly.

"We have to go back, Alabaster."

You shake your head.

"We have to go back!!" she shouts. She wrenches herself free of you. "We have to go back!"

In Gustav's dining room, you read the news article that spooked Ms. Carte so badly, and you understand.

"This is all my fault," Ms. Carte sobs, face in hands. "I let it get so far... I helped him... I can't just sit idly by--"

You, Whitney, and Ms. Carte are the only ones in the room. Mom brews the three of you some chamomile tea in the kitchen. The four of you have spent the better part of four hours discussing strategy.

The rest of the girls are off to bed already, Dad and Gustav as well. None of them know anything about this. Which is for the best. 

The plan you cobbled together is cunning, in its own way but -- desperate. Ridiculous, even. 

"Does it have to be your mom?" Whitney asks, stroking your arm. Her brow is furrowed with worry. "If I'm coming back too, then I could do it, couldn't I? Old David D.B. wanted to make me into a creepy fuckdoll too, didn't he?"

"David would find your augmentations," Ms. Carte says, glum. "He'd know we were laying a trap."

Mom returns with the tea. She hands each of you a cup. You drink yours somberly.

"It just makes sense for it to be me," Mom replies, sitting. "I'm the oldest... the most expendable... if something goes wrong, it's no big loss."

"Don't talk like that," you say, setting your jaw.

"It's the truth," Mom counters. "Rose can't do it -- Darkbloom probably wants her head after what she did to his butler. Vivian and Renee can't do it for obvious reasons... Whitney is already augmented... and--"

"Cerise would do it if I asked her," you say, offering Mom a hypothetical alternative.

Mom purses her lips. You get the point without her having to say it. If one of them has to risk their lives -- you'd both rather spare Cerise.

"So that's it," Whitney says. "The four of us, plus a couple Spancers, up against a robot empire."

"Can we really do this?" Ms. Carte asks.

"We have to, don't we?" you say. "The fate of the world depends on it."

END OF EPISODE 10.

---

[1] Important unstated backstory: Mrs. Soliloquy was a Soliloquy before she was a Soliloquy.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, faceless MC and ugly American. 

"Goodbye!" Gustav calls, waving a handkerchief at you from the runway. "Auf Wiedersehen! Ciao! Au revoir! Sayonara! Aloha! Hasta la vista! Don't come back!" 

You watch his receding figure from the window of your well-fueled mini-Leer. As the landing gear retracts and the plane lifts off, you turn to face Mom and Whitney in the cabin. "I don't think he likes us," you say.

"Really? I never noticed," Whitney says, sincerely. "He seemed like a nice guy. Even if he was kind of fruity."

"Of course he hates us," Mom says. "You children were rude. I place blame squarely on that awful Renee Carte person. She's a bad influence. If it weren't for her--"

You lean back and close your eyes, letting Mom's patented anti-Carte rant wash over you. 

Sneaking out on Rose, Vivian, and Cerise -- leaving them behind -- was difficult. Hopefully they accept the heartfelt apology you wrote. This is how it has to be.

Smatters glides lazily up and down the central aisle, his shadow casting itself across the beige carpeting and creme walls. Ms. Carte and the twin Spancers are in the cockpit, piloting. This leaves just you, Whitney, and Mom to while away the 15 hour trip together. 

Of course, there isn't an in-flight movie.

What the flight does have is ample space and nicely adjustable seats.

You lie atop your mother, the seatback reclined to its limit. You fuck her as deeply as your cock can reach, the tip of it kissing her womb. You bask in the soft give of her flesh underneath you and the hot, inviting folds of her most intimate place. You squeeze her breasts, each one warm and weighty in your violating hands. You entwine your legs with hers, angling yourself so that you can force your throbbing dick to its root inside her. 

Your jackhammer thrusts transform your hips into a blur of motion. Mom's head lolls to one side as she cums wetly around you, doped on incestuous pleasure. You can feel her shuddering from the inside-out. 

When she speaks, her voice has the quality of someone talking through the whirring of electric fan blades. "Al-aa-baaa-ssterrr," she groans. "Yoo-oou're beee-ing t-tooo rouuuugh--"

She says this -- but even as she does, she runs her fingers through your hair and draws your face closer to her neck. Her cream pools on the faux-leather seat underneath you. 

It is true you're being rough, though. You want to be rough. You want to make sure she remembers the shape of your dick and the hot, filling sensation of your seed pouring into her. No matter what happens next, she won't forget that. You won't let her.

Behind you, Whitney watches the spectacle. Her spats are bunched around her ankles and her legs are spread wide as she masturbates openly. She uses one hand to molest her own cunt and the other to tweak her nipples, first one and then the other. She chews on her lip and her face contorts in orgasm as she drinks in the lewd show.

"I'm cumming," you tell her. You don't break pace. 

She grunts and groans unintelligibly, twists and turns her face from side to side. She tries once more to speak, but the exertion of getting fucked so hard robs her of breath. She begins to pant like a bitch in heat as your orgasm mounts and you prepare to let go. 

You make a guttural noise and blow your cum inside. She reaches down to grab your ass, as if trying to force your spurting cock even further inside her. Her belly, arms, and neck muscles go taut, straining, as you mark her with your semen. 

As always, very few sensations can compare to relieving your aching lust inside your own mother.

When you finish emptying yourself, you dismount. Dazed, you stumble back and fall into the seat beside Whitney, who's still busy masturbating. 

Whitney sees her opening. She stands, kicking off her spats. She falls to her knees in front of Mom and pushes Mom's quivering knees apart. When she catches sight of the mingled fluids spilling from Mom's cunt, she licks her lips and coos in delight.

"Stop--" Mom says breathily. She runs a hand through her sweat-slicked hair, trying to muster energy. "Wait... if you do that so soon... I'll go craz-- unnnffff--" Whitney cuts Mom's protest off by latching her lips around her pussy. Mom writhes, lifting her butt from the seat and arching her back to offer herself up to Whitney's suckling mouth and tongue.

You slump in your chair and enjoy the sapphic obscenity. But your view is suddenly obstructed by a pair of hands. 

"Razzle dazzle~" comes a silken whisper in your ear.

You jolt upright and turn to face Rose. "Jesus," you say. You have to catch yourself from falling out of your seat. "Where the hell did you come from?" 

You hardly have the question out before a new shock hits: sitting in the seats at the back of the cabin are Vivian and Cerise -- and also your father, reading the Sunday Times.

Whitney is too busy eating pussy and Mom is too busy enjoying it to notice this turn of events. They continue, oblivious, as you deal with the interlopers.

"We gave-- very specific instructions," you say. You measure your words but there is anger in your voice. "You weren't supposed to come with us."

Rose shrugs. "You know me. Always coming where I shouldn't."

"Did you think that stupid goodbye letter would keep us in Palau?" Cerise says. "Don't be dense, you little fucknugget. We're all in this mess together."

"Agreed," Vivian says. "Additionally, the vial of essence you left behind to keep me quote fueled up unquote was insultingly inadequate. You could have killed me, Alabaster Soliloquy."

You massage your eyelids. For a moment the only sound is the muffled thrum of the jet engines, the wet slurps of Whitney's tongue, and Mom's unceasing groans of pleasure caroming off the walls.

"How," you say finally. "Just... how."

Rose boops you on the nose. "Ways and means, Alabaster."

You cast Dad a worried glance. "How much of what just happened did you guys-- did he--"

Rose laughs. "Unless there are photos of it in the Lifestyle section, I don't think he saw anything."

Cerise watches Whitney working Mom over as you pull your pants back on. She has trouble drawing her eyes away from the scene. "So what's the plan?" she says after a turn. "How are we taking Darkbloom down?"

[X] As long as you're here, you may as well help.
[ ] "We"? I'm sorry, but I have to sideline you.

"There may be some operations in Alabaster's immediate future," Ms. Carte explains to Cerise, sitting across from her at a small wood table. The Spancers handle piloting as she lays it all out for the stowaways.

Mom murmurs and grumbles, lost in a post-climax trance, while Whitney wipes cum from her lips. You do the modest thing and cover Mom up with a quilt as she babbles to herself.

"I planned to do any medical procedures on my own, with assistance from Spancer," Ms. Carte says. "But having another person's input is always a help. And-- to be honest, I'd value your input."

Cerise shakes her head. "I just mess around with toys. What I did with Alabaster back when he almost-- it was a one in a million thing. I can't be messing with his insides like that on a regular basis."

"If you want to help us," Ms. Carte says, "that's where you're most useful. I can teach you anything you need to know."

"And I?" Vivian asks with a flourish. "How may I assist?"

"You're on reserve," Ms. Carte says. "Hopefully Mrs. Soliloquy can get the job done on her own. If she can't -- I guess we'll need all the help we can get. You too, Rose."

Rose nods.

Cerise rises to her feet. She stares you down. "So that's it? That's the big scheme? We're supposed to throw our mother to Darkbloom like some kind of... Trojan horse, and hope he doesn't catch her playing spy?"

You sigh. All you can say in response is, "she'll be okay."

"She won't be okay," Cerise spits. "Darkbloom wants to make her a mindless sex doll, in case you don't remember. Who's to say he won't get to work on that right away?"

"He still needs me. If I say no, he can't move forward."

"He could just hold you prisoner again. Then he can do whatever he wants."

Ms. Carte interjects. "If he tries that... it's on to plan B, I suppose."

Cerise's dour mood puts a dampener on the remainder of the flight. It passes more or less in silence. 

Rose, Vivian, and Whitney amuse themselves with card games. Rose loses, which initiates a punishment game that takes place in the jet's private bathroom, but whose results can be heard throughout the cabin. 

Mom sleeps. Cerise sits next to her, staring out the window, a worried expression on her face. She has a hushed conversation with Mom when she wakes up, which you don't hear, and have the tact not to listen in on.

Stateside, you touch down on tiny, infrequently-trafficked airstrip in the Mojave. You rent a car under a fake name and set course for home.

As Ms. Carte drives you through the dusty desert plains toward California, you realize you will soon be crossing the point of no return. 

The first step is establishing a base of operations. A place you can work out of, and which Darkbloom won't find. You have just such a place in mind.

In town, you make a stop-over at a local clothing store to buy the proper outfits -- the goal here is to look as blandly official as possible. Ms. Carte purchases a conservative navy-blue pantsuit, and you purchase a black blazer with matching trousers. Carrying clipboards, you look the perfect image of disinterested bureaucrats. It's time to pay Whitney's father a visit.

You rap your knuckles -- once, twice, thrice -- against the door of the trailer Whitney used to call home. No response. You crane your neck and peer again into the gravel driveway -- her father's rusted pickup is there, so he can't be out. You knock again.

Finally you hear the sounds of him stumbling and fumbling inside, empty beer cans and other detritus rustling in his wake. He answers the door, bleary eyed and bed-headed, wearing only a wife beater and boxer shorts.

"Whachu want?" he slurs, scratching his days-old stubble.

"We're from the Department of Fines and Levies," Ms. Carte says, handing him a sheaf of paper with bogus credentials on it. Then she hands him another paper with the words "EVICTION NOTICE" in bright red letters at the head.

"What's this all about?" he asks, suddenly somewhat more sober. "Eviction notice...?"

"You owe a great deal in unpaid taxes," you say. "Our department has sent you several letters to this effect, with no response..." You peer over his shoulder to his dingy dining room table, stacked high with unopened mail.

"As a result," Ms. Carte continues, "we have no choice but to evict you from the premises and seize your property."

"You mean-- you're-- you can't do this!" he booms, gearing up for a fight. "I got rights!"

"Please address any comments and concerns to our home office," you say. "The number is on that paper."

"You'll be happy to hear that this forfeiture clears the debt," Ms. Carte adds, beaming brightly.

"Fuck you!"

"Sir, be civil," Ms. Carte says.

Time to bait the hook. The two of you turn as if to leave. As expected, he follows, waddling after you. "Wait!" he shouts. "You can't just kick a man out--"

You whistle the signal. The two Spances take up position on either side of the mobile home and lift it into the air, placing it on the bed of a trailer parked nearby. They quickly secure the home with straps and chains.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Ms. Carte says, stepping into the rental car. The Spancers get onto the bed of the trailer and Ms. Carte takes off, Whitney's house in tow.

Whitney's father gives feeble chase, yelling and cursing. You watch, standing in what used to be his front yard. When the car easily outpaces him, he returns, huffing and panting, to spew invective at you. You shrug it all off and direct him once more to call the "home office." 

You had better be going. You have to meet up with your mother in a few minutes. But as you head down the street, Whitney's father stops you. 

"Wait a minute," he says, squinting. He nudges your shoulder, making you face him. "You're Whitney's friend, aincha? Little young to be doing this kind of work. You're like 12 or something, right?"

You shrug. 

"You give me my goddamn house back, you little faggot. I swear you'll regret it if you don't."

"Aren't you going to ask where your daughter is?" you say. "She's been gone for a while."

"Do you think that's gonna get under my skin? I don't give a shit about that. She's probably turning tricks in some whorehouse, huh? Always said she'd end up like her slut mother. Ain't no skin off my back. Now gimme my back my house."

You push him to the ground. It doesn't take any force at all. He whines and rubs his tailbone, sitting on the cracked asphalt and staring up at you. 

"Goodbye, Mr. Price," you say, and leave it at that.

"Shitty," you say. "But liveable. Sort of."

You sit in the living room of Valorian Manor, a motel on the wrong side of the tracks. Literally -- it's on the wrong side of the tracks, as in just downwind from a rail line used to freight toxic chemicals. Their halogen reek suffuses the room even despite the air fresheners you place at strategic intervals. 

Stackleford's home is nearby, and you think this unfortunate positioning explains a great deal about him.

The motel offers a daily and a weekly rate, and plenty of roaches. Your unit's carpet is a dull grey color that may have once been blue. Unvacuumable dust and crumbs stick to your feet if you walk barefoot across it, so you and Mom elect to wear socks at all times. The kitchen is the size of a linen closet and the only bedroom is not much larger. Hanging on the wall, a watercolor portrait of a sailboat fails to conceal water damage from the adjoining unit's broken plumbing. 

But hey, there's color TV.

"Does it seem believable enough, is the question," you add.

"I think so," Mom says. "Darkbloom has to believe we're destitute. This is pretty destitute, I think."

A bug skitters across the scuffed coffee table. 

Destitute is right. 

Here's hoping Darkbloom realizes you're in town and approaches you sooner rather than later. Until then, you have to pretend this is normal.

[X] Enjoy some quality time with Kaa-san.
[ ] Visit with Stackleford.
[ ] Check out the new HQ.
[ ] Bed. It's a school night, after all.
[ ] Custom.

Mom busies herself at the meager stovetop, stirring a pan of gravy for the one and only main entree she's good at: roast beef. She sways her hips side to side as she works, the tied-off bow of her apron bouncing in tune with her plump bottom. Her diligence manifests on her face in the form of furrowed brows and a bitten tongue.

It's a lovely sight. You can't resist the temptation to sneak up and wrap your arms around her. 

"Hey--!! D-don't disturb me while I'm cooking!" she snaps. "Don't you have any tact?"

You kiss her neck.

"I-I go to all this trouble to make a nice dinner, and you want to ruin it with your-- uncouth--"

You bite her earlobe. She draws a sharp breath through her teeth. Her knees go weak, but she catches herself against the counter.

"I have never met a more-- a more ungrateful, rude little--"

You pull her tight against your body, away from the stove. She scrambles to turn the electric burner off so the food doesn't scorch. 

"Alabster," she says, peering over her shoulder, "we can't... it's so disgusting here."

"The bathroom is clean," you say. 

You lead her by the hand to the white-tiled bathroom. She doesn't resist. 

You sit her on the edge of the tub and paw at her jeans, pulling them down. "You're incorrigible," she chides, but not harshly. 

You feel the warm flesh of her upper thighs in your palms -- so pliant, and such a contrast to the icy porcelain. 

As you kiss her up and down her calves and thighs, all the way to the nape of her pantied crotch, she watches you and smiles.

"Whitney tells me that you deflowered your sister."

You pause, looking up at her. Her expression doesn't betray any anger or disapproval.

"How did it feel?" she asks.

You think for a moment. "It felt like justice," you say.

"Can an old woman like me ever hope to compare?" she asks, perhaps only half-joking.

You answer by burying your face in her crotch again. She whines in shocked delight. 

Placing her fingertips on the crown of your head, she pushes your face deeper still. Her aroma fills your nostrils. You wet the fabric of her underwear with your tongue. Even through the lace and cotton, you can taste her sweetness. Hers is much like Cerise's, but deeper, more pronounced, and you can't get enough. You want to suck her cunt forever.

You pull her panties to one side, enjoying the up-close view of her genitals for a moment -- the engorged lips drooling with moisture -- before you dive back in. You swirl your tongue up and down, collecting the dew. She chews on her knuckles and watches.

Then there's a knock on the door.

"God fucking damn it," you say. You pause, hoping whoever it is goes away, but instead there's another knock.

Mom grins and pecks you on the lips. "Go ahead and answer it," she says. "I'll be here when you get back."

You step out of the bathroom and answer the door. Standing at the threshold is Cerise.

"Shit!" you say, yanking her bodily into the motel. You poke your head out of the door, glancing this way and that to make sure no one has tailed her, and then shut it.

"You're supposed to be back at Whitney's place with Ms. Carte and them," you say. "I'm sure there's a lot of cleaning to help with, that guy lived like a pig..."

"I wanted to see you guys," she says, simmering. "Is that such a crime?"

"Seriously, Cerise -- what the hell is wrong with you?" You pace back and forth. "Darkbloom could send his thugs here any second now. You can't just pop in for a visit whenever you feel like it."

"I want to see my mother before she dies," Cerise pouts, sitting on the raggedy couch. "Where is she, anyway?"

Taking the cue, Mom steps forth from the bathroom, still clad only in panties from the waist down. 

"Mom," you say. "Tell Cerise she should be back with the others. It isn't safe here."

"Tell Alabaster he's being a jerk!" Cerise counters, throwing her arms wide.

You feel like bickering children.

"Now, now," Mom says soothingly, "Cerise is already here, so there's no harm in letting her stay around for a few moments."

Cerise sticks her tongue out at you. But Mom turns to face face her and continues: "you should listen to your brother in the future."

Cerise folds her arms and huffs. You make a face right back at her.

"Don't be like that," Mom says. "We can have a nice family dinner together, all right? And -- there's something I want to show you, anyway."

The thing Mom wanted to show you ends up coming first, as it happens.

This time it's you sitting on the edge of the tub, with Mom on her knees in front of you. Next to her is Cerise.

"You two should learn how to pleasure one another properly, if you're going to be doing it," Mom says. "That's only logical."

Cerise tries to feign disinterest. But she can't take her eyes from your red and pulsing member as she leans against her balled-up fists on the tile floor.

Mom masturbates you gently, keeping you hard-- as if you needed the help. "Have you sucked his cock before?" she asks.

This breaks Cerise's trance. She gawks at Mom, unused to that kind of obscene language from her. It seems to surprise her more than the sexual impropriety happening right now. She stammers.

"It's a simple question," Mom says.

"Of-- of course I have," Cerise manages.

"Show me." 

Hesitatingly, Cerise reaches out. Her hand replaces Mom's around your shaft. Her entire body is trembling. She darts out her tongue and licks you like a kitten at a cup of milk.

"That won't do at all," Mom says, frowning. 

"I can't do it with people watching!" Cerise complains, averting her gaze.

"I think you'd better learn," Mom says. "Pay attention, now." 

She leans forward and swallows your dick in one swift motion, all the way down to the base. She strokes you a few times with her wet, tight throat, the slurping echoing off the walls. After a few moments she releases you. Your member twitches with unrelieved lust and glistens thickly with saliva.

Taking your dick in hand again, Mom rubs it underneath Cerise's nose. "You try," she purrs. "Learn his smell and his taste and the feeling of him using your throat. Learn to love it. Go on, now."

Cerise gives it her best attempt, but whether it's her lack of experience or mere nerves, she can't take your entire length. She makes remarkable progress but begins to gag three quarters of the way down, leaving the base of your cock frustratingly unattended. 

She reaches up to try and manually stimulate this unburied section of your shaft, but Mom swats her hand away. "NEVER use your hands," Mom says. "That's cheating."

Cerise's shoulders heave with frustration. She snakes her tongue out and tries once more to take the rest of you, but only retches. 

Mom tsks. "Alabaster, you'll have to help her."

You look down at Cerise. She goes bug-eyed but doesn't pull away, and you take that as permission enough. You grip her by the ears, and -- as gently as you can with your lust-fueled needs directing you -- you fuck yourself into the back of your older sister's throat. She sputters, spewing thick saliva all around you as you force your way in.

"Relax, relax," Mom says, rubbing Cerise's back as if soothing an infant. "Breathe. That's it. You can do this. Your mouth was made for this. You just have to relax..."

Mom grins up at you. "How is she?" 

"Great--" you manage in a choked voice. "She's great..."

With Mom's tender prompting, Cerise's throat loosens. You establish a steady pace inside her. She slobbers all over your balls each time you bottom out. It's not long before you can hump her face with complete abandon. She hardly gags at all.

"I'm gonna cum," you say. "Should I do it in her mouth?"

"Why not?" Mom says. She reaches around Cerise and rubs the girl's naked belly up and down. She pushes her cheek against Cerise's to watch your cock stabbing in and out. 

"What do you think?" she whispers in Cerise's ear. She uses one hand to rub Cerise's sopping pussy. "Don't you want your brother to cum in your mouth?"

Cerise can only make a muffled moan, but it's obviously one of begging. You pour your ropes of slimy cum directly into her sucking gullet. Mom coos with delight, kneading your balls as they flex and spurt, her other hand still molesting her daughter.

"Now," Mom says, clapping her hands together. "No son of mine is going to get through life without learning how to really pleasure a woman. Let me see how you and Cerise fuck each other."

Lying on the floor with Cerise beside you, you groan and stir. "But I'm tired..." you complain.

"No buts! Up!" She sits on the lid of the toilet and watches as you rouse Cerise from her stupor. 

This experience may truly be intended to instruct the two of you, in case Mom doesn't survive -- but it's clear she takes her own pleasure in it, too. Her naked cunt is dripping wet.

Mom directs you rather like a composer as you sit on your haunches and pull Cerise into your lap. "Good," she says, "I can see both of you this way."

Cerise stares down at her own pussy as you push into her for only the second time ever. She bucks her hips and whinnies, her eyes clenching shut. The heat and velvet tightness is unbearable, especially in front of an audience, and you fuck her senseless.

"You're always too rough!" Mom says. "You have to pay attention to the woman's pleasure, too!" She clasps your shoulders. "Slow down. Feel the way her insides wrap around you. Respond to it. Don't just rut inside her like an animal."

"Mommy..." Cerise mewls, suddenly and apropos of nothing. It's clear she still isn't used to being seen in such a compromising position. Her entire body is flushed a deep crimson. "Please... please..."

"Shh," Mom says. "Let me help you cum, okay?" She uses her thumb and forefinger to play with Cerise's fat clit. Cerise throws her head back and howls as you establish a rocking motion in her pussy. The two of you assault her without mercy.

"I'm cumming!" Cerise yells. "Fuck, I'm cumming! Alabaster... mommy...!!"

A new, perverted synapse fires in your brain. You perch your chin on Cerise's shoulders and take one of Mom's nipples in your mouth. She obviously didn't expect to become a direct participant here -- she gasps in surprise as you begin to suckle. 

Her eyes half-lidded, Cerise sees what you're doing. In her haze of desire, she decides to join in. She takes the other nipple in her mouth.

"Y-you two--" Mom stutters, her voice pinched. "What are you-- I never said you could--" she trails off, unable to protest. Soon she reaches down to finger herself, making a sloppy mess of toilet lid. She masturbates as her children suck her off.

You fuck deeply into your sister, enjoying the wanton perversity -- but something interrupts your own mounting climax. Your eyes go wide as you feel a warmth trickle to the back of your throat. Cerise's eyes go wide, too.

Your mother is lactating.

Her milk comes out in warm pulses and quickly fills your mouth. You have no choice but to swallow or down. Cerise is less prepared for the assault, and the creamy white fluid pours down her chin and across her tits. Mom sighs and holds both of you to her breasts.

You release her nipple just long enough to say: "I'm cumming again."

Cerise shudders in your embrace. Mom forces your lips back over her nipple and pants: "do it, then! Cum inside your sister! Make her pregnant, baby! Fuck! Fuck!"

As you guzzle down her sweet, almost sugary milk, you fill Cerise's spasming pussy with burst after burst of your own milk. She shrieks in ecstasy, her voice muffled by her mother's breast. Her face and body are blurred underneath the slathering milk covering her. You cum, and cum, and cum.

Dinner is burnt. No one remembered to turn off the oven. 

You eat it anyway, and no one complains. The three of you are painfully aware that this could be the last meal you share together. 

Cerise tries to convince you and Mom to find some other way, and abandon your plan to con Darkbloom. Mom squeezes Cerise's hand and says through teary eyes: "don't be such a worrywort. You'll turn into me at this rate." 

Tellingly, she doesn't try to reassure Cerise that she'll be okay.

---

The next day, you return to school. You carry a note to the registrar's office, signed by your mother:

>Please excuse my son's extended absence. We were on vacation.
>Sincerely, S. Soliloquy.

And God bless California's crumbling public education system -- no one bats an eyelash. You go back to your classes as if nothing ever happened. Your teachers will even let you make up any homework you missed.

School, as it turns out, is dreadfully boring without Whitney and the others around to spice things up. You drift through your day aimlessly. 

Your quiz bowl coach Mr. Langley, is ecstatic to see you back.

"A vacation!" he shouts, stamping his foot. "In the middle of the season! What nonsense!" He rubs his palms together like a merchant seeing cheap wares. "Without you and Vivian, the team's been falling to pieces. Pieces! But you'll be along for rest of the season, right?"

Appearing to the outside world as if you're living your life normally again is of paramount importance for this scheme of yours. Darkbloom has to approach you, thinking that you've given up on opposing him. Rejoining quiz bowl could aid in the ruse. But are you still a quiz bowl kinda guy, Alabaster?

[X] Hell yes.
[ ] No way.

Mr. Langley squeals -- he actually squeals, for godsakes -- and hugs you tight. It's weird.

You almost get through the rest of the day before seeing the face you dread. But it's inevitable. As you come out of calculus headed for PE, you Stackleford's frame lumbers toward you. 

"Suuuup my nigger?" he says, offering his palm for what he calls a "negro handshake." You don't return the gesture. He lets his hand hang awkwardly in the air for a moment before it falls limply to his side.

"Heard through the old grapevine you were back in town," he continues. "What've you been up to, man?" 

"Oh, you know, this and that," you say. You try to walk faster than he can keep up with. But the excitement has given him freakish stamina. He maintains pace.

"No, seriously. Deets, dude."

"There aren't any 'deets'. I went on vacation in-- in Azerbaijan. Stackleford, have you ever heard of Listerine? It might help you make some friends..."

"Azer-what? Where the fuck is that? The ocean?"

"Yeah. It's in the ocean. Christ."

"Say--" he puts a hammy claw on your shoulder to stop you up. "Do you know where Whitney went? Did she go with you or something? She disappeared the same time you did."

You shrug. "Dunno. We-- ah, we broke up."

Stackleford's face beams with badly concealed joy. But then it becomes shadowed again as he puts two and two together -- if you don't know where she went, she may be gone for good. 

You turn and continue down the hall. Glumly, Stackleford follows.

After a few moments, he says: "You coming to anime club today, buddy?" 

[ ] Yeah... no.
[X] Why not? My day couldn't get shittier.

Throughout final period PE, you prepare your mind for the terrors that surely await. You didn't want to agree to Stackleford's goading, but you felt bad for him, against your better judgment -- and a voice in the back of your head said you should come. 

While you distract yourself with these thoughts, you inadvertently run a three-minute mile on the oval track. The coach and the rest of the class is stupefied by the feat. You leave them standing around speechless, Coach Hill goggling at his stopwatch.

---

As you turn the corner toward the anime clubroom, you see a person in the hallway whose presence angers but doesn't particularly surprise you.

"Are you serious right now?" you hiss. "What the hell, Cerise?"

"Go away!" Cerise says. "What the fuck are you doing still coming to anime club? You fucking loser! Get your own club!"

"What am I doing? What are YOU doing? Do you not understand that death STALKS us at every turn? That Darkbloom's sinister machinations could, at any moment--"

"Oh, shut the fuck uuuup," Cerise groans. "We could die soon. I get it. But I had to see how these dweebos were doing without me. Now get out of my way."

You simmer with rage, but step aside. The truth is, as long as Cerise is with you, she's as safe as she'll ever be. And having her at your side makes this experience more tolerable. You enter the room behind her.

For all your mental preparation, none of it could have possibly proved adequate.

You and Cerise slowly sweep your astonished gaze over the tableau. Connor and Fartin' Franklin sit at pushed-together schooldesks playing the Pokemon card game, using sticks of pocky as the damage counters, arguing over whether Gardevoir or Ninetails is hotter; Stackleford is in the midst of loudly describing the similarities between Navy SEALs and samurai warriors to Earl, a club member you're mostly certain has a mild form of Downs Syndrome; Kimberly -- apparently having failed to bake some kind of cake -- is stomping madly on a flaming pile of food in the middle of the room, cinders of burnt flour spinning complexly around her; Mr. McMichael -- out from prison on special furlough, you assume, if his bright orange jumpsuit and shackles are any indication -- fumbles with a fire extinguisher, not quite able to manage it because his fogged-up glasses and handcuffs are in the way. What you can only assume is Mr. McMichael's parole officer sits in the corner, watching placidly, ankle on knee. He is not attempting to help in any way. An episode of Lucky Star, dubbed, plays on the projector screen. The room is littered with empty bottles of Mountain Dew, chip bags, and pizza boxes. It stinks like sweat, feet, and virginity.

"Mother of God," Cerise says.

You discern a rhythmic murmur near the back. Fazil sits curled up in the corner, hugging his knees and rocking in place. He mumbles to himself: "Bu yakında bitecek. Bu yakında bitecek. Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar. Bu yakında bitecek..."

---
 
Perhaps Cerise expected things to be bad. That would explain why she wore a whistle to the clubroom today. She fishes it from between her breasts and blows into it. Activity in the clubroom halts. All eyes turn to her.
 
"Cerise...?" Kimberly says. Then, her expression turning from confusion to excitement: "Cerise-chon! Oh my gosh! Cerise-chon!"
 
Kimberly runs toward Cerise with arms wide open. Cerise sidesteps the attempted intimacy. Kimberly tips forward, trying to hug the air, and almost loses her balance.
 
Despite this, Kimberly doesn't get the message. She spins around and makes another pass at Cerise. Cerise grabs the fire extinguisher from Mr. McMichael's cuffed hands. As Kimberly draws close again, Cerise whangs her upside the head. The dull thunk of metal against skull caroms off the clubroom walls.
 
Kimberly flies backward, landing in a heap on the ground. Connor jumps to his feet, pushing desks and chairs aside as he rushes over to her. He kneels and shakes her shoulders, trying rouse her.
 
Kimberly enjoys the attention. She pretends to be delirious with pain, shaking her head side to side and groaning.
 
"Come on, my darling," Connor says.
 
You can't help muttering under your breath: "come on, my ragtime gal."
 
The commotion brings Fazil out of his despair-induced torpor. He stands, blinking. "Can this be real?" he asks, and actually rubs his eyes with his balled-up fists. "Am I dreaming?"
 
Cerise aims the nozzle of the fire extinguisher at the flaming remains of Kimberly's dessert, and smothers it with foam. "What the hell have you people done to my club?" she says. "You fucking animals. There isn't a circle of shame large enough for you losers to feel the shame you need to be feeling right now."
 
When Fazil hugs you, you do nothing to stop him.
 
"It's been awful!" he says, shaking you side to side in his embrace. "For the past month, I think so often to quit. But then I think, what would Ala-bast-or and Cerise say if I give up? So I don't give up. But I come very close."
 
You've never been good with male-male affection, so you respond to Fazil by patting him lightly on the head. It feels a bit condescending, but he doesn't object. When he releases you, he gives you a thumbs-up.
 
"My star pupil," Mr. McMichael says, smiling broadly. "I'm glad to see you're back, Cerise. I heard you were running things in my absence." He holds out a clammy palm as much as the cuffs will allow. Cerise shakes it.
 
"No touching!" His prison-appointed guardian booms from behind him.
 
Mr. McMichael steps back, holding up both hands to show he's following orders. "No touching," he repeats. "No touching."
 
---
 
Cerise sends everyone home for the day, amidst grumbles and mumbles.
 
The two of you need a little time alone together to knock heads and devise a plan to save the club. As you sweep up the ashy leftovers of Kimberly's failed experiment, Cerise sits at the head of the room and recounts the horrors:
 
"Did you know they're not even learning Turkish anymore?" she says, folding her arms. "Because Rose fucked off, the rest of the student council let them drop the Turkish Cultural Appreciation act."
 
"That's not so awful," you say. "Did you really care about learning Turkish?"
 
Cerise glares at you. You blanch. You dump the dustpan into the garbage, saying nothing more.
 
"It's completely fucked," Cerise says. "The last time the club voted on what to watch, Fazil and Kimberly put their suggestions to a vote. Fazil suggested Yosuga no Sora and Kimberly suggested Death Note. Poor Fazil lost 7-1."
 
"So some course correction is needed," you say. "Okay. I suggest a regimen of one classic and one currently airing series. It's not a shit taste panacea, but it's a start."
 
"Who would have known you were capable of good ideas," Cerise says. She powers up the PC on the desk and finds a chart for new season. She rubs her chin, thinking.
 
"All right. For the currently airing series, which do you prefer -- Psycho Pass or the new Free?"
 
"You have got to be shitting me." You elbow her out of the way and scroll through the chart yourself.
 
"Hey--!! What the hell, Alabaster?"
 
"See?" you say, glancing back at her. "There's all sorts of great things on, and you want to watch crap like that? Look -- this Rokujyouma show would be perfect for the club. Good, wholesome fun--"
 
Cerise leans in and reads the description. "Goddamn it, Alabaster," she says. "This is haremshit. I am not watching this."
 
"Fuck you, you're not watching it. You're LIVING it."
 
---
 
(this is a scene from later in the episode. there would be some material in between the previous excerpt and this.)
 
Whitney meets with you on Friday evening at a chain restaurant, accompanied by Ms. Carte. You arrange the meeting through Cerise.
 
The girls are sitting tucked away in a corner booth when you arrive. You slide in, sitting across from them.
 
The more robotic of the two Spancers sits at a booth kitty-corner from yours, surveiling for threats.
 
Whitney is the one who insisted on this restaurant -- ostensibly for its crowded atmosphere and dim mood lighting, which makes it perfect for clandestine rendezvous -- but it quickly becomes clear that she's only in it for the deal on endless appetizers. She orders plate after revolting plate of doughy, deep-fried mozzarella sticks and packs them away like a prisoner on death row eating her last meal.
 
"Are they not feeding you?" you say. "If you're being abused, please tell me."
 
"Mfff mmmmf wfff," Whitney says. Crumbs tumble from the corners of her mouth.
 
"Miss Manners eats just fine back at home," Ms. Carte says, steepling her fingers. "More than fine. There's a doctoral thesis waiting to be written on her metabolism."
 
Whitney chomps a mozzarella stick in half, pulling the gooey filling into pendulous strings that dangle in front of her. Ms. Carte grimaces.
 
"How many of those have you eaten?" you say, frowning.
 
Whitney swallows hard and points at you with the uneaten half of her mozzarella stick. "They're endless, Alabaster. Value like that can't be beat. So lay off."
 
You shake your head and turn to Ms. Carte. "How are things going? Have you made much progress studying Vivian?"
 
"A little. I think the effects of X-11 dependency can be reversed. Not just on Vivian, but anyone affected."
 
"--But?"
 
"But-- I still need my old files from Darkbloom. If your mother can get them, I'm sure I'd make the breakthrough we need. She just needs to get close enough."

---

Whitney's Present

After school, Whitney confronts you in the hallway on your way to Turkish club.

"Fuck your lame cartoons. I have a surprise for you," she says. "Close your eyes."

"That's childish," you say. "If you have something to show me, just show it to me already. I'm not going to play some ridiculous--"

Whitney swings behind you and lays her palms flat against your face, blocking your line of sight. You sigh. 

"This way please," she says. 

She leads you down the hall, out the swinging double doors, and through the quad. You're not sure where you're headed until you smell the familiar scent of cedar chips and varnish. You're in the wood shop. 

"Ta-daa~" Whitney peels back her hands. 

On the rough concrete shop floor is a cherry-stained mahogany chair that sits about a foot taller than a normal chair. The center has a hole cut out of it roughly the circumference of a toilet -- and in fact this contraption looks rather like Whitney pilfered the seat from a high-class port-a-potty. 

"Do you like it?" Whitney asks. "I made it, specially for you."

You shake your head. "I completely don't understand," you say.

Half an hour later, you completely understand.

You sit in Whitney's hand-crafted chair. Rose is on her knees in front of you, hands tied behind her back, choking on your cock. Vivian is on her haunches underneath the chair, palms flattened against the underside and face turned upwards. She licks your ass with her tiny pink tongue. You lounge in place, leaning back, arms on the armrests, and enjoy the decadent sensation of the girls working you from both ends. You don't have to lift a finger to enjoy yourself, and that's the point.

"How are they?" Whitney asks. She circles around the chair and holds her hand against the back of Rose's head to help her along. 

Rose's mouth makes obscene slurping noises as her head bobs up and down, coating your shaft in her hot, viscous drool. Her throat is a snug fit for your cock. You ooze a continuous stream of precum directly into her esophagus. Meanwhile, Vivian's inexperienced but eager tongue laps at your anus, slobbering and exploring shamelessly. Both of the girls are moaning, like animals, the wanton sound of their voices muffled by your genitals as they service you.

"They're great," you say. "I'm gonna fucking cum if they keep this up."

Rose and Vivian must hear you say this, because they redouble their efforts. Vivian swabs her tongue rapidly back and forth across your anus, mewling contentedly. She even licks you inside, deep inside, and her wet mouth coats you with its warmth. Rose works your dick so fast that her face becomes a beige blur, spittle flying everywhere.

"I trained them," Whitney says. She leans in and kisses you. She whispers softly in your ear. "Every night while we were in Palau. I sat on Vivian's face and taught her how to eat ass. Almost suffocated her a couple times. And I choked Rose with a dildo until she didn't have a gag reflex anymore." 

"They let you do that?" 

"They didn't really have a choice," Whitney says. "Sure, they asked me to stop at first... whined and cried like babies... but now look at them. A couple of cock-hungry sluts." She pauses, running her fingers lightly up and down your chest. "So, are they perfect cum-dumps for you? Did I do good?"

"You did perfect," you say. Whitney can't help clapping her hands together and beaming.

You lean your head back and let loose a sensual groan, one long sigh of pure satisfaction. To have a little girl's tongue in your ass while another girl chokes herself almost to the point of passing out on your fucking cock -- this, you think, is the life. Who but Whitney could take these proud girls and transform them into willing slaves, holes for you to relieve your lust inside of? This heat and wetness -- your cock, your balls, your ass, dripping with their efforts, marinating in their lewd juices -- it makes your heart hum with contentment. 

Rose's sucking mouth brings you to the point of release. You let it pass without saying anything to warn her, because why should you have to warn her? She's yours to cum in as you please. So instead you just let yourself go, bucking your hips to masturbate yourself against her tongue as you pump her mouth full of sperm. She holds herself in place for you -- no one has to lay a hand on her, so well has she been trained. Her nose rests against your pubic bone as your cock spews jets of ropey seed into the back of her throat, pulsing, throbbing, cumming, until you're light-headed. Rose doesn't make a sound, doesn't even gag, and the only noise in the room is tiny Vivian, her tongue still lapping at your ass.

"Me next!" Whitney says as she helps you stand again. She quickly takes your place in the chair. So that's it, then -- it wasn't *just* for you, after all.

Whitney wiggles around a bit to get comfortable. The hole in the seat is large for her frame, but that's no matter. She leans against her tailbone, angling her pussy slightly up and her ass slightly down, locking her ankles around Rose's neck for support. 

"Comfy~" she says.

Whitney's pussy is beautiful, the lips just partly turned-out and coral pink. She glistens with arousal and her clit is so engorged it's nearly the size of a pearl. By contrast, Rose's face is a hot mess -- coated in slime and spit, ruddy, her blonde hair mussed and plastered down, her makeup caked and running. Her eyes are vacant, like an idiot's. She resembles a used-up whore. Underneath the chair, Vivian's face is equally a mess, and she kneels in a puddle of her own saliva. The black bustier she wears is sopping wet and likely ruined. She leaves her mouth hanging open and drooling like she doesn't even know how to close it.

Once Whitney is situated, Rose and Vivian get to work again. Rose buries her face in Whitney's pussy and Vivian parts Whitney's well-toned bubble-butt to suckle on her anus. Whitney coos in delight. "I love these fucking cunts," she says. 

You watch as the girls service Whitney. They give her the same enthusiastic pleasure they gave you. Man or woman, cock or pussy -- it doesn't matter to them. They're open to any and all debasement.

"Oooh--" Whitney purrs. "Do you know what Rose is doing right now?" 

"I can kind of guess," you say. "I don't think she's looking for her keys down there."

Whitney rolls her shoulders and nestles her genitals against Rose's sloppy face. "She saved all your cum in her mouth," she says. "Now she's-- pu-uushing it~ with her to-ongue~ ... all the way inside of me..."

She grabs a handful of Rose's hair and roughly pulls her back. Strands of your jizz hang from Rose's lips, connected to Whitney's milky pussy. 

You grin and admire the sight of your spunk coating Whitney's entrance. It's smeared all over her labia and her inner thighs and pooled inside of her cunt, as if you had creampied her yourself. And with Rose's mouth now hanging open, you see she has a lot more of it left over to push into Whitney's deepest parts. Her pink tongue and white teeth swim in a pool of your semen. Whitney pushes Rose back into place so she can get to work again.

"Your cum is so hot inside me," Whitney moans, rubbing her tummy with both hands. "Oh God, it almost burns. I want your cum inside me all the time... see, Rose wanted to keep all your cum to herself, she's a greedy little pig. She wanted to drink it all down and waste it in her piggy tummy... but I trained her real good, I trained her to save it all for me, for my cunt... my cunt needs your fucking cum, Ally..."

Whitney meets your gaze with half-lidded eyes. "Kiss me," she says. "Make it perfect."

You kiss her. You lock lips, enjoying the full lusciousness of Whitney's mouth. Her softness, her sweetness, always surprises you given how athletic she is. Her body is hard and tanned, yes, but also feminine, supple. Your tongues entwine and explore one another's intimate parts. Whitney's breathing slows and deepens. You can sense the rhythm of Rose's tongue in Whitney's pussy by the rhythm of Whitney's tongue in your mouth: they sync. Whitney now has tongues servicing her in all three of her holes -- she must be in heaven.

You pull back to run kisses up and down Whitney's face and neck. Whitney sways her hips in lazy circles, grinding her ass and cunt against the girls underneath her at a pace of her choosing. 

"We should do your Mom and your sister next," Whitney murmurs. "Get your Mom underneath, and Cerise in the front-- that would be so hot-- using your own family's mouths to get yourself off..."

"Maybe it should be you and Ms. Carte next," you say. "Ms. Carte in front -- and you underneath."

Whitney is so lost in fuck-lust that she doesn't blanch in the slightest at this suggestion. In fact, she thrills with new pleasure. "I'd love to get underneath this thing," she says. "I bet I could lick your prostate if I tried. I could help you pour cum down Ms. Carte's throat... so much that she chokes on it..."

You pet Whitney's face. She nuzzles against your touch like a kitten. Your member is hard again and you hold it against her cheek. Whitney clutches it in one hand and inhales deeply. 

"I love the way your cock smells," she says. "It makes me dizzy... I think I'm addicted."

She licks it up and down, like a popsicle, her saliva joining Rose's. She swirls her tongue around the glans and inside the foreskin, down the underside, and across the balls, trying to suck up as much of your scent and taste as she can, guzzling it down. The sighs and groans she makes sound barely human.

Whitney's skin is turning to gooseflesh. She begins to shiver uncontrollably despite being drenched in sweat. "Are you cumming?" you ask.

"No--" she insists, her lips still wrapped around your dick. "Noo-- I want to dra-aa-aag it out-- I can't cum yet!" 

But she can't help herself. "Fuck!" she cries. "Fuck!! I'm gonna cum all over their fucking worthless faces... sloppy little cunts!" She cums howling, spraying her cream all over Rose, and even some on Vivian. They suck it down as best they can, but there's too much, too fast. As Whitney squirms and orgasms, the acrid scent of her overheated pussy fills your nostrils. You blast a load of cum on her face. She smears it in with her hands and scoops it in huge gobs to her hungry mouth. What a wonderful sight it is.

---

The Date

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and six-time champion of the Fuck Bowl. 

The bell atop the restaurant door dings as you step inside. The heady aroma of frying food fills your nostrils. Sweeping your gaze side to side in the dim red-and-blue mood lighting, you spot Whitney sitting at one of the booths. 

"Sup, you fuckin' dork?" she says. She checks the time on her flip-phone. "You're five minutes late. What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Haven't you ever heard that it's fashionable to be a few minutes late?" you say, sliding into the booth. "I suppose lumpenproles like you wouldn't understand concepts like that."

"Please! You weren't late because it's classy, you were late because you were jerking off to your gay cartoons again. Isn't that it?"

"No comment."

Whitney kicks you underneath the table, but her smile never breaks.

You steeple your fingers and perch your chin on them. "Where's Ms. Carte?" you ask.

"She's late, too," Whitney says. "The both of you are a bunch of no-account jerks, is what I think. Why is it I'm the only one who can get somewhere on time?"

Whitney occupies her hands by idly tearing a napkin into strips. You glance at the dozens of such strips littering the table around her and conclude that she must have been here for quite some time -- an hour or two at least. Now you feel slightly guilty.

"This is bullshit," Whitney says. "Renee was the one who raved about how--" she makes finger-quotes in the air and lowers her voice an octave in some faux impression of Ms. Carte -- "'this place has the best food ever, hurr hurr hurr' -- you'd think she'd be more excited about eating here..."

"I think you're TOO excited," you say. "That's the issue. It's just some silly date."

"Just a silly date!" Whitney howls. "Oh my GOD, Ally. Why do I put up with you? I've only been waiting for this for -- like -- well, a really long time."

"She'll be here soon. Cool your tits. Jesus."

"What do you think?" Whitney says. "Should we call and tell her to hurry her butt up?"

[ ] All right, call her.
[ ] Let's wait a little longer.
[X] TIE

"What part of 'cool your tits' did you not comprehend?" you say. 

"You're heartless," Whitney says. "Renee could be dying to death in a ditch somewhere and you wouldn't even know it."

"...Dying to death?"

"If we don't get ahold of her, who knows what could happen? What if Quebecois insurgents kidnapped her?"

"...Quebecois-- where did you learn--"

"I'm calling her." 

Whitney pulls out her phone again. You lay your hand over hers to stop her from dialing. "She's less than ten minutes late, for fuck's sake," you say. "Give her a little longer. We won't assume anything about ditch-dying or Quebecois separatism until she's at least half an hour past due. Okay?"

Whitney pouts, her lower lip jutting out like a petulant child, but she sets her phone off to the side. She leans back in her seat and folds her arms.

"You both owe me cunnilingus," she says. "Ten minutes' worth for every minute that you're late."

You narrow your eyes. "I thought the purpose here was to gauge whether Ms. Carte is worthy of dating us. Now you're talking about having sex with her?"

"You don't need to be dating someone to have her lick your pussy! What is this, the 1820s?" She pauses, holding a finger to her lips. The anger -- if it was ever genuine to begin with -- drains from her face as she contemplates. 

"Wait a second," she drawls. "You said 'us'." 

"...What?" You tilt your head, sincerely confused. "I said a lot of words. I said 'the' and 'is' and 'worthy' and--"

Whitney kicks you again. "You said 'us'! You said Renee would be dating us, not you!" She sounds so ecstatic she might faint.

"I'm calling her," Whitney says, pawing for her phone, scattering the torn-up bits of napkin everywhere. "I'm telling her what you said!"

"What?" You reach across the table, trying to snatch the phone from her, but she's too deft. She twists in her seat, putting her back to you as she dials.

"This is ridiculous," you say. "Stop it. To get so worked up over one silly quote taken out of context--"

"Renee? Hello-- hi! Yes! Me and Ally are here right now!" She plugs one of her ears shut to block out your invective as she holds the phone to her other. She grins at you devilishly as she speaks to your teacher. 

"Yes, you're very late! Almost-- almost 15 minutes! ... Yeah, that's right, you'd better be sorry. I'm-- err-- I WAS really mad. But-- you do sound sorry enough. So, I'll forgive you. This time. Consider yourself lucky."

"You're an idiot," you say.

"Oh! Oh! Wait, before you go, I almost forgot. Do you want to know what Ally said just now? ..."

"Whitney..."

"He was all worried thinking that you stood us up. He was almost *crying*. I said-- I said Ally, don't worry, she's probably just stuck in traffic. But he kept begging and begging me to call you. ... ... I know! Pathetic, right? Well anyway, he said he couldn't stand the idea that you might be in danger or something. And then he said -- he said that he's happy you're dating us. Us! Not just him."

Whitney cradles the phone to her ear and furrows her brow. "Well, obviously..." she begins, but seems to get cut off. "What do you mean, you're not a lesbian? What kind of faggot isn't a lesbian? ... ..." Her hurt expression slowly dissolves as she listens to Ms. Carte speak. "Thank you! I think so, too." She casts you a look that's so lustful it almost makes you ill. "All right, toots. See you in a few." 

She hangs up.

A few minutes later, Ms. Carte arrives, huffy and out of breath. Her face is flushed red and her hair drips with perspiration.

"I came as quick as I could," she says. She leans across the booth and gives you a peck on the lips by way of greeting. 

Then, after a quick beat, she leans in second time for a kiss that's much more sensual, much more needful. You return her need and make out, your tongues wetly exploring and entangling, and damn all social norms against PDA. Ms. Carte's breathy exhaustion makes her whimper as you ravish her mouth. Your nostrils flare, filling with the slightest tang of sweat.

When she pulls away, she swipes a strand of hair behind her ears and smiles warmly. "I'm sorry you were worried," she says. 

"That was a lie," you say, your voice still dreamy from the kiss. "Whitney... you should lie more often..."

Ms. Carte sits down next to Whitney. The greeting she offers her is somewhat colder than the steamy kiss she shared with you: "Hello, Whitney" she says, laying a friendly hand on the girl's shoulder. 

Whitney isn't having any of it. She pivots and grabs Ms. Carte's wrist, pinning it in place against her shoulder to hold her in position. Ms. Carte, acting out of instinctual panic, tries to jerk away. But Whitney's tard strength wins out easily. 

Whitney juts her chin out and up, to meet Ms. Carte's lips with hers. The smooch she plants on the older woman's lips is loud and wet -- it actually makes a "mwah" sound -- and causes Ms. Carte to tense with homosexual panic. 

After a moment, Whitney pulls back, a wolfish smile plastered on her face. Ms. Carte can only stammer: "wh-wh-wh--" over and again.

"What's the matter?" Whitney says. "This is a three-way date. You can't give Ally some sugar and not me." To drive the point home, she kisses Ms. Carte a second time -- and as with the first, Ms. Carte's spine goes rigid, she blinks rapidly and blushes -- but she opens her mouth to Whitney's all the same, and allows Whitney's probing tongue to do what it will. It does what it will for quite some time.

When Whitney finally relents, Ms. Carte repeats: "hello, Whitney." Her voice is breathy and low -- this time there's much more intimacy in the greeting.

"Hello again," Whitney purrs. 

Ms. Carte smooths her blouse and composes herself, the flush in her cheeks slowly dissipating. She fishes through her purse and pulls out three laminated sheets like menus.

"What are these?" you say, turning them over.

"That--" Ms. Carte exhales, still somewhat breathless, "-- is an itinerary. I typed it up last night. I got held up at the Kinko's laminating it, which is why I'm so late."

You frown. "An itinerary? For what, exactly?"

"Karaoke," she says.

You read. It's a long -- incredibly long -- list of classic rock and pop standards. Ms. Carte has annotations underneath each title denoting who will sing. She has you for lead vocals in "Take on Me," for example, with Whitney on backup -- then her and Whitney singing a duet on "We Built this City" -- and on and on.

"I don't know any of these songs..." Whitney says, sounding almost like she has stage fright.

"Oh, that's no problem," Ms. Carte insists. "You can follow along with the lyrics on the screen. It's easy. Easy peasy. You'll love it."

[ ] We're on a date, not forming a band. We should do something else.
[X] All right, then -- sounds fun.

Ms. Carte caterwauls, butchering the lyrics to yet another track:

"Wellllcome back my friendsssss, to the show that never ends -- we're so glaaaaad you could attend -- come inside, come inside!"

She stands in the middle of the little karaoke booth, eyes firmly affixed to the CRT display, lips pressed up to the microphone. she sings with the intensity of a recording artists working on the final cut of a new LP. 

You're not much for karaoke but you feel like it should be a bit more social than this. You sit with your fingers plugged in your ears, grimacing. Whitney is eating a bowl of noodles that she didn't finish during the meal and decided to smuggle into the booth against restaurant rules.

At the climax of the song, Ms Carte does an air guitar solo, pacing side to side with faux hi-kicks. When the solo is over, she air-smashes her air guitar into a million little air-pieces.

"Yeaaahhh!" she grunts, her voice guttural. "Rock over London! Rock on Chicago! Lay's potato chips, can't eat just one!"

The music trails off, leaving the booth awash in awkward silence. Your ears are still ringing. Whitney scarfs her food, oblivious.

"Well?" Ms. Carte demands. "Was that amazing or what?"

[ ] (lie) That was... really great... maybe Whitney should sing now?
[ ] (polite truth) Maybe you should work on your range a little bit more. Maybe Whitney can go now?
[X] (whole truth) I love you but you sound like the illegitimate child of William Hung and a dying cat. Whitney, why don't you sing.

"Come on, be honest!" Ms. Carte demands again. "Lay it on me. Whitney, what did you think?"

Whitney stares at Ms. Carte like a deer in headlights, her fork halfway between the bowl and her mouth, noodles dangling from her lips. 

You can almost hear her mind going into overdrive, trying to compose a response. Finally she collects her bearings and slurps up her food. Swallowing, she manages: "that was really... really unique, Renee. But, uh, I wasn't paying much attention. Or something?"

"What Whitney's trying to say is that you suck."

"Ally!" Whitney chides. "That's not-- I would NEVER--"

"I... suck?" Ms. Carte says. "That can't be right. I've been doing karaoke for years and everyone loves how I sing. Your ears must be broken."

"They are now," you say.

"We love you just for being you!" Whitney insists. "Don't change! You're beautiful!"

"Oh, cut the everyone-gets-a-medal bullshit," Ms. Carte grouses. "Be honest. Do I suck?"

Whitney frowns. She glances to you for support, and you give her a silent nod. Turning back to Ms. Carte, she holds her thumb and forfinger apart as if to say, "a little."

"I need to talk to Mr. Garrison, then," Ms. Carte says. "He coaches glee club, maybe he could help me improve."

"I'd stay away from that guy," you say. "He's a bit..."

"Who's next?" Ms. Carte says. She looks over her itinerary. "Ah-- Whitney, do you know this one?"

Whitney looks at her own itinerary. Hers is stained with sweet and sour sauce -- lamination turned out to serve a purpose after all. 

"Oh wait," Whitney says, reading. "Yeah! I actually do know this one! Oh, I love this song. I'm gonna fuckin' kill it!"

You close your eyes and sigh, preparing yourself for the night's second ear-rape.

Whitney sings lead with Ms. Carte on backup. It's a good thing you don't have a part in this song, because your jaw is resting firmly on the shag-carpeted floor.

"Hold your head up!" Whitney sings.

"Movin' on!" Ms. Carte croons.

"Hold your head up!"

"Movin' on!" 

"Hold your head up!"

Her voice is heavenly. Like a hundred angels gangbanging Jesus. She has perfect pitch -- and her tone is high, airy, without being childish or obnoxious. It's carefree but soulful. It quavers at the right moments, stays firm when it needs to.

"Sweet dreams are made of this -- who am I to disagree? I travel the world and the seven seas... everybody's looking for something."

Ms. Carte is, you can tell, equally shocked by the performance. Who could have expected this boyish trailer-park girl would have the lushest, most feminine and alluring singing voice you've ever heard? Ms. Carte gawks at Whitney like some starstruck at meeting their idol.

"Some of them want to use you... some of them want to get used by you. Some of them want to abuse you... some of them want to be abused... ohhhh~~"

You think you spy a tear rolling down Ms. Carte's cheek. She looks about ready to prostrate herself at Whitney's feet and hail her as a goddess.

Whitney is totally, 100% oblivious to the reaction her singing has garnered.

At the song's close, she puts the mic back on the stand, turns, and smiles. "I know I was off-key a little there. Sorry."

"Sorry?" Ms. Carte says. "Sorry?! Whitney... Whitney, you need to sign a recording deal right away. Are you listening to me? Whitney!" Ms. Carte hugs her like a mother embracing her daughter upon reuniting from a long period of separation.

"Geez--" Whitney sputters. "What the heck? I'm not that great."

"Whitney, have you had training?" you ask, still flabbergasted.

"Erm..." Whitney says, her cheek smushed up against Ms. Carte's ample bust. "Well, no? I mean, I sing in the shower every morning. That's about it..."

"Whitney!" Ms. Carte says. "Whitney! Sing more for me, okay? Sing to me every night! I'm totally addicted here... you voice is like ambrosia... I'm dizzy..."

For the first time tonight, it's Whitney who looks uncomfortable at Ms. Carte's advances, not vice-versa. Nonetheless -- she brought this on herself. And besides, this is too cute to intervene.

After hours of karaoke, you take off from the restaurant, arm-in-arm-in-arm with Ms. Carte and Whitney. All three of you are a little tipsy, to be honest -- you have to wonder at the ethics of a teacher who fucks her underage students and buys beer for them at shady karaoke dives -- but the night is young, and thoughts like that aren't worth your time.

"I agree!" Ms. Carte says. "I totally agree, Whitney. American sports are so boring. Who wants to watch a bunch of guys in kneepads and helmets toss an egg down a field?"

"I KNOW!" Whitney says. "Soccer-- real football-- it's so much more-- more fluid."

"Exactly! I always felt the same way. You know, I've been meaning to come watch the girls' soccer team play, but I never had the chance." 

"I can get you season tickets," Whitney says. "I have pull. I totally have, like, executive sway. You can count on me."

"Really? Oh, you're a darling," Ms. Carte says. "I can't believe this... I figured you'd be just as much of an asshole as Alabaster is..."

"Me too," Whitney says. "I thought the same thing about you! I said to myself-- anyone DUMB enough to date an ass like Ally must be a real fucking jerk herself. But you're so cool, Renee! ... I can call you Renee, right?"

"Of course. I wish Alabaster would, too..." she elbows you playfully in the ribs.

"So, hey," Whitney says. She leans in slyly, and whispers in Ms. Carte's ear. "Does this interest in soccer mean that you like watching girls get all worked up and sweaty?~..."

Ms. Carte turns a neon shade of red.

You're nearing her apartment. And the night is still young.

---

Smatters

Another dull afternoon at North High. Whitney's out with a stomach flu or something, and Vivian is out for the day to do research on her doctorate, so there's no one to have fun with in between periods. You would resort to Rose, but even she's too busy for you -- something about student council duties.

You worry that you'll have to resort to jerking off in the bathroom like old time. But after 4th period biology, Ms. Carte pulls you aside. "Alabaster," she says, "please meet me in the Transhumanism Clubroom after school today."

"Why?" you ask. "The club doesn't even meet on Tuesdays, does it?"

"No, it doesn't. And that's point..." she says, leaning forward, her voice low. 

"Oh. Ohhhh." 

A grin spreads itself across your face. "I know what you're talking about," you say, winking. You give her the OK sign. "Gotcha. Loud and clear. I'll be there."

***

"I have fucking no idea what's going on," you say. 

You stare at the timid girl lying on the examination table, all dressed up in a bunny costume. She looks weirdly familiar, somehow, but you don't recognize her as a fellow student.

"Since when are you one to initiate threesomes, anyway?" you ask.

Ms. Carte clicks the clubroom door shut behind her, after checking the halls to verify no one is spying. "Get your head out of the gutter," she says. "This isn't a threesome."

"Th-threesome?" the girl on the table says.

"Who IS this?" you demand.

"This is Smatters," Ms. Carte says.

"No, really. Who is it?"

"Yes, really. It's Smatters."

The girl swings her shapely legs over the side of the table and sits upright. She clutches the edge of the table as if uncertain.

"H-hello," the girl says, tremble still in her voice. "My name is Smatters, a-and... and... ahem. And I am of pleased to have be meeting you? I am apology if my English is not top notch. I l-like to think I am top notch in most other respects." 

"Oh Jesus," you say.

"This is unethical," you say. "I'm pretty sure."

"How the fuck is it unethical?" Ms. Carte demands. "I gave sapience to a creature that lacked it! That's the opposite of unethical, you little shit. It's... super-ethical."

"You can't just go around, doing..." you gesticulate wildly with both hands. "...Whatever the hell it is you're doing here. This girl is a medical abomination!"

Smatters winces at your words. To keep herself from breaking down, she takes to chewing nervously on her knuckles. The way her tiny jaw moves is so reminiscent of how a rabbit eats veggies that it's uncanny. Ms. Carte goes over and rubs the bunnygirl's shoulders, soothing her.

"What do you expect me to do?" Ms. Carte says. "What's done is done. It would be equally unethical to make her a bunny again, wouldn't it?"

"M-make me a-- !!" Smatters doubles over, almost crying. "Don't make me a bunny again, Ms. Renee! Please, Ms. Renee, I like being human!"

"There, there," Ms. Carte says, patting her on the back. "No one's going to do anything like that to you. You fluffy little wuffy little cutesy-wutesy--" Ms. Carte glances back at you, remembering herself. "Ahem. Yes. You'll remain human. That much is certain."

"This is sick," you say. "And physically impossible, I'm almost certain. How on Earth did you-- how could you POSSIBLY have--"

"What I need from you, Alabater," Ms. Carte says icily, "is to be Smatters' helper. I want her to enroll here at North High, and I think you would make an excellent tutor. Help her adjust to the human world."

[ ] Me? No way. Why don't you ask Whitney or something?
[X] Well -- all right.

You accompany the two of them back to Ms. Carte's apartment. Inside, the sickness continues in earnest: Ms. Carte locks Smatters in a giant wire-mesh kennel lined with straw and ripped-up newspaper. A cage this big, secured firmly to floor and ceiling, must have been constructed by hand. 

Smatters has no problems with the arrangement, though -- in fact she seems to rather enjoy it. She drinks from a large bottle affixed to the side of the cage, holding her arms limply in front of her as if impersonating a T-rex. Her upturned neck, pulsing as she guzzles down the cool water, is horrifyingly intriguing to you. 

You don't want to fuck a rabbit, do you?

After she finishes drinking, she curls up in the bedding at the bottom of her cage, assuming a fetal position. Soon she falls soundly asleep.

"Please tell me you're at least toilet training her," you say. 

"Oh, of course. And when she gets more comfortable living like a person, she won't need the cage anymore. But right now, it's a comfort. We're in a transition period here."

You shake your head in disbelief.

---

The next day at school, Smatters enrolls at North High as a senior: Samantha Smatters, transfer student from Omaha. You lead her from the registrar's office to the first class of the day, homeroom with Mr. Langley. 

You can understand the ears and fluffy tail-- but the rest of the bunnygirl getup seems utterly gratuitous. Ms. Carte insisted on it, though. And now it's drawing stares from every student you pass, male and female alike. 

You feel like Ms. Carte was revealing something deep-seated and psychological when she came up with this creation of hers. Smatters' jugs put even Rose's to shame.

And -- speak of the devil. Who should show up on your way to class but Rose Mallory herself, queen of the bitches. She blocks your way, hands on hips. She gives Smatters a menacing once-over that causes Smatters to shirk back, as if trying to hide herself behind you. 

"This is gonna be a problem," Rose says.

"Go away, Rose," you say.

"Who is this girl? Don't tell me you're bringing mail-order brides to school with you now."

"I-- I am Smatters! Hello, I'm new! Pleased to meet you, okay!" Her voice has a frantic catch to it.

Rose frowns. "This is obscene, Alabaster. Absolutely disgusting. The student council is not going to abide by your sick BDSM petplay. North High is a safe space. Do you have any idea how many people you're triggering right now?"

Then, in a half-whisper: "and honestly, Alabaster, those tits of hers are just ridiculous. Since when are you such a size queen? Mine are way better."

You sigh, rubbing your eyelids. "This isn't BDSM play," you say. "Unfortunately. Smatters is an actual bunny."

"Oh, PLEASE," Rose says. "Drop the act. Honey, what's your real name?"

"S-Smatters... It really is Smatters... Ms. Renee made me!"

Rose begins to say something, but stops herself short. You can see realization slowly dawning on her face.

"Oh Jesus," she says. 

[ ] Rose, you gotta help me here. I have no idea how to train Smatters to be human.
[X] I'm glad you understand. Now please, step aside. Smatters and I have class.

You push Rose aside and take Smatters to class.

"It was nice meeting you!" Smatters calls over her shoulder as you lead her by the hand.

Rose watches your retreat, her expression alternately angered and -- jealous? Well, maybe you can't fault her for that. She was your only pet for so long, and now it must seem like she has competition. Rose plays nervously with her hair as you disappear around the corner.

---

Class is a debacle. Smatters is oddly intelligent, yes -- she can read and write, she has at least a basic understanding of American history, she can even do simple integrals -- but the problem is more than her academic performance. All through the day, the male students leer at her like she's a piece of meat. They act totally unashamed in their visual gangrape of the poor bunnygirl.

It makes you want to puke. 

Still, you can't help sneaking a peek every now and then yourself. It's not just Smatters' revealing attire, although she definitely is pleasing on the eyes. It's something deeper than that, almost chemical. Like she emits some special bunny pheromone that broadcasts the message: "please breed with me!" 

And once again, you notice even certain of the girls in class seem receptive to that biological broadcast. Even ones you would never have suspected in a million years could harbor lesbianic urges. 

You're somewhat thankful Whitney is out sick today.

At the end of school, it's time to decide what to do with poor, barely human Smatters.

[ ] Take her to anime club.
[ ] Take her home with you. 
[ ] Take her back to Ms. Carte.
[X] Tutor her one on one.

You sit at your dining room table. Smatters is across from you and Dad is busy reading the Sunday times.

"What do you like to eat?" you ask. "You must be hungry."

"Hmm--" Smatters says, finger on her chin. "Carrots -- celery -- spinach -- apples... skinned, of course --"

"No, no, no and no."

Smatters cocks her head. "Huh?"

"We don't have any of that stuff here. Listen. Do you like cake?"

"Oh, no. Sugar is bad for bunnies!"

"You're not a bunny. You're a human being. And humans like sugar. That's lesson one."

You stand, go to the kitchen, and grab a plate of Mom's leftover double-layer superfudge cake from the kitchen. One slice of this is enough to put most avowed sugar-eaters into diabetic shock. You can only imagine how Smatters will react.

When you set it in front of her, she pokes at it with a dainty dessert fork. "Erm-- I'm not so sure about this..." she murmurs. She leans as far forward as her massive breasts will allow and sniffs the cake, her nostrils shuddering up and down just like a bunny's. 

"It's weird," she complains, looking up, her jugs still pushed against the tabletop.

"Just try it already. Don't you want to be like a normal person?"

She nods, almost desperately. "Yes! I want to be a human! So-- if that means eating sugar-- o-okay, then. H-here I go..."

She lifts the fork to her mouth, hesitant, and bites off the tiniest morsel. 

"Oh," she says. 

"Oh. Ohhh. I-- I-- unffff-- mmm~~~~!!!"

She falls sideways out of her chair, collapsing to the ground, writhing in orgasmic ecstasy. 

For the first time in a long while, you see your dad's face -- he pulls his newspaper to the side to glance for a split second at Smatters having a foodgasm on the floor, before returning to his reading.

All right. Maybe that was a bit overwhelming for her. 

You help her to her feet. She stands on shaky legs. This is a good time for lesson two -- sleeping in a human bed.

"I'm s-scared..." Smatters says as you lie her down on your sheets. "I want my cage... please, put me in my cageee--"

"Humans don't sleep in cages. They sleep in beds. Come on, I'll be here with you. Isn't this more comfortable than a bunch of straw and paper?"

Smatters squirms a bit in your embrace, making herself a little rut in your sheets and comforter. She holds the bedspread to her nose bringing her panicked breathing back under control. "Your bedding smells just like you," she says. "But... stronger..." 

"Lesson three. Watch what you say if you're lying in a guy's bed. Things could happen."

Smatters pulls the covers away from her face and smiles up at you, her chin resting against your chest. 

"Those guys at school were re-ally staring at me, huh? Men are even worse than rabbits, I think."

You blink. You didn't realize that Smatters had noticed all the attention. She hadn't shown any signs of it.

Her voice goes suddenly silken, loses its catch, becomes huskier. "Do you like looking at me too, Mr. Alabaster?" 

You gulp. 

"Because..." she says, trailing off, running her little fingers up and down your legs, "I like looking at you. I like looking at you a whole lot..."

[X] Touch fluffy tail
[ ] Genuflect

You can't help yourself. You let your hands roam across Smatter's trembling body. She clutches you tight around your arms and lets you have your way with her. When your hand passes over her cottonball tail, she shudders, drawing a sharp breath through her teeth. 

"I'm sensitive there," she whines.

"Where? Here?" You pet her fluffy tail again. She throws her head back and lets out a long, high-pitched sigh. "Ahn~ Mr. Alabaster, please... please no teasing, Mr. Alabaster..."

"You teased me all day," you say. "This is only fair."

Smatters locks eyes with you. "I know. I know I teased you. I'm sorry. Ms. Renee says that-- s-she says I am a slutty bunny. What do you think? Am I?"

You snake your hands in between her latex costume and her naked breast. The flesh is supple and smooth, so soft you could use it for a pillow. There's so much you feel like you could suffocate yourself in them. Smatters bucks her hips against your legs, grinding herself against you while you grope her. 

"Ms. Carte was right," you say. "You're a slutty little thing, aren't you?"

"P-please put it in, Mr. Alabaster. I had Ms. Renee's tongue last night but that's not enough for me... I want a real, human dick. Please put your dick in my horny bunny pussy!"

Who can say no to that? You tear Smatters' whorish fishnet leggings to shreds and part the bottom of her costume to the side.

Smatters has the puffiest, prettiest pussy mound you've ever laid eyes on, perfectly wet and glistening, and searing hot against your fingertips. She gnaws on her knuckles as you pull your cock free of your boxer shorts. 

"Mr. Alabaster," she gasps, staring down at your length. "It's re-ally big... please put it all the way inside me, okay?"

You position yourself at her entrance and slowly push yourself forward, enjoying every nanosecond of this new, forbidden pleasure. Her juices coat your shaft and run down it in rivulets, over your balls, and to the sheets below. Smatters quakes with lust and makes unintelligible heaving gasps as you seat yourself deep inside.

The texture of her cunt is different -- smoother than you're used to, but also tighter. Her soft mound wraps around the base of your cock like it will never let you go, clamping it in place. Pulling out takes effort, and produces a lewd slurping sound. 

"Ungg~~" Smatters groans. "Fuck me... put your seed inside me... cum all the way inside me!"

You grab onto her ears to give you leverage as you slam into her deepest parts. The ears are soft and pliable, and they make excellent handles. Smatters' pussy spasms, orgasming over and over, spilling a milky mixture of her cream and your precum.

This tender, wet hole that you're pounding is unbearable -- you can't stave off cumming, as much as you want to enjoy using this little bunny whore forever. You jab into her, as hard as you can, as deeply as your soon-to-burst dick will go -- once -- twice -- three times more. Smatters is like a ragdoll as you rut inside her and breed her out. Her mouth gapes open and her thighs smack together as you fuck her. 

And then -- it happens. With a heave, you bury your cock and fuck her full of hot cum. Her pussy closes around you, taking the exact shape of your member, like a fitted glove. She wraps her arms and legs around you and accepts every drop. You unload to your heart's content.

40 DAYS LATER

You wake up to the sound of shrieking. Wearily, you glance at your clock -- it's 3 o'clock in the goddamn morning. Fuck.

"Hey, asshole," Cerise says. You can barely make her out in the darkness. "Your kid is crying."

"Which one?" you ask, sitting up. "Alabaster Jr., Fazil, Scarlet, Spancer, or Whit?" 

"Fucked if I know," she says. "I can't tell your mongrels apart. Here."

She hands you a crying bunny-baby, holding it up by the ears. You snatch it away from her. "How many times do I have to tell you not to hold them like that!" you yell. "Goddamn it, Cerise." 

You glance down. It's Alabaster Jr. Of course.

"Oh, don't be such a whiner," Cerise says. "Your retard babies love it when aunt Cerise picks them up by the ears."

"Can't you feed him?" you ask. "Alabaster loves it when you feed him."

"Alabaster isn't my problem," Cerise says. "Senior or junior! If you didn't want to deal with childcare, you should have used a little contraception."

"How was I supposed to know Smatters could get pregnant? I cum inside you guys all the time and no one gets knocked up!"

"We're all on the pill, you fucking moron. Maybe before you taught your prostitute from the animal kingdom how to milk your cock, you should have taught her some sex ed."

You grimace and stand up, headed for the kitchen. As you patter down the stairs, you hear Whit start to cry in her crib. Tonight is going to be a long night.

---

Whitney and Cerise

You come home from school to find an oddly empty house. Usually when you come back, Cerise is curled up on the couch watching TV with Mom, or they're eating together at the table -- or at the very least, dad is around somewhere, reading his paper. But today there's no one. Just a note from Mom that her and Dad have gone out on a date.

Good for them. While you don't like to think about your Dad... doing things... with Mom, she deserves a little happiness in her marriage.

Still -- where's Cerise? You know anime club isn't in session, because fucking Stackleford texted you half an hour ago wanting to go play DDR at the arcade. (As much fun as watching him spastically flail and barely pass stages on easy mode is, you turned him down.)

Hmm. Upstairs, then. Probably masturbating to her fujoshit, the degenerate. 

Well, it can't be helped. You'll just have to remind her of the pleasures of being cummed inside.

As you mount the stairs, you hear some muffled thuds and squeaks coming from Cerise's bedroom. Yep, definitely jilling off in there. Can't she wait for you? Greedy girl.

You don't bother knocking, but maybe you should have -- you aren't prepared for what you see.

Cerise is sitting on the edge of her bed. Sitting behind her, legs wrapped around Cerise's hips, is Whitney. Both of them are naked -- except for the long block socks stretched over Cerise's calves. 

Whitney trails forceful kisses up and down Cerise's neck. Cerise's eyes are closed, her face is dreamy with pleasure, and her mouth is hanging partway open as Whitney ravishes her. Whitney paws at Cerise's udders and humps herself against Cerise's ass, grinding her bare cunt into Cerise's skin.

Whitney is first to notice you. She stops suckling on Cerise's neck, smiling evilly up at you. "Ally~" she says.

Cerise's eyes pop open. "A-Alabaster--!! This isn't what is looks like, I swear!"

You drop your bookbag and tug at the collar of your tee. It suddenly feels sweltering in here, and the fog of female arousal lying heavy over the tiny bedroom only makes it more oppressive.

"This is *exactly* what it looks like," Whitney corrects. She parts Cerise's hair, grabs her by the crown of her head, and tilts her neck so you can see it. The porcelain flesh is marred by deep, dark purple hickeys. 

"Did you know," Whitney says, "that your sister can cum just by having her neck sucked on?"

Cerise whimpers helplessly, still baring her hickeys for you to admire. Whitney tilts Cerise's head the opposite direction now, to show that the other side of her neck is equally bruised. 

"Cerise is just too delicious," Whitney coos. "I've been playing with her like this for over an hour..."

"Are you... are you okay with this?" you ask your sister.

Cerise says nothing, and Whitney returns to sucking her neck. Whitney runs her hands over Cerise's face, squeezing and prodding her like a toy, as she abuses her. The bedsprings squeak again as Whitney resumes rubbing herself against your big sister's back. 

[X] Take charge.
[ ] Let Whitney control the flow.

You step forward. "Mm," Whitney purrs, "there we go. Join in, Ally. We've been waiting for you. Haven't we, Cerise? ...Cerise? Cerise nee-sama?"

Whitney winks at you, proud of her weeaboo vocab.

Cerise still can't respond, though, too wracked by pleasure and embarrassment. You sit on your knees in front of her. She has her thighs pressed firmly together, and you do your best to wedge them apart so you can see her womanhood. Whitney aids you by keeping her legs locked around Cerise's hips, immobilizing her.

"Al-- Alabaster," Cerise finally manages, gulping. "Please don't look."

"What?" you say. "Why not? I see your pussy practically every day."

"But... but not like this," she insists.

You pull her legs apart anyway. Her pussy is just the same as it always is, sopping wet and bright pink, engorged with perverted lust -- beautiful, beautiful. 

"I don't understand," you say. "What's the matter? You look just fine down here." 

Whitney continues loudly suckling on Cerise's neck. Cerise writhes and moans: "But-- but it's Whitney who made me this wet. And for you to see that--"

She doesn't know how to finish the thought, or otherwise simply can't. She falls silent again.

"It's great that Whitney can make you this wet," you say. "Come on now, a little yuri never hurt anyone."

Whitney laughs. She opens her maw wide, planting gaping kisses on Cerise's cheek and the side of her head. You can see her brilliant white teeth scraping just a little against Cerise's skin. Whitney stares at you out of the corner of her simmering hazel eyes.

"Let's make her feel real good, okay Ally?"

"Move," you say. You bark the command so sternly that it startles both girls. You motion for Whitney to move away so you can position Cerise how you like. 

Whitney sits on her knees on the mattress, leaning on balled-up fists as she watches you lay your sister on her back. She can't help bouncing in place a little as she says: "yeah! Do it! I want to see you fuck your sister so bad!"

Cerise finally does something on her own initiative: she kisses you. And not sheepishly, either, but passionately, wantonly. She laces her fingers through your hair and you do the same for her. You lie atop her and snake your tongues together, savoring her warmth and sweetness, the tart tang of her saliva, the staccato rhythm of her breaths. Her body is sheened with sweat. When she wraps her legs around your ass, the soft fabric of her socks tickles your skin deliciously.

Whitney lies on her side to get a view of the incestuous makeout session. She nearly swoons to see it. "That is so fucking hot," she says. "I love it. You're making me wet..."

You hear a familiar schlicking noise. Whitney is masturbating as she watches you and your sister enjoy one another. 

"Cerise," you say, pulling back. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to eat a girl out?"

Cerise blinks rapidly, pushing the back of her head against the pillow. A strand of saliva still connects you. 

"Well?"

"A-- a little," she stammers.

"Eat Whitney out while I fuck you."

Cerise exhales like she's been punched in the chest, and you can almost feel the jolt of adrenaline in her the pit of her stomach that your words caused. 

"It's all right," you insist, kissing her again. "Whitney's pussy is amazing. You'll fall in love with sucking her off."

Whitney, purring, draws up to her knees again. She positions her cunt over Cerise's flushed-red face. "Don't be shy," is her only piece of advice for the novice lesbian. And then she sits on her face with all her weight.

Cerise spasms beneath you. You take the opportunity to fuck yourself into the warmth of her entrance.

"Ahhhh," Whitney sighs, hugging herself, content. "I love sitting on a girl's face."

"Don't hurt her," you tell Whitney, even as you lean in to kiss her.

"I wou-uldn't," Whitney insists, her voice trembling with desire. "Ally... the truth is I love your sister almost as much as I love you..."

Beneath you, Cerise bucks her hips, fully enveloping your aching fuck-shaft.

You stroke Whitney's face. "Is that true?" you say.

"Mm-hmm..." Whitney says. "Cerise was always so cool and detached... and, well, to be honest-- I always had this fantasy about the three of us running away and living together like a family. Is that weird?"

She lifts herself off Cerise's face. She looks down at her. "Is that weird?" she asks again.

"It's not weird," Cerise says. "You're the only girl I ever felt like I'd be okay sharing Alabaster with... I knew you'd take care of each other."

You draw one of Cerise's legs into your arms and bring it perpendicular to her body, holding it for leverage as you fuck her with deep, slow thrusts. "Then it's settled," you say. "Share and share alike..."

Whitney sits on Cerise's face again, obviously relieved. "Lick me, lick me!" she says. "Make me cum!"

Whitney kisses you. She can't hold herself up under her own power anymore, and falls forward, so you catch her. Your arm still looped over Cerise's leg, you interlace your fingers with Whitney's and keep her from collapsing as she grinds on your sister's mouth. 

"She's really good at this..." Whitney breathes. "Mmmf..." Her movements become quicker, her muscles flex and strain under the tanned expanses of her skin. "Ally... she's got her tongue so deep inside of me. Your sister's tongue is fucking me..."

You're more focused on your sister's womb. Cerise may lack the finesse of a more experienced girl, but her pussy is such a bizarrely perfect fit for your pulsing cock that you can't complain. Her insides grip and cling to you, squelching obscenely as you make her yours.

Whitney orgasms first, shrieking and wailing. She pounds her ass and cunt so hard against Cerise's battered face, you're worried she might break her nose or even suffocate her. 

"I'm cumming!!" Whitney cries, incoherent. "I'm fucking cumming! I'm fucking cumming all over your sister's face! Watch me cum, Ally, watch me!"

After Whitney finishes riding out her climax, she slithers off of Cerise's face. Cerise is blue and wide-eyed, as if she had been close to passing out. She gasps for breath like someone resuscitated from a drowning. And it almost was a drowning -- her head atop her pillow rests in a fragrant puddle of Whitney's girlcum. 

As you fuck Cerise deeper and deeper, she wallows in Whitney's cum like a sow, rubbing it into her skin, sucking the excess up with her lips. She groans and babbles to herself, rubbing her tits and cumming.

"Do it, do it," Whitney says in a sing-song voice. She puts her hand on your back. "I know you're so close... oh so close... unload inside her, Ally. Empty your nuts inside her. Cum inside your sister."

She guides you to a missionary position, so that you're lying over Cerise. Your thrusts are brutal, quick, and long. On the outswing, you draw yourself nearly all the way back, so only the very tip of your glans is nestled in Cerise's cute plump pussy. And then you jam it all the way back in, to the very root, filling her with your hard cock. All Cerise can do is hold on for dear life as you rape her.

Whitney straddles your back so that she faces your legs. She lays her palms on your butt, pressing down, as if to help you fuck your sister even deeper. "Put it in her womb!" she cries. "Make sure she gets pregnant!"

Cerise stares up at you through half-lidded eyes. "Yes..." she moans. "Yes, make me pregnant. Knock me up, Alabaster... let me have your baby..."

That does it. Whitney puts all her weight against you and you roar in ecstasy as you fill your sister's tiny womb with seed. Your spurting dick unleashes so much of it that you feel light-headed and you tingle all over. Cerise cums wetly around you and Whitney howls in an orgasm of her own as you impregnate your older sister.

*********************************

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and five time champion of the North High Quiz Bowl. Your manly scent is the number-one cause of cock addiction amongst nukige heroines.

...But that was a lifetime ago.

This morning, you're just another C-average engineering student, passed out, face-down and pants-down on the top-bunk twin mattress of your tiny dorm room.

What wakes you from angelic dreams of Tamagoro doujins yet-to-be is an awful ritual you thought you would never have to endure again: your older sister rapping her knuckles against the back of your head.

"It's 8:00," Cerise says. "You're gonna be late."

Disoriented, you flop over and jolt upright, banging your forehead against the ceiling. There's a momentarily blinding pain accompanied by a room-shaking thud. The commotion startles Cerise, who falls off the ladder of your bunk and lands with an equally vicious sounding thud on the floor.

"What the FUCK, Alabaster," she groans. Her voice sounds muted from all the way down there.

"What the fuck?" You sputter. "Fuck YOU, what the fuck!" You're still inarticulate from pain and lingering sleep-inertia. It's like you've been rudely dragged out of a coma that lasted for four years.

You rub the fast-developing welt on your forehead. "How did you get into my dorm?"

Cerise is standing now. You peer at her over the rail of the bunk. "Your RA let me in," she says.

"That's illegal," you say. "I could have you BOTH arrested for this."

"Suck my dick."

"Your degenerate media has got you confused over your own gender now. And the flow of time, too, apparently." You grope for your phone and check its display. 7:57 AM. "The interview isn't until 10:00. I've got two hours."

"Exactly!" Cerise says. "An hour to get ready and an hour to drive there. We need to get going!"

"It only takes me 5 minutes to get ready. I've got plenty of time left to sleep."

Cerise folds her arms. "You are NOT going to this interview all unshowered and wearing a pair of cum-stained jeans that you picked up off the floor of this fucking wank-lair. You're going to present yourself like a civilized human being for once in your life."

"Suck my dick," you rejoin.

"You ungrateful little shit. I put my reputation on the line recommending you for an internship here. I'm not going to let you embarrass me, Alabaster! Get up!" 

After you return from a quick shower down the hall, Cerise watches you dig through your drawers for an outfit she'll find acceptable. You're wearing only boxers.

"I usually charge for a show like this," you tell her over your shoulder. You pull out a pair of dark grey jeans and hold them up. Cerise gives you a thumbs down. You toss the jeans aside and go back to rooting around.

Finally you pull a pair of dockers from the bottom of the drawer. Cerise meets these with a shrug rather than a thumbs down, which is good enough for you. You start to step into them.

"You're not changing your underwear?" Cerise demands. "Are you the grossest human being to ever live or what?"

You pause, one leg in and one leg out. "You want the boxers to come off too? I definitely charge for that."

"Do I seriously have to be your fucking mother, Alabaster? Change your goddamn underpants. Jesus Christ."

You use your index finger to make the universal signal for "turn around," and Cerise obliges you at least that level of dignity. You change in relative privacy.

"...Do you have this dorm to yourself?" Cerise says, glancing around. "How did you get so lucky?"

You shrug - even though she can't see you. "I had a roommate. He killed himself a few months ago."

Cerise starts to say something but you cut her off: "Don't. Playing tee-ball is beneath you."

"If you have this place to yourself, why are you still sleeping on the top bunk?"

"Because top bunk is best. Everyone knows that."

"Whanging your head on the ceiling every time you get up is best? You're retarded enough as it is without doing that every morning."

"You can turn around now."

Cerise does. You make a half-heated "ta-da" motion, showing off your pleated pants and button-down shirt. It's itchy and hot in this California spring morning.

"Do you have a tie?" 

A few moments later, Cerise is tying your tie for you in front of a mirror. You sit in a chair as she leans over your shoulder, her cheek against your cheek. Her fingers are quick and nimble.

You would never say it aloud, but you like the way her perfume smells.

As she works, the two of you fuss and bicker without fully forming any real sentences. It's just a back-and-forth of: "come h- will you- stop- for the- Ala- Ceri- just stop mov- tch- hss-"

She swats your hands away every time you try to move them towards your collar. It's mortifying.

Finally, it's over. "I could have done that myself," you say.

"The first five minutes of watching you try was more than enough," Cerise says. "We don't have all day."

"Do I look like a human being?" You grouse.

"Just barely. A hireable human being, though - we'll see." 

When you step into the hallway, you see another unwelcome face.

"Ally~"

"Ohh man," you say.

"You're actually awake. I thought I was gonna have to bust down your door and wake you up myself."

Cerise steps out now as well. Whitney smiles at her.

"So that's why you're up so early," Whitney says. "I should have known you'd never rise from the dead on your own before noon."

You don't understand how Whitney can dress so shamelessly - her tank barely covers her breasts and her spats are cut so low you can see the extreme edges of her pelvic bones.

Granted, she usually seems to be dressed a little more conservatively - but not much more - whenever you bump into her around campus. It's only whenever she swings by your dorm room that she borders this close to violating California's lax indecency laws.

You try not to think about why that's the case - or how it connects to certain events from the past.

"Alabaster has a job interview today," Cerise tells Whitney.

"I know," Whitney says. "I came to make sure the dork was up on time to get dressed like a civilized human being for once in his life."

"For the love of-" you begin. "You're one to talk, huh?"

Whitney's smile is bright white, wide and pointy. "You look like a real geek, you know? You'll fit right in with those Silicone Valley losers."

"Silicon Valley. As in the element. Not the stuff you'd need to look like you're actually a woman."

Whitney licks her palm and reaches out in an attempt to flatten your cowlick. You deftly dodge the attempt with a sidetstep - once, twice, and a third time - before her dexterity gets the better of you and her wet palm ruffles the top of your head. You grimace.

"There. Perfect."

You massage the bridge of your nose and sigh.

"We're just on our way out," Cerise says.

"Hold up," Whitney says. "I need to talk to Ally about something." 

>[x] Cerise, go pull the car around. I'll be right down.
[ ] We should really be going. 

As Cerise walks away, Whitney doesn't even pretend to not be looking at her ass.

"Contain yourself," you say.

"Your sister is like one of those dairy cows they keep all penned up for their whole life so their muscles get all supple and shit."

"Is that what you call containing yourself?"

"I should start calling her Kobe."

You shake your head. "What do you want, Whitney? I can't afford to be late to this thing or I'm going to wind up living with Rose again this summer."

Whitney frowns. "Did you forget something last night?" She says.

Your eyes dart left and right. And then it hits you. "Shit," you say.

"Yep. There it is," Whitney says. "I failed my test this morning because of you! We were supposed to cram!"

"Well -- see --" you begin, rubbing the back of your head. "I was so busy doing interview prep that--"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Whitney says. "I might be stupid, but I'm not dumb. You forgot about me. Again. Too busy jerking off to your gay cartoons. What is it this time, horse girls?"

"Don't insult me," you say.

"Look at this," Whitney says. She roots around in her backpack and pulls out the exam. You take it from her.

"Holy..." you breathe. "Were you purposely trying to get the lowest score possible?" You flip through the pages. "You... you thought the Rape of Nanking was something that happened to a woman named Nan King?"

"I would have known who she was if YOU had been there to help me!" Whitney says. "I had to practically beg the professor for a redo."

"...You got a redo. On a college exam."

"It's tomorrow morning. Look, if I fail this class, they'll kick me off the soccer team. You have to help me, Ally. I'll do anything."

>[X] I'll come by your dorm tonight.
[ ] I'll come by your dorm tonight... for a price.
[ ] I'm too busy right now. 

Whitney jumps up and down and twirls around on one foot. Before you can stop her, she's behind you - standing on tiptoes, chin perched on your shoulder - and then she kisses you on the cheek.

"You're not half-bad for a faggot," Whitney says, her voice a silky whisper.

In contrast to Cerise, Whitney's scent is much earthier and musky. She must have been running earlier, before her exam - it's her morning ritual.

You try to shake her off, but she holds on tight. Her arms are draped across your chest, and she isn't going to let you loose for anything. "I need to go," you say.

"Don't forget me again," she tells you. "I'll make it worth your time. I swear. We'll celebrate lots... you getting a job, me not failing college... and it'll be way better than your cartoons."

"I REALLY need to go-"

She nibbles your earlobe. You blanche, then flush deeply. The shock of her forwardness gives you the strength to wriggle free of her grip and beat a hasty retreat down the hall. You'd rather not repeat what happened three years ago.

"See you soon, Ally~"

"Yeah..."

Outside, Cerise is already waiting.

"Good," she says when she sees you. "She didn't rape you to death. Let's go." 

Cerise's car is a tiny sub-compact that makes a truly spooky rattling sound whenever it goes over 55. Rent in Palo Alto is too expensive for her to splurge on things like regular auto maintenance.

The first half of the drive passes in silence - save for that spooky rattling sound - but Cerise has a nervous energy that starts to grate on your nerves. She won't stop drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and adjusting the rearview mirror for no reason.

"What's with you?" you ask. "Did someone finally report you to HR for sleeping with management?"

"I got an email today," Cerise says.

You wait for the followup to this. When it doesn't come, you say "no shit? People email you now? Wow, that's amazing."

"I'm getting promoted."

"So it's the opposite of the HR thing. Sleeping your way to the top is finally paying dividends, I see."

"They want to make me 'Head of Digital Forensics.' Whatever the fuck that means. This is coming from David Darkbloom himself. The CEO personally emailed me and *personally* told me I was being promoted."

Even you can't come up with a witty retort to that. It's sincerely impressive. David Darkbloom is one of the richest and most powerful men on the planet.

"From how he makes it sound," Cerise says, "it's basically one step down from the C Suite. I'm climbing like five rungs on the corporate ladder at once."

"Do you know anything about digital forensics?" You ask.

Cerise takes her eyes off the road to look at you for a moment. "I'm really fucking scared here, so don't give me any shit. Okay? I can't deal with your shit right now."

"Just keep your eyes on the road," you say, glancing away from her.

Another long pause. Four minutes, five. Then Cerse says: "I'm part of the interview team now, too."

"Seriously?" You say. "Thanks for giving me advance notice. How did you end up on the interview team?"

"It comes along with the promotion. Darkbloom said it would be best for me to take part in the process... one of the interns we hire is going to be my direct report."

The thought of Cerise being your boss makes you shudder.

"So don't embarrass me," Cerise reiterates. "Since I'm taking part in the interview, I can kill you immediately if you say something dumb."

"Isn't this nepotism?" You ask. "I mean - more than it already was."

"I don't like it either. It feels wrong to be part of the decision about hiring my own brother. But I'll try to be objective and not just reject you right away like I normally would." 

Darkbloom Analytics looks like any other fashionable Palo Alto tech campus. Clean-looking and sharp geometry, broad paneled windows giving it a wide-open look, trees everywhere to suggest an eco-friendly stance, plenty of bike racks for the same reason. What seems a little ominous though is the multi-tiered fountain occupying a central location in front of the entrance. It features a giant bronze globe in the middle, atop which, on the North Pole, looms a 10-foot bronze "DA" in a Gothic serif font.

The implication is decidedly... world domination-y.

"Wait here," Cerise tells you, leaning over the console to speak to you through the open passenger-side window. "I have to go park in the garage across the street. Be back in five minutes."

You sit on the edge of the fountain for a moment, mentally preparing for what comes next. A sudden whir knocks you out of your reverie - you jump up only milliseconds before the fountain activates a dizzying array of aquatechnics on the bottom tier. They must be on a delayed timer.

You reach back and feel the seat of your pants. Horrified, you find they're a tiny bit wet. You're trying to crane your neck over your own back to see your own ass when you hear a voice addressing you. 

"Do you have the time?"

You whip your head back around and try to pretend you weren't just caught in a really weird position. The girl standing in front of you has dazzlingly red hair and one of those dangerous faces that could be 15 or 25 or anything in between.

She's wearing an eyepatch.

"Uh, sure," you tell her. You glance at your phone "9:11."

She takes out a pocketwatch and starts tuning it. A cute girl like this using something as antiquated as that piques your interest. Young girl, old tech: it's definitely a case of gap moe. To spare yourself the awkwardness of not knowing where to look while she tunes the watch, you browse your phone instead.

"You know, you really shouldn't use those things," the girl says, still fiddling with her watch. "They're bad for your health."

"Of course," you mumble, not looking up. "I'll take that into consideration."

"Thanks. See that you do, Alabaster."

An electric jolt of adrenaline courses through you. You look up. "How do you-"

"Funny world we live in, isn't it?" the girl says. She's looking directly back at you now. The eye that isn't covered is a rich ocean-blue and glimmers when she smiles. "See you around."

She breezes past.

[ ] Follow her.
>[x] Forget it. 

You don't have time for mysterious transfer students. Or whatever the fuck that girl was. You've got a job to land.

Cerise comes back a few moments later. "Your pants are wet," she says.

"Goddamn it."

---

The first floor of Darkbloom Analytics is a giant, wide open lobby with enormous sun roofs, smoothly curved and polished wood paneling on the walls, and huge pieces of abstract art in the form of geometric metal work hanging from the ceiling. A mezzanine to the second floor rings the lobby, with huge curved staircases leading up on both wings. In the center, lying beyond a guard desk and brief security checkpoint where people walk in and out, scanning employee badges - is a 20-foot portrait of the man himself: David Darkbloom.

David Darkbloom. TIME man of the year 2015. Number 3 on the Forbes billionaires list. With controlling shares in Facebook, Yahoo, Alibaba, and rumors floating about his plans for a hostile takeover of Google. Rumors about hopes for a Presidential run, too. The king of Big Data. Arguably the most important person in the world.

He's going to be one of the ones interviewing you today. He likes to take a personal hand in the hiring of interns.

You gulp, and hope Cerise doesn't hear it. 

Cerise shepherds you past a disinterested guard and towards the elevators. She presses the button for the 20th floor. That's you: straight to the top on day one.

The elevator feels like it moves at 100 miles an hour and even still, the ride to the top floor takes forever.

You don't know what spurs on this moment of softness. Maybe it's that portrait of Darkbloom putting the fear of god into you. Maybe it's the awkward sensation that the nothing-space of a quiet elevator has always given you. Either way, you turn to Cerise and say: "I still can't believe you work here. Already hanging out with the bigwigs in the C suite and everything. I mean, David Darkbloom..."

You pause. Then you add: "She would have been really proud of you, you know."

Cerise stares at the ground.

"Not that *I'm* proud of you," you add, "but you were always her favorite anyway-"

"Don't talk about that," Cerise says.

You shut up. 

At the top, you walk down a short hallway, at the end of which is a tall pair of oak doors. You open one of the doors, glance into the reception area beyond, close the door, and spin on your heels.

"What is it?" Cerise asks.

"Rose."

"Rose--"

"Rose fucking Mallory is sitting in there."

"Shit," Cerise mumbles. "They scheduled her interview for today too, huh..."

"You knew about this?" you say. "The whole reason I'm trying to get this internship is so I don't have to live in Rose's house again over the summer! I'm sick of being the Harry Potter to her Dudley Dursley every year!"

"Oh, get over yourself," Cerise says. "Rose's parents treat you like a prince. You're actually better off with them than working here anyway."

"Rose once stapled a list to my door about the top 100 ways I'm perpetuating rape culture. It was eleven pages long. Eleven. She deleted all the anime from my PC one day while I was at school. She slapped the first beer of my 21st birthday out of my hand because it was a Yuengling." You stomp your feet. "She's crazy! I can't live with her. I can't work with her!"

"Try to find a way, Alabaster. She's our cousin."

"Once removed! First cousin, once removed!" You're getting loud enough that you suspect Rose can probably hear you in there. You tone it down. "You set this up, didn't you."

Cerise throws her arms wide. "What was I supposed to do? I was on the phone with Mrs. Mallory the other day and I let it slip that I got you an interview. She wanted me to set Rose up, too. Do you think I could say no to the woman who saved you from a fucking orphanage? Who paid our way for over a year? Who still lets you live in her house?"

"Yes! Definitely! I would!"

Cerise sneers. "No you wouldn't. Liar. You've never said no to anything Mrs. Mallory ever wanted. You're Mr. goodie-fucking-two-shoes when she's around, and you know it. So build a fucking bridge and get over the fact that Rose is here. Otherwise you can leave right now. I'm not discussing this anymore."

She barges in, to go through reception and take her place with the other executives on the interview team. As the doors swing closed, you hear Rose say "Hi Cerise. Is Alabaster coming too?"

>[x] I'm not backing out now.
[ ] I'm not going to suffer proximity to Rose. 

You take several deep breaths to center yourself and then step through the doors.

There are plenty of seats in this little receiving area, but you're not going to be cowed by this cow. With a person like Rose, asserting dominance is paramount. You sit down right next to her.

"Hello Rose."

"Hello Alabaster."

You both stare straight ahead, chins held up, as if there's something intensely interesting on the opposite wall. The only thing there is a bunch of empty chairs and a fern.

"Strange seeing you here," you say. "Don't you have a trash can to be tipping over somewhere?"

"Hmm," she murmurs. "You know, I hear that tiki torches are two for one at Home Depot right now. Limited time only. Maybe you should run along while you can."

"What are you doing trying to get into the most toxic and patriarchal company in the world's most toxic and patriarchal industry? Bit weird, isn't it?"

"The tech world needs people like me to rectify that."

"Bullshit. You're looking for a bullet point on your resume. And to annoy me, maybe."

"My what a big head you've got."

"You're the biggest hypocrite on the planet. I wonder what your social justice buddies would say about you if they knew what was in your internet history."

"I wonder what the FBI would say if they knew what was in yours."

A man with frizzy hair pokes his head out of the door to the conference room. "Mallory, Rose," he says. "We'll see you now." He goes back in.

Rose stands, and does her best to loom over you - using all 5 foot zilch of her height. "I suppose this is goodbye," she says.

"Hopefully forever."

"Mm hm."

She goes.

[ ] Take the opportunity to listen in on her interview and mentally prepare.
>[x] Stay put. 

The wait is mental torture of the worst kind - you can hear muffled voices on the other side of the conference room door, but nothing intelligible. There are a couple bursts of laughter and the tone, at least, sounds generally positive.

But half an hour later, when Rose walks out, you've never seen her so pale, or so shaken.

You try to relish the image, but if she's that shaken, then you know it's going to be a rough ride for you, too.

"Bad news?" You say.

"Fuck you, Alabaster."

You tsk-tsk her.

"Goodbye," is all she can muster before she disappears out the door. Not even a parting jab. It must have been horrible in there.

Just a few seconds later, the man with frizzy hair is calling your name. "Soliloquy, Alabaster. We'll see you now."

It's show time.

>[x] Interview tactic: Brash confidence
[ ] Interview tactic: Radical honesty
[ ] Interview tactic: Modest sincerity 

The man with frizzy hair shakes your hand. "Nelson Berenstoin, chief of cyber security," he says.

You glance around the room. There are five other people here, including Nelson and your sister. But the head of the table is conspicuously empty.

David Darkbloom isn't here.

"Don't worry," Nelson says, seeming to sense your confusion. "I know you were probably excited to meet the man himself, but he had an emergency to deal with. There's someone else here in his place."

That's when you notice her. Vivian Darkbloom: David's only daughter. At just 17, she has a de facto (if not de jure) position on DA's board of directors.

"Greetings, Mr..." Vivian ruffles through some papers. "Mr. Soliloquy. Hmm- are you Cherise's brother?"

"Uh, it's Cerise. But yeah," you say.

Vivian looks at Cerise for a long moment, then to the rest of the executives.

"I've been meaning to ask, in point of fact. What is the IT girl doing here to begin with?" Vivian sounds less than happy.

Nelson sits down and leans back in his chair, interlacing his fingers over his stomach. "Oh, you don't know?" he says. He is clearly relishing that the answer is no. "Your father promoted her this morning."

Vivian looks back at Cerise, appraisingly - and the appraisal is most definitely negative. She stares down her nose at your sister. And Cerise stares down at the table like an admonished dog.

"In light of the promotion," Nelson says, "he wanted her to take a more active role in the hiring process."

"Really. And what is her role now, exactly?" Vivian says, as if Cerise isn't there.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Nelson says. "I thought your father would have told you by now. He usually clues you in first."

"Cherise, was it?" Vivian says, turning to Cerise. "Would you like to fill us in before we begin with your brother's interview?"

Cerise just keeps staring down at the teleconferencing device on the oak table, saying nothing.

"Peter principle in action," Vivian murmurs. "All right. Well, let's begin." 

Nelson starts. "You come to us highly recommended. Your sister said great things."

"I'm surprised," you laugh. "She usually says pretty terrible things about me."

This elicits precisely no laughs from the rest of the group.

"Right. Let's begin with some introductions. You know myself and Vivian, and your sister of course. And this man over here is Spancer Jardan, head of HR -" he nods to a strangely stoic looking, square faced young man wearing sunglasses - "and this fetching lady over here is Sable Guiteau, our R&D lead."

Sable appears to be quite deeply involved in writing on a pad of paper, and you can make out what appear to be partial differential equations. Nonetheless, she manages to at least nod when Nelson says her name.

"Interesting," says Vivian, looking your resume over. "Your GPA is a little... lackluster. 2.89? Why don't you begin by explaining that."

"Well the truth is that school doesn't hold my interest very well. I'd rather be doing something in industry, you know? My problem isn't learning the material, it's getting the homework done."

Vivian's frown only deepens. Cerise cradles her head in one hand, mortified. 

"I see. Well, I don't think this is going to take long," Vivian says. "Does anyone have any other questions?"

Cerise picks up a sheet and begins reading from it. "W-why don't you tell us about a time when you had to juggle two c-competing priorities--"

"Let's dispense with that," Vivian says. "It won't be needed here."

"Yes, I have a question," Sable says, looking at you for the first time. Her voice is so soft it's barely more than a whisper. "What languages do you know?"

"English, of course," you say. "And conversational Japanese--"

"Programming languages," Vivian says. "She was asking you about programming languages."

"--Oh. Well. A little Java and C++. I mean, only a little. And, uh, HTML. Oh, I've done some work with PLCs..."

Sable jots this down. Her small wrists and slightly unkempt hair, and disheveled appearance combine to make her... very, very cute. And she's at least a little friendlier, it seems. "You know a lot about PLCs?"

"Not a LOT. Just enough to-" you stop yourself. Better not talk about that. "I have some experience with robotics. And of course, I'm willing to learn."

"Hmm," is all Sable says. 

Vivian rolls her eyes. "What is it, precisely, that makes you think you have any qualifications to work for the most prestigious technology company in the world? Our most recently departed intern is about to graduate as the valedictorian at CalTech. What possesses you to think you are anywhere near that level? I am genuinely curious."

"Uh..." you begin, your mouth dry, looking from blank face to blank face. "I just- I have a drive to succeed. That's what sets me apart. I learn quickly. I learn well. And if I'm motivated, I know I can do great things. I could succeed here. I know I could. Just give me a chance--"

"Success," Vivian says. "And what is success to you, Alabaster Soliloquy?"

Time to go for broke. "Success is more than just my success," you say.

Vivian chuckles. "Team player, are you?"

"That's not what I mean. I mean that it's not enough for me to succeed. Others should fail."

Nelson stifles laughter, but Vivian is visibly taken aback by this. She cocks her head and regards you as if she's suddenly looking at a different person. But she quickly composes herself.

"Thank you, Mr. Soliloquy, for wasting our time," she says. "We'll--"

Sable leans across and cups her hand to Vivian's ear. She whispers something, and Vivian frowns, yet again.

"...Is that it?" You ask. You look over at Cerise, who seems to be on the verge of tears.

"That is all," Vivian says. "We will be in touch. Expect a call back in less than 24 hours. Make sure you pick up."

"--What?" Cerise says. She looks back at you, jaw slack. Does the promise of a call back mean good news?

"You may see yourself out," Vivian says. 

"I don't know how the fuck you did that," Cerise says as she walks you out, "but don't fuck this up any more than you already have. Pick up the phone when they call you back. They're definitely going to hire you."

"And you were worried I would embarrass you."

"You DID embarrass me," she says. "So fuck you very much for that. But at least I'm not about to get canned over it. I think."

"I'll see you around," you tell her. "Good luck in- whatever it is David Darkbloom has you doing for him now."

"Thanks. I'll need it."

On your way out of Darkbloom Analytics campus, you get a text from Rose, of all people.

>From: The Most Annoying Cunt On Earth
>I saw your sister chauffeuring you in like she was your mother. Why don't you have a car yet?

You text back:

>I'm buying a used car later today, in fact. 
>The real question is: why don't you have a job yet? I just got myself hired. How about you?

The reply is instantaneous:

>Fuck you, Alabaster. 

A few minutes pass, then:

>If you need a ride back and you pay for half the gas, I can drive you home.

[ ] Get an Uber back to your dorm.
>[x] Ride with Rose.
[ ] Call Whitney and bum a ride off her. 

"Sure," you text her back. It beats waiting an hour for Whitney to get here, and it sure beats the Uber fee.

Rose pulls up not two minutes later.

...Was she watching you from across the street or something?

"Get in," she says. Her Prius is refreshingly cool from the quickly warming afternoon.

"You stink of flop sweat," Rose says. "Are you certain you got hired?"

"Are you certain that's not your own flop sweat? You wanna tell me how it went?"

"I impressed them. That's all."

"Uh huh. Why don't I believe you? When you got out of there, you looked more stressed than you did on election night."

"Will you get over that already?" She snaps. "You beat me in a total fluke one time almost four years ago. Are your high school glories all you have left to brag about?"

"I just love the reaction it gets from you."

"God, do I hate you. Hand over the gas money."

"I beat you," you gloat. "I bee-aa-t you."

"This is violence."

"President Soliloquy. You'll never forget it, Rose. President-Elect Soliloquy Defeats President Mallory in Student Council Election."

Rose's knuckles on the steering wheel are totally white. Her face is red.

You fish through your pocket, pull your wallet out and hand her $10. "For your troubles," you say. "It's the least I can do." 

Rose pulls into a gas station halfway between Palo Alto and Berkeley. While she's filling up, you recline in your seat and take a moment to relax, free from her naggy ranting. But when you look out your window, you see something that puts a lump in your throat.

It's that girl from before. She looks less conspicuous in a hoodie, but it's definitely her. She's at a pump across from you, filling a beaten-up looking sedan from the 1990s. She leans against it, arms crossed, smiling at you. When your eyes meet, she makes a gun with her finger and points it at you - bang, bang.

[ ] Say something.
[ ] Play it cool. 

>[x] Play it cool and say something cooler. 

You step out of the car.

This elicits what looks like genuine surprise on her part. She must have figured you as someone easy to bully.

"You stalking me?" you say.

This also gets Rose's attention. She turns to watch the scene.

"Just a free woman traveling on the land," the girl says. "Don't mind me."

"Bullshit. If you're stalking me, you'll have to get in line. My girlfriend here wouldn't approve."

"W-what?" comes Rose's shocked reply.

The girl throws her head back, laughing. "You two, dating? Give me a break."

You turn to Rose and give her a serious look. "She's really stalking me," you mutter. "Play along."

Rose's face goes through so many emotions it would be impossible to count them, but finally settles on anger.

She walks around the car and steps in front of you. "That's right," she says to the girl. "You leave him the fuck alone. He's mine."

"You're hers?" the girl says, talking right past Rose.

"Well -" you say. "I wouldn't exactly characterize-"

Rose turns and gives you a shove, and you shove her back, and the whole thing threatens to turn into another of your meltdowns. But Rose de-escalates, thankfully. She turns to the girl again. "You heard me."

"Pfft," is all the girl says. "I guess I'm not surprised. You two deserve each other."

She puts the nozzle back on the pump, gets in her car, and peels away.

Rose watches the car's exit, and only once it's fully out of the lot and down the road does she start towards her own car again.

"I guess I should thank you for getting my back," you say. "She seems like a really dangerous person."

Rose punches you in the shoulder. It hurts.

"Are you blushing?" You say.

"That was practically rape," she says. "Forcing me into some, some imagined relationship with you. Absolutely demented. I might be sick."

"Yeah, you're sick all right."

"Get the fuck in, Alabaster. Let's go home." 

As she approaches town, you wave Rose off from taking the exit for Berkeley. "I'm supposed to see your mom today," you tell her. "That's why I took the ride with you. We're headed to the same place."

"Huh?" Rose says.

"You heard me."

"Oh, this is rich. And what business do you have with mom, exactly?"

"What business of it is yours, exactly?"

Rose grumbles.

Back at the Mallory home, Rose breezes right in, but you stop yourself short. You were never quite sure of the etiquette of this situation - whether to treat this place as your own home and simply walk in, or use the bell like a guest. And since you want a favor - you err on the side of caution.

"Alabaster!" chirps Rose's mom when she answers. "Come inside, come inside! You know you can always come inside whenever you want!" It's honestly eerie how much she resembles her daughter.

"Thank you," you say, putting on your meekest voice. You step past the threshold. "It's nice to see you, Mrs. Mallory."

"For the last time, young man," she says, leading you past the foyer and into her spacious living room, "call me Charlotte."

Rose is already sitting on the couch in the living room, doing her level best to ignore all of this, but of course her mom won't let her. As far as Mrs. Mallory is concerned, the two of you are best friends.

"Rose, look who came to visit! Alabaster!"

"I know," she says flatly. "He came here with me."

Mrs. Mallory turns to face you. "How did your interview go? Rose thinks she impressed them. You as well, I hope?"

"Uh, yeah," you say, rubbing the back of your head. "I guess so. I'm kind of anxious to hear back from them. Hopefully we both got accepted."

"That's so sweet," Mrs. Mallory says. "You could be coworkers." Behind her, Rose rolls her eyes at you and pantomimes jerking off.

"Thanks just so much for doing this," you tell her. "It means a lot."

"I'll go get the keys," Mrs. Mallory says.

"--the keys?" Rose says, suddenly not so smug.

"Alabaster is buying my old Volt."

"MY Volt?" Rose sputters.

"Well--" Charlotte hums, "You hadn't signed the paperwork yet- and Alabaster really needs a car if he's going to be working, don't you agree?"

"That's MY car," Rose says. "How much is he--"

Behind Mrs. Mallory's back, you pull out your wallet and wave the money so Rose can clearly see it. Five paltry $100 bills. Way below market value. Rose's face is ashen with rage. 

In the brief moment Charlotte is gone, you take pleasure in sloooowly counting out the $500 and setting it on the countertop between the living room and dining room. "Got a pretty good deal, don't you think?" You say.

"I -LITERALLY- can't believe you," Rose says.

"Why are you being so cunty about this? You don't need two cars. Greed is wrong, you know."

Charlotte pokes her head around the corner. She has her handbag and the keys to the car. "Hey, I just realized that it's low on gas," she says. "I'll run it over to the Shell station and fuel it up before you go. You can chat with Rose until I get back."

"Actually, I don't mind--" you begin, but she's already gone.

Rose walks up behind you. "Are you serious right now?" She says. Her tone is so pissy you can actually hear the curled upper lip and folded arms. "You're stealing my car?"

You turn around. "I'm *buying* it, you stupid cow. With money. You know, that green stuff people use to pay for things? Stealing would be if I decided it was mine just because I'm her son, and then took it without paying."

"You are NOT her son. And that is NOT your car."

"I'm speaking metaphorically. Try to keep up. You're the son in this analogy."

"Where the fuck did you get $500?" Rose demands. "I didn't know jerking off to anime rape was so lucrative."

"I don't need this," you say, and try to step past her. She sidesteps and blocks your path.

"Don't," you warn.

"Don't?" She sputters. "How about YOU don't? Don't steal my shit!" 

You push through, but she grabs onto your arm and tries to pull you back. The two of you get into a quickly escalating shoving match, one that neither of you de-escalate this time. Well, that was inevitable. You go tumbling through the house, all but closed-fist punching one another, until you finally pin her against the wall in the hallway. You lean into her, forearm to her throat.

"For the last time-" you say.

Her eyes bulge in panic. She pulls a canister from a hidden pocket in her skirt. Before you register what it must be, you're already stumbling backward in agony. She pepper sprayed you.

"Gaahhh-- you, you -- you FUCKING cunt," you say between gasping breaths. You rub madly at your eyelids, which of course only worsens the pain.

With your eyes wrenched shut, you stumble forward, groping blindly. You somehow manage to grab hold of her hair, tight, at the root. She gives a choked yelp of mixed surprise and pain. Using her skull for leverage, you wrench your shoulder as hard as you can, and slam Rose face-first against the stucco. She hits with a satisfying thud that you only wish you could have seen. She falls to the ground.

You open your eyes now, narrowly, and painfully. Through the blur of tears you can see her still holding the pepper spray. You step on her hand to stop her from using it again, and she drops the canister. You press your toe down on her surprisingly delicate wrist, enjoying the tactile sensation of her palm flattening and splaying against the underside of your shoe.

"Alabaster--" she groans. "Stop - y-you're really h-hurting me now-"

"You said no more pepper spray!" You shout, spittle and tears flying wetly. "What the fuck happened to our rules of engagement, huh? Lying bitch." You kick the canister down the hall and out of reach.

You start to walk away on unsteady legs, wiping your reddened face with your shirt. Rose rises onto her butt. She supports her weight with the hand you didn't step on. Her nose is bleeding. Her voice quavers. "Alabaster--" she begins.

"No," you say, pointing at her. You walk backwards, to keep her in your sight. "Don't even. You stay away from me, you psychotic cunt. I'm warning you. Next time you'll regret it." Your voice quavers, too.

This is far from the first confrontation like this with Rose, and you know that despite your warning it won't be the last. Sometimes she instigates, sometimes you do - regardless, things always blow up when you're alone together for any period of time. You're not sure why it happens. Or why you always leave these bare-knuckle fights with a raging erection. 

In the drive, after she hands over the keys, you give Mrs. Mallory a gracious hug goodbye.

"Are you all right, dear?" She asks. "You... look as if you've been crying."

In your peripheral vision, you see Rose standing on the porch, spying on you. You loudly sniffle back mucus to ham it up for Mrs. Mallory. "I'm - I'm ok," you say. "It's just... Rose said something to me that really... it really made me..."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Mallory says. "She didn't bully you, did she? I'll make sure to have another conversation with her about that."

"No - no!" You insist. "She was great. Actually..." You swallow hard and let a few tears fall. "Actually, she told me that - you think of me - you t-think of me like a son? Is that really true?"

Mrs. Mallory smiles warmly. She reaches out and takes your hand. "Of course I do," she says. "I can't ever replace your real mom, but - I love you just as much as I love Rose. As far as I'm concerned, you're my son."

"Thank you," you say, and hug her again.

She kisses you on the cheek. "Don't cry now, dear, it's fine... you're gonna make me cry, too..."

You glance up at the porch. Rose is gone. 

The Volt rides like a dream. Best money you ever spent. On your way back to Berkeley, you call Whitney up.

>[x] Wanna cram?
[ ] Wanna get lunch? 

Whitney opens the door to her dorm room and leans against the jamb. She's still wearing that same slutty outfit. "I'm alone in here," she says, apropos of nothing. Then: "...Were you crying?"

"Fuck's sake."

"Not trying to pry," Whitney says. "Geez."

Inside her dorm, you clear some space on her desk and sit down at it. Whitney pulls up another chair. "All hands on deck for education," she says, saluting you. "Give me your history knowledge."

"I can't just give you knowledge. I need to know what you're actually studying first. Do you have a textbook or something?"

"It's just the test I showed you, you idiot. I have to take it again."

"...Are you telling me it's going to be the same exact multiple choice test? No changes?"

She scratches her head. "Kind of. There's a list of about 100 questions he gave us as possibilities. I just need to know all of those. Plus three different essay questions he could pick."

She hands the study guide over. You grouse. "You could just google this stuff, you know."

"Yeah, but this way I get the answers straight from the world's biggest superdork. So I know they're right."

You quickly leaf through the study guide, circling the right answers for each question. The thing is so easy an unprepared middle schooler could pass it. You can't believe Whitney needs help with this. But as she watches you work, she appears genuinely impressed.

"You're a wizard with this shit," she says. "Quiz master Ally saving my ass again." She stands, circles you, and leans over your shoulder, watching intently. "How do you remember all this? The only history stuff I really remember is that William Howard Taft is too fat to fit in his bathtub since like 100 years ago."

You put down your pen and gaze back at her. "Wow," you say. "That sentence almost made sense."

Just a bit later, you're done. 100 questions answered in less than 10 minutes.

"Okay," Whitney says. "Now drill me."

"--Excuse me?"

"Drill me. Test my memory." 

You swivel to face her in your chair. "Who was Prime Minister of England during World W--" you begin.

Whitney pretends to doze off with a snore.

"If you're not going to take this seriously," you say, "I can go."

"Make it fun, Ally! Geez. You're smart, can't you think of anything?"

You have a feeling where this is going. And then it goes there.

"It can be like when we drilled for your quiz bowl championship."

"Not that," you say. "That was a one-time--"

"Only in reverse!"

You glance at the door. It's locked.

From the inside, but still. It's the implication.

"Is this why you brought me here?" You say.

Whitney steps forward and sits in your lap. Her body is just a bit slick, and warm against you. The pressure of her as she straddles your crotch makes your stomach do cartwheels. She smells like sweat and lust. You push back with your legs, but all that does is roll your chairback up against the desk, and then there's nowhere to go.

"Why not?" Whitney says. "You're gonna be away all summer, aren't you? Fucking other girls too, I bet. Shouldn't we have a fun memory before you leave?"

"Whitney-"

"Why are you always like this?" Whitney says, her cheery voice cracking into a sort of pained whine. "You've been so fucking weird ever since I sucked your dick in Boise."

"You took advantage of my inebriated state," you say.

"Oh, come on," she says, rolling her eyes. "You wanted it. You want it now." She cups your crotch, and there's no denying what she finds there.

"We'll do it like quiz bowl drilling, only backwards," she continues. "You ask me the questions, and if I'm wrong, I have to take something off."

"You're only wearing about --"

"Two things," Whitney purrs. "And I really can't remember most of this stuff..."

"Jesus."

She puts her lips to your ears. "Teach me," she whispers. Her voice sends electric shivers down your spine.

"W-who was Prime Minister during World War II?" you say.

"George Bush?"

You shake your head no. She instantly peels off her barely-there tanktop and tosses it aside. Her breasts are tiny but pert, with small soft pink nipples that you can't help staring at.

"Are you staring at me?" she teases. "Per-vert~"

"You're the one waving them--"

She shakes her torso a bit, sending her little tits jiggling. "Go on," she says. "I don't mind. What's the next question?"

"Who was President of the USA during World War II?"

"...George Bush?"

"Jesus."

"My bad," Whitney says. She turns, scoots forward and - while still sitting on your lap - peels off her spats. The synthetic material clings tenaciously to her thighs as she pulls it away, but slowly she reveals a cute pink pussy that's shaved completely bald and glistening. As she tosses the spats into the corner, she spreads her legs enough for the lips to part, and from your vantage you can see enough of the inside to know it's as invitingly pink as the outside.

The room smells like your hotel in Boise that night on the eve of the national championship. The sweet heady odor of female sex. You blink rapidly, gulping.

"You've got a naked girl in your arms, Ally. What are you going to do?"

"Things were a lot easier when I thought you were a lesbian," you say.

"Who's to say I'm not?" She faces you again and wraps her arms around you. She grinds her plump mound against the straining crotch of your dockers, leaving little trails of her wetness on the material. "You smell like Rose. Are you fucking your cousin, Ally?"

"Once removed," you grumble. "Are you a bloodhound or something? No. I'm not fucking her."

"You want to. You had a hardon already when you got here. From being with her."

She reaches down and unzips your pants. You do nothing to stop her.

"Are you still a virgin?" she demands. She has a crazed hitch to her voice, here. She fishes around and frees your dick from your pants. The cool air suddenly hitting it makes you hiss. "Or did you give yourself to that whore you call a cousin?"

You shake your head. " You got me, okay? Never had sex." Technically that's still true, even if Whitney isn't the only girl you've been with.

She buries her face in your neck and suckles sweetly, moaning as she grinds up and down on your cock. "We need to fix that," she says. 

"I'm gonna-" you groan. "We're not going to-- to be able to fix that if you don't--" but she's already got the idea. She laces her fingers around the back of your neck, hauls herself up and hovers over the tip of your dripping cock.

"Whitney-"

And then you're inside her. All the way - to the hilt in one motion. It's warmer, wetter, and more snug than any stupid onahole you've ever even dreamed of. Her muscles ripple and contract with such precise motions that you wonder how you could have ever avoided this to begin with. You mind swims with a delirious pleasure that you didn't know could exist. You can actually feel her milking every drop of precum from your tip.

She humps up and down in quick but measured strokes. "Y-y-you are m-m-m-mine," she moans, her voice thrumming with her own pleasure. "I just m-made you m-m-m-mine... I'm so happy..."

Your phone rings.

"Whitney--!"

"Fuck that, fuck your stupid phone," she says, her balled-up fists pushing into your chest, forcing you back in the chair, so that you two are nearly horizontal now - Whitney on top. Her wet cunt pistoning up and down makes obscene squelching sounds that echo through the dorm. "Cum inside me," she yells. "Cum inside me! Cum inside me!"

"I need to--!"

"Yes you do! Fucking cum inside me already, you idiot! Mark me! Make me yours too!"

Your jaw hangs slack, you close your eyes, and then you lose it. As you cum, she mashes her lips to yours, and forces her tongue into your mouth. The force of the ejaculation in such a vice-tight enclosure is actually painful, but deliciously so. Your balls pulsate as you squirt her insides with so much cum that it starts to gush out. Her tongue roots around in your mouth to the same rhythm as the pulsations.

And then Whitney is cumming too, howling, her pussy spraying a geyser of her own cum, so much you can't believe it, all across your shirt and pants, ruining them.

"Yes!" is all she can say, loud enough to wake up Beijing, "Fuck yes! Fuck!"

You collapse, even further back, and the chair topples over. You land on the floor, Whitney still on top, both of you still mated together. Your phone isn't ringing anymore.

GIRLS FUCKED: 1/8 

Whitney is still writhing around in her own private heaven as you crawl on shaky legs to extricate yourself from her, take your phone from your pocket, and check it.

It's a call from Darkbloom Analytics, just as you feared.

They left a voicemail.

Your heart sinks as your thumb hovers over the play button. Of all the lousy timing... Cerise is never going to forgive you...

You glance over. Whitney is rubbing her cunt, mashing the gooey white cum through her fingers. Then she pulls her hand away and holds it over her face, spreading her fingers, watching with fascination as the cum spiderwebs between them.

"I'm in love with you," she says, still staring at the cummy mess in front of her face.

"I know," you say.

Might as well face reality while you have something pleasant to look at. You hit play on the message. It's Vivian's voice.

"We will pay you a salary of $1000 per week. You start on Monday. 7:00 AM. Do not be late."

Whitney has her fingers in her mouth now. 

The voicemail message no sooner ends than you hear the shrill ding of the text alert sound right into your eardrum. You pull the phone away with a jerk and check its display.

>From: The Most Annoying Cunt On Earth
>Turn on the news.

Whitney crawls over and sits beside you, still slurping your cum off her fingers. "What does that bitch want?" she says, reading the text.

You pull up FNCNN.com. A pundit is talking with a pretty female reporter.

"--Here again relaying the truly stupendous investigative work of Kay Vera in today's Los Angeles Tribune. A data breach of -- how many again?"

"400 million private accounts," the woman cuts in, who the title card below identifies as Ms. Vera herself.

"--From the private servers of Darkbloom Analytics," the pundit finishes. "Facebook data, email history, browsing history, even credit card info. By far the biggest single data breach in history."

"And it happened over a month ago," Kay says. "They knew about it but they never told anyone."

"Absolutely shocking," the pundit says. "The level of wanton disregard - well this story is still developing, but it's fair to say, in my estimation, heads are going to roll. Congress, at the very least, is going to be pretty interested in how this happened."

Whitney's head is lying on your shoulder, cocked sideways, and her eyes glazed over as she watches the report. "Hmm... Darkbloom Analytics... that's your company now, isn't it?"

You gulp.

END OF EPISODE 1. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, notorious image board shitposter and newly hired intern at the world's biggest tech company. 

It's 5:30 AM on what will be your first day of work. A Monday morning that begins the same weird way Friday, Saturday and Sunday did: with your childhood friend Whitney snoring not-so-softly beside you while you drift in and out of sleep on the bottom bunk of your dorm room bed. Whitney has been inseparable from you - literally, more or less - since she stole your virginity a few days ago. Her naked body is so warm it's almost hot, the muscles taut but softly so, and she's easy to hold. Comfy.

It's your phone that wakes you, the vibration of its ringing rattling it across your bedside table. But you've always been slow to fully regain consciousness after sleeping - and it's Whitney who, springing into wakefulness, lunges across your body, takes the phone and answers it.

"That's right, bitch!" she says. "I told you-- oh. Hi, Cerise. Sorry, no, I didn't mean you-- yeah, he's here. Hold on."

You grab the phone from her. Covering the speaker, you hiss: "what the hell was that about? What's wrong with you?" She sits up on her knees and shrugs, her skin weirdly blue-tinted in the predawn light coming through the window.

You put the phone to your ear. "What do you want?"

"Why is Whitney answering your phone?" Cerise says. "Is she your secretary now or what?"

You don't answer.

"Where are you, anyway?" Cerise asks.

"I WAS sleeping. You know, in my bed."

"Then why is Whitney--" there's a brief pause on the other end. Then: "Oh. I see."

Another awkward pause.

"Tell Whitney she needs to make better choices," Cerise says. "I know she's not the brightest but I didn't know she had such awful taste, too."

"Did you call me just to shit on me, or...?"

"Not that I care about Whitney or anything," Cerise says, "but you're not just leading her on, are you? She really cares about you, as dumb as that is."

[ ] She's my girlfriend now.
>[x] Forget about it. Get on with whatever you called about. 

"Always the chivalrous one," Cerise says. You can hear the disapproving frown. "Meet me on level B-3 of the parking garage across the street from DA. 6:30."

"Why?"

"Vivian's orders. She wants me to chaperone you in. And god knows Princess Vivian always gets what she wants."

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record - why?"

Cerise sighs. "Been watching the news lately? There's tons of protesters outside the DA campus. And security, too, because of the protests. It'll be a nightmare getting through the crowd. Plus there's an all-hands meeting at 7:00. Mandatory attendance."

You massage your face. "I'll be there, I guess."

You hang up. "I have to go to work," you tell Whitney.

She pouts. It's kind of cute, honestly.

"I'll be back later on tonight," you tell her. "I'm in this dorm at least until my dynamics final on Wednesday."

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and start to stand, but Whitney latches onto one of your arms and pulls you back into the warmth of the sheets and blankets.

"One more time before you go!" she insists.

[ ] One more time.
[ ] I can't be late on my first day. 

>[x] I can't be late on my first day.

Whitney's pout this time is genuine, and a little heart-rending, albeit still pretty cute.

"You better not cum inside anyone else while you're gone!" she says.

...Okay, the cuteness of it is an acquired taste.

"I'll make it up to you," you tell her, standing and groping in the half-light for your pants.

"You're going to fuck so many girls while you're on your internship!" Whitney moans. She grabs the sides of her head with both hands and buries her face in the covers. Her voice is muffled now: "I taught you how good sex with a 3D girl feels and now you're gonna abandon me!"

You peer down at her, unsure how to respond. Frankly, unless another girl forces herself on you with the same audacity of Whitney, you're not sure you'd have the social skills to find someone who would willingly cheat with you.

...Cheat?

"It'll be fine..." you tell her limply.

Whitney's head pops up. "No! I'm making a rule!" she says. "Executive action!" She hobbles to her feet and stands on her tiptoes to whisper in your ear. What she whispers turns your eyes to dinner plates.

"Got it?" she says.

"Y-yeah."

"Okay. Whew." She seems genuinely relieved.

You finish dressing with THAT thought in your mind. Before you go, you peck her on the lips - a peck that she returns by grabbing the back of your head and turning it into a deep tongue kiss that you struggle to get away from. It's like she's trying to suck your soul out.

"More where that came from," she says on your way out.

You leave her lounging naked on your bed. You're pretty sure she's going to spend the day sniffing your underwear or something. 

Cerise greets you in the parking garage. Her work clothes are a bit rumpled and her eyes have deep bags. She's holding two tall styrofoam cups of coffee, one of which she hands off to you. You've never been a coffee drinker, but you have to admit a little caffeine would be nice right now.

"You smell like beer," you tell her, which is true. "You drove here like this?"

"You smell like rancid jizz," she shoots back. "Ever hear of showers?"

You sip from your cup, and grimace. The coffee is straight black, bitter and pungent against your tongue. "Jesus," you say, "a little milk and sugar next time, huh?"

"You are such a faggot," Cerise says. "Anyway, I'm not your maid. You're lucky I got you any at all. It was 2 for 1 at 7-11 today."

"I've been meaning to ask you," you say, smarting from her insults. "How do you get away with wearing that choker to work? I've heard of business casual, but what is that - business slutty?"

"Go suck a fuck, Alabaster. And hurry up, or we're gonna be late." 

The street outside is swarming with angry protesters, just as Cerise described. The front gates of the Darkbloom campus are sealed shut, and police in riot gear patrol the perimeter.

You spy signs bearings slogans like "NO ROOM FOR DARKBLOOM" and "DON'T SELL MY DATA" and "OCCUPY SILICON VALLEY" and "PRIVACY IS A RITE" (sic).

"This is life now, huh," you murmur.

"Yep," Cerise says.

You take a bracing sip of your coffee.

Cerise shows her employee ID badge to a police officer, who takes the two of you through the angry crowd. The crowd, noticing this, jeers and shouts epithets at you. You get called everything from "pig" to "fascist" to "shill" to, more simply, "asshole."

It's not a fun way to start the day.

Inside the main building's enormous lobby, the crowd looks just as large and unruly as the crowd outside - only these are employees waiting for upper management to tell everyone what the fuck is going on. You hear snippets of worried conversation: wild speculation that layoffs are coming, or the business is being shut down entirely. The mood is as grim as a funeral.

A man you recognize as Nelson Berenstoin - head of cyber security and member of the company's board - waves to Cerise and pulls her aside for a conversation you surmise is private. You're left to navigate your first few moments as a Darkbloom Analytics employee on your own. 

As you approach the crowd for a better vantage, you bump into someone whose presence makes your heart sink. Rose Mallory.

This, on top of all the other bullshit you've been through just to get to work this morning, is almost too much. You briefly consider turning right around, walking out the door and never coming back again. But you're not going to let her win like that.

Rose's face visibly goes through the same set of emotions as she makes the same set of calculations about the situation. The perpetual battle between the two of you to make the other one blink first is not going to end here.

"What are you doing here?" You hiss.

"Showing up for work," she hisses back. "On time."

"How did you get hired? I saw you after that interview. I know it didn't go well."

"Maybe. But they must be desperate - if they're hiring YOU, too. Their other prospects must have turned them down when the news broke."

"So why didn't you?" You say. "Surely this isn't the only place you got an offer from."

"O-of course not," Rose says. "I had plenty of great offers. It's just that even with DA in crisis mode, this was still the most appealing choice. I always consider the long-term view of things."

"Uh huh. What offers?" You demand.

"Well," she says, "A staff writer position for the English language expansion of Megalia, for instance - just an example - and, uh... Google."

"You got a job offer from Google."

"Absolutely."

"You're worse at lying than you are at faking empathy for the downtrodden. Go away, Rose."

Rose opens her mouth to respond, but a voice from the center of the crowd silences her. 

Vivian Darkbloom is standing on a milk crate, holding a megaphone. "Attention employees," she says, standing rigid with her chin pointed up. You guess she's trying to cut an imposing figure, but it's a hard sell when she's so short that she needs a booster just to address you.

"My father has instructed me to deliver the following message. This company is as healthy today as it was last week. We will unwaveringly pursue our mission despite the recent negative press. Do not worry about the gnats and bloodsuckers circling outside. They will go away, in time. And if not, we will crush them."

Not quite a great pep talk so far.

"Unless you have been spoken to directly by a manager, nothing has changed about your day-to-day tasks or the expectations placed upon you. Do nothing differently."

There is a murmur of relief at this, however measured.

"You will not be laid off. In fact, the recent crisis has triggered emergency retention and non-compete clauses in your employment contracts. What this means is that until the crisis passes, you cannot resign without losing any stock options you have, even if otherwise fully vested. You may also be subject to civil liabilities depending the circumstance..."

"Did this little girl just say she's going to sue us if we quit?" Rose whispers.

"I think so," you whisper back.

"That cannot be legal..."

You shrug.

As Vivian drones on, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. Probably Whitney sending you a lewd photo or something. Nonetheless, you check it.

It's a text from a blocked number.

>12:00 PM. Rutabaga Cafe on Middlefield near Hoover Park. Be there or you WILL regret it.

You have a sinking suspicion who sent this text.

>[x] Reply.
[ ] Forget it. 

You clack out a quick and simple response:

>Who is this? 

"Didn't anyone tell you that texting during a meeting is improper?" Rose tuts. She also tries to peer at the screen, the prying bitch. You turn, using the height difference to your advantage. Even on tiptoes she can't see past your shoulders.

You send the message. A reply comes instantly:

>You know who.

You try again:

>I'm not going to meet with you. Leave me alone.

Another instant response:

>Maybe you like prison better?

You frown.

>[X] I'll be there.
[ ] I'm not coming.
[ ] Don't respond. 

There is no response to this text. You're not sure if that's a good or a bad sign.

"...to Spancer Jardan in HR if you have any further questions," Vivian continues. "Finally, a word about our media contact policy. Unless you have been specifically authorized to deliver a specific statement to the media, you are to have absolutely NO contact with any members of the press. If a reporter reaches out to you, do not respond. Say that you have no comment and direct them to our spokesman, Steven Armstrong."

The man you presume to be Armstrong is standing next to Vivian - a tall, balding man in a too-tight suit. He turns in a semicircle, giving a cordial wave like a contestant in a beauty pageant.

"Failure to follow this policy," Vivian says, her voice low and level, "will be met with immediate termination and life-destroying litigation. We will mercilessly root out any leakers and hang them from the gallows."

"Figuratively speaking," Armstrong clarifies, raising his voice to be heard without the benefit of Vivian's megaphone.

Vivian speaks over him. "Perhaps a literal gallows would not be out of the--"

There is an ear-splitting shriek of interference as Armstrong and Vivian briefly tussle for the megaphone. Vivian almost loses her balance as Armstrong gets the better of her and snatches it away. The milk crate tips precariously to one edge before landing back in place. Vivian holds out both hands like a tightrope walker to maintain her foothold.

"You are dismissed now," Armstrong says. "Please return to your workstations in an orderly manner. New interns, please see Mr. Jardan in room 101 for badges."

That's you. As the crowd files out with confused and worried grumbling, you and Rose walk together in the direction of the HR offices on the east end of the enormous first floor. These offices are truly open concept: workers taking their places at a series of standing desks in a little glass box visible to all the world, with Mr. Jardan himself at the center like a composer, or maybe the captain of a starship. He stands so rigidly that it's like he's balanced at the very precipice of the uncanny valley. 

Spancer takes you and Rose to a small anteroom - more like a broom closet really, but at least it's away from the prying eyes of the world - where a camera on a tripod sits pointed at a corner covered with a sleek blue tarp. The camera is connected to a computer console and a specialized printer.

"Thomas Soliloquy," Spancer says in a dull monotone, typing at the console. "You will work with Sable Guiteau as a debugger for Project Ulysses. Her team is in sub-basement level 2."

"Thomas?" You say. "I think you've got my middle name swapped with my first."

"Sincere apologies, Thomas."

"Again, I think you've--"

"Stand here, please."

You stand in front of the blue tarp. Spancer takes your photo. The machine whirs to life and prints out a laminated badge card with your photo and your ostensible name on it: T. Soliloquy.

"Great," you mumble as you attach it to the provided lanyard. Rose couldn't possibly look more smug.

"Rose Manroy," Spancer says. "You will work with Cerise-"

"...Manroy?" Rose says, suddenly not so smug.

"You will work with Cerise Soliloquy's team as a data analyst. Her new offices are currently being set up on floor 13. Stand here, please."

"It's Mallory--"

"Stand here, please."

A few moments later, Rose is staring forlornly at a badge that identifies her as R. Manroy. 

Cerise greets you outside the HR offices. "I'm here for my protege," she says.

Rose looks absolutely miserable.

To be fair, Cerise doesn't look much happier about it.

"So what exactly do they have you doing?" you ask Cerise.

"Fucked if I know," she says. "No one's really told me anything. I only know that I'm supposed to lead the investigation of the hack because it was all over the front page of FNCNN on Saturday."

You saw the same news article - a hit piece published by some two-bit hack blogger. What a bunch of bullshit.

"I've got Rose now, so I guess that's a help."

"I'm going to be ill," Rose murmurs. "Such a high profile - national news - I can't..." She looks green.

"Join the club," Cerise says. Then, turning to you: "I've got a team of bees now, too."

"Beads?" you say.

"BEES."

"BEES?"

"As in H-1Bs. Visa workers. My new offices look like a goddamn Pakistani call center."

"Points for diversity, at least," Rose says.

"Shut the fuck up, Rose," Cerise says.

Rose blinks rapidly, indignant and confused. 

"How about you?" Cerise asks. "Where are you going?"

"They have me working under that Sable girl from the interview team."

Cerise cringes. "I'm so sorry," she says.

"Sorry for what? She was really nice."

"You know what they call her?" Cerise says. "Unstable Sable. You've only seen one side of her. And when she decides to show her other side..." Cerise snaps her fingers. "It's like that."

"She can't be that bad," you insist.

Cerise shakes her head. "Well... on the bright side, if you ever need any pharmaceuticals, she's got the biggest collection this side of a Xanax factory."

"I'll keep that in mind," you say. "Where is she? She didn't see fit to come get me?"

"I'm sure she doesn't even know you're working for her now," Cerise says. "If you never showed up, it wouldn't make a difference to her. Anyway, she's probably down in the creepy dungeon she calls her office, same as always."

>[x] Go exploring.
[ ] Report directly to Sable. 

You've got time to kill (apparently) and you'd like to learn the lay of the land. So instead of taking the elevator down, to the sub-basement, you take it up, to the 3rd floor - the one labeled "cafeteria and recreation." Could be fun.

The cafeteria promises to be way better than the ones at college - you see, as you approach, workers loading buffet lines with fresh trays of fruit, fluffy pancakes, bacon and other breakfast items - while cooks man the grills, making eggs and french toast, sausage and ham. The smell wafting through makes your stomach grumble. All of it is free, according to the informational email you got from DA on Friday afternoon, so you don't feel too bad about grabbing a quick bite.

You take a plate full of food that you grab almost at random and sit at a table near the far end of the dining area, which is separated by tall glass panes from a fully-furnished gym.

You eat and watch the fitness hounds working out. The gym is sparsely populated, but there are at least a few people here. Whackos.

And then into the gym walks Rose. She's got a towel draped around her neck, a white tee and shorts. She doesn't seem to notice you sitting in the cafeteria.

You've never known Rose to be much for athleticism. In fact, one of the few things you've ever agreed on is that Whitney's morning workout rituals are horrendously obnoxious. Rose's physique evince her aversion to exercise: she isn't fat, but she's certainly not a power lifter, either - she's a soft, overfed girl.

So this behavior is pretty odd.

She walks up to a treadmill, gets on, and fiddles with the front panel. It's clear that she doesn't do this often. She startles when the treads come to life, and starts jogging to keep up. But it's hopeless: she's quickly outpaced by the machine. She grabs onto the side rails for dear life, still kicking her feet madly, but too late. She falls ass over elbow and gets ejected off the treadmill in a moment of slapstick so divinely perfect that you know you will cherish the memory forever.

A man comes by and offers to help her up, an offer she swats away, her face reddening by the nanosecond. You don't hear what she says, but it's enough to make the man so mad that he simply walks away and leaves Rose to her own trouble.

[ ] Go rub it in.
>[x] Continue exploring. 

You would never try to gild the lily. Nothing you can say to Rose would be as perfect as what you just witnessed. Plus, it's a good fact to surprise her with, should you ever need it.

Outside the cafeteria is a lounge area where video game consoles and televisions are set up for entertainment. These too, are only sparsely attended - they'll probably be busier around lunctime - and you pass by without lingering. But as you breeze past a darkened room labeled "theater", you hear the opening chords of a familiar song.

...Why is the Hare Hare Yukai playing?...

Oh god.

You glance inside.

A group of - variously - fat and gangly men, plus of course the token fat girl, whoop and cheer to the opening Haruhi Suzumiya. The fat girl is wearing cat ears and a dress cut way too short for her. She runs along to the front of the screen and - oh Jesus, you might vomit - pantomimes the dance. The guys cheer her on, and she eats up the attention.

You step back, unable to comprehend the horror you've seen.

Anime club has haunted you into your professional life. 

Beyond the entertainment areas are a set of small rooms labeled "Rest and Relaxation" - and they're just what they advertise. Little dark rooms just big enough for a soft-looking twin bed and table-side lamp. Napping is permitted here, apparently. That's Silicon Valley for you.

Further back is an area labeled "sauna" but you don't get the chance to go that far before a spritely young woman accosts you from behind.

"There you are!" she chirps. "Are you Alabaster Soliloquy?"

You turn. "Uh, yeah."

She's a petite girl, wearing an outfit you would describe as, at best, unprofessional. Short shorts and a tank don't strike you as particularly suited to office work.

This girl reminds you a bit of Whitney, in fact, with her short-bobbed hair, tomboyish clothes and generally unfeminine air. You could almost mistake her for a boy, if she weren't so cute.

Maybe you just have a thing for tomboys.

"Oh thank goodness," she says. "I've been looking for you. My name is Alex. I'm here to help you with your orientation." 

Three stories underground is a squat-ceilinged white box lit by harsh fluorescents, leading to an equally harshly lit labyrinth of offices staffed by pallid mole-people who look like they haven't seen the sun in decades.

This is Darkbloom Analytics' R&D department, and it is your home now.

You have Alex to guide you, thankfully, or you would never find your way. Even still it takes almost 10 minutes. Finally you make it to where the team for Project Ulysses works, the details of which you know nothing about - but to which you have been assigned.

Their work room is much less harshly lit, and carpeted, and tightly packed with a coterie of young programmers clacking away. It's kind of cozy, in its way. Your workstation is at a long table in the center of the room, side by side with six fellow workers and directly facing six others. Alex, apparently, will work right beside you. A ring of tables with other workstations line the walls. At the far end of the room is a door with a name placard: "S. Guiteau, R&D Lead".

"Here we are!" Alex cries.

Everyone is looking at you now. You feel just a little abashed. "Yeah. Here we are," you confirm.

"It's really nice to meet you, by the way," Alex says. "Sable told me you were pretty impressive after she interviewed you. You'll be a big help for the team!"

[ ] Can I meet Sable?
>[x] Tell me more about my job. 

"We're on Project Ulysses," Alex says. "Integrating databases from Project Servo into a universal system of object classification."

"I'm lost."

"You've seen Darkbloom's drones, right? That wasn't just for mapping the planet. They collected millions of hours of footage while they were deployed. Then Sable's magic helped create a neural net that could identify specific objects in 3D space - 'this is a house, this is a car', like that - and now we have to make, basically, a dictionary - a universal classification system. At the same time, integrating it with data scraped from DA's social media projects. That will funnel into the next step of Sable's research."

You begin to feel you're in over your head. But Alex's enthusiasm is hard not to find at least a little exciting. This is definitely cutting-edge research.

It doesn't hurt that Alex is DEFINITELY cute. Her flat chest suits her perfectly, and she has a sweet scent about her that accentuates an otherwise barely-there femininity. Her voice and stature scream airhead, but you can tell that she's deeply intelligent, which is a bonus.

"I heard you're a mechanical engineer?" Alex says, snapping you out of your ogling. "Do you know much about programming?"

You shake your head. "I mean - a bit."

"It's okay," Alex says. "I'll help you. We all have our weaknesses... as a programmer, my back-end skills are second to none, but my front-end leaves a lot to be desired." She rubs the back of her head. "Never ask me to make a GUI... I'm hopeless with creating user-friendly interfaces."

"Thanks for the offer to help," you say. "I'll take you up on it."

"The funny thing is I wanted to be an artist when I was a little kid," Alex says, going totally off on a tangent, index finger thoughtfully to her lips. Her lips are very inviting, now that you focus on them - smooth and wet looking. "I was so set on it, even though I was just awful at it... until finally my father said-" (She lowers her voice an octave) - "'no son of mine is going to waste his intelligence with some useless art degree.'"

"Yeah, that sounds -- wait." You mull over what you just heard. "You mean no 'daughter' of mine?"

Alex laughs. "I don't have a sister. Or a brother, for that matter. I'm the only son."

"Only daughter, you mean."

Alex's smile disappears. "I see. It's like that."

You detect some snickering from nearby work stations. 

"Did they tell you to make fun of me?" Alex says. "Everyone's always mocking me behind my back. Calling me names. Such cruel things..."

"No, I just-"

"It's not nice, you know. I wouldn't make fun of you."

"I didn't know-"

"I thought we could be friends."

"It's fine," you say, waving your hands to stop -- him, apparently -- from going into a meltdown. "It was an honest mistake... just, don't cry. Okay? We're friends now, see? I'm gonna need your help here, you know? I'm really counting on you."

Alex sniffles, once, and smiles brightly. "You mean it?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

"Can I call you Ally?"

You suppress a grimace - you've always kind of hated that nickname - but now isn't the time to aggravate the poor boy any further. "Sure," you say.

He clasps one of your hands with both of his. "Let's be the best partners ever, Ally!"

"Work partners," you say.

"Yes! We'll be partners!"

"Work partners."

"The best ever!" 

Sable steps out of her office. "Alex," she says. Her voice is muted and affectless. "Please come here. I need your assistance."

"Right away, Ms. Guiteau!" he cries, and scurries off into her office. She disappears behind him, closing the door.

A very un-programmer-ly looking guy - tall and muscular, wearing a polo shirt, leans back in his chair, facing you from his workstation against the wall.

"You're really making friends with Bitch-Made?"

His buddy, an equally loathsome looking guy, turns to join the fun. "The gopher? He's a useless piece of shit, you know."

"Total queermo. I'd stay away from him."

You sigh. Office politics were never your thing. "I'm not here to make friends," you tell them. "Just to get some help with my career development."

"I think you'll need it," the first one says. "Say, do you know how to optimize a binary search tree?"

"Or vectorize a 3D image for compression?" the other one chimes in.

You turn away from them and bite your tongue. Of course the answer to both questions is no, and if this kind of stuff is prerequisite knowledge for the job... you may need Alex's help a lot more than you thought at first.

[ ] Try to figure out what the hell you're supposed to do.
>[x] Go introduce yourself to Sable.

You enter Sable's office, to the apparent surprise of the rest of the people in the work room. But no matter. You have to be forward about these things.

The office is an almost pitch black cave of a room - spacious but crammed with junk, illuminated only by the pale glow of various computer screens, full of tables stacked high with assorted hardware and other dross, whiteboards lining the walls.

"...I understand," Alex is saying as you enter, his voice quivering. "I'll do better next time."

"You must do better," she says. "I won't accept this again."

"I'm sorry..."

"I'm sorry does not suffice." Her voice is still weirdly distant-sounding, like she isn't even really paying attention to the conversation, but her words are landing with a real wallop on Alex. He's already near tears.

"I'll do better! I promise!" He wipes away his tears and practically runs past you, eager to get back to work, apparently, and right whatever wrong he committed. Sable turns back to her main PC monitor without even acknowledging your presence.

"Uh, hi," you say. "I'm Alabaster. The new intern."

"Hello," she says, still not facing you. She isn't doing much of anything, really. Just staring at her screen.

"It's nice to meet you," you say. "If there's anything in particular you want me to do-"

"I look forward to working with you."

"Right. Me too. Absolutely. So if there's anything you want-"

"I said that I look forward to working with you. Is there anything else? Please go."

As you leave her office, she still does nothing - just stares, her back to you. It's more than a little creepy. Maybe Cerise was right about her. 

Sitting back at your workstation, you see that Alex is hammering away at his own work, and you're a little leery about interrupting him. After that apparent dressing-down he got, he seems determined to please his boss. Still, you've got no clue what it is you're supposed to be doing.

For want of anything productive to spend your time on, you find yourself browsing *Chan, which is surprisingly not blocked by any work filters. After about half an hour, you see an email come through on your work account - from Rose, addressed to the entire company mailing list. It's marked with high importance and the subject line is: "Call for sensitivity training."

You skim through it, feeling like you could gag. "[...]an environment of toxic masculinity [...] have heard in my short time the free use of racial epithets and, worse, gendered slurs [...] calling on HR for an immediate emergency round of sensitivity training for all employees [...] please join me in this call [...]"

You almost feel embarrassed for her. The programmers who ribbed you earlier read it aloud to one another, laughing over it. Alex, for his part, is still too keenly focused on work to worry over the email. Or anything else.

>[x] Make friendly conversation with him.
[ ] Let him work, and while away the time until lunch.
[ ] Go back to Sable and ask her for a task. 

"Sable's a bit of a hardass, huh?" you say. "Bosses... am I right?"

Alex shakes his head, still typing. "I'm not good enough. That's all."

Yikes. You try again. "How long have you worked here?"

"Sable is the smartest person in the universe," Alex says.

"So..." you say, not sure how that's at all connected to your question.

"She got started by writing the industry-standard program for detecting inefficiencies in manufacturing processes... when she was 15. Then she sold the patent for a billion dollars, just like that. That's billion with a B." Alex turns to face you, slaps his palm to emphasize the point. You're still not sure how this relates. "Not because she wanted the money, but because she was bored of working on the project. After that, she started working on neural nets and machine learning. That's when David Darkbloom noticed her."

"And you?" You ask.

"I've been here for a little over a year. I'm doing my best to keep up with her, but it's hard... I'm never good enough..." He tousles his own hair madly, turns and goes back to work.

You grimace.

"What does she do now?" you ask, since he seems so interested in talking about Sable, and not himself.

"What doesn't she do now?" Alex says, practically swooning. "She's got so many things going on that it makes you dizzy just thinking about it! She'll change the world for sure! I'm just happy I can be a small part of that..."

This guy is clearly either in love or on the verge of starting a cult for this woman. Maybe both?

For the next two hours you hear an exhaustive hagiography of Sable's life that includes her work on Facebook's friend-matching algorithms, her revolutionary research into computerized object recognition, and her ascension to the board of Darkbloom Analytics, replacing Darkbloom's estranged, now-disgraced former head of R&D.

You start to feel like you know Sable better than you know yourself, which is weird enough as it is. That's before you add in the fact that you're hearing all of this secondhand from what appears to be her world's biggest fan, turned slavish employee.

You glance at the clock. It's a bit past 11:00 AM. If you want to make you, uh, lunch appointment - you'd better get going.

>[x] Go.
[ ] Don't go. 

When you enter the Rutabaga Cafe a little over 45 minutes later, you find exactly who you suspected, sitting by herself at a table in the very back. It's the girl who's been following you.

She's reading a thick book that on closer approach you see is a copy of Marx's Capital. You start to form a better image of her in your mind - an image which is immediately shattered as you sit down across from her and spy, sitting in an open canvas bag at her feet, a copy of Hitler's Mein Kampf.

"Stop following me," you say.

She doesn't even look up from her reading. "No."

You put your hand on the top of the book and gently push it down to the tabletop. She finally looks you in the eye. It's unnerving. "I mean it," you tell her. "I don't know who you are or what you think you're doing, but I'm not going to be a part of it."

"Oh yes you are," she says. "Would you like some coffee?"

Before you can say no, she takes a pitcher of hot black coffee from the edge of the table and pours it into the empty cup sitting beside it. "Cream?"

You decide to go on the offensive and make her uncomfortable for a change. "What's with the eyepatch?" you say.

"Oh, that?" She shrugs. "It's my evil eye. Sugar?"

"How did you get my number?"

"I typed Alabaster Soliloquy into Google. Are you stupid or something?" 

"And then you messaged me," you say. "I thought cell phones were bad for your health?"

"You're right. Actually, it's one of my partners who found you and reached out. But the message is all mine. Speaking of which, do you want to see what I mean when I tell you that cell phones are bad for your health?"

You sort of half shrug, half nod.

"It's really something, how brazen these bastards are about it," she says. "It's all right there in your settings menu - hiding in plain sight." She makes a 'gimme' motion with her hand. "I'll show you."

You hand her your phone. She takes it, unscrews the lid of the pitcher, and drops the phone into the piping hot coffee.

"What the f-" you reach out for the pitcher, but she pushes it back and warns you off.

"You'll burn yourself," she says. "Forget about it. It's a total loss now."

"Fuck you!" is all you can manage. Not your wittiest moment.

"Now we can talk in private," the girl says. "I need your help."

"You need to buy me a new fucking phone is what," you half shout. "Crazy bitch. Where do you get off? I could have you arre-"

She grouses, reaches into the pocket of her vest and peels out $500 in hundreds. "Will this cover it? I've got more important things to do than listen to you whine."

You take the bills, but hold one up to the sun to inspect it for evidence of counterfeiting. At this point, there's nothing you would put past this person.

"Don't bother," she says. "They're counterfeit. Superdollars from North Korea, actually."

You're still holding the bill up to the sunlight as you slowly turn your head and regard this reject from the loony bin. What have you gotten mixed up with?

A long moment passes. "What do you want from me?" you finally say.

"It's not what I want - it's what I need."

"Which is?"

"You're going to help me murder David Darkbloom." 

You stand. "I think we're done here," you say.

Her voice takes a menacing edge. "You got into a lot of trouble after your mother died, didn't you, Alabaster Soliloquy?"

This stops you cold, standing between your pushed-back chair and the table.

The girl smiles. She knows she's got you now. "Geeky little quiz-virgin Ally Soliloquy, suddenly all full of teenage angst and misplaced anger at the world. Aren't you lucky you were only 17 when you did all the shit you did?"

"You're right," you say. "I was. And those records are sealed."

"Nothing is sealed forever. Information wants to be free." She leans back, folds her arms. "But that's the least of your trouble. Anyone could understand a boy who drops a few cherry bombs in a few toilets because mama died. Your trouble is they never knew everything, did they? How would the police like to find out who really burned down North High?"

You sit down.

"There we go," she says.

"You can't prove anything. I know you can't."

She fishes in her canvas bag and pulls out a jump drive. "The proof is right here," she tells you. "And it can be at the front desk of the San Fran FBI field office by the end of business today if you don't do what I tell you."

You snatch it from her.

"You really are stupid," she says. She takes the copy of Mein Kampf from the bag and sets it atop her copy of Capital. Underneath is a mass of identical jump drives. She takes the bag and upends it, sending them scattering all across the smooth concrete floor of the cafe. Nearby patrons turn to gawk.

Desperately, you fall to your knees and try to gather all the drives up. You don't know what's on them exactly, but if it's what she promised...

You wave off a couple people who stop to offer help.

"This floor is slippery," the girl tells you, watching you with amusement. "And those things can really slide. So make sure you get them all. There were 87 in total... or maybe it was 88, I can't remember..."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I don't have a name." 

You let that pass without comment - you have to get all these things gathered up. When you're done, you have 87 jump drives, which you dump back into her canvas bag. You hope you got them all.

You sit back at the table. You're almost shaking with adrenaline. In just a few moments' time you've been thrown headlong into something you can't even begin to comprehend. "I can't help you--" you begin, then, lowering your voice to barely a whisper - "I can't help you MURDER someone. Jesus fucking Christ. Crazy person. You're a crazy person."

"Sure," she says. "But don't worry. Now isn't the time for murder - that comes later."

"Could you lower your voice? Holy shit."

"Right now, all you need to do is take one of these flash sticks with you and plug it into your computer at work. Simple as that."

"Why?"

"The why is immaterial. Just do it."

[ ] No deal.
[ ] I'll do it.
>[x] I'll do it, but only if you tell me why. 

"You're a cheeky one, aren't you? I just threatened you with federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison and you're still trying to act like you've got the leverage." She perches her chin on interlaced fingers. "Fine, if you're so insistent. Killing Darkbloom isn't enough. His sycophant of a daughter or psychopath of a wife or weird supergenius R&D lead will just take over and it's right back to the same old shit. Before I kill Darkbloom - and I will kill Darkbloom - I have to kill his company first. That's coming along just fine, but now I need a person on the inside for the next phase. That person is you."

"You're fucking with me," you say. "I don't believe you. You're telling me that you're the one who--"

"Of course. Well, I'm the mastermind, really, but I couldn't do it without help. Tell your sister I'm sorry that she has to deal with the mess now. If it's any consolation, David doesn't care that she's going to cock it all up."

You simmer with anger.

"Don't think of backing out," she says. "I know everything about you and everyone you care about, too. That knowledge can do damage. Here's your new girlfriend, for example." She pulls a manila dossier out of her canvas bag that has stacks of paper with info about Whitney. "Cheats on her exams and her homework like it's nothing, apparently. Bad news for someone who's being scouted by a pro soccer team."

"Whitney's being scouted...? She didn't tell me..."

"And here's your cousin." Another dossier joins the one on Whitney, equally thick. "A list of fetishes so long that they'd be surely disqualifying to the people in her social circles. Not that you care. But you do. She is your cousin, of course."

"Once removed..." you say, an instinctual tic even now.

"Mm hmm."

You glance through the file on Rose. On the top is a printout of text logs between her and - Whitney? (https://i.imgur.com/hDwedzH.jpg)

You read, too shocked to absorb what they say. "How did you get all this stuff?" 

"It just takes a bit of social engineering - that's my part - and a bit of technical know-how - my partner's part. It's easy, really."

You shake your head.

"Then there's your sister. I have files on her, too of course, but that's complicated. I like her - I really do, and so does my partner - and neither of us want to hurt her..."

"Fuck you. Just fuck you to death."

"Do what we want, Alabaster. For their sake. The ones you love mean more than anything." 

She gathers her things and stands to go. "You've got 24 hours. You don't want to know what happens if you disappoint me."

You stare at the flash drive in your hand.

"What's your name?" you say again. "Tell me that much."

"I don't like names. But if you need to call me something... call me Camelia."

She goes. 

Back at work, feeling more alone than you've ever felt in your life, you decide to pay Cerise a visit in her new office. She was right about her new space being like an outsourced call center - it even smells vaguely of curry in here. But at least it's spacious, with a view to the greenery of the campus outside - and of course the throngs of rowdy protesters.

You find a young man in a fez who looks the most friendly. "Is Cerise here?" you ask.

"Ah, you must be the brother. Ala-bast-or?"

"Yeah," you say.

"Pleasure to meet! The name is Fazil. Yes, you sister is here - beyond that door." 

Cerise is in her office, standing over Rose's shoulder. Rose reads aloud:

"Digital forensics (sometimes known as digital forensic science) is a branch of forensic science encompassing the recovery and investigation of material found in digital devices, often in relation to computer crime. The term digital forensics was originally used as a synonym for computer forensics but has expanded to cover investigation of all devices capable of storing digital data...."

"Okay, but what the fuck does that MEAN?" Cerise says.

Rose shrugs.

"How's it going?" you cut in. They look up, and neither seems exactly pleased that you're here.

"It's not going," Cerise says. "I've spent the whole day googling digital forensics and I can't even understand the Wikipedia page. I'm supposed to lead this investigation?"

"Does anyone out there know anything?" you ask, pointing at the door.

"One of them, maybe," Cerise says, glowering. "Some dude in an honest to god fez. Says he did doctoral research on the topic."

"Fazil? I just met him. He seems nice enough."

"Yeah, that one. Brazil. But I'm trying to teach myself a little bit before I broach the subject with Dr. Fucking Computer Forensics out there, or I'll look like a moron. I can't gain the respect of my team that way..."

"A digital forensic investigation commonly consists of 3 stages," Rose says, reading still. "Acquisition or imaging of exhibits, analysis, and reporting."

Cerise smacks Rose on the back of the head.

"Ow! Bitch!" Rose cries.

"Write that down," Cerise says. "That sounds useful."

[ ] Confide in Cerise about what happened.
[ ] Confide in Rose about what happened.
[ ] Don't involve them. 
>[x] Confide in both.

"Hey..." you say. "Can I take you two somewhere private?"

They look at you strangely.

"And... maybe leave your phones here," you add. 

At a park down the street from Darkbloom Analytics, you sit with Rose and Cerise under the cover of a gazebo. The flash drive sits on a weathered wooden picnic table. They stare at it like something radioactive.

"What does she have on us?" Rose asks.

"Everything," you say. "Imagine something you don't want people to know about. She's got it."

Cerise steeples her fingers. "We have to report this."

Rose seems less enthusiastic about that approach. "Maybe we'd better do what this woman says. Who knows what lengths she would go to... or who she's working with..."

Cerise takes the flash drive. "You two are pussies. There's only one right way to deal with this." She starts to walk away, but you grab her by the wrist.

"You know what that would mean," you tell her. Glancing briefly back at Rose, you lower your voice to a whisper so only Cerise can hear. "She knows about the fire. Says she has evidence. It's on that flash drive."

"She can't know about that," Cerise says.

"But she does. And she knows --"

Cerise sets her jaw.

"You want me to work to bring down my own company," Cerise says.

"I mean - it's not like that," you say. "All we're doing is plugging in a USB stick. Right?"

"Right," Rose says, seconding you.

"I've been thinking about something else, too," you say. "That article on FNCNN. Is it true? You were at DA the night of the hack?"

"Yeah, so what?" Cerise says.

"Doing what?"

"David Darkbloom took four fucking hours to make the call that night to finally shut down the servers. Even while that cunt who's blackmailing us gang-raped our data stores, he didn't wanna do it."

"So what does that mean?"

"The servers were down for a few hours, the first time they've ever been down, so I decided to take the opportunity and rearrange some of the main cableways. Their cable management down in the server room was shit, truly horrendous, and I'd been wanting to do some work on it for a long time. But even with all the redundancies, I was never allowed to take any of the server farms down for that kind of work. Always have to maintain 99-point-999-whatever percent uptime. You know. God never stops watching you, so why should Darkbloom?"

"You mean you were inside the servers, physically, on the night of the hack."

"Yeah. So?"

"And now you're lead on an investigation into the hack that you can't begin to handle."

Cerise stares at you.

It's Rose who connects the dots. "David Darkbloom wants you to take the fall. For all of it..." 

It's Rose, naturally, who comes up with the plan. Always a master of manipulation, that one.

Unfortunately, getting the USB connected to a computer at DA in a way that won't implicate any of you means making a trip you never wanted to make: a trip into the dark heart of anime club.

You shudder at the thought.

"Are you two still looking for apartments here in town?" Cerise asks as you walk back to work.

"Yeah," you say. "Rent is more expensive than shit out here. I was thinking of rooming with someone."

"I was about to sign some lease papers today," Rose says. Rich bitch.

"Fuck that," Cerise says. "It can't be helped. If we're in this mess together, we need to stick together. For our own safety. You'll have to live with me for your internship."

>[x] Ok.
[ ] No way.

Living with Cerise is one thing, but living with Rose too?...

Still, Cerise is right. It can't be helped.

"I'll move in Wednesday," you say.

"I can move in tonight," Rose says. "My finals are all done."

And so it's settled. You'll be living with your sister and your cousin (once removed) for the next three months.

While you surreptitiously commit major felonies against your company.

Such is life. 

You finish out the rest of your day at work browsing *Chan, too dazed to even pretend to be doing anything useful.

Alex is typing away like a man possessed - he goes on and on for hours at a time - and you're pretty sure he didn't leave his chair while you were gone, either.

Eventually, you can't take it anymore.

"You want some lunch or something?" you ask. "I could go grab you a bite to eat from the cafeteria."

"Shut! Shut!" he says, "I'm laser focused right now!"

"Ah..."

"Sorry if I'm being rude! I'm making a breakthrough! Please forgive me!" He never stops typing.

You feel as if you work in an insane asylum.

An hour after that unpleasant exchange, he seems to be done.

"I should show this to Sable..." he says, looking over his work. "But..."

You turn, looking at him. He's obviously afraid to incur her wrath.

[ ] I'll show her for you, and say it was my work. If she gets mad, it'll be my fault.
>[x] We'll go together. I can be your hype man. 

"Hype... man?"

"It's - a person who talks you up. Says how great you are at what you do. Vouches for you."

Alex considers this. Then he nods. "Let's do it!"

You walk together into Sable's office.

"Ms. Guiteau, I pushed the changes to the dupe checking algorithm. W... what do you think?" His voice is a mixture of trepidation and hope.

Sable doesn't reply, but seems to be browsing the same code that was on Alex's screen earlier.

"I've never seen code that clean," you say. "It's really spectacular. In my opinion."

Sable looks at you. "In your opinion."

"Yeah."

"What do you know about code? Nothing. Useless man."

You blink. "Weren't you impressed at my interview?"

"Absolutely not," Sable says, her voice taking a hard edge. "I told Vivian not to hire you. And what does she go do? All because she saw you in some silly quiz game years ago. Stupid girl. She's going to ruin this company with her entitlement."

You're not sure what to say to that.

"Is it good?" Alex asks. "Do you like the work?"

Sable stands. "You're even more useless than Alabaster," she says. "At least Alabaster isn't actively sabotaging my research. Don't bother coming in tomorrow. Useless... useless..." she storms out.

Alex sits down in the same chair Sable just vacated. He's weeping, openly.

>[x] Stand up to Sable.
[ ] Comfort Alex. 

"Hey!" you call after her. She stops and looks at you like you're a being from another planet. Apparently she isn't used to being barked at like this.

"So I might not know clean code from a hole in the ground," you say. "Fine. That's true. But I know a dedicated worker when I see one. You've got 20 clowns out there who don't do shit, me included, and one person carrying the entire team. That's Alex. He's the only one out there actually working on whatever the hell it is you're trying to accomplish. You can't get it done on your own, not staring at your fucking monitor all day, at least. You need someone like Alex on your team, and you need to respect him too."

Alex is covering his face in total fuck-all terror by this point, literally shaking, but Sable is surprisingly passive at your accusing words.

"Is that true?" she asks Alex.

Alex shakes his head violently. "I'm useless!" he cries. "I'm the most useless one! Fire me!"

Sable furrows her brow. She seems to understand there's very little she can say to turn this around, save for one thing:

"Come into work tomorrow and do better, then. I'm relying on you."

Alex sniffles back his mucus and uncovers his face. "O-okay. I promise! I won't fail!"

Sable looks at you. "Thank you," she says. "I was too harsh. Make sure he's all right... I need to go home now... sleep..."

She goes.

Alex looks up at you, his face still runny with tears. "You saved my job," he says. "You're the best hype man ever."

"I think maybe we should get out of here, too," you say. "It's been a long day."

"No! I have to keep working... I can't disappoint Sable."

>[x] Forget about Sable. Let's go hang out.
[ ] I won't bother you, then. 

"You would really want to hang out with a useless person like me?"

"Don't talk like that," you say. "Self-deprecation isn't attractive."

"You... want me to be more attractive?"

You purse your lips and look away. That's not the message you wanted him to take from that remark...

"What should we do?" He asks. "I'm sure you've got lots of cool hobbies... I hope I won't be too much of a bother..."

>[x] Wanna help me pick out a new phone?
[ ] Wanna check out the sauna?
>[x] Wanna meet my girlfriend? 

Alex perks up at the mention of picking out a phone, then seems to deflate just a bit at the word "girlfriend," but overall his mood is way more buoyant than you've seen before. He wants to go right away, and for the sake of his sanity, you're more than happy to take him out of this dungeon.

You drive him in your car to a local big box outlet. Under the bright lights of the department store, his face is still obviously ruddy from crying, and - is that gunked up eyeliner around his eyes? It's just a tiny bit, hardly noticeable, but you're pretty sure it's there. This boy wears makeup?

You browse the iPhones, but Alex makes a face at you. "Yuck," he says. "Don't use that Apple junk. Get an Android or something... anything, not an iPhone."

"Why not?"

"It's inferior in... just about every way!" he says. "Everyone knows that. Look, I'll help you get your new phone set up, but..." He twirls on one foot and winks. "Only if you stay away from Apple."

"Fine, if you care so much..."

You find yourself looking at a Samsung, but Alex's face tells you once again that you're making a poor decision. What do you care, though, anyway? It's just a phone.

"You pick it," you tell him. "You know better than me, clearly."

He wants you to pick out a Pixel - perfect, he says, for modding, which is essential (apparently) to the experience. You're looking at the black one, but he clasps your face in his hands, and points your line of sight to the blue one. "It would match your eyes," he says.

A few minutes later the customer service rep is transferring your data plan over to a new blue cell phone entirely of Alex's choosing. He's smiling like you just bought HIM a $500 phone.

You pay with the counterfeit superdollars - what no one knows won't hurt you.

On the way out of the store, as you cross the parking lot, Alex runs ahead of you.

"What's up?" you say.

"Take a picture of me!" he says. "I want to be the first photo on your new phone!"

This kid is impossibly lame. But if it'll make him happy...

You take your new phone out and get him in its viewfinder, backlit by the setting sun and purpling sky. He strikes a pose - double peace sign.

Your heart can't deal with all these conflicting emotions.

To get it over with, you snap the photo and try to put the phone back away. But Alex is already at your side again, your wrist in his hands to keep you from doing it, and he's looking intently at the photo.

"It's perfect!" he says.

"Sure..."

"Thanks, Ally!"

He practically skips on his way back to the car. 

"Is Whitney as cool as you say?" Alex asks on the drive back to Berkeley.

"I think that you'll think so."

"You don't think so?"

"She's going to like you a lot, too," you say non-commitally.

Alex kicks his feet like an excited kid. 

You open the door of your dorm room. As expected, Whitney is still here.

"Ass munch!" she shouts. "I've been texting you all fucking day! Don't you ever check your phone? I should--"

She sees Alex peeking out from behind you. He seems a bit scared.

"Oh," Whitney says. "Ohhhh."

"Don't get the wrong idea--" you begin.

"Taking me up on the offer so soon? Come here," she says. "Who are you?"

"A-Alex," he says.

Whitney looks at you. "You didn't fuck her yet, did you?"

Alex turns a neon shade of red.

"Alex is a boy," you tell Whitney. "So no. I didn't."

Whitney narrows her eyes at you. "Hmm," she says. "I've seen the shit you look at online. I'm 100% certain that wouldn't stop you."

Alex is practically infrared by this point.

"I just needed to get him away from work," you say. "We're friends, that's all."

"Is that so?" Whitney asks Alex.

He nods timidly.

"We'll see about that," is all Whitney says. Maybe this was a bad idea. 

A couple hours later, all three of you are tipsy on some Natty Lights that Whitney smuggled into your dorm. Way, way, way against the rules - but it can't be helped.

"You boss - is a total CUNT," Whitney slurs, pointing at Alex, her can sloshing beer all over the place.

"She'sh not too bad..." Alex says. "A little mean... that'sh all..."

"Cunt," you agree with Whitney. "Definitely. You deserve better."

Alex can't come up with a response, so he just takes another sip. Every sip he takes, he grimaces - you can't fault him, this stuff tastes like piss - but he does it anyway, seemingly to fit in.

A lull descends, and with the liquor in you, you pluck up the courage to ask: "Are you being scouted?"

"How... how did you hear about that?"

"A little birdie told me," you say.

Whitney crawls over to the bed, digs through her bag and pulls out a business card. She hands it to you.

"Pyotor Petrovovich, USWNT talent manager," you read aloud. "Some name."

"I just call him P," Whitney says.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"When I figured out how to explain that I said no..."

"--No? You're gonna say no to pro soccer? Why?"

Whitney demurs. It's Alex, hiccuping, who pipes up. "She doeshn't wanna leave - hic - leave you."

Whitney stares at the ground. "Your friend is a big-mouthed jerk," she tells you. "Even if he's cute." She shotguns the rest of her drink. 

"Don't call other guys cute," you say.

"Pwah," Whitney chuffs. "You think he's cute too."

Alex can't bear to look at either of you.

"So what?" You say. "It's not my fault. He wants me to think he's cute."

Whitney puts a hand to her mouth in faux shock. "Alabaster," she says, uncharacteristically using your full name, "do you have designs on this poor, defenseless boy?"

"My heart is as pure as a boy scout," you insist.

"Liar," Whitney says. She points a twirling index finger at you now. "Li-aaa-rr~ You want to fuck him. Pervert."

"Contain yourself," you say.

"All this time, you said I was gay. Haha!"

"I told you to contain yourself."

Whitney circles Alex on all fours, wobbling from the effect of the booze. She gets behind him and takes his face in both hands and points it at you. Her chin on his shoulder, she smiles. "Do you like Ally?" she asks him.

He nods.

"Would you do anything for Ally? He saved your job, right?"

Alex balls up his fists in his lap and tries to look away, but Whitney won't let him.

"Y-yes," he says, nodding again.

Whitney's voice goes lower. "Have you ever sucked cock before?" she says.

Alex closes his eyes tightly.

"Have you?" Whitney repeats.

"No..."

"Let's teach you how." 

You have no time to agree or disagree before  Whitney has her face in your lap. She paws at the zipper of your pants and frees your cock. It's already hard.
 
"See?" she says. "This part of you is honest, at least..."
 
She sits up, just quickly enough to grab Alex roughly around the collar and force him down with her. He's face to face with your cock now. It pulses in the air, bobbing in time to your heartbeat.
 
His eyes cross and he focuses on it intently. You can feel his quick little breaths against it.
 
"Watch," Whitney tells him.
 
She puts her nose against the sensitive underside and inhales deeply, filling her lungs with your scent. "I love your cock, Ally... it was no fair keeping this from me for so long... no fair..."
 
You take it in your hand and rub it against her cheeks and face. She turns her head side to side to help you along - she likes this game most of all. Your cockhead leaves little trails of precum wherever you rub it. Eyes closed and smiling, she's in absolute bliss. So are you. You hardly notice as she gently guides your hand - and your dick - to Alex's face instead.
 
Just like that. You're rubbing your dick leak all over the face of this cute boy you met just hours ago. And you couldn't be happier. Judging by the way he closes his eyes too and just lets it happen, neither could he.
 
Whitney wants her turn though, and she takes over again. Her lips purse into an O shape and she tries to catch the tip of your dick as you move it back and forth.
 
You play a bit of keep-away now, moving it out of her reach whenever she gets close, slapping her with it. The nearest she can get is wrapping her wet lips around the side of the shaft every few moments and kissing it, which sends shivers of delirious pleasure up your spine. Her eyes are half-lidded but keenly focused on the prize in front of her. Every time it slaps her, it produces a satisfying noise and a cute red welt on her where it lands. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, maybe unintentionally. Drool pools on its tip and starts to run viscously down her chin.

You play a bit of keep-away now, moving it out of her reach whenever she gets close, slapping her with it. The nearest she can get is wrapping her wet lips around the side of the shaft every few moments and kissing it, which sends shivers of delirious pleasure up your spine. Her eyes are half-lidded but keenly focused on the prize in front of her. Every time it slaps her, it produces a satisfying noise and a cute red welt on her where it lands. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, maybe unintentionally. Drool pools on its tip and starts to run viscously down her chin.
 
Alex is watching, supporting himself on his fists, entranced. He looks a little jealous.
 
Here's your cue to move on to the next thing. You scoop Whitney's spit up with the head of your dick and slowly feed her the slickened shaft. She keeps her mouth open wide and her tongue out to best service you. When she started just a few days ago, she was great at taking your entire length but bad about scraping you with the teeth. After some gentle - and not-so-gentle - instruction, she knows now to keep her jaw set wide when you use it as a fuckhole. She lies on her belly, propped on her arms like a lazing cat, and lets you go all the way to the balls in her upturned mouth. You can see the bulge at the back of her throat.
 
She gags and sputters, sending spittle flying, but gamely stays in place as you seat yourself. You grab her by her ears and hold her there when you're all the way in.
 
"Whitney..." Alex slurs. "Are you..."
 
You can't help groaning as Whitney's gagging worsens, becomes louder, and a thick stream of her drool slides down you rampant member. It's coming out of her nose now, too, and tears are streaming from her eyes - her face is an absolute fucking mess.
 
You pull out, nearly all the way, and she gasps for much needed breath. But her eyes never leave your cock, connected now to her lips only by strands of her spit. The tears are still flowing freely but the only emotion in those eyes is utter devotion.
 
"Now you," she says to Alex, her voice deep and hoarse from the abuse, and on fire with lust. As she speaks, more drool flows from the depths of the throat that she trained for your personal use.
 
"I'm not so sure..." he says.
 
Whitney clasps one of Alex's hands and guides it to your dripping dick. With coaxing, his fingers wrap around you, and she guides him until he can jerk you off without any help. You throw your head back and groan.
 
Whitney cups her hand around Alex's crotch. "Suck him," she whispers. "Suck his cock."
 
Alex leans forward and kisses the tip of your penis. That alone is nearly enough to make you cum, but you hold yourself off.
 
"It's salty..." he says.
 
"Put it in your fucking mouth already," Whitney says, forcefully. She isn't playing around anymore. And Alex must have an innate need to please stern women, because he suddenly has half your cock in his convulsing throat.
 
"Fuck," you pant. "Oh my god..."
 
Whitney circles you and kisses you deeply. "Is his mouth real nice?"
 
You nod. She kisses you again.
 
"You can cum down his throat," she says. Alex is busy trying to force the rest of your dick down his clamping esophagus, but all he's succeeding in doing is filling your lap with slimy drool.
 
"Just remember the deal..." Whitney says.
 
"You'd better tell him," you moan. "Soon."
 
Whitney leans down and whispers to Alex. His eyes bulge.
 
"Got it, you fucking faggot?" she asks him.
 
Alex nods, eyes welling up from the deepthroating, but pushes himself forward against you all the same. Finally, something deep in his throat gives way, and you're all the way inside. His gags now are deep and guttural, from somewhere in his stomach, and you're sure he's about to lose it - but you lose it first. Bucking your hips uncontrollably, you empty your aching nuts in Alex Best's tiny gullet.
 
You smell something else in the air, too. You look down. Without any other attention than his mouth being used to get you off, the darkening stain in the crotch of Alex's shorts is the tell-tale sign that he blew a load, too. Just from sucking you off.
 
Whitney leans back beside you. "Do it now," she commands him.
 
Alex stands on uncertain feet and hobbles the short distance to where Whitney sits. Swiping a strand of his hair behind his ear, he leans over, lets his mouth hang open, and lets your cum run in a long steady stream to Whitney's waiting mouth. He feeds it to her like a bird feeding a chick. Whitney puts her hand down her sodden panties and rubs herself off to an explosive orgasm that, despite the underwear, deeply stains your carpet with girl-cum.
 
Whitney isn't done, yet: she grabs Alex roughly by the back of his head, forces his lips to hers and sucks the rest of your cum out of his mouth, her tongue probing insistently. When she finally seems to be satisfied, she tosses him aside, like a used-up tissue, and he falls to the ground, panting, his breaths ragged. He looks like a fucked-out little whore.
 
"You can cum inside anyone," Whitney says, looking at you with a devilish smile. "But I have to be there... and I get it all back when you're done... that's the rule..."
 
Alex rubs his face in the stain Whitney made on the floor. He seems more than satisfied with himself. You're pretty satisfied with him too. Whitney purrs in your arms, lets her head droop to your lap, and suckles your dick like a kitten lapping milk. She gets even the last drops of cum from you, and smiles herself stupid over it.

Alex and Whitney are unconscious on the floor, cuddled up together, when you hear banging on your dorm room door.

You stumble to your feet and peer through the peephole.

Camelia.

You open the door and push her back. "Asshole!" she shouts.

"Stay the fuck away from me," you slur, leaving the threshold and shutting your door behind you.

"Good lord," she says. She plugs her nose. "It smells like a French whorehouse in there. Don't you have any shame?"

"I'm warning you."

"I'm warning YOU," she says. "You haven't done it yet. And don't bullshit me, because I'll know when you do."

"Tomorrow," you tell her. "I've got a plan for it."

"You better fucking hope it works," she says, frowning.

"You know..." you begin, stumbling backwards, struggling just a bit under your own gravity. You swipe at your hair. "I don't even know what you want. I can't tell if you're a communist or a nazi or what."

She shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"What do you mean does it matter?" you say. "Of course it matters!"

"I'm a product of my environment. I come from a generation awash in irony and cynicism - ambiguity is the zeitgeist."

"If you were any more full of yourself, you would pop. Do you realize that?" (You feel like you're about to vomit.)

"Have you ever heard of horseshoe theory?"

"More like horseshit theory. You can't go around equivocating forever and expect me to just - what, follow along? To what end? What do you actually believe in? Why are you doing this to me?"

Camelia shrugs again, and you're getting really sick of seeing her do that. "I believe in self-determination," she says.

"You and 7 billion other people. What do you actually mean by that?"

"I don't care what people do with themselves," she says, leaning in close. "As long as they're doing it with themselves. Are you sober enough to listen to me here?"

You nod.

"This country is headed towards something big," she says. "Okay. We know that. And if that means gay space communism, fine. If it means a fourth reich, go nuts, I can't stop that. The only thing I want to make 100% goddamn certain of is that Mark fucking Zuckerberg won't have a say in it. Or Peter fucking Thiel. Or David FUCKING Darkbloom."

She fishes in her breast pocket and pulls out a small object that she keeps gripped in her fist. "There's a hundred different revolutions coming, Alabaster. I don't care which one gets here first or which one wins out in the end. I'm just here to make sure these Big Data motherfuckers are the first ones against the wall. I have a bullet with David Darkbloom's name on it. Literally." She opens her palm, and there it is. "I etched it on the side, see? I'm gonna be the one who puts it in his skull."

"Did Darkbloom kill your dog when you were a kid? Jesus."

Camelia puts the bullet in her breast pocket again and steps back. "You can get aboard or you can stand next to him on the wall. I don't give a fuck."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Can't get anything past you. No wonder you were quiz champion." She pulls that pocket watch out and waves it in front of your face. "Tick tock, you dumb asshole."

She blows you a kiss and walks away.

END OF EPISODE 2.
 
You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Idolm@sturbator and victim of felony extortion.

March 10, 2014

You've got your dick in your left hand and your favorite ShindoL doujin on the screen; life is good. It would be better, of course, if you couldn't hear the incessant thrum of Cerise's vibrator in the next bedroom over. The fact that your masturbation habits always sync up annoys you to no end. But it can't be helped.

You're deep into it when the downstairs telephone rings. Mom and dad are still out, so there's no one to answer it.

No matter. It's probably just another telemarketer - those are the only people who still call landlines these days. The phone rings for a bit and stops. But about five minutes later, it rings again. You're on the verge of orgasm by now, so you can't be bothered.

Vaguely, you wonder whether maybe it's mom herself - you told her to stop off at the grocery store and buy you some soda before coming home from her biweekly date with dad - maybe she has a question or something. Well, she can text you if it matters so much.

Ten more minutes after that, the phone is ringing - again. This is definitely weird. But you're in a post-climax torpor and don't feel like moving at all. You do manage enough energy to kick the wall and shout to Cerise: "get the phone already!"

"You get it, asshole!" comes the reply, muffled by the drywall separating your bedrooms. She's in a similar state of torpor now.

You kick the wall again. "It's for you!" you say. "Your stalker wants your autograph!"

"Fuck you!"

Then comes the sound of angry thudding, Cerise's bedroom door opening and slamming shut. Moments later the ringing stops. You lean back in your chair and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Your relaxation shatters when you hear a noise that you've never heard before, at least not in real life: a stomach-churning wail of anguish.

It's Cerise's voice.

There is nothing to compare it to, the way it breaks past every higher function of the mammalian brain and rings every klaxon in your hindbrain, throws every ancient signal that warns: "something is terribly wrong here." It's one of the worst noises you have ever heard.

What she shouts is just one word: "no" - just that one word, the O drawing itself out and transforming into a horrible sob.

You throw on your pants, step out of your room and down the stairs. Cerise is on the floor in the hall, on her knees and elbows, curled up with the telephone receiver to her ear. She rocks back and forth repeating "no, no, no..."

"Cerise...?" you say. "What's going on?" You already have an idea, though, what it must be. And already the first of what will be many, many tears is trailing down your cheek. 

---

You just finished downloading Naruto.

These desperate times have brought you to unimaginable lows.

Before dawn, while Whitney and Alex still sleep the sleep of slutty angels who snore too loudly, you connect Camelia's flash drive to an old laptop that you intend to never use again. That's after pulling out the laptop's network card, covering the webcam with tape and running it in safe mode.

The flash drive's main directory has only three files in it: one is named "the_goods.mkv" and is quite large. The others are only a few kilobytes each, named simply "fuckem.lnk" and "seriously_fuckem.tmp"

You watch the video. It's what Camelia promised you it was. Apparently there's CCTV footage from across the street showing clearly the perpetrator of the North High fire. How no one ever discovered it before she did is mystery, but there's no denying it - especially as the video helpfully replays the few moments where the face is most clearly visible, in freeze-frame, for easy identification.

She's got you by the balls.

The other files have to be the payload she wants to get into Darkbloom's system. You copy them over to another jump drive - along with the complete series of Naruto Shippuden - and pocket it.

Then you power down the laptop, pull out the hard drive, and stash it under your bed. Later, when you're alone, you'll pulverize the platters. 

By the time you're all showered up and ready for work, Whitney and Alex are both awake.

Whitney is naked.

Alex is wearing her clothes.

He looks utterly embarrassed. His face beet red, unable to make eye contact with either of you. Instead he worries his thumbnail and stares at the ground.

He may feel abashed to "crossdress" but other than the clothes being about half a size too big for his tiny frame, they suit him perfectly - a simple pair of shorts and a tank, not dissimilar from the outfit he wore (and soiled) yesterday.

Whitney looks way too pleased with herself. That always means trouble.

"Here he is," Whitney says, handing custody of Alex off to you. She pushes him forward, toward you, using his butt as a handle.

"You two have fun at work." She narrows her eyes at you. "But not too much fun."

Sighing, you grab your keys and shepherd Alex out the door, away from this maniac. Once again Whitney has taken advantage of your tendency to make bad decisions while drunk. Only now she's involved this poor, cute boy - err, this poor boy - in all of it too.

You'd rather pretend last night never happened. 

The drive to work begins in awkward silence. Alex just keeps chewing his thumbnail to a nubbin and staring pensively out the window.

You're not sure whether you should try to make conversation. Maybe he regrets what happened as much as you do.

What's the etiquette in dealing with a drunken one-night stand with a trap?

[ ] Don't try to make conversation.
>[x] Try to make conversation.

Eventally you can't bear it. You speak up, trying for inoffensive small talk:

"Looks like it might rain later. What do you--"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ally," Alex cuts in. He's still looking away.

"I'm sorry?" Here comes a conversation you dread...

"I was supposed to help you with your orientation yesterday, and I didn't help you at all! I'm useless!"

...That's what he's so nervous about? Work matters? Not the whole "blowing you and snowballing with your girlfriend" thing?

"Um. It's fine," you say. "You were busy."

"It's not fine!" Alex shouts, whipping his head around to look at you directly. He leans on the center console of the car. His eyes are dewy. "I owe you for helping me! I owe you my LIFE, basically!"

"Let's not go that far--"

"I've got all of DA's policies and procedures in a big binder. I'll take you through every single word of it. I PROMISE, Mr. Ally."

It's still strange to you that this is what has Alex so upset. But if he's not at all perturbed about the events of last night, you decide not to be either. You agree to let Alex help your onboarding today.

"But, uh - you don't need to call me 'Mr.' Ally," you say. "Just Ally is fine."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ally. You and Ms. Whitney were so nice to me, and that's how I show respect."

"You're doing it again."

"I'm sorry! I'll try to keep a lid on it!" 

At work, you send Alex down to Sable's R&D dungeon, telling him you'll catch up in a moment. You go meet with Cerise in her office on the 13th floor, to talk last minute strategy.

"Scrum," Cerise tells you.

"What?"

"All the teams do scrum at 7:45, that's the best time. You know -- for you to..."

To plant the jump drive where someone will find it, she means.

"What the hell is scrum?" you say.

"It's an agile framework for managing workflow across multi-functional teams in software and hardware development," Cerise says.

"Jesus. I can't get used to you spouting corporate buzzwords."

Cerise huffs. "I'm trying to help you here, you fucking faggot."

"That's better."

"The standup meeting takes 15 minutes. Everyone will be busy. You'll have enough time to get it done."

You think for a moment. "If I'm the only one wandering around when everyone else is supposed to be at a meeting, won't it look suspicious?"

Cerise folds her arms. "Fair point. The other option is to represent your team at the scrum-scrum."

You stare at her blankly.

"It's a cross-team meeting to recap the scrums of every individual team. They have it from 8:05 to 8:20 in the recreation area - supposed to make it more fun or some shit. When it gets out, you'd still have enough time to make it to the theater before anyone else. Probably."

"Probably."

"Yeah, probably."

Such confidence.

[ ] Skip the morning meeting and plant the jump drive then.
>[x] Attend the morning meeting and plant the jump drive afterwards. 

"Any second thoughts?" You ask her.

"Look at this shit," Cerise says, by way of answering. She hands you a single-page document: it's a press release. You skim it. (https://i.imgur.com/pc6km0D.jpg)

"So what?" You say when you're done.

"So they put that out yesterday without even telling me," Cerise says. "Copied my signature and everything. I never signed off on that!"

"Is that what you call a signature?" you ask dryly.

She shakes her head. "They've got MY name on a document that gives congress a big fat fucking middle finger, as if I was part of the decision." 

"Bitter?" you say.

"I don't know what I am. But I'm not having any second thoughts." 

Cerise's phone dings. She grabs it from her belt - she actually wears a goddamn belt clip for her phone, if you can believe it - and checks the display.

For the first time in these tumultuous few days, you see your older sister smile.

She stares at the screen for a moment, quietly thinking and biting her lower lip, then clacks out a reply that takes several long moments.

Then comes another ding from the phone, another smile, and more typing.

"I'm sorry," you say, "am I interrupting something?"

"Yeah. You are."

"Since when do you have friends?" You shoot back.

"Maybe it's a guy," Cerise says, sneering. "You're not the only Soliloquy who can sleep around, you know."

"Now I know you're lying," you say. You stand up. "Whatever. I'll see you at lunch."

A couple days ago, Whitney's birthday came and went. When you realized you hadn't gotten her a gift, you told her that you and Cerise would treat her to lunch instead.

She wanted to go to one of those "fancy as fuck places in Palo Alto" - whatever that means - and in your stupor last night before the incident with Alex, you drunk-texted Cerise to set the date. No backing out now.

Hopefully lunch won't be interrupted by anything crazy. Like Camelia murdering you, say. 

You sit alone with Alex in a meeting room downstairs. He's got an enormous binder with multicolored sticky notes poking out from three sides.

"Should I go top or bottom first?" Alex says.

"Top, I guess."

He opens the binder up and begins straight away: "Okay. Our policy on what to do if there's an active shooter... spooky. So, the purpose of this policy..."

He reads, and reads, and reads. You pretend to be listening closely.

About half an hour later, Alex is well into describing the Darkbloom Analytics code of conduct - Respect, Excellence, Integrity - when you get a text from a blocked number.

>Tick tock.

You shudder.

"Hey," you say, cutting Alex off. "The scrum is coming up soon. Should we do anything to get ready?"

"Hmm?" Alex murmurs. "Scrum?"

"You know what that is, right?"

He nods, suddenly excited. He balls his hands into fists and practically bounces in his chair as he chirps: "Of course I know! It's an agile framework for managing workflow across multi-functional teams in software and hardware development! Everyone knows that!"

You massage the bridge of your nose.

"But..." Alex says, deflating a little, "I've never seen Ms. Guiteau do anything like that. She's a more traditional manager."

[ ] Go speak to her about it.
>[x] Go on your own. 

As you think through your options, you get another text notification - thankfully, this one is from Whitney, and not the psycho blackmailing you.

It's a photo of a tiny pink negligee with lace trim, along with a matching and equally sheer pair of crotchless panties. These items are pictured lying on your dorm room bed, so obviously she already went ahead and bought them.

She follows the picture with:

>What do you think?

The idea of her wearing that outfit makes you arch an appreciative eyebrow, but it really doesn't seem like her style. You text her back with that sentiment, more or less.

Her reply comes quickly:

>What?? No its not for me its for alex

You put the phone face-down on the table and slide it away as if to distance yourself from the words on the screen. You lean back and take a sharp breath of air between your teeth. Ohhh man.

"Are you okay?" Alex asks.

Not at all.

"Listen," you say. "I need to take a break. I'll be back in about 15 minutes." (Better you don't involve anyone else in your plan here.)

You stand and slip away to attend the scrum-scrum. 

At 8:05 on the dot, you stand in a semicircle with other team members around an artificial bouldering wall in the rec area. The man you recognize as Nelson Berenstoin is at the center, in front of a whiteboard with different names on it, moving post-it-notes from "to do" to "in progress" to "Done!"

Rose is here, too - representing Team Cerise, it seems.

"Looks like your team is behind," she whispers smugly. She isn't wrong. Sable's name has a giant mess of post-it notes under the "to do" column and none at all under the other two categories. It's obvious she's been neglecting these planning meetings for a long time.

"Alabaster," Nelson says, turning to you. "So glad you could make it. Do you have any updates from your team?"

"Uh..." you say dumbly, not even sure how to begin. Rose is beaming with satisfaction at how lost you are.

You're not going to let her have that satisfaction.

"All done," you say smoothly.

"Excuse me?" Nelson responds.

"Yeah - all that stuff on the board, it's all done now."

Rose snickers. But Nelson is sincerely impressed: "Amazing work," he says. "You're making waves already." He grabs the post-its and moves them to the "Done!" column. Rose is clearly stupefied at how easy that was.

"How about you, Rose?" Nelson says next. "Any updates?"

"Uh..." she looks side to side, blushing. "Uh, my team is all done too."

Nelson frowns.

"You're all done?" He says. He takes one of the post-its down and read it. "So for instance, you completed imaging the servers affected by the data breach?"

"Ah--"

"That's what I thought." He puts the post-it back up in the "to do" column. "Try to come to this meeting better prepared next time," he says.

Rose is silently fuming.

When the meeting lets out, it's time to beat a hasty path to the theater - the theater where those weeaboo losers like to congregate. A jump drive labeled "Naruto" will be like catnip to those fuckers - irresistible. Or at least, you hope so.

[ ] Take Rose along.
>[x] Go in solo. 

You brush past the doors to the theater, and are relieved to see that no one else is here yet. Slipping your hand into your pocket - using your shirt sleeve so you don't leave prints - you pull out the jump drive and set it on the red plush of a chair in the first row, where hopefully someone will see it.

You're just on your way out when the doors open again, half blinding you with bright light from the outside halls.

"Squeee!" comes a horrible shrieky voice like nails on chalkboard. "A new person! Someone else wants to join the Morning Anime Club!"

She comes running up to you, paunch jiggling. "I'm Kimberly! Kimberly Manlove! I run this show!"

You close your eyes and silently pray for strength.

A gangly beanstalk of a man comes in next. "Connor," he says, offering a handshake, which you decline. "Are you one of the new interns?"

"Yeah..."

More people are filtering in. Kimberly is already fiddling with her laptop, connecting it to a projector.

It would look awfully suspicious if you left now. And if you stay, you can at least try to make sure one of these people finds the jump drive.

By the same token, you don't want to be in the same universe as these people, much less the same room.

"We're gonna watch Inuyasha today!" Kimberly calls over her shoulder.

"Epic win!" a man named Franklin replies. This man is an adult, as far as you can tell.

[ ] Leave.
>[x] Stay. 

You settle into a chair as far away from these idiots as you can sit without one of them telling you to come sit closer - a skill you've had years to practice in various unwanted social situations such as this.

Since the show they're watching is so beneath you (obviously), you instead choose to people-watch the club members - and maybe scout out the person most likely to take the jump drive.

Kimberly is rapt, staring at the action on-screen - Connor is talking to her, or more accurately talking at her (she doesn't seem to really care). He's actually referring to her as "lady," Jesus motherfucking Christ, but she doesn't pick up on his hopeless infatuation, either.

Franklin eats one candy bar after another, never slowing down for anything. Big fan of Snickers, it seems. A man named Earl picks incessantly at a hole in one of the chairs, pulling out the batting and - at one point - sniffing it curiously.

This is surely hell.

"So what's your favorite anime, Alabaster?" Connor asks, when it's clear that he won't make any progress with Kimberly today. He's wearing a shirt that says "Genius at Work."

"I'm sure you've never heard of it," you reply. "Hey, what's that on the front row--"

"Try me!" Connor says.

You sigh. "It's a close call between Strike Witches or Girls Und Panzer," you tell him.

"Oh, huh," Connor says. "Guess you're right. What are those about?"

You're about to launch into an explanation when you see a man you actually know walk into the theater. You can hardly believe your eyes.

It's Naruto Stackleford - your old high school friend. 

"Alabaster!" he says. "Sup, my nigger?"

"What the fuck --" you hiss. "Why are you here?"

"It's a long story," he says. Despite the dockers and the button-down shirt, he still wears his patented pussy deflector from high school on his forehead.

Stackleford was a millionaire the last time you heard about him - he hit it big with an early investment in Bitcoin and moved to Vegas a couple years ago to live a life of luxury.

"I'm in data entry now," he explains.

"Why are you working some minimum wage job in data entry? Aren't you supposed to be partying on a yacht or something?"

He shrugs. "There was a big crash, bro. Really hit me hard."

"It didn't crash THAT hard," you sputter. "You don't have any money left?"

He looks away. "There was a lot of shit going on... someone stole one of my wallets... and then I made some bad investments... and Sabrina..."

"Sabrina?"

"I thought she loved me, man..."

You almost pity him. He lucked into and then squandered a fortune in less than two years. 

You lean back, closing your eyes and suppressing a groan. Of all the people to run into...

"What are you up to now, nigwad?" He says. "Still crushing it?"

"I'm an intern," you say.

"Still crushing it?" He repeats.

"Yes, Stackleford. Still crushing it."

He pulls a bag of chips from seemingly nowhere and loudly eats some. "Still hanging out with Whitney?"

Stackleford's unrequited obsession with Whitney was the stuff of legend in high school.

>[x] Yes. We're dating now.
[ ] Yes. We're still friends. 

Stackleford's jaw hangs slack. A half-chewed mound of potato chips rests wetly on his tongue.

Finally, he swallows. The gulp reverberates through the theater.

"D-dating?" He says. "As in... dating, as in dating?"

"Yeah. Dating as in dating."

"Oh. Uh... g-good for you," he says. "You two were always... t-tell her I said hi..."

He stands up. "'Scuse me," he says. He walks away, seating himself in the front row of the theater.

He watches the screen blankly for a few moments, like a soldier suffering shellshock. And then, in a moment of pure serendipity, he happens to notice the jump drive sitting on the chair beside him.

"Oh shit," you hear him mutter to himself. "At least something good happened today..."

You see him pocket the drive.

Thank god for Stackleford.

You duck out of the theater, feeling upbeat. 

Downstairs, Alex finishes going through the policies and procedures binder right around the time you're due to head out for lunch with Cerise and Whitney. You are now armed, he says, with all the tools you need to be a model employee.

No more texts from Camelia, which you can only assume is good news. Her 24 hour deadline has passed. Stackleford must have done the dirty deed for you.

"Any questions?" Alex asks, closing the binder.

>[x] Wanna come to lunch with us?
[ ] I'm good, thanks. 

His eyes actually sparkle with joy when you ask him. He's like a puppy, he's so innocent.

Cerise picked Ming's for the lunch date - a Chinese takeout place that she says is to die for.

When you arrive at the restaurant, she's sitting in a corner booth with her head cradled in her hands. Whitney is across from her, a straw in her mouth, loudly slurping the last bits of soda from between the ice inside her cup.

"Hey Ally~" Whitney says, noticing you. "And you brought Alex with you too! Awesome." She pats the seat beside her, motioning for Alex to sit. When Alex sits, she pokes him all over his body, rapidly, with both index fingers. He giggles and tries - but not very hard - to fight her off.

"What's wrong with her?" You ask, nodding at Cerise.

Whitney stops playing with Alex. "Cerise is a meme now," she says. "She doesn't like it." 

"I'm gonna be sick," Cerise says. "Turns out that ever since my name made front page news, people have been obsessing over me. Look at this."

You sit next to her and she hands you her phone. You almost literally cannot believe what you're seeing: on screen is an image board thread dedicated specifically to her. The subject line is "/csg/ - Cerise Soliloquy General 24." In just a few days they've been through two dozen threads about her. (https://i.imgur.com/f5cWDo8.jpg )

You read aloud.

>Do you think Cerise ever wears the same underwear more than one day in a row? 
>I want to smell them!
>>not wanting to smell her socks instead 
>>implying I don't want to do both. 
>I want to fuck Cerise Soliloquy! I really want to fuck her!

"Stop," Cerise begs. "I really am gonna be sick if you keep that up."

You feel a twinge of anger reading these creeps comment on Cerise like this. You're not sure why. Do you have hidden familial affection for your older sister, after all?

You continue aloud, noticing posts downthread about you rather than Cerise. It's a surreal experience:

>Her little brother works at DA now too ... he's literally /our guy/. 
>Lucky bastard. 
>that feel when you will never be Alabaster Soliloquy and plow your hot older sister's NEET pu--

You stop before you make yourself sick, too. "How the fuck did this happen?" You say.

Cerise can only shake her head sadly.

Whitney is loudly slurping the vestiges of her soda again. "Could you stop?" you snap. She sticks her tongue out at you. 

The waiter comes by to take your orders. Alex is first - he orders kung pao chicken.

Then Whitney: she asks for pizza.

"Seriously?" You say. "This is a Chinese restaurant. You're ordering pizza off the kids' menu at one of the best Chinese takeout places in town?"

"Pizza is Chinese!" She insists. "It's totally Chinese! Tell him, Alex!"

"I don't think that's right..." he says timidly.

"Who is this girl?" Cerise asks, noticing Alex for the first time.

The waiter just stands there awkwardly, watching the exchange unfold.

"Pizza is NOT Chinese food," You half shout. "It's Italian. It's the most stereotypically Italian food there is!"

"Erm..." Whitney drawls, gazing off into space while the cogs inside her brain slowly turn. "No - no, I'm pretty sure the Italians just stole it from China."

"That's pasta. Jesus fucking christ." You turn to the waiter. "She'll take the kung pao chicken too."

"Pushy, pushy," Whitney says. She kicks you under the table.

You ignore this. "And, uh, go heavy on the soy sauce for both of them," you tell the waiter.

He writes this down.

Whitney makes a face. "Yecch," she says. "I hate that shit." She addresses the waiter: "no soy sauce for me, thanks."

"You can give me yours if you don't want it," Alex says. "It's my favorite. I could practically drink the stuff."

You and Cerise order - the same thing you always do, egg foo young with crab rangoon - and the waiter scurries off.

"I'm Cerise," your sister says, shaking Alex's hand. "Do you work with Alabaster? I think I've seen you around."

"Uh huh! I'm Alex!"

"Look at you," Cerise says to you. "Real ladies' man nowadays..."

You don't have the energy to correct her right now. 

When the food arrives, Whitney takes Alex's fork from him and tries to feed him herself.

"Oh my god," you say. "Don't do that, Whit-- you don't have to put up with that, Alex. Don't let her bully you."

"Err-" he says. "Okay..." he takes his fork back and starts eating on his own.

"Yes you do," Whitney tells him. "You gotta let me bully you. I'll be nice." She takes the fork from him again. Alex obediently opens his mouth, closes his eyes and lets Whitney feed him.

"Weird friends you've got," Cerise murmurs.

"You're a demented person," you tell Whitney. "Completely sick."

"Om," Alex murmurs softly, munching the food off the fork that Whitney holds for him.

"See?" Whitney says. "He likes it." 

Back at work, you're sitting again in your workstation next to Alex.

Sable's office door is slightly ajar, and from where you sit you can see her sitting motionless at her monitor.

"What's up with her?" You ask Alex. "Is she always like this? It's creepy."

He shakes his head. "She goes through moods like this. A few days of being sad, then a few days of being really energetic. It comes and goes."

>[x] Is there anything we can do?
[ ] Let her manage it on her own. 

You stand once again in Sable's creepy cave of an office. Alex is beside you. He suggested brightening her mood by reporting on the team's progress.

"So, uh..." you begin. "I stopped by the scrum this morning."

Sable regards you, her expression blank. "What is scrum?" She asks.

You goggle at her for a moment before catching yourself. "You're - joking, right?"

She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly.

"It's an agile framework for managing workflow across--" You stop yourself. "...I don't know what I'm saying," you admit. "Anyway, it went well."

"That is good to hear," Sable says. Then: "I decided to kill myself today."

Her face is as blank as her tone.

Alex starts to cry, almost instantly. "Ms. Guiteau - no! What are you saying?"

You have no idea how to respond to what you just heard.

"I have failed," Sable says. "I have no ideas. No path forward. This is the end." She pushes Alex back as he tries to hug her. "There is no reason to cry. I failed, and that's all there is."

"Ms. Guiteau, please - please!" 

You try a different track than Alex: "You're going to make us finish all your work on our own? How lame is that?"

"Shut up, Ally!" Alex shouts. "Shut up!"

"All these meetings, this project development..." you say. "You expect us to handle it on our own? I barely made it through scrum by myself."

Sable's eyes dart from side to side. As if a light-switch has been turned, she buzzes with a sudden energy verging on the maniacal.

"Scrum," she says, loudly.

"--Scrum?" Alex says, sniffling.

"Scrum! That's it! How did I not think of it sooner - scrum..." She kicks the ground, sending her chair whizzing backwards across the lab floor. Just as she's about to hit another desk with the back of her chair, she swivels around and stops the chair's momentum by grabbing the edge of the desktop. She pulls up a blank notepad document on the PC there and starts typing, faster than you've ever seen anyone type, in what appears to be some sort of shorthand. "Scrum!" she repeats. "It's all a scrum!"

"So..." you say, drawling. "You want to do the morning meeting for me now?"

"Fuck your scrum!" Sable shrieks, still typing like a person gone insane. You and Alex both recoil as if you've been hit. "Who gives a shit about scrum? Jesus fucking Christ, Alabaster, you idiot!"

The two of you can only gawk.

"Everything," she says. "Everything is a big, a big - it's - have you ever known anyone who owns a stapler and doesn't have a home office of some kind? Think about it. Have you ever known anyone like that?"

You shrug, but you're not sure whether she sees you, or whether she even cares what your answer is, because she's still intently focused on her screen and her note-taking.

"Have you ever known anyone who keeps more than one Chinese takeout menu on their fridge and who also has a wine collection? It doesn't happen, Alabaster! It's not possible!"

"I'm sorry, but..."

"It's not about people, it's objects! A big scrum of objects in an interconnected network that predicts the people in the middle. If you knew what was in someone's home, you would know the person... but we already knew that... but what if - what if there were CLASSES - classes of people, Alabaster, but not the way we talk about classes. Not middle class or lower class, not high caste or low caste, not ruler and oppressed. We historically can't categorize people the right way, we look at the wrong things, we're humans, we don't have the right analytics skills. We've missed it all along. Because what if the class of a person is - it all goes back to what they OWN, which is what they VALUE, which is who they ARE. What if there's a select group - no more than - 1,000, maybe, less? Objects. Wholly discontinuous. Non-overlapping. If you could FIND them--"

Then (as if she needs it), she grabs a pill bottle, pours out three ritalin, and eats them like tic tacs. You slowly back away, and she doesn't stop speaking for even a moment. "Scrum," she says, "It's all a big scrum, it's a big scrum..." 

"Wait!" Sable cries. "Wait. I need your help."

"With what?" you say.

"There's an emergency board meeting in 10 minutes, up on the 20th floor. But there's no WAY I can go now, I'm too busy."

"I could go," Alex suggests.

"No! I need you, Alex! I need you to help come up with a new codebase. Totally new. We're scrapping Project Ulysses."

Alex looks way too happy for news so daunting as starting everything over from scratch.

"Go to the board meeting and act as my proxy," Sable tells you.

"Is that legal?"

She quickly prints out a document and hands it to you. "This authorizes you to vote in my interest," she says, and immediately goes back to her typing. Alex sits down beside her, as hopped up on energy as she is.

"But I don't know what your interest--" you begin

"Shut the fuck up!" She yells. "Just vote however Vivian tells you to. That's all I do at those stupid meetings."

So now you're supposed to be a proxy for a proxy. Great.

>[x] Go to the meeting.
[ ] Skip it. 

You step out of the elevator, onto the 20th floor where you interviewed for your job just a couple days ago.

Vivian is sitting here in the lobby outside the conference room, reading a printout of something or other.

She looks up.

"Alabaster Soliloquy," she says. "You should not be here. Please return to your work space at once."

"Actually," you say, handing her the proxy authorization. "Sable sent me. She's too busy to attend."

Vivian reads the form. "Ridiculous," she mutters. "That crazy woman... Fine. This way, then. Please do not speak out of turn or embarrass yourself." 

Inside the conference room, the board is already seated at their big executive leather swivel chairs, all around the oval conference table.

Vivian explains your presence to the group, who seem none too pleased to have you. Then she introduces you to the people you don't know already. Besides Nelson Berenstoin and Steven Armstrong, there's Vasily Keremiov, financial chief; Thad McMichael, privacy chief; and Dalton Cantor, security chief.

"Father is still flying back from Washington," Vivian says. "But mother just got back on an earlier flight."

"Hello," says Mara Darkbloom, not even looking at you. 

"First order of business," Mara says, handing out some printouts of an email. When you get a copy, you see it's the call for sensitivity training that Rose sent out.

"We have been asked to host sensitivity training for all employees," Mara says. "With the recent bad PR, I think it would be unwise to ignore this issue. We don't need more negative press."

Steven, adjusting his glasses, reads aloud from the email. "An environment of toxic masculinity... need to establish a safe space for women and minorities... gendered slurs? Who is this cunt?"

"Rose Manroy. A recently hired intern," Mara says.

"Best to just do what she wants," Dalton says. "I vote yea."

"Whatever," Steven says. "Yea."

The vote continues. Everyone else votes yea too.

"Waste of time," Vivian mutters. She doesn't get to vote - she isn't of age and doesn't have an official position on the board.

Vivian's seeming displeasure gives you an out to vote nay on this motion - even if it won't make a difference - but voting nay would be going against every other board member.

[ ] Yea.
>[x] Nay.

You feel momentarily powerful.

"Fine. Motion passes 6 to 1," Mara says.

"A little dissenter, huh?" Steven says, grinning at you. "I like it. You know, I'm gonna have to set this bullshit up, which is way too much time and effort - so maybe it would be best to delegate."

"I'm sorry?" you say.

"You and this Rose bitch can put the training together. Try not to let her get carried away."

"Now, wait a second here--" you begin.

"Then it's settled," Mara says. "Now - onto the main purpose of this meeting."

You feel ill. 

"I am moving that we immediately discontinue the internal investigation into the 3/10 hack," Mara announces.

Vivian shakes her head. "Father needs to be present for this discussion."

"I'm sorry..." Mara says, turning to her daughter, "I must have missed the memo. Do you get a vote now?"

"Mother--"

"David is in the air," Mara says. Her voice is pure ice. "This matter is too pressing to wait for him to return. Decisiveness is the only thing that can save us."

"You have not even allowed him a proxy. This is a coup," Vivian says.

"The board is in agreement. If David disagreed, he would be outvoted regardless."

"Actually," Steven says, leaning forward, "I've change my mind. Our public relations are at a breaking point as it is. Closing this investigation would worsen our position."

Mara's face betrays no surprise, but certainly contempt. "I have a press release ready for distribution the moment this vote goes through," Mara says. "I think it will look rather redemptive for us as an organization."

Dalton opens a manila folder and passes out copies of the prepared statement. This time, nobody hands one to you.

Vivian is the first to finish reading and the first to speak.

"Unacceptable," she says. "You would open our business to public scrutiny. Congress? Mother, you cannot be serious."

"I am serious and we are going to vote on it."

"You would send me to testify before the Senate? How can you do this to us?" This is the most emotion you've heard in Vivian's voice in the short time you have known her. 
 
"We all would testify," Mara says. "Don't make this about you, Vivian. I've had quite enough of your idea that this company moves only on your say. We will all sit before a small group of Senators - Senators we own - they will cluck their tongues at us for the cameras and then all of this will be over."

Thad speaks up now. "Saying we want transparency is one thing. But actual transparency can't be a good option here. If we hand internal documents to the Senate, they will leak. I was ready to vote for this but you have to remove that from the press release."

Mara picks an invisible piece of lint from the thin shoulder strap of her dress. "Are we quite ready to vote now?" She says.

The vote circles around the table: Mara, Vasily, and Dalton are yeas. Thad and Steven vote nay. Nelson is last one to vote before you do.

"I have to vote nay on this," he says.

"What." Mara is surprised now. Her entire plan to do an end-run around her husband just collapsed on itself.

"We can kill this in the crib, but only if we keep our hands on it," Nelson explains. "Letting these morons in government use it as a photo op will sink us. We're coming up on midterm elections here, Mara - they want to make an example out of this company."

"For the love of God," Mara says. She stands. "You short-sighted, incompetent buffoons! You are letting a 17 year old girl tell you how to run one of the largest companies in the world. And because of that you have destroyed our only chance to fix this mess. Fools. All of you. Fools." 

"Actually," you say, "uh - the vote isn't done yet. I do get to vote here, right?"

Pindrop quiet. You feel like you could die.

"Has Sable instructed you how to vote, young man?" Mara says finally. This is the first time she has ever made eye contact with you. It feels like being physically struck.

"She- gave me instructions," you say.

You're not sure what happens to Cerise, her team, or anyone else if the internal investigation closes and DA allows access to outsiders. You certainly have no faith in Mara and the rest of them not to pin this debacle on Cerise when they go to testify before congress.

By the same token, you're confident that Cerise is in serious trouble if the investigation continues, too.

But now you've spoken up. And now you have to vote.

[ ] Yea. End the investigation.
>[x] Nay. Continue the investigation. 

"Motion fails, 3 to 4," Vivian says. Her voice has something approaching happiness in it.

Mara quakes with disgust and anger.

"You set this up," she says. She looks at her daughter. "You will pay for this. I promise."

"Mother, be reasonable. This is in the company's best interests."

"This meeting is adjourned," Mara says. "Get out of my sight."

As everyone files out, Vivian stops you, tugging on your shirt sleeve. "Thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy," she whispers. "You showed fortitude I did not know you possessed. Take this as a token of appreciation."

She hands you a slip of paper, with instructions not to read it until she's gone.

You start to go as well, but Mara calls after you:

"Alabaster. Please see me in my office."

You cast an uneasy glance at Vivian. Her expression is inscrutable, but that's enough to say she can't help you here. So instead of following the rest of the executives out the door to the lobby, you follow Mara through the door at the back of the room, which leads to her and her husband's spacious office suites. 

Mara's office is like something from Lovecraft, a yawningly large and sparsely furnished and brightly lit room that only seems to expand as you move towards the back, where a white steel desk the size of an adolescent elephant is situated.

Mara smooths the rear of her dress and sits at the absurdly large desk.

"Sit," she commands you in turn.

You sit.

Mara folds her hands in front of her. She stares at you. She says absolutely nothing.

"Is this about-- what did you w-- what's going--" you stammer.

Mara smiles at you for a moment just long enough to be awkward.

Then she reaches into a drawer. She comes back up with the jump drive.

She sets it down between you.

It's the only object on the desk. A speck of black plastic in a sea of white metal.

"What is this?" Mara says.

>How do you respond?

"It looks like a jump drive to me," you say. If there was ever a time for a poker face, this is it.

Mara laughs huskily.

"A fat little nothing named Stackleford turned this in to security around lunchtime," she says. "He said he found it in the theater of the recreation area. Said it aroused his suspicions. Said he'd been the victim of a cyber attack very similar to that - a tantalizingly placed USB stick with malicious code loaded onto it."

"Did he-"

"Of course not," Mara says. "He didn't plug it in. Are you disappointed?"

You say nothing.

"You're on camera, Alabaster. Don't play stupid."

"I--" you begin.

"Take it," she says. "Do it."

"...What?"

Mara is standing. Before you even know what's going on, she's got you pinned against the wall with her hand to your throat.

"I said take it. Do it."

"Wh-why--" you choke.

"Vivian's father listens to her far too much - her silly ideas - both of them need to be taught a lesson."

"I don't know what you're talking abo--"

She tightens the grip on your throat. "A little chaos in this organization will show them both. Whatever it is you're planning, do it."

She lets go, and you fall to your knees, clutching your neck.

She drops the jump drive before you.

You grab it and leave her office as quickly as you can. 

Alex and Sable are hard at work in Sable's office. The rest of the office has already gone home for the day. Sitting at your workstation, you feel quite alone, and very small.

You read the note Vivian gave to you.

It's a coupon for a free ice cream sundae from the cafeteria - it's one of the few items there that they typically charge for.

On the back of the coupon, she wrote: "please join me at lunch this Friday. My treat."

She's kind of cute, in her own way, but you have a hard time feeling happy right now. You're in deep with forces you don't even begin to comprehend.

You stare at your screen. Mara will know whether you "did it" or not. So will Camelia. You're out of time and options. Do you have any other choice but to obey?

You look down at the USB slot on your computer, then the jump drive in your hand.

>[x] Do it.
[ ] Don't do it. 

You move to plug the jump drive into your workstation.

Then a different idea strikes you.

You wheel your chair over to the workstation of one of the coders you know as Pai. He's one of the idiots who was making fun of Alex yesterday. You plug the infected jump drive into his computer.

A command prompt appears for a split second, then disappears.

It's done. 

You decide to leave for the day. In the parking lot, when you start your car, you're startled to see a silhouetted figure in your headlamps.

It's a woman, who visors her eyes as she looks at you. You roll down your window.

"You're in the way," you say.

"Kay Vera, LA Tribune. Do you have a moment?"

You recognize that name. This is the woman who put up that smear piece about Cerise - who broke the news about the hack in the first place.

"No comment," you tell her. "Move."

"I have just a couple questions," she says.

"I said move."

"No, I don't think I will. I'm just fine right he--"

You begin to pull forward, startling her backwards. She pounds a fist on the hood of your car. "Jerk! You could have hit me!"

"I told you to move. And to be honest, if I hit you, it would probably score me some serious points back at work."

Kay writes this down on a notepad.

"Don't write that down," you say, frustrated.

Kay circles around and leans in through your window. "Your sister is in trouble. People are starting to wonder if she's connected to the 3/10 hack. Do you have anything to say about that?"

[ ] Talk to her.
>[x] Leave. 

You pull forward, and Kay - still leaning on your window - is jerked bodily forward by the momentum.

"Jerk!" she cries, spinning on her heels and barely keeping her balance.

"Please direct all inquiries to Steven Armstrong, our spokesman," you sneer, as you peel out of the parking lot.

"We're not done yet, Alabaster!" she cries.

Yeah, right.

[ ] Go home to Whitney.
>[x] Visit Cerise's apartment.

You knock on Cerise's door. Rose answers.

Ugh.

"Go away," Rose sneers, trying to close the door in your face. You stop it with a flattened palm.

"Don't you want to know how things went with the plan today?" You say.

"Not particularly. You're still alive, so I assume it went just fine. You're not supposed to move in until tomorrow, so give me one more night of peace, will you?"

You step past her, ignoring her protests. "I'm here for my sister, not for you."

"She's in her bedroom. I wouldn't bother her."

Cerise's apartment is one of the most depressing places you've ever seen: the living room is furnished only with two foldaway couches - obviously purchased in preparation for you and Rose - and absolutely nothing else. The small kitchenette has nothing in it but empty beer bottles, empty bags of takeout from In-n-Out, and empty bowls of ramen. When you look in the fridge, it's what you suspected: nothing but more beer. When you look in the cabinets, the same: nothing but more ramen - Indomie brand, the only kind she'll eat.

It's mystifying how she can be alive after years of a diet like this.

"You're such a snoop," Rose says. "What's wrong with you?"

"I'm concerned about how my sister is living," you tell her.

"Yeah right. You've never been concerned about anyone but yourself."

"Oh, by the way," you say, stepping out into the living room again. "Your sensitivity training got approved. You'll be the one responsible for planning it."

Rose's face lights up.

"I'll be on the planning committee too," you say.

Her smile and optimism: gone.

"Bullshit," she says. She steps to you, glowering. "You're lying. You're trying to get under my skin."

"Back off," you say. "I'm warning you. I don't like that look you're giving me."

"FUCK you," she says, taking another step forward.

A few moments later, you're at one another's throats - literally - physically scuffling like unruly children. You don't even notice Cerise stepping out of her bedroom. 

Cerise separates the two of you - it would be slapstick if wasn't so emasculating - she grabs both of you by the collar and hauls you apart and lets you go.

"If you two are going to live with me, you're going to behave like adults," she says.

"He started it!" Rose cries.

"Nuh uh!" You say.

"Holy shit, you two. I knew it was bad, but - is this everyday life for you? Is this how you normally treat each other?"

You and Rose look away, saying nothing.

"Look, I'm not in the business of relationship advice, but you two should seriously just fuck already," Cerise says. "For the love of god. You'll both feel better."

You and Rose start up at the same time, shouting over one another: "What?--" "What?--" "That is sick--" "You're sick--" "--Demented--" "You cannot be serious--" "--to think I would stoop so low--" "--that I could even think about it--" "--makes me ill, physically ill--" "Not to mention that we're cousins--" "--Once removed--" "--and a misogynist prig--" "--unrepentant degenerate--" "--colossal moron of a loser--" "--bitchy dumb fat cow--" "--of a pig of a fucking CREEP--"

"Goddamn it," Cerise yells. "I can't deal with this. I actually cannot deal with this." She gropes at her own face as if nursing a migraine. "You're both insufferable." 

When you're calm again, you explain to Rose and Cerise the confrontation with Mara Darkbloom.

"I think I really will be ill now," Rose says. "We're so..." she stops, and holds a hand to her mouth to keep from hyperventilating. "You ruined my life, Alabaster..."

"What about that Camelia woman?" Cerise asks.

"No more contact," you say. "I guess she's satisfied. If she wasn't, I think I would have heard from her by now."

"I hope so," Cerise says. Then: "You should sleep here tonight. I don't think it's safe for you to be alone."

"I've got Whitney," you say. "She's basically the terminator whenever she thinks someone is messing with me. Plus, I've got my final exam in dynamics in the morning. I can't exactly miss that."

Cerise is doing that thing where she's obviously worried but too proud to show it. She shrugs and glances away.

[ ] Fine, I'll stay here tonight.
[ ] I should be going. Whitney will protect me, don't worry about it. 

>[x] Fine, I'll stay here tonight.

You text Whitney that you'll be sleeping at Cerise's tonight.

Her response is typical:

>assjerk

You feel a little bad about standing her up on your last night living in Berkeley, so you make a compromise offer.

>Come over for a bit?

>Fuck yeah! You're the greatest, ally~~~ 

Three tildes. She must happy. 

Cerise retires to bed. You and Rose sit on your respective couches, glowering at one another, neither one letting your guard down.

A bit later, you hear Cerise talking and laughing in her bedroom. Curious, you poke your head inside to see what's up.

She's wearing a headseat, chatting on webcam with a cute redheaded girl. You'll be damned: she really does have a friend.

The girl notices you, and must say something about it to Cerise, because Cerise suddenly wheels around and shouts at you. "Get out, Alabaster! Out out out!"

She slams the door in your face.

Back to glowering at Rose, you guess. 

Rose is weaker than you: about 90 minutes later, the quiet staring contest has left her exhausted and she falls asleep sitting up. She snores softly, leaning against the arm of the couch. Her mouth is parted and a little trickle of drool comes out.

You stand and cover her with a blanket. Not because you care about her - it's just that the last thing you need is her catching a cold and spreading her germs to you.

Soon after, Whitney texts you that she's pulling up. You creep to the front door and let her inside. She instantly latches onto your face for a deep tongue kiss.

"Is Alex here too?" she whispers when she pulls back.

"No, he's at work. He's really into it, so I left him there."

"Oh well," Whitney says. "You're just as fun." She glances into the living room where Rose is still snoozing.

"Don't even think about it," you say. "We can go somewhere else if you want to fool around."

"Oh, what's the harm?" Whitney asks. "Besides, I've got a cool trick to show you. She won't wake up."

>[X] Well, OK
>[ ] Seriously, we should go somewhere else.

"It's all about upper body strength," Whitney explains. You're sitting on the floor in the living room, naked, your legs splayed out. Whitney is naked, too. Just seeing her plump little cunt on display is enough to get you hard these days. It's such a cute slit, invitingly soft looking and delicate.
 
You feel a little thrill of exposure here, too, doing something like this so close to where Rose is sleeping. From where you sit, you can see her - although with the lights out, she's not much more than a shadowed lump on the couch.
 
Whitney gets into a pushup position and then arches her back at an angle that looks downright painful. Then with a graceful push forward, she's standing fully upright, upside-down, on just her hands.
 
She walks forward with grace you never could have imagined for a person using their palms for feet. Her slight frame is probably a benefit, here. Her body is sleek and small-looking in the moonlight coming through the window.
 
"What do you think?" she asks.
 
"That's - impressive," you manage.
 
"Just watch."
 
She walks further forward still, until she's right in front of you. Her face is level with your crotch.
 
"You can't be serious-" you begin.
 
She's serious. She opens wide and engulfs your dick in the hot confines of her mouth.
 
"Oh my god," you groan. She pushes herself up and down, raising and lowering her throat around your cock. She's actually deepthroating you by doing standing pushups. She pistons back and forth, sucking you off, her movements agonizingly but deliciously slow.
 
Her neck muscles tighten and loosen with expert precision, milking your aching cock shaft. You leak precum straight into her, but gravity has the advantage: it seeps back down along with her drool all over your crotch, your thighs, and the floor.
 
Eventually, even Whitney can't maintain her gymnastic pose. She begins to wobble. Not wanting to lose this delicious new pleasure, you lean forward and wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her against you. Now you're supporting her weight as she sits upside-down on your dick. She never stops sucking you like her life depends on it. Her ass bumps against your face as you hold her, and you do what any red-blooded young man would: you bury your entire face in it.
 
Whitney's asshole is tiny, tight and fun to probe. Even the smell is inviting, not dirty, but sweet and womanly. Every time your tongue breaks past the puckering ring, you feel her slobbery mouth tighten around your dick. You can control the tempo of her blowjob by controlling the tempo of your tongue in her ass.
 
You hear rustling from over by the couch now. Whitney doesn't stop, but you poke your head up to see what it is. It's hard to make out a lot of detail, but Rose is definitely awake, and she's looking directly at the two of you.
 
You're far beyond caring.
 
You turn 180 degrees, bringing Whitney along for the ride, and then tip her over so she lands with a light thud on the floor. She just giggles at the abuse: "meanie~" she coos, sputtering up a frothy mix of slime from the way you used her mouth.
 
"I need to fuck you," you growl.
 
She sits up on her elbows, spreading her legs as wide as they go, and holds her pussy open for you. She either has no idea Rose is watching or simply doesn't care. Either way, this is happening.
 
You climb over her. The positioning went just as planned: from this angle, Rose will be able to clearly see where your dick enters Whitney as you fuck in and out of her.
 
That thought in mind, you go balls deep in a single squelching thrust. Your body collapses against Whitney's as you shove your cock inside - and Whitney falls flat on her back with the force of it, her legs entwining with yours. Whitney is powerless to do anything now, pinned beneath your weight. Even athletic soccer star Whitney Price is unable to overcome your masculine power advantage. She can only let you rut around and fuck her as you wish, your ass bouncing up and down.
 
Right now you're using her body to get off, nothing more - and to make sure Rose sees every graphic moment of it.
 
"Fuck me," Whitney chants over and over in a sing-song voice, her voice an airy whine from the force of exactly that.
 
You hear a little "mmmf-" from the couch where Rose is sitting. You look over your shoulder - and Whitney is looking now, too.
 
Rose is curled up under the blanket, her face poking out as she watches the lewd display.
 
She's softly crying to herself, it sounds like - but there's also a rhythmic wet slapping noise muffled by her covers that definitely isn't chaste.
 
Rose is actually sobbing while she masturbates to you and Whitney fucking.
 
"Told you~" Whitney says to her. She laces her fingers through your hair and pulls you into a lingering kiss as your thrusts become more insistent, more needful. Her insides are searing hot and getting hotter, dripping wet and getting wetter - she likes to show off as much as you do, apparently.
 
"Cum inside," she tells you. "Cum in me, Ally. Cum in me!"
 
You groan - way louder than you intended - and let your cum paint Whitney's deepest parts. You shoot pulse after sticky pulse of semen into her spasming cunt.
 
"F-f-fffuck," Whitney squeals, cumming herself stupid too. You feel the wet explosion of it as she bucks back against you.
 
When your balls are empty, you roll over, panting.
 
Whitney stands. You reach out weakly to stop her, but she's already striding across the living room to where Rose is still crying and playing with herself.
 
"I told you," Whitney repeats, standing right in front of Rose's face. She spreads her cunt lips open and lets your cum slide down her legs as a final humiliation for Rose.
 
Rose lets out a pained gasp, biting her knuckles to stifle it, goes rigid as she cums, then collapses into a bawling heap.

March 15, 2014

Your parents are barely in the ground when the vultures from the bank come to discuss the mortgage with Cerise. The house has devolved to her ownership but she has no means of making the monthly payments, and they are recommending that she sell. Of course the bank is all too happy to take it off her hands and give her the equity back. It might even cover the rest of the estate's debts.

Meanwhile, a woman you had never met prior to the funeral on Thursday is in your bedroom, sitting on your bed. You sit in your computer chair, facing her.

This is the mother of Rose Mallory, the school's bitchy stuco president. Apparently, you're related.

You may not know Mrs. Mallory, but she sure seems to know a lot about you - she spent a long time talking with a rheumy-eyed Cerise after the wake.

"We drifted apart after high school," Mrs. Mallory says, "but I was very close to your mother when I was younger. She was technically my aunt, but we were pretty much the same age. We were more like sisters than anything."

You have nothing to say to that. You have nothing to say to anyone these days, really.

Mrs. Mallory glances around your hovel of a room, from the blackout curtains on the windows, to the piles of dirty clothes on the ground, to the wastepaper basket by your computer desk overflowing with tissues. But if the shabby way you live causes her any second thoughts about what she says next, she doesn't let on.

"If Cerise sells this house, I want you to know that you can come to live with me - free of charge. I know how important it is to stay with your friends, especially in times like these. You should have the chance to graduate from North High. Cerise thinks so, too."

Friends? What friends? Naruto Stackleford, that fat fuck, is just about the only person on Earth who ever hangs out with you - him and Whitney, who's almost as annoying.

You might as well go live in a group home or something. Or drop out and go live the life of a drifter. You can't be bothered to care about anything anymore.

Mrs. Mallory puts a hand on your knee. "I hurt for you, Alabaster. I can see the toll this is taking on you."

"What do you know?" you say.

"I know you need someone who cares," Mrs. Mallory says, smiling warmly. "At least come have dinner with my family and I tonight. I'll properly introduce you to your cousin, too."

The way she talks, it's already a done deal. First you've lost your parents, and now your childhood home. What next? 

---

It's something like 4:00 AM when you wake up to a rustling noise from across the room again. Whitney is snoring beside you, sleeping soundly, and doesn't stir.

You glance over to the source of the noise. Rose is on her feet, wrapped in her blanket. She approaches your side of the room.

"You gave your virginity to that disgusting girl," Rose says. Her voice is flat but full of disgust.

"So?"

"I told you three years ago that it belonged to me," she sneers. "You disobeyed me."

"I can't believe you were serious," you say, keeping your voice to a whisper to avoid waking Whitney. "You actually meant that? You're even crazier than I thought. Holy shit."

"I will make you pay for this," Rose says.

"Cry harder," you say. "To think that rich bitch Rose Mallory actually wants my dick. How pathetic is that? We're cousins, you know--"

"Once removed."

"All this time you called me sick, and you're the sick one."

Her expression is hard to read as she stares back at you appraisingly, your face, your naked body, the way you hold Whitney close. She turns without another word and goes back to bed.

END OF EPISODE 3. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Hath millionaire and reverse NTR specialist.

October 3, 2014

You've got a spring in your step and happiness in your heart, for the first time in a long time. The results are in: Alabaster Soliloquy has defeated Rose Mallory for student council president.

The look of utter shock and humiliation on Rose's face yesterday afternoon, when the results were announced, is an image indelibly stamped in your mind. She was so dismayed that she couldn't even make a concession speech, sending one of her lickspittle secretaries to do it instead on her behalf.

After half a year of living in Rose's shadow, of dealing with her tyranny both at school and at home, you have achieved the most perfect revenge possible. You beat her at her own game, on her own turf.

Of course, your new duties in StuCo will still have to be secondary to your role as captain of North High's quiz bowl team. This is your senior year and you intend to take the team all the way to the national championship this time.

That's why, after classes end today, you head for Mr. Langley's room - where quiz bowl practice is in session - rather than the student council room on the other side of the school.

You enter to a sea of smiling faces crowding around you. Your fellow teammates congratulate you on your recent win - including Mr. Langley, who says he would have voted for you too, if only faculty was eligible to do so. You graciously accept their back-pats and plaudits.

It's when this miniature crowd disperses, that you finally see her sitting at one of the tables by herself, in front of one of the practice buzzers.

Mr. Langley notices you glowering at her. "In the spirit of reconciliation and sportsmanship--" he begins, but you cut him off - baring to him and the rest of the quiz team a side you rarely show in public:

"What the fuck are you doing here, you bitch?"

Rose smiles warmly. "Alabaster, such demeaning language..."

"Answer me."

"I decided to join the quiz bowl team. Let's go to the national competition this year, okay?" 

---

That morning, you wake up on your back with with Whitney wrapped around you: her legs locked around your waist, her arms locked around your shoulders. You extricate yourself from this dozing death-grip and get dressed for school.

You're the only one awake. The living room stinks of sex. Rose is cuddled up like a burrito, her face just barely visible and still ruddy from a marathon of ugly-crying. You're not sure exactly what you feel, looking at that pitiful face.

You gently nudge Whitney awake.

"Guhhh?" she mutters.

"I have to go back to Berkeley for my final. Are you coming too?"

She stretches luxuriously and yawns. "I have some business here in town," she says. "I'll catch up."

"Business? What business?"

"You'll see~" She boops your nose.

You're not sure you really want to.

Even though Cerise is being weird about you traveling alone, you have to get going. You don't want to fail on the last day of your semester. You hurry down to your car and hit the road.

You're on the freeway pulling 75 MPH when you notice movement in your rearview mirror. You glance back to see Camelia sitting up in your backseat.

She must have been hiding back there.

You yell - you actually yell, like a girl. You yell again when Camelia puts a revolver to your head. 

"Calm DOWN," she says. "You're gonna crash if you keep freaking out like that-- hey. Eyes on the road."

"Please don't shoot me," you say - not too proud to beg. "I did what you asked. I plugged in--"

"Shut your fucking pie socket," she says.

You shut up.

"I'm not going to shoot you," she says. "You're the one driving, so what do you think would happen to me if you died right now? I'm not suicidal."

"Wh-what do you want?" you say.

"Think of this like a reverse metaphor. It's a literal gun to your head to remind you that I've got a figurative gun to your head."

"I did what you asked!" You repeat. "I took the USB--"

"Will you shut the FUCK up about specifics? How did you get away with the shit you did when you were younger? Don't you know your phone is bugged?"

"Bugged - by who?"

"Darkbloom. Just like he bugged every other phone on the planet."

You shake your head.

"Try it out sometime," Camelia says. "Talk about something you never talk about, then check what kind of targeted ads you get on Facebook. They ARE listening to you."

"Please," you say, sincerely, "for the love of god... please leave me alone. I don't want anything to do with - with whatever it is you're up to."

"Too late," Camelia says. She pulls the gun away from you head, leans back. You breathe a sigh of relief.

She takes a pack of cigarettes from her vest coat pocket and lights one up.

"Could you not--" you begin, but the icy look she gives you in the rearview warns you off completing that request.

You cough a bit while she enjoys her smoke.

"Pull over," she says. "I need to talk with you where only God can hear us."

"You're going to kill me," you say, voice cracking. It's the logical conclusion.

She rolls her eyes. "You are such a pussy... fine. Here." She lowers the window and tosses her revolver out. The car behind you swerves to avoid it as the gun clatters and skids down the asphalt - you hope no one actually realized what it was.

"Are we good now?" she says.

>[x] Pull over.
[ ] No. Keep driving. 

You stand on the shoulder of the freeway with Camelia, beneath a billboard that commands you to reelect Rep. Devin Isstein this November. "Shill," Camelia sneers, giving his 20-foot visage the bird.

"What do you want?" You say.

"First off," Camelia says, "thank you for doing the thing with the flash drive yesterday. I was starting to think you wouldn't. You missed my deadline by more than three hours."

You say nothing to this.

"Water under the bridge," she says. She tosses her cigarette butt on the ground, stomps it, and immediately lights another. "My partner was ready to burn you - release everything we have on you. I told him: give the poor guy at least until the end of business hours. I don't know why, but I trusted you. It paid off."

"Gee. Thanks."

Camelia is one of those who, when excited, motions with her hands while she talks. "Stumbling block," she says. "We've got a rootkit in Darkbloom's main network now, but the project files I'm after are either on encrypted volumes or totally air gapped. So we've got a bunch of useless inside info about their work on an AI that'll book a haircut for you - and precisely nothing on what we really want to see."

"Which is what?"

"Wouldn't you fucking like to know," Camelia says. She pauses, contemplative. "Wouldn't I fucking like to know. Your boss Sable is working on some seriously dark shit, Alabaster. I need to figure out how dark. Lurking your company's Slack isn't gonna get me there."

"You want me to sabotage my boss now," you say.

"Not at all," Camelia says. "I want you to sabotage a reporter." She pulls a newspaper cutout from her pocket. It's an article from this morning's LA Tribune. The headline reads "Darkbloom First Knew of Security Holes in 2016, Did Nothing". There's a headshot of Kay Vera, the author, in the upper lefthand corner.

"I think that woman has inside info that I don't have," Camelia says. "I own her entire digital life, but the bitch is too smart to keep her notes in digital format. Go to her - pose as a source, get close, and smuggle me her handwritten notes. It'll be faster than milking it out of that fucking crackpot Sable."

"That's a felony, I'm pretty sure," you say.

"Is it? How about burning down a high school?"

You close your eyes and sigh.

>[x] I'll do it.
[ ] I won't do it. 

"Smart man," Camelia says. "There's hope for you yet."

She hands you a sticky note with a phone number written on it. "This is Vera's personal cell. She's in New York right now doing the talk show circuit but she'll be back in town this Sunday. Schedule a sit-down meeting at the Rutabaga Cafe. I want to personally verify that you didn't turn chickenshit and ghost the poor woman."

You take the number from her. "I'm not chickenshit," you insist.

"Oh, of course not," Camelia says, sticking out her tongue. "That's why you let all the women in your life push you around."

"I don't--"

"See you soon," she says. "And tell Rose I say hello."

You're a little weirded out that Camelia apparently wants you to leave her on the side of the highway, but you're not going to question it. The less time you spend with this sociopath, the better.

As you peel away and merge into traffic again, you see her stick her thumb into the air - hitchhiking. God help whoever picks her up. 

Your final exam goes about as well as it can go, given that you haven't studied for it in nearly a week, and the threat of being murdered or sent to prison looms large in your mind. Which is to say it doesn't go well at all.

You get back to work around lunchtime to finish out the back half of your day. As you pull into the parking garage, a construction-zone-orange Lamborghini roars around a corner and squeals to a stop in the spot next to you. The door lifts open and out toddles Stackleford, carrying a large bag of food from Taco Bell.

"Sup, man!" he says when he notices you (to your dismay). "You try these new nacho fries yet, Alabaster? They're the tits!"

You step out of your car. "How can you still afford that thing if you're broke?" you ask, nodding at the Lambo.

"I can't," Stackleford admits. "I'm about three months behind. I've been parking here and there to avoid the repo guy. I won't let them take Kagome from me!"

"You named your Lamborghini Kagome."

"Yeah, bro. Kagome is my waifu." He takes a packet of medium salsa from his bag of food, opens the packet with his teeth, and starts sucking on it. With a half-full mouth, he continues: "see, the word waifu is kind of a meme that means I--"

"Goddamn it, Stackleford. I know what it means."

Stackleford tosses the empty salsa packet on the concrete and dives into his bag for another. You circle the Lambo, admiring its sleekness despite yourself. But you stop at the back, noticing that Stackleford still has Nevada plates - and not just that, but the back plate is a vanity tag that reads 'MARUTO'.

"Maruto?" you say.

Stackleford joins you at the back, staring down at the plate too. "Some stupid butthole in Nevada already had a vanity plate that said Naruto, so this was the closest I could get."

"Why not replace the O in 'Naruto' with a zero or something?"

Stackleford is silent for a moment as he sucks down another sauce packet. "Shit. I wish I had thought of that."

He looks at you. "Hey, Alabaster. Are you gonna join the morning anime club? I could really use a buddy there. Nobody else seems to have the same taste as me, like you do..."

[ ] Fine, whatever.
>[x] No way. 

"No," you say, shaking your head. "No. Just - no. No."

"Are you sur--"

"No. The answer is no."

"No, as in you're sure, or no as in you're NOT sure--"

"Goddamn it, Stackleford."

Unable to come up with anything else to say, he instead wordlessly offers you a salsa packet. (This must be how his tribe settles disputes.) You wave it off.

"Okay, well..." he says. "well, I guess I'll see you later. Uh - call me if you want to ride in my Lambo sometime... but, uh... call me soon. I might not have it for much longer..."

As he walks away, he sounds like he's on the verge of crying. 

You are no sooner back at your workstation than Alex is practically on top of you - jabbering about how Sable has given you a special assignment she wants to discuss. Alex is the only one of the 20 or so coders in the room who look at all happy. The rest are downcast and dour - owing, presumably, to the fact that Sable completely trashed all their work and started a new project with no advance warning.

"Brown-nosing faggot..." mutters one of them under their breath, looking at Alex scornfully.

"Choot," adds the one you know as Pai, whose computer you plugged the infected drive into yesterday.

Alex doesn't seem to care, or even notice their jabs; and soon he's leading you by the hand to Sable's office. His grip is loose, but warm.

Inside, Sable is as manic as she was yesterday, typing notes at a furious pace and pounding back a tall mug of black coffee. Her workstation is strewn with empty mugs.

"She hasn't left work since yesterday!" Alex whispers to you excitedly. "It's magical!"

"It's something..." you mutter, as Sable pauses long enough to knock back a few pills that you can't identify and chases it with another gulp of piping hot coffee. 

"Ms. Guiteau, Ally's back from his test."

Sable turns. "Alabaster!" she says. "Man of the hour. Do you have a minute? What am I saying, of course you do, you don't actually do anything useful around here."

"I--"

"That's all right," she says. "I've got something to make use of your skills. Come with me."

Alex gives you two thumbs up and nods encouragingly as you follow Sable into a part of her office-slash-lab that you haven't been in before.

Sable flicks on a set of bright fluorescent lights that illuminate a surprisingly expansive area behind her PC workstations. The area is tiled and contains several workbenches covered with spare mechanical parts. On a workbench in the center sits something covered by a blanket. Sable approaches it.

"I want you to meet a special pet of mine," she says. "We call it Smatters." 

"A pet?" you say, uncomprehending. "Like... a rabbit something?"

"Not quite," Sable says. "Smatters is an acronym."

She wheels a small moving whiteboard in front of the countertop and uses a dry erase marker to write it out:

S.M.A.T.T.E.R.S.

Servo-Modulated All-Terrain Tracking-Exploring Robotic Sentry

"Go ahead and take a peek if you want," she says.

You reach out and tug the blanket away.

The whir of activating mechanisms greets you - tightly wound plastic gears driven by a tiny motor - and suddenly you're face to face with a quadripedal robot no bigger than the pet bunny you guessed it was.

Well... "face to face" is a bit of a misnomer. It has four dainty legs with articulated knees and feet, but no head, just a square torso with a gleaming black dome like that of a CCTV camera mounted where the neck would be.

Still, though it has no face or eyes, you can clearly sense it is looking at you. After it has unfurled its legs, stood and balanced itself on all four feet, it stays perfectly still - back angled slightly upwards, the dome of its erstwhile face pointed directly at you - regarding you - and you feel very exposed, somehow.

Then it starts to walk around the countertop. Its gait is inelegant but does the job: as it passes by a stray pencil, it tests it with one foot, rolling it a bit this way and that, then stares at it for a moment, and finally steps over it. Every step it takes is punctuated by the whir of its moving joints and the clack of its metal feet hitting the table.

"This is an important side project for the new initiative," Sable says. "I need your help perfecting it."

"Whoa," is all you can say as you watch the little thing hobble around. "You built that?"

"Sort of," Sable says. "I modified the design slightly. The concept and first prototype were the work of R--"

"This thing is so cool," you interrupt. "I can't believe it. And this is just the side project?"

Sable nods.

"I'll work on this," you say. "I'd love to. But - what's it for?"

"It's our second generation drone technology. Aerial drones can't collect enough data for what we need. We planned years ago to release land-based drones to complement the effort but could never get the path-finding right. I think you could help work out some of the bugs."

"...On my own?" you ask, suddenly uncertain.

"Definitely not!" Sable says. "I can't trust you to work without supervision, and you'll definitely need help." (You blanche a bit at her brutal candor.) "Alex will assist with the codebase - he's emphatic about working alongside you, and I need his spirits high for the work ahead. We'll also have an engineer on loan from Boston Dynamics who- ah, here he comes now." She cups her hands around her mouth. "Ken, back here, behind my desk! Come meet Alabaster." 

"Howdy," says Ken, tipping his stetson hat. "Pleasure to meet you, pard'ner."

...Is this man a Japanese cowboy?

"Kenichi Takagawa," he says, extending his hand. You shake. "Feel free to call me Ken Smith." He adjusts his oversized belt buckle - mostly, you think, just to draw your attention to its existence. "Let's git 'er done, as is said in the American states."

Although his English is fairly impeccable, the accent is thick.

"My interests are western animation and firearms," Ken says. "The cultural products of America fascinate me greatly. How about you, Mr. Soliloquy sir?"

You're about to say something back when you hear shouting from the work area outside Sable's office.

You have a terrifying intuition that this might have something to do with yesterday's events. You excuse yourself, stepping out to see what the matter is.

Fazil is sitting at Pai's computer. Spancer Jardan from HR is standing beside him. A small crowd is watching the unfolding drama, and Pai is impotently arguing his case.

"This is bullshit!" Pai shouts at Spancer. "I don't know what the FUCK he's talking about-- I never took any goddamn USB stick--"

"Please to calm yourself," Fazil says, typing at a command prompt. You feel ill.

Pai steps forward as if to lay a hand on Fazil, but Spancer pulls Pai back. "Please wait warmly," Spancer says. "This will take only a moment."

>[x] Scope for info: ask Fazil what's going on.
[ ] Say nothing. 

"Ala-bast-or!" Fazil says. "Nice to be seeing you. Please hold on just oooone--"

He trails off, turns back to the PC, and types some more at the command prompt.

Finally seeming to find what he was looking for, he looks over at Spancer and nods.

"Please come with me," Spancer says to Pai.

"I refuse to be--" Pai begins.

"I insist," says Spancer, putting both hands on both of of Pai's shoulders. He leads Pai out, largely against his will.

You don't think you're ever going to see him again.

Fazil powers down Pai's workstation, unplugs the tower, and takes it with him. "Walk with me!" He says. You follow him down the halls.

"Cerise is a great boss," Fazil says, walking alongside you. "For past several days I think to myself - why does she not assign any tasks? Then I think: a-ha! She wants us to define our workflow ourselves. I respect that management style. It takes much trust."

He stops, turns, and looks at you.

"So what, uh... what workflow did you define?" You ask.

"I was busy taking images of the affected servers when I heard some guards talking about a suspicious USB drive someone found," he says. "Hackers who cannot access the network remotely will often use such subterfuge! Very strange timing to be seeing strange devices on campus. Yes? So I think to do some network analysis. And unbelievable! There is a rootkit in our network! Dating to yesterday."

You gulp.

"I think, what horrible tricks! I will trace this. And so I did. Mr. Pai has broken protocol by plugging in the suspicious drive. Our entire company, at risk, for a television program named Naruto!"

"That's- really awful," you say.

"He will be terminated at once," Fazil says, solemn. "Meanwhile, I am hard at work doing a quarantine on the rootkit. Hard work, very hard indeed, Ala-bast-or. I hope Cerise will see this and say to herself - I am pleased with the work of Fazil."

"I'm sure she will be," you say, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Huzzah, as is said!" Fazil replies. You let him go the rest of the way to the elevator on his own.

You stand there alone in the hallway for a long time, ruminating on how close you came to losing everything. If you hadn't thought to plug in the drive to someone else's computer...

No use stewing over could-have-beens, though. 

Near the end of business, you stop by Cerise's office to talk about what Fazil found.

"Jesus Christ," she says. "I might solve this hack by accident..."

"You already have--" you begin. But it's best not to talk about specifics while you're in the heart of the beast. You leave it at that.

"Well. I'll tell Fazil he's doing bang-up work," Cerise says.

"Maybe you should fire him instead," you say. "There's good, and then there's too good. Do you realize what almost happened just now?"

Cerise is mulling this over when her office door opens and Rose barges in.

"There you are," Cerise says. "Decided to finally show up, huh? Where the fuck were you all day?"

She's breathless and her hair is a little mussed. "I need to speak to Alabaster. Alone - for your own safety."

>[x] Go with her.
[ ] You can talk with Cerise here. 

You stand in the hall leading to the cubicle farm where Cerise's team is stationed.

"I found out where Camelia lives," Rose says in hushed tones. "I followed her this morning."

"Oh wow," you say. "You actually did something useful. So where does she--" you pause, as a realization hits you. "Wait a second... if you were following her, that means..."

"Here's the address," Rose says, trying to hand you a slip of paper.

"You were following me?" You say. "What the fuck, Rose? Why? Fucking stalker."

This isn't the first time Rose has followed you around - it was a perennial problem when you were younger - but you thought she was over such childish games.

"Don't lose track of what's important," Rose says. "This is a major discovery--"

"Why the hell were you following me?"

"Will you shut up about that?" Rose cries. She stomps her foot, sending her giant tits jiggling. "I found your extortionist! No need to thank me, Alabaster, just doing all the shit you're incapable of! As usual!"

You point at her. "You creep me out, Rose - for real."

"I'm going to that address," Rose says. "I scoped the place out, and it looks like Camelia is gone - for now, anyway. This is our chance to find out what she's up to. Are you coming or not?"

"Absolutely not," you say.

Rose shrugs and turns to leave, just like that. But you're not done with this conversation, so you reach out and grab her wrist to stop her.

"Don't," Rose says.

"This isn't your problem to deal with," you say. "Give me the address."

"No."

"Give me--"

"No--!"

You get into a little tussle for the slip of paper that Rose now suddenly wants to keep for herself. You shove each other back and forth, with increasing force, and the only reason things don't really explode is because Fazil walks by.

"Is all ok?" He asks.

"Fine, we're fine," Rose insists, slightly winded.

"Yeah..." you say. "It's all good."

"Good!" Fazil says. "Good is good." He exits to his cubicle, apparently unperturbed by mild workplace violence.

"I'm going," Rose whispers. "You can't stop me."

>[x] Stop her.
[ ] Can't let you mess this up. I'm going too. 

'Can't stop me,' your ass. You can definitely stop her.

You grab both her wrists this time, wheel her around and tackle her to the ground. She lands on her back, a soft cushion beneath your weight.

"Alabaster--!!"

"Listen to me, you dumb cunt," you hiss, your face inches from hers. Forcefulness like this is the only way to get things through her thick skull. "Camelia knows you tailed her. She mentioned you by name when we were on the side of the freeway."

Rose's expression is hard to read - something between indignation and embarrassment.

"We can't go in without some kind of plan," you tell her. "Walking right up to her doorstep after she's seen you following her... are you kidding me?"

"I'm not afraid of her," Rose says. She raises her neck as far off the ground as she can, sneering at you, so close you can smell the mint on her breath. "I'm not afraid of you, either."

You become acutely aware that you're lying on top of Rose in a very public hallway, holding her down by her arms, your face pressed against hers. There's really no reason for you to continue your conversation this way, and every reason not to, but you do anyway.

"Rose, she held a gun on me. She's crazy."

"All the more reason for us to figure out exactly what she's doing."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. Kill her, I guess."

You sit up on your haunches, keeping Rose pinned beneath you. Sometimes there's no reasoning with her.

"Come with me," Rose says. "If we're not going to go to Camelia's... there's something at mom and dad's that might help. We need to defend ourselves at least."

>[x] Go.
[ ] No - head back home to Cerise's apartment. 

November 11, 2014

You and Rose stayed behind after quiz bowl practice ended - ostensibly to study some more for the upcoming regional competition - but the real motivation was to have it out.

You two might be the star players, appearing to all the world as a well-oiled machine and trouncing the other schools at every match you attend together - but in private, you still haven't warmed at all to each other. In fact, your relationship has only deteriorated the longer you've been in close daily proximity.

Today, it started with a simple exchange of pointed verbal barbs - but of course, it escalated.

Now you and Rose lie in two broken heaps in the middle of the ruined classroom.

Desks and tables, papers and books lie scattered; a filing cabinet is tipped on its side and badly dented; the whiteboard is cracked from the force of shoving Rose into it.

You're bleeding, not just a little, from several gashes on your face, your arms, and your back where Rose clawed you. She's bleeding from where you bit her on both the shoulder and the tummy in a blind rage. You and Rose are both bruised all over - your head is throbbing, she clutches at her kidneys and groans, both of you have twisted ankles and some possibly-fractured digits.

You're not sure who got the worst of it: you, when Rose latched onto your shoulders and beat you upside the head with a thick textbook, or Rose, when you got her pinned to the floor and landed a barrage of vicious punches centered right on her belly button.

Call it a tie game. (But at least YOU didn't piss yourself. You think.)

The coppery smell of blood hangs in the air - tinged with something else you can't identify, but which much later you will come to know as female arousal.

You're on your back, gasping for air, dazed. From the corner of your eye, you see Rose rise onto her hands and knees, wobbling, and try to crawl the short distance to where you are. She doesn't make it - she collapses, her chin bonking hard on the wood floor. She flops onto her back like a dying fish.

You're slow on the uptake right now - she's already hit the ground again before you react to seeing her move towards you - you swat at the air as if to fend her off, but she's already down for the count.

"We can't... keep doing this..." Rose pants.

"I'm not... going to let... you win..." you pant back.

"Fu-- ghh--" she grits her teeth through the pain-- "FUCK you."

You muster the last of your strength to do what Rose couldn't: you crawl over to her. You intend to give her one last smack or something - you're not entirely sure - but when you get there, your muscles fail. You turn to jelly and fall atop her like a blanket.

You lie there like that, wrapped over her, for several long moments.

"Are you fucking cuddling me right now?" Rose says.

"No." (Voice muffled by her breasts.)

"Get off of me, Alabaster."

"I can't..."

It feels like perhaps half an hour passes before Rose finally speaks again.

"Today was fun," she says. 

---

Rose breezes right past her dad, who's enjoying a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper in the den of the Mallory home. She makes a beeline for her bedroom upstairs.

"Hi, Mr. Mallory," you say - you're polite enough to at least give him the time of day.

"Giving 'em hell at Darkbloom?" He asks.

"Sort of..."

"Rose has that look in her eye again," he says, taking another sip. "You two up to something? Wait - don't tell me! What I don't know won't hurt me!"

"Err--"

He laughs. "Be careful, you two."

He flips through the paper a bit, and then - as if changing the subject, he mentions off-handedly: "There's an article today about increasing rates of birth defects in California. Really spooky stuff. I'd hate if I ended up having a child with some sort of deformity, wouldn't you? Really have to be careful, you know?"

"Right..."

You pass by without prolonging the awkward conversation. He occasionally makes pointed remarks to you like that - it weirds you out. 

In her bedroom, you find Rose on her knees at the safe beside her bed.

Of course.

She finishes entering the combo and the door pops open. Inside, there's a small cache of weapons. She takes a pistol out and checks the magazine to ensure it's loaded. Satisfied, she puts the gun in the waistband of her skirt, tugs her blouse up to cover it, and goes digging again.

"Do you remember the firing range I went to with dad every weekend back in high school?" She says.

"Of course."

"Remember how you were too much of a wuss to ever tag along?"

"Now hold on--"

She hands you a pistol. It's cold and awkward but surprisingly not very heavy in your hands.

"You don't have a choice now," she says. "You and Cerise need to learn how to shoot."

For all of Rose's left-wing leanings, one odd quirk of hers is her love of guns - a habit picked up from her father, a lawyer. Once a defense attorney, now he does work for the ACLU, and he is definitely an absolutist on every Constitutional amendment. (You should listen to him get going on the issue of quartering soldiers when he's drunk.)

Rose reaches under her bed now and pulls out a long, hard black plastic case. Clacking it open, she reveals a sawed-off shotgun.

"I don't think that's legal," you tell her.

"Fuck legal," she says. She clacks it closed and hauls it up over her shoulder by the strap. "And speaking of that - don't you dare leave the house again if you aren't carrying. Do you understand me?"

"You want me to carry this gun with me to work?"

"Yes I do, Alabaster. Do you think Camelia is going to pay attention to the little sign on the entrance that says DA is a gun-free campus?"

>[x] That's too dangerous. I won't carry at work.
[ ] All right - it can't be helped. 

Rose frowns.

"I mean, thanks for arming me and all," you say, "but--"

Rose slaps you.

You reel back, smarting.

"Excuse me?" You say.

She slaps you again. You step back from her range of motion, wild-eyed.

"Slapping me won't change anything!" You shout. "DA has metal detectors at every single entrance, you STUPID--"

Rose tries to slap you AGAIN but this time, you intercept it. You swat her hand away.

"Don't you dare," you say when the look on her face seems to signal that she's going to do something else.

"Or what?" Rose says, tauntingly.

You step forward now, looming over her.

"Big man," she sneers. "Are you going to hit me now?"

"No. You'd like that too much."

"In your fucking dreams, Alabaster. Misogynist pig." She shoves you, but it doesn't budge you - you're standing your ground on this one.

Instead, you push her, step by step, using your chest and your own weight to force her backwards. Eventually she's up against her own bed, but you don't stop there - and now her knees are bending, and now she's sitting.

"You think we're some kind of even match," you say, "but the only reason is because I let you bully me around. I could stop all of this in a second if I really wanted to."

"Why don't you, then, if you're so great?"

"It's because I pity you," you say. "You're a sad, pathetic person."

"You're one to talk!" she cries. "You make me sick! Little fucking virgin who sits around whacking his dick to anime all day!"

"Not anymore," you say.

"Whitney doesn't count," she says, but the crack in her voice tells you that Rose understands it most certainly does. "She's more like a feral bitch than a human being. I already told you three years ago, Alabaster--"

"Yeah, yeah," you say. "And I told YOU three years ago that if it was going to happen, it would be because I raped you. Or did you forget that part?"

"You're too chickenshit." (There's that accusation again. It really grates.) "You wouldn't be able to get it up."

[ ] Prove her wrong.
>[x] No - you don't get pick when it happens. 

Rose looks like an animal caught in a trap when you step back, shrugging, and tell her no. Her expression is an admixture of confusion and rage.

"N-no?" She says. "What does that mean? No what?"

"No," you repeat. "I know what you're trying to do, and the answer is no. It's not going to happen on your schedule. I already told you that."

"Y-you... You limp-dicked, useless piece of--"

"Whatever," you say, stepping out of her room.

"I hate you!" Rose cries after you.

But of course, she's following you downstairs just a few seconds later. 

That evening, you and Cerise get a quick primer on gun safety from Rose. You feel marginally safer sleeping with guns at your side - and at least one person who knows how to use them.

In the morning, after you push through the small (and smaller by the day) crowd of protesters with Rose, you're surprised to see Whitney sitting on the fountain in front of Darkbloom Analytics.

She's got on attire way more professional than you're used to seeing her wear - a button-down and pants, which weirdly enough, really suit her.

"What are you doing here?" You say.

Whitney's face brightens as soon as she sees you. She jumps up - just in time to avoid getting nailed in the ass by the same water spigots on the fountain's bottom tier that nailed you last week.

"Guess who's got two thumbs and a new job as a rent-a-cop!" She says. She points at herself with both thumbs. "This bitch!"

"You - got a job here?" You say.

"B'duhhh," Whitney says. "That's what I'm telling you. I interviewed yesterday and--"

She gets cut off by Rose, who strides forward with a wide-eyed expression and grabs Whitney by the ears. "You cannot work here," Rose says. Whitney tries to pull back, but Rose tightens her grip and stares deeply into Whitney's eyes, insistent. "Are you listening to me? You cannot work here. It isn't safe."

Whitney searches Rose's eyes for a moment, searching for some kind of meaning in this warning, and settles on this: "You think you can take Ally away from me if you get to work alone with him all summer? You're even dumber than I thought, Rose!"

Rose steps back, shakes her head. "I can't deal with this," she says. "Tell her, Alabaster. Don't let her work here." She stomps off, leaving you with Whitney.

"Dummy," Whitney sneers as she watches her depart.

[x] Rose is right. You can't work here. Sub-choice: x [explain] / [do not explain]
[ ] This place is dangerous. Stay out of trouble if you're going to work here. 

Swallowing your pride, you utter a phrase you never wanted to: "Rose is right--"

"What." Whitney says.

"It's - really complicated," you say. "Let me explain."

You give her the Cliff's Notes version of recent events.

"I see," Whitney says as you finish up. "So... you let Rose in on all of this crazy bullshit, but not me."

"I'm letting you in on it now," you say, frustrated. "Anyway, that's not the point."

"Of course not!" Whitney says, shaking herself out of her own momentary jealousy. "The real problem is this Camelia bitch who's raw-dogging you."

"Who's - what, now?"

"I won't let that dumb slut raw-dog my Ally!" Whitney says. She pounds a fist into her palm for effect.

"I think you mean mad-dog," you say. "I HOPE you mean mad-dog."

"If you're in danger like this, isn't this the best place for me?" Whitney says. "I could protect you!"

"No," you say. "I don't--" you grimace, abashed at saying something so sappy: "I don't want you in danger, too."

Whitney's smile could melt the arctic ice sheet. She hugs you, then stands on tiptoes for a kiss.

"But..." she says. "There's another problem. I-- kind of dropped out already."

Your heart thuds in your chest. "Whitney-- you cannot be serious--"

"I... I had to. I already failed," she says. Her eyes well up with tears. "I failed two of my classes this semester. I was going to get kicked off the soccer team anyway, so what's the point of staying? And, and - Ally - college just isn't for me. It's time for me to get a career. Don't you think?"

She looks up at you, smiling through her tears.

"Can't you work somewhere else?" You say. "If it has to be like that."

"I could," Whitney says. "But then I wouldn't be with you."

"Geez..."

She sniffles back her tears and wipes her nose with the back of her palm (ladylike as ever).

"I understand," she says. "But you could really use me on your side. You don't want Rose to be the last thing standing between you and death! And let's face it, Cerise is almost as big of a loser as you, so she wouldn't be much help either..."

You're not sure what to say.

"I'll call you later," Whitney says. "We'll talk then. I have to - I have to, uh, go move my shit out of my dorm."

"Where are you gonna go?" You ask.

"Oh, that's already settled. I got a great sublease from a really cool chick here in town."

"That sounds sketchy," you say.

"It's not. You already know her." Whitney winks at you. "Her name is Alex Best." 

Inside, you swipe your badge at the security checkpoint and make your way towards the elevators.

That's when you hear a commotion at the front. You turn and see two men in FBI jackets striding purposefully past the checkpoint, too.

They're musclebound bruisers and both have grim looks on their faces.

They're marching straight for you. 

The elevator behind you dings and slides open.

Out strides a woman in business-wear, hauling a man you recognize as Thaddeus McMichael - the company's privacy chief.

He's in handcuffs.

The woman - a plainclothes agent, apparently - hands custody off to her two scary-looking colleagues. As more agents appear at the front entrance and a crowd of rubberneckers begins to gather, you hear one of the agents read out the charges, not ten feet away.

"...under arrest for the possession, distribution and creation of child pornography, the enticement of a minor into lewd sexual acts, multiple violations of the Mann act..."

Thaddeus hangs his head in shame.

Up above, on the mezzanine of the second floor, David Darkbloom and Mara Darkbloom stand side-by-side, watching the events transpire. Both look severely displeased, to say the least. They share a conversation you can't overhear.

The sudden dissipation of the nauseous terror in your gut - the realization that you are a free man for at least one more day - leaves you shaking with spare adrenaline that you don't know what to do with. Your arms and legs feel like rubber. You turn and walk away on uncertain legs, trying not to look suspicious, and find a restroom to go vomit. 

You spend an uneventful day at work getting to know "Ken Smith" a little better and learning some more about how SMATTERS works. Ken demos some of its functionality to you and an aghast Alex. His childlike joy as he watches the thing walk and run around the lab floor is a bit infectious.

In between these moments, Ken waxes poetic about his favorite cartoon shows - The Simpsons, Hey Arnold, Doug and of course classic Looney Tunes, to name just a few. (JUST a few. He won't shut up about cartoons.)

Alex is eager to get SMATTERS hooked up to a PC and port the machine code over for you to pick through. When he finally gets his chance, you make small talk with him.

"I heard Whitney is moving in with you," you say.

"Uh-huh! Ms. Whitney -- um, Whitney needed a place to stay, so I thought I'd give her my spare bedroom."

"Very thoughtful of you."

"It's the least I could do. Ms.-- um, Whitney's been so nice to me. I really like her a lot. And since she's going to be working here too, it only makes sense!"

"Uh--" you say. "She might not be working here after all." (Best to break the news now.)

"What? Why not?"

"I'm - trying to get her to go back to school," you explain - half a lie, but there's no way you can tell Alex what's really going on.

"That's really too bad," Alex hums. "We could have been an unstoppable team!"

You can only shrug.

Soon, 5:00 PM is approaching, and with it, the end of the day.

[ ] Go hang out with Whitney and Alex.
[ ] Go home, hang out with Rose and Cerise.
>[x] Wildcard: Get to know Sable better.

As people file out of the office, you stop on your way past Sable's desk. She's still there, clacking away at her keyboard.

"Do you - ever go home?" You ask.

"Hmm? Sometimes."

That's way too weird. You have to poke at her a little more.

You roll up a chair and sit beside her. "I don't think I've ever seen you leave your office," you say. "Are you sure you go home sometimes?"

Sable finally stops and looks at you. "Why does it matter to you?" She asks. "We are colleagues, not friends. My living situation shouldn't make any difference."

"I care about my colleagues," you insist. "Unlike some people. That's why Alex likes me so much."

Sable is silent, thinking. The concept of caring about her colleagues must be alien to her.

"Thank you, Alabaster," she finally says, her voice a little bit less manic. "I'm glad to hear that. Maybe we could be friends in addition to being colleagues."

You narrow your eyes at her. "You're a robot, aren't you?"

"I -- what?"

"That's a joke. Yeah, I guess we can be friends. What do you think friends do, Ms. Guiteau?"

"Call me Sable," she says. "Friends... eat together, I suppose. Watch movies... play video games. I really don't have time for things like that."

Sable is way too cute. The way she demurs, blushes, and glances sidewise instead of making eye contact - the total opposite of her brash demeanor from the past couple days. Maybe she is a human being after all.

"You should make some time," you say. "You're going to burn out if you keep pushing yourself like this. You know, as your new friend, I can't let that happen."

Sable is mute. Looks like you need to make the plan:

[ ] Let's watch a movie in the theater.
>[x] Let's grab some food.
[ ] Let's check out the sauna. 

If you had any doubts that Sable is a human being who requires human nourishment, they have been laid well to rest. Sitting in the cafeteria with you, she scarfs down her plate of spaghetti like a woman who hasn't been fed in a year.

"Do you--" you begin.

"Cheese," she says, her voice still weirdly soft. She grabs a shaker of Parmesan cheese from the tabletop and all but dumps the entire thing on her plate. Then it's back to chowing down.

"When was the last time you ate?" You ask. "Just curious."

Sable pauses, fork to her mouth. "About... three or four days ago, I think."

Good lord. If not for you, this woman would have starved to death, right there in her office.

"I have to be honest with you," you say. "There's something that's been on my mind for a couple days now."

"Please, tell me," she says between forkfuls. "Friends should be candid."

"Right. I think you treat Alex like shit, and it really gets on my nerves."

Sable stares at you.

"He's your friend too," you say. "Same as me. Even if you don't think so. And you kick him around like an abused puppy."

"I know," Sable says. "But it's --" she thinks about how to defend herself on this point, and seems to come up blank.

"I will try to be kinder in the future," she finally says. "Alert me if I am not."

You pick at your plate of food, but it's not very appetizing right now.

[ ] Ask Sable about the specifics of her project.
>[x] Don't press her right now. 

This isn't the time for talking shop - you want to get her away from all that junk, after all. Despite yourself, you do feel a genuine pang of pity for her - the way she works herself like a dog - and you'd like to see her enjoy a few moments of free time.

Still, you're not exactly sure what else to talk about. It's hard to picture Sable as anything else but a drone who cranks out projects and orders.

It's Sable who solves the question for you:

"Have you ever flown a kite, Alabaster?"

"Huh? Yeah, sure. Why?"

She chews.

"It occurs to me," she finally says, "that I never have. Is that abnormal?"

"I don't know," and that's true - is it really that strange? Kites are kind of a quaint thing, these days.

"I have never been on a bicycle, either," she adds.

"Okay, yeah. That one is definitely weird."

She looks away.

"Deprived in childhood or what?" You ask. "Grow up in an orphanage with a wicked stepmother or something?"

"Too busy. That's all... I regret it sometimes. I'm 26. Yet I can't even ride a bike."

"Yep," you say, leaning back. "That's pretty pathetic, I have to admit."

Sable winces at your words, so you quickly add: "Do you own a bike?"

"Why would I? I can't make any use of it."

"Well, you make enough money here, right? Go buy one tonight. A nice one. I can show you how to ride it."

She hums, unsure.

"Okay, the thing about friends is this," you say. You lean forward, fingertips on the tabletop. "Sometimes, when one friend is being stupid, the other friend has to order the stupid one around a little bit. For their own sake."

"You are still my underling," Sable says. "To order me around--"

"That's only at work. Right here we're just pals. And from one pal to another: I can't let you be a bike virgin at age 26. Go buy a goddamn bike, Sable."

"I -- all right."

You finish your meal, a little happier now. 

You make a date with Sable to teach her how to ride her bike next week, and you part ways. She's not so bad, once you get to know her.

In the parking garage as you leave work, you run into Stackleford. His shiny orange Lambo is hitched to a tow truck and he's begging the repo man not to take it.

"Unless you've got $10,000 cash in hand," the repo man says, "This thing is going back to Las Vegas tonight. Sorry bud."

"PLEASE--" Stackleford whines. "You can't take Kagome! I'll do ANYthing--"

You would say something to comfort the poor sap, but another person cuts you off.

Camelia enters the parking garage, jogging up the ramp. She waves the repo man down.

"Hey!" she says. "Are you repossessing this vehicle?"

"What's it to you?" he replies.

"How much to save it for the fat kid?"

"$10,000."

Camelia makes a show of searching her vest pockets, and pulls out a roll of $100 bills - doubtlessly counterfeit. She hands it to the man.

He fans it, disbelieving - but then he seems to reconsider. Money is money. He pockets the bills.

Camelia winks at you.

Stackleford rubs away his greasy tears while the repo man unhooks his precious Kagome.

"You'll still owe on next month's payment," he warns Stackleford. "And if you miss it, I'll be back. Trust me."

"Who are you?" Stackleford asks Camelia. He glances from her to you. "I don't - thank you SO much! Are you one of Alabaster's friends?"

"Oh, yes," she says. "It's nice to finally meet you. I hear you two were inseparable in high school."

Stackleford nods.

"Ally, you've got great taste," Camelia says. "But I shouldn't be surprised you hang out with such handsome people."

"I don't know what you think you're doing," you hiss, "but I'm warning you--"

Camelia cuts you off. "Hey Stacks," she says. "Since I helped you out, mind taking me for a spin in your sweet ride here?"

Stackleford looks like he just hit the lottery.

>[x] Let him go.
[ ] Don't let him go. 

Camelia jumps into the car before Stackleford can even stutter out his agreement, and soon he's peeling out of the parking lot with his high-end stereo system blasting "Running in the 90s" at full volume.

"I owe you big time, Alabaster!" He whoops over the squeal of rubber on asphalt. Camelia plays air guitar in the passenger seat beside him.

"This is great!" Camelia shouts. "Really dig the tunes!"

You have never seen Stackleford smile like that.

Poor bastard. 

That night, as you drift to sleep on one of the the foldaway beds in Cerise's living room, you have a half-awake vision of Mara Darkbloom strangling you to death.

It sends shooting tendrils of terror down your spine, and finally you jerk awake - only to find that your neck really is being constricted. There's a taut strip of fabric encircling your throat, secured at a point out of your reach, below the bed.

Rose is looming over you.

"What the f--" you hiss, trying to raise yourself, but only choking yourself in the process.

"Don't fight," Rose says. "That's a self-tightening strap. The more you struggle, the more you'll choke. We don't want you turning blue..."

"This is NOT in the rules of engagement!" You say. "We agreed to no more movement-restricting devices!"

Rose climbs on top of you, sits on your chest. She's just heavy enough that breathing becomes difficult.

"It's not in the ruuuuulesss," Rose says in a mocking tone. "Oh nooooo! Save me, save me from that mean old Rose!" She bounces up and down on your chest, enjoying the way it knocks the wind from you.

"Goddamn it, Rose," you manage. "Cerise is in the next room--"

"She's passed out, drunk as shit," Rose says. "Anyway, who cares about rules? YOU agreed to fewer than five gendered slurs per week."

"Cunt!" You hiss. "Cunt, cunt, cunt! Cuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcuntcunt--"

Rose slaps you.

"You know I'm going to make you pay for this, right?" You say.

"Mm hmm."

She leans way back and brings her legs around, resting her toes on your chin.

"What are you doing?" You say.

"It's time for your sensitivity training," Rose says.

Rose shoves a stockinged foot right into your face. You groan in anger and disgust - this is like your worst nightmare come to pass. (In fact, you've got the weirdest sense of deja vu that you can't shake.)
 
"There we go," she says. "That's more like it. Finally you're quiet."
 
You try to lob an insult back at her, but the ball of her foot, pressing directly against your mouth, muffles anything you could say. Her toes wriggle beneath your nostrils, filling them with the odor of a long day at work. You retch, despite yourself, which in turn makes Rose coo in joy.
 
"Little piggy," she says. "Little fucking piggy. Oink for me!"
 
You're definitely not going to oblige that demand. Rose has really gone off the deep end this time.
 
"You're not honest with yourself," Rose says. She reaches back, hand fishing through your boxers, and you shiver with a convulsion of shame when she finds exactly what she knew she would.
 
"See?" She says. "Your little piggy dick is all hard. I knew it. You're just as pathetic as I always said you were." She punctuates this by pressing down on your face, hard, with both feet. You can actually feel a few little droplets of sweat press through the thick black fabric and smear against your lips.
 
And despite your revulsion at this treatment - your cock throbs between her soft fingers. You're big enough, and her hands are small enough, that she can't fully wrap her fingers around the shaft using only one hand.
 
"Here we go," Rose says. She sighs to herself. "Let's see how long we can draw this out. We need to make you a bit more sensitive, Alabaster--"
 
She jerks you, slowly at first, and not in a steady rhythm. Sometimes she quickens it, pistons you up and down until you feel your balls tighten and that familiar, delicious tingle in your groin -- and then she stops suddenly, goes back to an agonizingly languid pace that makes you ache deep inside. She stops every once in a while to rub her palm roughly in circles on the head of your dick, just to fuck with you apparently, before going back to jerking you again. You thrash your head side to side in delirium. All the while she's rubbing her feet all over your face.
 
You become aware of wetness on your bare chest: you realize she's not wearing any panties. Her arousal is actually dripping all the way down her thighs and her ass before puddling on your body. Just another humiliation.
 
Soon, she can't help herself. She uses her free hand to rub her pussy while she abuses you. Her little moans and peals of insane delighted laughter only make you harder, which only makes you hate this situation even more. Your own body is betraying you.
 
"Do you want to see?" Rose asks, a catch of mania in her voice. "Do you want to see my cunt? I'll show you - if you ask..."
 
You shake your head - but you can't deny that you've always been curious. As long as you two have been at each other's throats, you've never seen her naked. And if you're being honest, you've always wanted to.
 
"Come on, you fucking liar," Rose says. "I know you jerked off every day thinking of me! Of doing disgusting things to my body!" She grips you tight, at the base of your dick, and stops jerking you off. You whinny in frustration. The only sound in the room is of Rose's fingers in her own cunt, masturbating shamelessly.
 
"I did this every night," she breathes, "thinking of you."
 
"Mmmf--" you grunt, trying to form intelligible words through the fabric of her reeking socks.
 
"I was thinking of THIS," Rose says. "Of having this dirty, pathetic dick in MY hands. Does that get you off too? Do you want to cum? Huh? Do you want to cum for me?"
 
"I'll--mmmff--" You say.
 
"What's that?" she asks, pulling her feet back enough to let you speak.
 
"I'll -- I'll say what you want -- if you just -"
 
Rose beams. Her fingers quicken inside her.
 
"Just let me--" you moan.
 
"Tell me what you want," Rose says.
 
"Let me see," you say.
 
Rose thrills to this, and quickly flips her skirt up so you can see. Her cunt slit isn't at all like Whitney's - it's a perfect innie, without any hint of labia visible, a soft pink depression in a fat soft mound, slick and shiny with her cream.
 
"Does your pathetic piggy dick want to feel what a real woman's pussy is like?" Rose says.
 
You can only nod.
 
"Good-- goo-oood piggy~" She says, unable to contain her own excitement. She flips onto her stomach and slithers down, aligning herself with your dick.
 
"Rose--" you say.
 
But no time to negotiate about anything: you're inside her.
 
Her insides are tighter than you could have imagined. You lift your head up a bit - even at the risk of choking, you just have to glimpse your cock sinking into that perfect hole. When you do, you can see a tiny trickle of blood down your shaft. You glance up to Rose's face: she's wincing - smiling, but wincing.
 
"That's better..." she coos. "Much better..." Her wince slowly turns back into a mask of pure ecstasy.
 
She fucks up and down on you in earnest now, her sucking insides like a vacuum on every downstroke, driving you mad. One of her hands fondles your balls as she slowly picks up her pace. She can't support herself, though, and falls against you; her cow tits slide up and down on your chest now, smearing her own wetness into your skin, soiling her blouse. She never stops riding you.
 
She grabs your hair now with both hands and kisses you roughly, breathing deeply, and doesn't seem to care that her dirty feet were all over you just moments prior. Her tongue is wanton and insistent in your mouth, more vicious even than Whitney, if that's possible - and she lets herself drool freely, her viscous saliva pouring in rivulets to the back of your throat.
 
"I'm gonna--" You groan, pulling your lips back from her rapacious kiss.
 
"Oh no you don't--" Rose says, reaching back to grab your balls again. She wants to really leave you in agony. But she miscalculated: she didn't tie your hands down.
 
You grab both her wrists, and hold them tight. You fuck back against her now, your hips slamming against hers, the bedsprings squealing beneath you. She can only twist and writhe while you pound her.
 
"Ala-Ala-Alabaster--!" she cries, her voice jittery with the force of your strokes. "You-- you can't-- it's not--"
 
You're too far gone to care. You let go of Rose's hands and pull her face to yours - this time it's your tongue raping her mouth.
 
"Not-- mmf--" she tries to warn you between your probing kisses. "Issh-- nooot shafe--"
 
You still don't care. You buck your hips a final time, arching your back and fucking her so deep that you're actually lifting her partially off the bed - and finally you let your cum explode inside her. Having apparently given up on making you reconsider, she gives into the pleasure instead, and kisses you back. You hold each other's faces and your tongues swirl around while you pump your load into her. This was four years too late, you think to yourself.
 
She cries out, goes limp, and lies against you, sweaty, ruined, and leaking cum.
 
"I'm going to make you regret this," you tell her.
 
"Mmm," she murmurs, and kisses you again. You spend a long time like that, kissing lazily, while her pussy - still stuffed with your dick - leaks wetly on the mattress.

GIRLS FUCKED: 2/8
BOYS FUCKED: 0/1

April 18, 2015

You and Rose are at the back of the bus. It's 3:30 AM. The interior lights are dimmed and everyone else is asleep except for the driver.

Mrs. Mallory is softly dozing on Mr. Mallory's shoulder just in front of you; Whitney is leaned up against a window in the next seat up, as physically far separated as she can get from Stackleford who snores next to her. Cerise is passed out near the front, legs propped up on the seat so she doesn't have to be by anyone else.

They're tagging along to support you and Rose in the days ahead (and of course, the rest of the team, even if they're basically dead weight.)

You're on your way to Boise, Idaho, and the completion of your ultimate goal: winning the national quiz bowl championship. But just now that goal has crumbled to dust right in front of your eyes.

Rose is beaming with smug self-satisfaction.

"So it's like that," you whisper.

"Basically."

You want to hit her. You want to wrap your hands around her throat and choke her until she turns blue. You want to slap that stupid smile off of her stupid face. (But what else is new?)

To think that you had actually deluded yourself into believing she cared about quiz bowl... the months of practice, her outstanding performance in important matches, her seemingly genuine joy when the team cleared the field at regionals. As loath as you are to admit it to yourself, you know the team would not have made it this far without her presence. (Humiliatingly, you also admitted this to her in a moment of carelessly letting down your guard. You know she isn't going to let you forget it.)

And all of it was nothing but a long con - a ploy just for her to get to this moment. Just for her to ruin you.

"I'll tell Mr. Langley," you say. "Get you kicked off the team."

"I'll tell Mr. Langley!" Rose repeats in a mocking tone. "What do you think he's going to do? He can't kick me off the team. There won't be enough players left if he does that - you'd be automatically forfeit. So even if you tell him, he can't do anything."

"I hate you. I hate you so fucking much. I can't even begin to put it into human words, exactly how fucking much I hate everything about you."

"Same."

"Would you really humiliate yourself like that? We're gonna be on ESPN, Rose. National television. Everyone would remember you as that stupid cunt who buzzed in on every question and got every question wrong."

"It's worth it," Rose says, her voice low with loathing, "if it means crushing your biggest dream." 

"You're insane," you say. "You're actually CRAZY."

She just chuckles.

"This is because of student council," you say.

"Of course it is."

"I WON--" you begin, stopping when you realize that your voice is getting progressively louder and might wake someone. Mrs. Mallory, in front of you, snorts and shifts around in her sleep. You take a couple deep breaths and try again. "I won that election fair and square. I beat you. I didn't sabotage you. I didn't cheat. I didn't rig anything."

"I know you cheated, Alabaster. I'm going to prove it, too. Just watch."

"Fuck you. Fuck you, Rose, you toad. I WON--"

She shushes you.

"I won," you repeat.

"And now I've won, too."

"By losing? You are unbelievable-- I thought this team actually mattered to you--"

"Does it matter to YOU that much?"

"You know it does."

"Then I'd be willing to settle," she says. "We can make a trade."

You stare at her, seething.

She stares back, grinning.

"Are you still a virgin?" She asks. 

---

You're not sure when, but at some point during the night, Rose unties you and goes back to her own foldaway bed. All the better - you didn't want to sleep beside her, anyway.

That morning, you wake to the sound of Cerise stumbling half-drunkenly from her room. You sit up and watch as she walks bleary-eyed to the kitchen, pours herself a glass of tapwater, and pounds it back with a handful of aspirin.

She shuffles back towards her room, dragging her feet and scratching her ass. But as she passes the living room, she glances in and sniffs the air, then makes a face.

"Jesus, really?" she says, frowning at you.

You shrug. "You told me to."

"Are you two gonna stop getting into your dumb little slapfights at least?" Cerise asks.

"I don't think so," you say.

"Great..." she heads for her room again.

"Hey, Cerise?" You say.

"What?"

"Please don't tell anyone about this."

"Of course not," Cerise says. "Who would I tell? Fazil?"

>[x] How about that girl you Skype with?
[ ] Good point. 

"I'd appreciate it if you butt out of my business," Cerise says. "And I promise you that Galatea doesn't care who my little brother sticks his dick in."

"Galatea?" You say. "Wow. Some name."

"Don't throw stones in glass houses, Alabaster."

"I've been meaning to ask," you say. "Since when did you get into a long distance relationship with another girl?"

Cerise scowls at you. "It's not like that, you pervert. We're just good friends."

"You're the pervert here," you insist. "I never said romantic relationship. Why did your mind go there right away?"

Cerise stomps. "You're unbelievable. You little cousin-fucker."

"Once removed," you say.

"Cousin-once-removed-fucker!" She shouts. "Whatever! Next time you want to get your rocks off inside a family member, don't do it in my living room. Freak." She slams her door. 

You drift back to sleep. When your alarm goes off, you see that Rose is already awake and dressed. She's fiddling with a blister pack. A long sheet of instructions lie unfolded on her lap.

"What are you doing?" You ask, getting out of bed. You grope for your pants.

"Plan B," Rose says without looking up. "Thanks to your dumb ass last night."

"Play stupid games..." you begin.

"You're going to pay me back for this purchase," she says. "It's a lot more expensive than you'd think."

"What, like 40 bucks or something?"

"Double that," Rose says. "I bought two, just in case it was twins."

You stop, one leg in your trousers. "You cannot be serious," you say.

"What?" Rose says. She swallows the pill, thinking, and grows visibly worried. "Should I have taken three?"

"Why don't you keep going until you hit the LD50," you suggest.

As you finish pulling up your pants, notice a plastic bag at Rose's feet full of white-and-purple boxes. Two pills, hell - she must have cleared the store's entire stock. When Rose sees you looking, she kicks the bag underneath her bed.

"A little presumptuous, don't you think?" You say.

"What am I supposed to do when I have to sleep next to a fucking rapist every night?" Rose says.

"Next to one?" You say. "You ARE one. I'll never feel clean again."

"Go to hell, Alabaster."

You throw on your shirt and make for the door. "Get a prescription for the pill," you tell her. "It's a lot cheaper in the long run." 

That afternoon, at lunch, you visit the cafeteria to eat with Vivian. She isn't hard to find. Every other Darkbloom employee avoids eating anywhere near her, so that she sits all alone in a vast radius of empty tables in the middle of the hall. Judging by the way people whisper to each other and stare at her, her presence among the hoi polloi of DA is a rare - and frightening - sight.

You order a sundae - one scoop of vanilla, one scoop of strawberry - complete with hot chocolate, crushed peanuts, whipped cream and cherry. The menu calls this the "lovers' sundae," although you chose it less for its name and more because it sounded appetizing. You pay with the coupon Vivian handed to you the other day.

Vivian doesn't look up from her cell phone when you sit down across from her. She's scrolling through an image board you recognize as *Chan. You can hardly believe your eyes - it's been a running joke since DA bought it out, that Vivian Darkbloom personally administrates the website, but you didn't actually think it was true. Yet here she is, doing just that.

"Noted," she mumbles to herself. She writes down a number on a pad beside her, which looks like an IP address. "Noted. Noted." More writing.

"Vivian?"

She quickly looks up, eyes bulging, and flips her cellphone over.

"Aren't you eating too? Where's your sundae?" You ask, enjoying a spoonful of vanilla.

"Right there," Vivian says. She takes a spoon and scoops up some of the strawberry ice cream, making sure to catch a dollop of whipped cream too. She twirls the spoon in her mouth.

"I didn't realize we were sharing," you say.

Vivian lets the ice cream melt in her mouth, and a tiny twitch at the edge of her lips is the only trace of a smile.

"Lovers' sundae," she murmurs.

You rub the back of your head. "It sounded good."

"Mm." She takes another spoonful. Apparently she prefers strawberry.

Vivian is a tiny girl. Sitting in her chair, her feet don't quite reach the ground. It's hard to imagine that this little girl who likes ice cream and shitposting on the internet - self-serious as she may be - can strike such terror into the hearts of her subordinates.

>[ ] Since you're moderating *Chan, do you think you could do something about the weirdos there who are obsessed with my sister?
>[x] Move onto other topics.

"So are you some kind of child genius, or what?" You ask. "Running a big multinational company like this."

"I am no genius," Vivian says. "And I am also not a child. I would appreciate it if you refrained from patronizing me." She eats another spoonful of ice cream and makes a contented little mewl at the sweetness of it.

"Right... well, thank you for lunch," you say.

"Thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy, for your vote on Tuesday. It is not hyperbole to say that you may have saved this company from ruin."

"Well - I had to," you say. "I mean, my sister's new job was on the line. She's part of the investigation team."

"Which sister do you mean?" Vivian asks.

"What do you mean, which sister?" You say, narrowing your eyes. "I only have one sister."

Vivian flips through her notepad. "Hmm," she says. "There is your elder sister, Cerise, and - since Charlotte Mallory adopted you in 2014, there is your younger sister, Rose--"

"No," you say, shaking your head violently. "Nononono. No. NO."

"Have I said something wrong?"

"Are you keeping a file on me?" You sputter.

"I merely did some research," she says. "In preparation for our lunch date. I am told it assists in making small talk. Is this talk not sufficiently small?"

"It's--" You massage the bridge of your nose. "Never mind. How about this for small talk - what do you do when you're not plotting world domination?"

Vivian actually has to take a moment to think about this.

"I enjoy reading," she says. "Particularly the high modernist classics, such as the work of Marcel Proust." (What an interesting girl.) "I also partake in the Lolita fashion subculture."

It's hard to picture Vivian wearing bright pastel dresses and gaudy pink bows like that. You've only ever seen her in formal business wear.

"One day," Vivian continues, "the owners of Baby the Stars Shine Bright will finally accede to my buyout demands and the doors of history will shut forever upon the scourge that is sweet Lolita."

"I'm sorry," you say, "I think you've lost me."

"Sweet Lolita fashion must be rooted out wherever it lurks and its brainless adherents made to stand naked in the harsh light of public judgment," she says. "Only then can the permanent supremacy of Gothic Lolita be secured."

You take an uneasy bite of ice cream. Maybe this was a bad topic to broach. You didn't know there was a Lolita civil war raging. (Although Vivian definitely looks like she'd be more suited to gothic Lolita - you almost forgot that was a thing.)

It isn't long before the bowl of ice cream is down to its last melty dregs. The cherry sits in a puddle of light pink gloop. You take it for yourself and tip your head back to eat it, but Vivian lets out a tiny whine when you do.

"Huh?" You say. "Did you want the cherry?"

Vivian frowns. "It makes no difference to me who consumes the cherry."

"You want it," you say. "I heard you just now. You want it."

"You are mistaken," she says.

>[x] Tease her.
[ ] Eat it. 

You hold the cherry by its stem and wave it like a pendulum in front of her face. "Are you suuuure?" You say. "You don't want this sweet, sugary, delicious cherry? The only one there is?"

"This is childish," Vivian says. She folds her arms, but her eyes can't help following the cherry back and forth as you shake it slowly.

"I mean, if you don't want it, that's fine," you say. "I was going to eat it anyway."

"That is more than acceptable to me. Enjoy it."

"Last chance," you say.

"I have already told you--" Vivian begins.

"Ahhh," you say, opening your mouth wide, as if you're about to eat it.

The legs of Vivian's chair squeal on the tile floor; just like that, she's on tip toes. Her elbows lock and her palms splay on the tabletop, propping her up even higher. Her head is tilted back and her mouth is closed tight around the cherry.

She looks rather like a fish on a fishing line.

You make eye contact with her. Her eyes go wide with shock at her own situation, then narrow as she looks away and she blushes.

You pull your hand back, popping off the stem, and Vivian sits. She chews the cherry in silence.

"You could have asked," you say. "It would be easier that way."

She either can't, or just won't, respond. But she doesn't look angry - only a bit abashed. It's cute. You'd ruffle her hair, but that might come off as a bit weird, so you content yourself with just imagining it instead.

You're idly twirling your spoon through the dregs of the sundae when you see Mara Darkbloom approaching you. Your heart skips a beat - literally - you feel the disturbance in its normal rhythm and nearly choke on it.

She comes up behind Vivian and wraps her hands around her daughter's shoulders, her fingertips brushing lightly up against Vivian's collarbone. It's an almost - but not quite - unmotherly position. Vivian is obviously uncomfortable being treated like this, but says nothing.

"Vivian is a bit young for you, don't you think?" Mara says.

"We're just being friendly," you say.

"Are you leading her on, young man? I won't stand for that." She pats Vivian on the head, like a puppy, before grabbing her shoulder again.

Vivian stares madly at the tabletop, blushing, saying nothing.

"I just wanted to get to know her," you say. "We do work together. Is there some sort of problem?"

"Maybe soon," Mara says. She lets go of her daughter, who closes her eyes and sighs in apparent relief.

Mara circles the table and leans in close. Her face is millimeters from yours. She whispers: "Smart move, implicating your colleague with the infected drive. I would have done exactly the same thing."

"I don't know what you're talking about," you mutter, avoiding eye contact.

"You're cagey," Mara says. "You play the game better than I expected."

"I'm not playing any--"

"Yes you are," Mara says. "You're in the game now, Alabaster." She stands erect again, tall and proud, staring down her nose at you.

"Have fun," she tells you, and leaves. 

"I apologize for mother's behavior," Vivian says, eyes still downcast.

"It's not your fault," you say, not even so much to cheer her up as just for the simple fact that it's the truth.

"In fact it is my fault," Vivian insists. "Mother is angry over the board vote. She thinks father and I are steering this company in the wrong direction."

You're not sure how to reply.

"Father would like to see you," Vivian says. "Depending on what he wants to discuss - I think mother may be upset over that as well. Intimidation is her usual way when she doesn't get what she wants."

"David Darkbloom wants to see me?" You say. "When?"

Vivian checks the time on her cell phone.

"In about 15 minutes," she says.

Shit. She could have at least given you a little more time to prepare...

"It was nice eating with you, Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. "Even if the ending was spoiled. Might I be so forward as to suggest making this a lunchtime ritual on Fridays?"

[ ] Sure. Friday sundaes sound nice.
>[x] Dates are more fun if they're spontaneous, you know. 

"D-date?" Vivian stutters.

"Well... yeah," you say. "You yourself called it a lunch date just a couple minutes ago."

"'Lunch date' has a totally separate connotation from simply 'date,'" Vivian says. "They do not necessarily mean the same-"

"Regardless," you cut in, "it's more fun if we do it on the spur of the moment. I mean, planning it out so we do the same thing at the same time every week is pretty lame. What's next, setting up a recurring meeting notice in Outlook so you don't forget?"

"Oh-" Vivian says. "No, of course not... I see what you mean." She opens up her phone and quickly types something in. Peeking, you briefly glimpse a notification that says "Cancel recurring meeting?"

You sigh. "I'll see you around. We'll have other lunch dates."

"Mmm. Just lunch dates, then..."

"Or maybe dinner dates," you say, shrugging. "Who knows?"

Vivian's lips tremble. There's another phrase with a definitely different connotation.

"Perhaps," she manages. "It will be - spontaneous." She clasps her hands together. Her smile is small, but very real. "How fun."

You leave for David Darkbloom's office - you don't want to keep one of the richest men on Earth waiting. 

When you arrive in Darkbloom's office, he's sitting at his desk eating a Big Mac and fries. He wears a napkin as a bib.

Not exactly how you expected to walk in on a titan of industry.

You sit across from him and clear your throat. "You- wanted to meet with me?" you say.

"What is wrong with you?" Darkbloom growls. "Can you not see that I am eating? Must you interrupt my lunch so rudely?"

You gulp. This isn't off to a great start.

You sit there in awkward silence while Darkbloom eats with all the urgency of a cow chewing cud. You squirm and look around the room, unsure what to focus on. You settle on picking at the lint on your pantlegs. Darkbloom is a loud eater, and the wet sounds of his swallowing make you feel a low-level nausea.

After about ten minutes, Darkbloom is done. He pulls his napkin-bib away, neatly stuffs it in the empty carton of fries, and sweeps the detritus into a wastepaper basket at his feet. He takes a couple last slurps of his drink and tosses it away, too.

He coughs, once, then sets his eyes on you. "Should I fire you?" he says.

"I-- what? No--" you drawl.

"Why not?" David says. "You apparently have nothing better to do with your time than sit and stare at me. I just paid you good money to watch me eat my lunch."

This stance does not at all jibe with the existence of the recreational facilities a few floors below. You have no idea what to say, though, so you try the obvious defense: "I work 23 floors below this... in the time it would take me to leave and come back--"

"From here to your workstation is four minutes and 10 seconds at the normal human walking speed," Darkbloom says. "Eight minutes and 20 seconds round trip. You could have completed one minute, 40 seconds of productive labor. Instead, you chose to sit there uselessly."

>[x] Defend yourself.
[ ] Apologize. 

You've had all you can take of the Darkblooms trying to bully you. First Mara, now her husband - enough is enough.

"You set this meeting," you say. "Maybe I could have done something more productive, but you're the one who decided to brush me off. I was here when you wanted me. Aren't you being disrespectful of MY time here?"

Darkbloom's face is impossible to read as he stares wordlessly back at you. You begin to think you've made some kind of terrible mistake.

And then he suddenly roars with leonine laughter. You fidget in place while he laughs and laughs and laughs.

"Alabaster... I think I see what Vivian likes so much about you." He slaps your shoulder, so hard it actually budges you a bit in your seat.

You blink over and over, feeling yourself flush. From withering criticism and threats of termination to effusive praise - navigating the corporate world is a lot more difficult than you imagined.

Darkbloom pulls a fine wooden case from beneath his desk, sets it down and opens the lid. "Cigar?" He asks. "Fresh from Havana. Very nice indeed."

"Uh, no thanks," you say.

"Ah, nonsmoker," Darkbloom says. "Then I won't partake either. I can respect that." He puts the case away. "I'm glad - my daughter also doesn't like the habit."

He's about to say something else when a secretary pokes her head in the door. "Your next appointment is outside," she says. "Should I--"

"Send him in," Darkbloom says.

You begin to excuse yourself, but Darkbloom motions for you to sit. "This will be good for you. You'll learn a bit about how to deal with problematic employees."

A few seconds later, in walks the last person on Earth you could have ever expected. 

"Who is this?" Zuck says, glancing at you.

"I'd like to introduce you to Alabaster Soliloquy, one of our promising young interns."

You sheepishly wave hello.

Zuck sits in the plush executive chair beside you. "Another weird power play, David? Making me sit with the interns? This is absurd."

Darkbloom shakes his head no. "Here is where you and I differ. I actually care about the young people I bring aboard. I understand that they are the future of my company. I want to ensure they learn about the vagaries of business first-hand, the better to equip them for when they seize the mantle of leadership. Ten or twenty years down the line."

"Just tell me what you want," Zuck chuffs.

"The reason I called you here into my office without convening the board members of either company is to signal to you that I come in the spirit of camaraderie and mutually aligned interests. We have a public relations boondoggle on our hands here but that is no reason to turn on one another."

"You're the one who's got the boondoggle - not me," Zuck says.

"See: this is exactly the sort of conflict I want to avoid. Rather, we should present a unified front."

"A unified front on what, exactly?" Zuck says, his voice petulant and whiny.

"First, on who is going to eat the incredibly large shit sandwich with which we have been presented."

"Shit sandw-"

"It has to be you, of course."

"What are you telling me, David?"

"You must take full responsibility for the hack. We know already it was a hole in your security that allowed the attackers access to our servers. I have one of the world's foremost experts in digital forensics preparing a report to that effect, as we speak." He steeples his fingers. "This episode has proved to me that I erred in allowing Facebook to retain its operational autonomy after the acquisition."

"This is bull," Zuck says, apparently too professional to use foul language even when angry. "You know it was your servers that had the security flaws. I warned you about them two years ago!"

"Calm yourself," David says. His face is darkly shadowed as he leans forward. "Do you want me to bring your wife in here and bend her over this desk again?"

Zuck sets his jaw.

"I thought not. Let's dispense with the measuring tape. You know I will always win." 

"I have had ENOUGH," Zuck says. "You're going to ruin my life's work, playing petty games like this."

"No, Mr. Zuckerberg, I have had enough. I have had enough of seeing my good name smeared in the press. I have had enough of seeing my dear Mara worry herself sick over her future. I have especially had enough of my precious daughter being fodder for the tabloids. Your only remaining purpose is to fall on your sword so I can move on from this awful chapter in my family's life. You have a golden parachute waiting for you - I'm sure you will enjoy a fine retirement, just like that Tom fellow from Myspace."

Darkbloom hands Zuck a sheaf of papers. "There's the opening statement of your testimony to congress. And here's the new term sheet for Facebook's continued funding - it will dissolve your board and hand all its decisions back to us, in perpetuity. It was a pleasure to be in partnership with you."

"I cannot believe you. You're the freaking devil."

"Just a businessman. Now please," he motions with one hand to shoo Zuck out of the office. Red in the face, Zuck takes the papers and storms out. 

"I feel much better now," Darkbloom says. "How about you, Alabaster?"

"I..." you begin, then start over. "He'll take all the blame, then?"

"If he knows what's good for him. I tend to believe people are rational actors."

"Is he - really to blame?" You venture.

"Oh, I think you know the truth about that," Darkbloom intones.

You don't respond.

"I heard about your role in the vote on Tuesday," Darkbloom says. His voice is a bit more chipper. "To listen to Vivian's account, you showed real perspicacity and mettle."

"Thank you," you say.

"As I am sure you know, my CPO has been apprehended by the FBI on - loathsome charges." He sweeps his hand as if to physically do away with what he's talking about. "The less said about it the better. Until such time as I can appoint a new CPO to replace him, I have the right to install a proxy for board votes. Vivian and I agree that we can trust you to act in this company's interests. Would you do this favor for us?"

You know exactly what Darkbloom (and his daughter) expect of you: acting as their puppet to bolster themselves against mutiny by Mara. You're not thrilled to be a pawn in a battle of wits between corporate cutthroats - especially when those cutthroats are family.

Still, can you really turn him down?

>[x] Yes, I'll do it.
[ ] No, I won't do it. 

"Excellent, absolutely excellent." Darkbloom stands and presses one of the wood panels in his wall, revealing a hidden minifridge. He pulls out a bottle of champagne and two fluted glasses. He pops the cap on the champagne and pours.

"To the future of this company," he says, toasting you. "May it be long and profitable."

You toast, clinking the glasses together, and knock back the bubbly drink.

"What about your wife, though?" You ask. May as well address the issue head on. "Will she be upset?"

"Mara can be a bit headstrong sometimes," Darkbloom says. He waves a hand nonchalantly in the air. "We disagree on a few points, but we are united on the things that really count. She won't be a problem."

"She just seemed really--"

"Please, Alabaster, don't worry yourself about small things. The truth is, Mara gets moody around this time of year for purely personal reasons. I apologize if she took it out on you."

You don't ask, but the curiosity must be plain on your face because Darkbloom explains anyway:

"I wasn't unlike you, in my youth - let's just say there was infidelity. Our marriage has recovered since she found out about it, but it's hard to fault her for the lingering pangs of resentment that sometimes surface." He perches a chin on the back of his interlaced hands. "I have to admit, it warms my heart, in a perverse way... I thought for many years that she considered this a marriage of convenience rather than love."

You pour yourself another glass and drink it down. Something, anything to occupy you so you don't have to respond to THAT.

"Let that be a lesson to you," Darkbloom says. He leans back. "Honesty is important in any relationship."

"Absolutely," you agree.

"I look at you, Alabaster, and I see a future son in law. What do you think of that?"

[ ] I'm flattered.
[ ] You want honesty, then here it is: I'm seeing someone else. 

>[x] I'm flattered BUT, you wanted honesty, so here it is: I'm already seeing someone else.

"You mean Whitney Price," Darkbloom says.

"Err-- how do you--"

"She's a nice girl," he says. "I think you two make a splendid couple. It of course does not change my overall assessment."

"I'm not saying there's anything wrong with Vivian," you add. "But Whitney and I--"

"Alabaster, please," Darkbloom says. "No need to debase yourself with declaiming and self-justifying. I respect you for being so candid."

You nod.

"Since we're on the topic, Whitney could bring a lot of skills to this company. I am given to understand you asked her to reject our employment offer."

Okay, now it's really weird. How did he know about that?

"Would you be willing to reconsider, Alabaster?"

>[x] Yes.
[ ] No. 

"No promises, though," you add. "I can't control her any better than anyone else."

"Of course not," Darkbloom says, grinning. "That's what makes you like her so much. Correct?"

You nod.

"You're free to go now," Darkbloom says. "I'm sure you have plenty of productive things to do."

You stand and head for the door.

"Oh, Alabaster, one more thing."

You stop and turn at the threshold.

"If you see Camelia again - use that gun of yours to shoot her dead."

END OF EPISODE 4. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, supporter of the male:succubus tag and rape survivor. #WatashiMo

Until now, you've never been inside the rebuilt North High. Even though the layouts of its halls and classrooms are exactly the same in every way as the old school, it creeps you out. Something feels wrong about it.

This is where Rose wanted to meet you after your shooting practice. (Which went as disastrously as you expected it would - you can't hit a target to save your life. Since you might need to do exactly that in the near future, it's a bit worrying.)

Rose is already there, of course. She's standing in the main lobby near the administration area - in front of a case that displays the portraits of every class president in North High's history.

"Did you leave your phone behind?" Rose asks.

"Yeah... did this really have to happen here?" You say.

"After that conversation you had with Darkbloom?" Rose says. "Who knows where he's got eyes and ears. This place seemed reasonably secure..."

You stand by her side and stare at the rows of portraits.

"Notice anything?" Rose asks.

"Yeah," you say. "Can we just get to the--"

"What do you notice?"

"You're going to make me say it? You are such a c--"

"Go on, now."

"My picture is missing."

"Why do you think that is?" Rose asks.

You turn on your heels and walk off. If this is all she wanted to do, just gloat, she can go to hell. 

She jogs after you and grabs your hand, stopping you. "I had to clean up your mess, of course," she says. "Say what you want about my presidency, but at least the school didn't burn down under my watch."

"You're gonna blame the student council president for some random arsonist coming by to burn down the school?" You say.

"When that arsonist is the student council president?" Rose says. "Yeah. I am."

You grimace at her. "You don't know that."

"Of course I do. I'm not half as stupid as you think."

"I mean it," you say. "You don't know what you're talking about. You have no idea what happened that night."

Rose searches your eyes for meaning, but you can wear a poker face when you need to.

"Be that as it may," Rose says, "I know you're not doing Camelia's dirty work because you're afraid she's going to leak your internet history. I'm not, either." She smooths her long skirt with both hands. "You may be the most pathetic person I've ever met, but even YOU don't deserve whatever she's threatening you with."

"Thanks," you say sarcastically. "I really appreciate your protection."

"I keep racking my brain over how Camelia knows so much about us," she says. "So much stuff that isn't online - at least, whatever happened that night isn't. So how does she know, then?"

You shrug. "It's on video."

"But she needed a reason to suspect," Rose says. "No one solves random cold-case arsons for fun."

"So... what, then?" You ask.

"It's that girl your sister talks to all the time. That weird redheaded bitch who keeps Cerise cooped up in her bedroom all night, every night - who won't stop texting with Cerise at work - your sister got catfished, Alabaster."

"Cerise is smarter than that--"

"Smart doesn't measure up to lonely. Your sister's friend is working with Camelia. I know she is."

It makes more sense than you'd like to admit. For all the contingencies you planned and the secrecy you swore, the gaping hole in your security ended up being Cerise herself.

"Tell me I'm crazy," Rose demands. "Give me one good reason not to pick the lock on her door and snoop through her chatlogs."

[ ] We're not going to do anything for now.
[ ] Go to Cerise and ask her directly about the situation.
>[x] Gather evidence and confirm your suspicions before confronting Cerise about it.

"You are not going to do anything," you growl. "You fucking psycho. I'll take a look at Cerise's computer and see what I can find."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Please. You're just gonna mess it all up, like usual, and come crying to me for help. Let's cut out the unnecessary extra steps this time."

"This conversation is over," you say. "I'm going home."

Rose circles around and blocks your path. You're utterly sick of her shit, and this is the final straw. You do it without thinking: you body check her and slam her against the display case. The force rattles the case and knocks some of the photos down from their frames. Rose falls to her ass and rubs her head, smarting.

"I'm not your slave," you tell her. "We're doing this my way."

Rose looks up at you, her eyes simmering. "You're a useless little shit, Alabaster," she says. "Without me you'd be fucking dead already. You should thank me."

You grab her roughly by the hair and squat, bringing your face level with hers. Your voice is low and firm. "Thank you," you say.

She spits in your face. Of course, this demands a response: you bash the side of her head against the cabinet again.

"I-I bet you get off on this," she says. She pulls back just a bit in your grip, so she's flush against the display case. She splays her legs a little too, and you can't help looking down: she doesn't have any panties on.

"You're disgusting," you tell her.

Her face is a mask of revulsion and barely-concealed lust.

You stand, and she can't help letting out a little whine.

"Fine. We can do it your way," you say. "At least if you get caught, you'll be the one catching Cerise's wrath. Let me know what you find."

"Just--" Rose stutters. "Just like that? You..."

"How many times do I have to tell you that it's going to happen when I decide on it?"

You turn and start down the hall. "Don't hurry to catch up," you say, and push through the double doors leading to the parking lot. Right before you do - faintly, you hear Rose knock her own head against the display case in frustration. 

That evening back at the apartment, Cerise and Rose sit with you in the living room.

You call Kay's personal number as instructed. It rings three, four times before she finally answers.

"Kay Vera," she says. "This better be good. You interrupted my yoga."

"Hi," you say. "This is Alabaster Soliloquy. We met a couple days ago."

A long pause. Finally, she replies: "Yes we did. You almost mowed me down."

"That is not--" you begin, but think better of arguing. "I have some information you might want to publish. About my company."

"So you changed your mind about talking to the press. Why?"

"I saw something that - that really concerned me," you reply, reading straight from a script Rose prepared for you. She nods encouragingly as she watches you.

"All right. What is it?"

"No," you say. "Not like this. People might be listening." Thumbs up from Rose. Cerise is less enthusiastic. She looks anxious, and fiddles with the bottle of beer in her hands - her third in less than an hour.

"That's quite true," Kay hums. "Then let's try this. I've got a place I'm renting in Green Acres - I'll text you the address. Come see me Wednesday, 6 PM. And come alone."

"I fear for my safety," you say. Actually, you fear you come off as a bit stilted reading that line, but hopefully it lands. "I want to meet you somewhere public. How about the Rutabaga Cafe on--"

"I fear for MY safety, Alabaster. Darkbloom has people following me."

You look at Rose and Cerise with a worried expression. This wasn't part of the plan.

"All due respect," Kay continues, "but after the way you acted, I can't be particularly confident you aren't leading me into a honey trap. I'll talk with you, but only in a place where I can control the environment. Where I can make sure no one followed me - or you."

Camelia is not going to be happy about this.

[ ] I'll meet you at your place.
>[x] I'll only meet you at the place of my choosing.
[ ] Forget about the meeting entirely, then. 

"I see," Kay says. "You either really are setting up a trap or something has you seriously spooked."

"Well?" You demand.

"Are you screwing with me, young man?" Kay says.

"No--"

"If you're screwing with me, you'll regret it. I'm not some two-bit hack blogger. I've covered wars, you know."

"I'm not screwing with you," you insist. "This is real. And it's big. And if you want it, you'll have to meet with me in public. How can I know you're not honey trapping me?"

"I swear to god..." she sighs. Then: "I'll call you back in a day or two. We'll talk soon."

With a click, she disconnects.

You're not sure if that's a good or bad outcome. 

At work on Monday, you're sitting cross-legged on the floor in Sable's lab, trying to get SMATTERS to navigate a simulated beach at low tide (A bunch of cat litter and water in a kiddie pool.)

SMATTERS is on manual input mode right now, which means you're in command of the little thing, using an extremely complicated remote that you hold like a game controller. His neural net learns by doing, and uncertain terrain like this is an area that it's weak in. Hopefully you can make it better.

Ken is busy at a workbench, piecing together another disassembled SMATTERS unit. While he works, he whistles the theme song to DuckTales. Over and over again. Incessantly.

Alex comes by and watches you. "Ooh, that looks fun," he says. "Can I try?"

"Knock yourself out," you say, handing him the remote. He grabs it, then immediately plops himself down on the ground - right in your lap.

"I--" you begin.

He looks back at you over his shoulder. "Show me how to do it," he says.

You look to the sky and say a silent prayer for strength in this trying time.

You reach around Alex's thin frame and lay your hands on the remote as well. Carefully, with all of your focus on your hands, and none on the pressure of Alex's butt against your crotch, you demonstrate some basics. His hands are very small and soft and smooth beneath yours. He nods along enthusiastically as you show him several different axes of control and how to move the legs in tandem, how to direct the robot's line of sight, how to make it hop and sit.

When Alex tries for himself without your assistance now, he wiggles side to side and bites his lip in concentration.

Try as you might to stop it from happening, his excited motions in your lap have an obvious side effect.

"Alex..." you say. "Would you mind getting--"

"Hold on, I've almost got it!" He says.

"Would you mind--"

"It's getting close!"

You grab him by the shoulders. He startles under your grip, swiveling his head around to look at you again. "Ally?" he says.

"I need to get up," you say.

He tilts his head to one side like a confused puppy. "Err, all right," he says.

He scoots forward, freeing you from the tyranny of his inadvertent sexiness. You stand up and dust off the back your slacks.

Alex turns his attention back to SMATTERS, but before you can walk away he says: "you were ree-ally hard just now~ ... Weren't you?"

He sticks his tongue out at you. This innocent boy has a bit of the devil in him after all.

"Duck Tales, a-woo-oo," you hear Ken mutter to himself - oblivious to the world.

You check the time. Lunch is coming up soon, so you'll have a few free moments to kill.

[ ] Check on Rose's progress with spying on Cerise.
[ ] Hang out with Cerise for lunch.
[ ] Hang out with Alex for lunch.
[ ] Hang out with Vivian for lunch.
>[x] Hang out with Sable for lunch.
[ ] Hang out with Whitney for lunch. 

You better make sure that half-crazy woman is actually eating, since it seems like no one else can bother to give a shit whether she does or not.

"How is the progress with SMATTERS?" Sable asks just as soon as you wheel up a chair beside her workstation.

"I don't know," you say teasingly. "Maybe some pizza would jog my memory. Do you want some, t--"

"No thank you." She hasn't even looked at you since you sat down.

"What do you like, then?" You ask. "Salad, hamburgers, grilled cheese?"

"Nothing, thank you. How is the progress with SMATTERS?"

This is like some kind of elaborate mental torture. "How is the progress with getting a bike?" You say. Anything to get her brain off work for more than two seconds.

No such luck. "This is not workplace appropriate discussion," Sable says.

Enough of this. You grab the back of her chair and spin it around so she's facing you, and not her screen.

"Answer quickly, then," you say.

Sable makes a cute pouty face, but then she does answer: "I purchased a bicycle this Sunday. A relatively cheap model since I may not like it. Only $7500."

Sometimes it's easy to forget that Sable joined the three comma club as a teenager. Her sense of money is a bit distorted, it seems.

"Great. And what kind of food do you like?"

But it turns out you're not the only one who looks after Sable. Alex comes in, apparently having slipped away to the cafeteria, and he's got a tray with three huge slices of pizza on it.

"Here you go, Ms. Guiteau," he says. "You should eat."

Sable points at a spot on her desk where Alex sets down a plate with Sable's slice. He offers you a plate too, and who could turn down a face like that? You take yours and start to eat.

It wounds your ego only a little that Sable instantly accepted pizza from Alex but wouldn't even consider it from you. Is that weird?

Alex nibbles at his food like a little bird, and makes cute little "om" sounds whenever he bites down. You half suspect he's a robot programmed to confuse wayward young men. Or maybe a succubus. Anything is possible, right?

Despite accepting the plate, though, Sable doesn't touch her food.

"You should eat, Ms. Guiteau," Alex says.

He might be sweet and thoughtful, but he isn't any good at imposing himself on others. Sable defers by asking him some work-related questions about the codebase for SMATTERS, and Alex lets the conversation move on. They yammer back and forth. Time to step up.

"Eat your food," you tell her, cutting into their conversation. "He went out of his way to get it for you."

"Ally!" Alex squeaks. "It's not-- I mean--"

"Is that so?" Sable says. "Am I treating him poorly again?" She glances at Alex. "Am I treating you poorly?"

"N-not at all!" Alex insists. He waves his hands in front of him. "It's fine! Eat at your own pace, Ms. Guiteau!"

Sable seems less than convinced. She takes the plate of pizza in hand and starts eating. And when she eats- she really eats. It's gone in less than two minutes.

"Does this satisfy you, Alex?" Sable asks.

He smiles despite himself. "I-- just want to make sure you stay nourished, Ms. Guiteau. Your brain needs energy!"

Sable nods and returns to her work.

There's still plenty of time:

>[x] Drag Sable away from her office to check out the recreational facilities. [x] [optional: take Alex too.]
[ ] Go somewhere with just Alex and let Sable work. 

You try the method that just recently had some success: you grab the back of Sable's chair and spin it around. Then, still holding the chair-back, you wheel her to the front of the office.

She types at the air for a split second before realizing that you've ripped her away from her work.

"Where are you taking me?" She demands.

"Alex, let's go," you say. "We're going to have a little fun with Sable. For once in her life, she'll actually take a full lunch break."

You help Sable out of her chair. The look on her face is one of obvious annoyance, but she goes along with it all the same - mostly, you think, because she knows you aren't going to take no for an answer.

A few minutes later, Alex and Sable are hooked into leather harnesses, trying and miserably failing to climb the artificial rock wall that occupies a 200'x30' section of the wall in the far end of the rec area. The thing is so tall that it extends up several floors, with views to office windows above.

Alex is a little too short to do anything but try to hop from foothold to foothold, which meets with pratfall after pratfall. He can't make it any farther up than about halfway before he falls.

Sable is even worse. She has all the coordination of a baby, slipping time and again off the first couple footholds, before finally planting her feet firmly on the floor, folding her arms and not moving - her signal that she's had all she can stomach of bouldering.

After a particularly disastrous attempt on Alex's part that sends him tumbling backwards off the wall from almost 15 feet in the air, he hangs suspended by his harness, defeated, with all four limbs dangling beneath him under gravity's pull. He's at eye level with you, and despite his failure, he's having a lot of fun. You can tell because he says "this is so fun!" - for about the thirtieth time so far.

"I don't think our boss agrees," you muse.

"Hmmph," is all Sable will say. "This is the most frivolous waste of--"

"Fine, fine," you say. You nod at the trainer, signaling to him that it's time to unhook this odd couple from their harnesses. "But before we go back to work, let's give your muscles a chance to rest."

Sable eyes you warily. Alex kicks a little in the air to give himself momentum, and enjoys the swinging of his whole body back and forth like a pendulum. He giggles to himself.

"Let's check out the sauna, huh?" You say.

The sauna is coed but there are gender-segregated locker rooms to get ready in before you make use of the facility. Even in here, it's humid and sticky - from the heat wafting in through the short hall that leads to the sauna.

The locker rooms are kind of tiny - just a short aisle with two rows of lockers facing one another and a shower on the other side of one set. There's no real way to avoid getting naked in front of Alex. Well, when in Rome...

Despite having had, uh, first-hand experience with you, Alex blushes and looks away when your pants come off. He might be brazen in flirting but in a situation like this he's not so forward.

You do it quickly, and soon your dignity is preserved again by a white towel wrapped around your lower half.

But Alex is still more than just a bit timid, and he's still fully clothed.

"Well?" You say. "Let's get going."

(You'd be lying if you said you didn't want him to do it in front of you, which is why you're lingering instead of just heading to the sauna room."

Alex pokes both index fingers together, demurring. "It's... a little embarrassing," he says.

[ ] Let him strip in privacy.
>[x] Stand your ground. 

You fold your arms. "You don't want to keep Ms. Guiteau waiting, do you?" You say.

This shocks Alex into action. "N-no!" He stammers.

"Then let's go," you say.

He slowly slips his shirt off - as his arms rise above the level of his head you can see clearly now that his armpits are bare. Does he shave them or is he just incapable of growing hair there? You're not sure which one is more...

You try not to finish that thought.

His torso is lithe, without a hint of body fat or even muscle for that matter - and the curve of his hips is definitely more suggestive of the feminine than the masculine. At least, you want to think so. Alex is so embarrassed by now that he's visibly shaking as he loops his thumbs into the waistband of his spats. He glances back at you, his eyes pleading for at least a little dignity, but you just stand there. He bows his head and does it.

You can hardly believe what you see: Alex is wearing a pair of frilly pink panties.

You would say something, but you're absolutely gobsmacked.

"M-M-Ms. Whitney said..." Alex explains, his voice small and stuttering.

He loops his fingers in the waistband of these as well.

[x] No. Wear those into the sauna. [with towel / without towel]
>[x] Let him finish.

He slides the panties down his supple legs and stashes them in his locker. He turns around with his hands clasped over his genitals, just standing there, his face a neon red.

You only realize that you're gawking at him in awkward silence when he stutter: "M-Mr. Ally, please, a t-towel..."

(He seems to default to calling you Mr. in moments of vulnerability. It's too cute.)

You knock yourself out of your reverie and hand him a towel from the shelves beside you. He takes it, turns, and wraps it around himself. You never catch a truly full-frontal glimpse - but you do see his round and smooth little ass before he covers it up. You have to walk to the sauna with a hand over your own front to conceal what's lurking there.

Sable is there already, towel over her front and another over her hair. She's lounging back on the slatted bench, but when she sees the two of you enter, she courteously dumps some water over the heated rocks, sending up sizzling wafters of steam.
 
"Have you been in here before?" You ask her, sitting down. Alex sits between the two of you, still shaking with embarrassment.
 
"Once or twice," Sable says. It's hard to believe she's ever actually left her office, but it's nice to hear she has.
 
"My heart is beating really fast..." Alex says.
 
"It's the heat and humidity," you tell him. "You'll get used to it."
 
He seems a bit woozy though, and ends up leaning against Sable's shoulder for support.
 
"Alex is a bit of a pushover," Sable says, talking right past him. "Maybe he won't get used to it."
 
"Ms. Guiteau, that's mean..."
 
"It's just the truth," she says. She dumps a little more water over the stones.
 
You notice a little bulge in Alex's towel that wasn't there before. Did Sable's minor insult actually turn him on?
 
You snake a hand around him and pull him off of Sable, letting him lean against you instead. You chuckle to play it off as a friendly gesture, a buddy-buddy kind of thing. But a different instinct is taking over at this point, one you can't control. You let your hand come to a rest in Alex's lap so you can verify what you suspect.
 
Alex is no good at being surreptitious, though. "Mr. Ally, M-Ms. Guiteau is right here," he says. His flushed face is pressed against your shoulder and he's staring deeply into your eyes. His hands are balled up against his own chest.
 
Sable glances from you and Alex, down to his lap where your hand is. Whatever she concludes from how you're positioned, her face remains passive and undisturbed.
 
You whisper in his ear: "You're ree-eeally hard right now, aren't you?"
 
He winces and flinches at this. Revenge is sweet.
 
Sable may not have heard your words to Alex but she must have seen there was nothing chaste in how you spoke to him. "Are you two homosexuals?" She asks.
 
The question has no accusation in it - just curiosity.  
 
Alex shakes his head emphatically no.
 
"What he said," you offer.
 
Sable considers this.
 
"Fascinating," she says. "You know, this room can be locked from the inside for privacy." (Here again: nothing but a kind of remote interest in her tone.) She stands and goes to the door, and you expect her to step out, leaving you two to your fun. But instead she throws the deadbolt, remaining inside. She sits back down beside the two of you and tosses a little more water on the stones.
 
"You're not suggesting something dirty, are you?" You tease.
 
"Do as you wish," Sable says. "Bonding can raise the morale of a working group."
 
You're not going to give her (or Alex) time to reconsider. You spread your legs, grab hold of one of Alex's hands and guide it to your crotch. Your cock is already hard.
 
"M-Mr.... Mr... Ally... i-in front of her?" he says. His voice is so tremulous that you can hardly decipher the words.
 
Your answer him by wrapping his hand around your cock. You dispense with the towel now, pulling it loose so it falls to the bench-top. Sable watches, passive as ever, as you coach Alex to work your shaft gently up and down.
 
You loop your arms around the back of the bench and let your butt slide forward just a little bit so Alex has even better access. He stares intently at your pulsing manhood, his other hand still balled up against his bare chest while he sets to work on you. Even in this heat and humidity, his little pink nipples are hard.
 
"You're large," Sable notes.
 
"Thanks," you say, glancing over at her. "You can join too if you like."
 
Sable just shakes her head a bit. A voyeur, then. That's ok too.
 
"Have you done this before?" Sable asks while you luxuriate in the delicious feeling of being jerked off.
 
"Once," you say. Alex smears a droplet of precum around the mushroom head of your dick and licks his lips hungrily.
 
"You had sex too?" Sable asks. Her impassivity is giving way - just a bit - to a slight catch in her voice that suggests her interest is motivated by more than morale, and that it's more than clinical.
 
"He sucked my cock," you say plainly. It's kind of fun to be so crass about it with your boss. Alex shudders at this.
 
"May I see?" she asks.
 
You grab Alex by the hair and guide him to his knees on the concrete floor. He crawls in front of you, using your legs to help him, and gets his mouth around the head of your cock. Just like that.
 
His method is a lot more sensual than it was the first time. You have a sneaking suspicion of why that might be. His little pink tongue laps the sensitive underside as he swallows you, inch by inch. He takes you as far as his little mouth will allow - about two thirds of your length - before he starts to gag horribly.
 
Sable scoots closer to get a better vantage.
 
"Do you like this?" You ask her. "Watching us?"
 
"There is something - alluring - to seeing Alex used like this," Sable admits.
 
Alex mewls around you, and the vibration sends ripples of pleasure through your dick. He's just happy to be of service, it seems. His spit is running in little streams down to your heavy balls. It feels nice.
 
"Have you ever had him use his tongue on your rectum?" Sable asks.
 
Alex's eyes almost pop out of his skull, but you like the idea. It's perverted and degrading. Somehow, you want to degrade Alex as much as possible, even though he's been nothing but nice to you.
 
"You heard your boss," you tell him. "She wants to see you lick my asshole."
 
You tug him off your drooling dick and get him underneath the bench. The slats are perfect for this. He presses his face up against them and worms his tongue out, licking your ass back and forth. He can barely reach it like this, but the wonderfully teasing sensation of it is enough to make you really enjoy it.
 
Sable's hands worry one another in her lap. This is definitely turning her on.
 
You bring Alex's hand up to jerk you off while he licks you. His palm slides smoothly up and down your lubricated dick, pulling your foreskin back and forth over the tip.
 
"Play with yourself if you want to," you tell Sable. "I don't mind."
 
She reaches into her towel without taking it off and starts to rub herself.
 
"How does that feel?" Sable asks you.
 
"It's great," you say. "Wet and hot. He sucks ass just as well as he sucks cock."
 
"Do you-" she begins, but stops.
 
"What?" you ask.
 
Her hand quickens against her cunt. "Do you mind if I try?"
 
"You want to lick my ass?" You say.
 
"No," she says.
 
Oh. She wants something entirely different.
 
You stand and tug Alex by his hand to where Sable sits masturbating. "Now her," you command.
 
Alex is panting like a bitch. His mouth gaping open and his face a slobbery mess. Sable pulls her towel open and surprises you by also standing - then squatting over Alex's face. Alex gets on his hands and knees to service her.
 
Sable's pussy is beautifully dark and swollen with arousal, her flat chest heaving with desire. Alex latches onto her ass without a word of protest and Sable grinds against him.
 
"I've always--" Sable gulps, enjoying the feeling of Alex's tongue inside her, before she continues. "I've always had this image in my head of making Alex do this. I don't know why."
 
"It's what he was born for," you offer.
 
"Yes," Sable agrees. "He's only good for--" she begins to stammer with pleasure - "f-for servicing his betters..."
 
"That would be everyone, wouldn't it?" You say.
 
"Yes," Sable says. Alex moans audibly and doubles down on his efforts inside Sable's asshole. She rubs her cunt, closes her eyes and lets her head hang back.
 
"Fuck him too," Sable says, lost in her own world of pleasure.
 
Alex pulls back a bit. "W-wait," he says, but Sable won't brook resistance. She pulls his face back to her ass and muffles his whining again.
 
You can't say no to your boss, right?
 
You get on your knees and pull Alex's towel away. His dick is twitching, pulsing and dripping lewdly. It's pretty short, but surprisingly thicker than you'd expect. Part of the reason for that, though, might be the small pink bow tied tightly around the base of it. You can guess who put that there.
 
You spread his pale bubble butt apart and enjoy the sight: a perfectly clenched rosebud in an unblemished shade of bright pink. You spit on the hole, causing Alex to shiver, which in turn causes Sable to shiver.
 
No stopping now. You push in. His ass gives way, but only slowly, so that inch by agonizing inch you have to push and grind and force yourself into him with all your might. Alex is bucking and sobbing in pain and trying to get away but there's no escape - he's pinned on both ends. Every struggle is met only by the vicious force of you and Sable spit-roasting him. You never knew she could be this perverted - happily raping her subordinate with the help of another person. She bounces up and down, rubbing herself all over his face to get off. Her hand is a blur against her engorged clit.
 
"Nnnn--" she moans, gritting her teeth.
 
You can't help moaning too, Alex's tender insides gripping you like a vice from every angle. You fuck in and out with quick, short strokes, but he's so damned tight that you quickly begin to wear out.
 
"Worthless," Sable spits, real venom in her voice. "You're worthless, Alex. Less than worthless." Though he cries at these words, his cock spits out little droplets of precum. He enjoys it after all. "Lick me," she says, again and again. "Lick me. Lick me!"
 
This is too much for you. You're going to lose your nut. Tired or not, you're so turned on that you need to get as deep up Alex's ass as you can. You pull his hands off of Sable's butt and hold him firmly by the wrists. Alex has no control at all now, his body taut between you and Sable. You pound him without mercy, giving him full strokes in and out that slam his ruined face back into Sable's rectum over and over.
 
Sable hisses in delight and cums - she's a squirter. Her girlcum splashes all over the place and - wanting to fully complete Alex's humiliation, she quickly turns around so that the sloppy mess explodes all over his face. He keeps his face upturned, mouth wide open and eyes half-lidded and lets Sable cum all over him like the bitch he is. She isn't extremely vocal but she has a huge volume of cum and she rubs squirt after squirt out of her spasming pussy. Alex tries to catch it on his tongue as it rains down over him but he can't come close to getting the whole volume of it.
 
"Fuck," you groan, unable to hold back. You pump once, twice and a final time - all the way to the hilt, your balls tight against his little boy butt - and let your cum erupt into his deepest parts.
 
Alex squeals, and in a girly voice he whines: "Yes! Please... please use me... please..." He fucks back against you and takes your cum with a huge smile on his face. And then despite the makeshift chastity device around the base of his own cock, he cums too - a thin little dribble that's mostly clear and drools in long strands to floor.
 
Sable collapses against the bench, heaving. You pull out of Alex and let him fall to the ground with a wet thud. You sit next to Sable, equally worn out as she is. Alex is the worst off, though, of course - he seems only half-conscious.
 
"I better get him out here," you say, breathless.
 
"Yes," Sable says, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of the defiled boy on the ground in front of her. "That's a good idea."
 
As you scoop Alex up, Sable says "Thank you for the enjoyable lunch break."

BOYS FUCKED: 1/1

A wise man once told you that honesty is important in any relationship. You immediately cop to Whitney about what happened in the sauna.

Well, you kind of have to: Alex had to take the rest of the day off sick after the abuse you heaped on him, and he was so exhausted that it fell to you to drive him back to his apartment. And since Whitney shares that apartment with him now, it was inevitable.

"You broke rule one!" Whitney whines. "Why you little..."

When you deposit a still half-conscious but deliriously smiling Alex in his bed, Whitney climbs into it with him and slaps his spat-covered ass. "Is it still in there?" She demands. "I'm gonna suck it out of him!"

"Good lord," you say. "I got him cleaned up before I took him back. Look, I'm sure you'll have other opportunities..."

"Right now!" Whitney demands, sitting hunched over on balled-up fists and staring up at you. "Fuck him again right now!" She bounces up and down for effect.

"You're like a child, you know? I couldn't possibly. Besides, it would probably break him."

Whitney looks back and forth from you to where Alex lies panting on top of his sheets. She still doesn't seem to understand the problem here.

"Listen, we need to talk about something else," you tell her. You gently guide her out of Alex's bedroom.

"What's up?" She says.

>[x] I just want to make sure you're not going to work for Dakrbloom.
[ ] I changed my mind. I want you to take the security guard job at Darkbloom Analytics.

And...

>[x] Also, I need your help. With Rose.
[ ] (Say nothing about Rose) 

The last thing you want is to play into whatever sick plan David Darkbloom has. You don't trust him no matter how much he tries to play the ersatz father to you.

"I want to make absolutely sure you're not taking that job," you say.

"Geez, Ally. Don't you trust old Whitney?" She points at herself with both thumbs and smiles.

"Not particularly," you say. She pouts.

"Not on things like this," you clarify. "You have a bad habit of worming your way into places you're not supposed to be. It's really annoying, it's like you're making everything about you. Remember the quiz bowl final?"

"I saved your stupid butt!" Whitney says.

Well... that's true. Still, the point stands.

"It's dangerous at DA," you tell her. "And it's best to have at least one friendly person on the outside. You know - strategically speaking."

"Ohhh," Whitney says, nodding her empty head. "It's a strategery thing."

"Yeah..."

"Well you don't need to worry," Whitney says. "I already got a job at Whole Foods. I'll be shoving vegan hamburgers into reusable 'Save The Whales' tote bags all day for 12 entire bucks an hour. 12!"

She sounds way too happy about $12 an hour. Especially in this city.

"That's great news," you lie. "I always knew you'd wind up being a bag lady."

"Don't you know it!" Whitney agrees.

"There's something else," you say. "We have a problem. A Rose problem." 

Whitney's initial suggestion of beating Rose to death was a little extreme. You got her to settle on something more to your taste. Having squared up about that, you return to work.

On your way across the street from the parking garage to the front gates of the DA campus, you run into Stackleford approaching from down the sidewalk. Is that fat little fuck following you or what?

"Alabaster! Thank you so much for introducing me to Sabrina," he says, panting as he jogs a little to catch up with you. "You're the best, man."

"...Sabrina?" You say.

"I know! Isn't it crazy that her name is Sabrina too? It's, like, a sign from the universe or something."

Camelia certainly knows how to get to Stackleford, the poor sap - not like it's a difficult thing to do.

"I don't want to say I'm in love yet," Stackleford begins. "But... it's looking pretty good!"

"What did you guys do the other night?" You ask.

"Tooled around with Kagome, ate some nacho fries, watched a little Attack on Titan... one thing led to another... bow chikka wow, am I right?" He does a repulsive little shimmy that makes his man tits jiggle.

You shake your head. "That's great. Did she ask you to do anything? You know, like as a favor?"

"Well... She did want to do body shots," Stackleford says. "I was like, 'what's a body shot? Are we gonna fight or something?' Right? Well let me tell you Alabaster, tequila has never tasted so good." He pauses, thinking. "Or so spicy. I don't really like tequila."

You sigh. Sometimes it's like pulling teeth with this guy. "Did she ask any specific favors of you, in return for sucking liquor out of her belly button?"

"Um... I'm not supposed to tell, is the thing," Stackleford says. 

You grab him by the shirt collar and growl. "Don't fuck with me," you hiss. "She is not--"

You get cut off by the roar of a V12 engine and the squeal of tires. Camelia pulls alongside the curb in Stackleford's orange Lambo.

She gets out of the car, toting a huge number of bags labeled "Saks Fifth Avenue." With her hands full, she has to whip her head at high velocity to knock the pair of expensive-looking sunglasses she has on the top of her head, down over her eyes. (Or her eye, as the case may be.)

"Stacks, baby," she says. Is she affecting some sort of transatlantic accent? "Kagome's all yours again. Thanks for the lend!"

"N-no problem, Sabrina," Stackleford says, obviously abashed in her presence. "Uh, you two can talk I guess. I'll get out of your hair." He sits in the driver's seat and pulls away.

"Cool guy," Camelia says, watching the Lambo pull off. "Hope he doesn't notice that someone keyed the passenger side while I was in San Fran."

"Someone keyed his--"

"Let me be more precise," she says. "I hope he doesn't notice that I keyed the passenger side while I was in San Fran. Symbols of conspicuous consumption like Lamborghinis really piss me off."

You can only stare at the bags of high-end luxury apparel she has in both her hands.

"What do you want with him?" You ask, changing the subject. "Don't play stupid either. I know you're using him for something."

"Mostly just his car. And his money. He ate shit on Bitcoin, but he's got some pretty lush credit lines that still work." She hefts her bags a bit to indicate Stackleford's spending power.

"What about your Korean Superdollars?" you ask.

"Places like Saks Fifth still profit if I use fake money," she says. "They give it to the bank and it goes back into circulation, and no one ever knows the difference. But THIS way, they're definitely gonna eat a loss. There's no chance in hell that Stacklefuck can pay back the bill I just racked up."

She fidgets a bit, going from standing flat on her feet to standing on the sides of her feet, and then back again. "Does this perfume make you want to fuck me?" She asks.

You sputter. "What?"

"I need to know if I have the right musk for otaku pieces of shit like you." She steps closer. "What do you think? Would you throw me a bone?"

She smells like cherry blossoms in the rain with hints of the damp earth below. You recognize that scent.

"My mom used to wear that," you say, turning away.

"That doesn't answer my question," Camelia says. "This shit cost $200 for one freaking bottle, so it better get your dick up."

"You can't be a real person," you say. "You just can't."

"Seduction is an art," she says. "Maybe you should ask the twink who's seducing you for a primer if you're so confused about it. Hey, can you call me an Uber? I need a ride to the waste treatment plant on the other side of town."

[ ] Warn Camelia that Darkbloom knows about her.
>[x] Say nothing.

You oblige her request for an Uber without even asking what she wants to do at a waste treatment plan. Whatever it is, you figure you're better off not knowing.

The rest of the day passes quietly. Cerise is staying at work late to report on progress to her boss - Nelson Berenstoin. Apparently there was a little confusion over who her boss really should be, Nelson or Thaddeus, but the recent arrest of the latter (which is another high-profile scandal for the company) has at least settled the dispute.

You use the opportunity to catch up with Rose back at the apartment.

She has a small stack of printouts sitting on the couch beside her, marked with sticky notes and highlighted in various places. She's reading intently when you step inside.

"Really?" you say. "You printed it all out?"

"It's better this way," Rose says. "Less of a digital trail. And it was easier to port the log files over to a flash drive then print them out later, rather than sit around in Cerise's room on her computer reading her shit."

Well. She's got a point. "When did you get the chatlogs?" You ask.

"At lunch. I snuck away."

"Sneaked," you correct her. "Snuck isn't a real word."

"Fuck you, Alabaster."

"So?" You say, taking a seat beside her. "What did you find?"

"Well, it's 50% complaining about anime they don't like," she says. "Then probably about 25% is hours upon hours of rather graphic speculation over what a penis might feel like--"

"Bullshit," you say. You grab one of the printed pages.

>gman: [1 attached image]
>SakuraDokuhaku: Ooh that's a good one
>gman: right
>SakuraDokuhaku: What do you think?
>gman: probably it would hurt
>SakuraDokuhaku: Maybe. 
>SakuraDokuhaku: I was trying to think the other day about what it would be like and I bet it's something like... velvety hard? That would be a good way to describe it probably. 
>gman: oh i like that
>gman: pretty warm too i think
>gman: like a radiating warmth you know
>SakuraDokuhaku: And if it hurt, would that be so bad?
>gman: i mean... pain 
>gman: thats bad right
>SakuraDokuhaku: That might make it kind of more fun.
>gman: explain
>SakuraDokuhaku: Well if it hurts a bit that just heightens the pleasure. Right? It's like... if you were completely full and you felt like you might break open even... that would be the best.
>gman: ok youre crazy
>SakuraDokuhaku: I'm sorry I'm getting carried away.
>gman: i didnt say it was bad
>gman: youre convincing me
>SakuraDokuhaku: This conversation is making me a little hot 
>gman: me too

You let the paper fall to the couch, grimacing. 

"The other 25% is Cerise talking about her personal life," Rose says. "Which isn't very much to talk about. Just how bored she is at work, mostly. But she does spill a couple beans. Here."

She hands you another paper that she's highlighted some lines on.

>SakuraDokuhaku: I just hate the way he... ok it's time for some real shit.
>gman: go ahead
>SakuraDokuhaku: He acts like he knows everything. 
>gman: thats what little brothers do
>SakuraDokuhaku: He doesn't even care how it makes me feel.
>SakuraDokuhaku: But he's so successful now. I'm not going to stand in the way. 
>SakuraDokuhaku: And I feel so guilty. 
>SakuraDokuhaku: I mean we did some shit together. Serious shit.
>gman: whats that
>SakuraDokuhaku: I can't tell you that. But it was bad.
>gman: you can tell me anything
>SakuraDokuhaku: I really can't tell you... well I don't want to type it out.
>SakuraDokuhaku: Is your anxiety good enough today to cam up?
>gman: yeah
>Incoming Video Chat from gman

"Goddamn it," you mutter. "She told this girl everything."

"Looks that way," Rose says. She glances at you. "Cerise occasionally sends her little internet friend little gifts in the mail. The packages go to a post office box in Oakland. She's not far."

"What are you saying?"

"I want to talk to this dumb whore directly," Rose says. "Find out exactly what she's up to, straight from her mouth. I think the best way to lure her out is to send her a message on Cerise's account that there's a surprise waiting for her at that PO box. Then get the jump on her."

"That... can't be a great idea," you say.

"Or we could just call her on Skype," Rose says.

[ ] Do nothing.
>[x] Lure her out.
[ ] Call her on Skype.  

>SakuraDokuhaku: I bought you a little something
>gman: really
>gman: wow thank you!!
>gman: what is it
>SakuraDokuhaku: It's a surprise.
>SakuraDokuhaku: Amazon says it just got delivered so go get it!
>gman: oh my gosh
>gman: thank you!!!
>gman: i love you

You glance up at Rose. "Is that romantic love or a female bromance kind of love?"

Rose shrugs. "They say it to each other a lot, but I was never clear about which way it went."

>SakuraDokuhaku: I love you too
>gman: <3

Just like that, the trap is set. 

You sit across the street from a post office in Oakland. It's a... seedy part of town, to put it mildly. Hobos congregate on the dead grass on the side of the street where you're parked.

"She said she was coming right away," you say, peering impatiently at the post office's front doors. "Where is she?"

"Just have patience," Rose says. "I'm sure she'll--"

She freezes mid-sentence when you both see something that makes your stomach drop.

Camelia walks up the steps and enters the post office.

"Well, that settles that question," you say. "At least we know they're working together. It must be Camelia doing the pickups."

"Damn..." Rose says. She snaps a couple photos with a portable camera. (No phones - too risky.) "Should we go back home? Or follow her?"

[ ] Go back.
>[x] Follow her.

You pull the car around the little quad of dying greenery so it sits further back from the entrance and she won't see it as easily when she leaves the post office. A few minutes later, she comes out. Looking at her through the zoom on the camera's viewfinder, she seems confused.

She walks down the sidewalk a ways and gets into the beat-up sedan you saw her in after your interview at DA. Big step down from Kagome.

You tail her a couple blocks until she parks in front of an equally seedy apartment building.

"Damn," Rose says again. "Damn, damn..."

"What is it?" You say.

"Don't you recognize the address? This is where she went when I followed her a couple days ago."

"This is Camelia's place?" You ask.

"Maybe... or maybe they share it. Or maybe she was only going to visit this person the day I followed her."

No time to wonder.

"Do you have your gun?" You ask.

Rose nods. "How about you?"

"It's probably safer if I'm not carrying," you tell her. "I'm just as likely to hit you, if it comes to that."

"Pussy," she says. But she relents on this point. You step out and head toward the apartment. 

Camelia, or her friend, really do live on the wrong side of the tracks. The apartment sits on a block that smells like sewage. The sidewalk is strewn with garbage and more hobos huddle near an alley. You're not at all surprised.

As you approach the apartment building, a fat, balding, middle-aged man comes walking out and down the short stairs leading from the entrance.

When he gets to the sidewalk, he leers at Rose and gives her an honest to God wolf whistle. "Are you the new girl?" he says. "Damn, Moscow doesn't know what they're missing--"

Rose pulls her pepper spray from her skirt pocket and maces the man without any hesitation.

"GAHHHH---" he cries in agony, falling to a fetal position on the grimy concrete.

Rose steps blithely past him. You stand there gawping at the man as he rolls back and forth cursing. But Rose has already disappeared inside the apartment building, so you step over the man too, and join her inside.

"You can't just go around macing people like that," you tell her when you catch up.

"That man was about to rape me. I almost got raped. It was self defense."

"You have a sickness, Rose. You're mentally unwell."

"Here we are," she says, stopping at one of the landings and peering down a short hall leading to two doors. "She's in one of these units."

"You don't know which one?"

"No, Alabaster, I don't. That's why I said 'one of these units' rather than 'this unit.'"

From the closest door comes the sound of unlatching locks, and suddenly you're face-to-face with a tall brunette woman wearing only lacy lingerie. She looks you over appraisingly. Another woman's voice in a foreign language, muffled, calls after her from the inside of the apartment. She turns a head over her shoulder and calls back: "He клиeнт. Я дyмaю, чтo oни здecь, чтoбы пoceтить oтшeльникa."

She slams the door shut and locks it again.

"Well. That tells us which apartment to check first, I should think," Rose says.

"Is this place some kind of bordello?" You ask.

Rose frowns. 

You step up to the other apartment and raise your hand to knock the door, but Rose swats your arm before you can.

"What the fu--" you begin, which she cuts off with a hissed "fuck you!" in return. Sometimes your repartee isn't all that witty.

She reaches for one side of her ridiculous hairdo and pulls out a bobby pin. Using her mouth to help her, she unkinks it and bites the rubber cap off one of its sides. She spits the little piece of rubber and holds the makeshift lockpick up in front of your face.

"We're going in by stealth," she says.

You know that she really can jimmy a locked door - over the years, she's done it to your bedroom in the Mallory home many times.

She takes another bobby pin out of her hair and bends it into an L, and gets to work picking the lock.

Soon after, her pick snaps off in the mechanism as someone unlocks the apartment from the inside. Rose's eyes bulge and she steps back. The door opens.

Camelia stands before you. 

She slips past the door and shuts it behind her.

Rose fast regains her composure and doesn't let on any hint of intimidation. "You're going to stop threatening us," she says.

"I like this girl," Camelia tells you. "She's got spunk."

"Are you listening to me?" Rose says. "We're done with your dirty work. Get out of our lives."

"Is this how you fight your battles?" Camelia asks you. "Send your girlfriend to do it for you? Some man."

"We're not really dating," you and Rose say in unison.

"Right," Camelia says. "Hate to disappoint, but my partner isn't taking visitors right now. So why don't you just get out of here and go be not-really-dating somewhere else."

Neither of you move. Camelia makes rather a show of her frustrated sigh.

"It's like this," she says. "Alabaster is going to do what I tell him to do, or you'll both spend the rest of your lives regretting it. I don't really care what path you choose here. But that's the reality you face."

"I want to meet your partner," you say. "If I'm going to work with you, I deserve to know who else I'm roped in with."

"I told you, she's a silent partner. You don't want to meet her anyway." She shrugs. "She's a literal troll. Total mom's-basement type. All she wants to talk about is her hacker-cracker bullshit and her vape collection. The only reason I put up with her is because I have to."

She takes out a cigarette, cups her hand over the tip to help light up. She puffs on it, the cherry glowing bright. "By the way, it's real fucked up what you did, catfishing her like that. Cerise is her only friend. She's heartbroken about this."

"This is absolutely--" Rose begins. Then she stops, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I can't take this conversation seriously right now. Are you wearing a shirt that says 'Honk if You Love the Juche Idea'?"

Camelia looks down as if she's noticing her own shirt for the first time. "Oh, yeah," she says. She looks back up, grinning. Then she reaches out and grabs Rose's left tit.

"Honk," Camelia says.

Rose slaps Camelia's hand away, her face red with indignation. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you're dealing with the wrong--"

"I thought you'd like this shirt," Camelia cuts in. "I wore it for you. But I can go change into my 'Kulaks Deserved It' tee if you'd feel more comfortable with that one."

"I'm done with this nonsense," Rose says, and tries to cut past Camelia, reaching for the doorknob.

Camelia instantly pushes her back, grabs her by the throat and forces her to the wall. You have an uneasy flashback to how Mara Darkbloom did the same to you. Rose reaches for the gun concealed in her waistband but Camelia is quicker and grabs it first.

"I don't think you understand," Camelia says. Her cavalier facade is totally gone, replaced with menace. 

You step forward without thinking, to haul Camelia off of Rose (not because you care about her or anything). Without even looking at you, Camelia points Rose's gun at you, freezing you in place. She keeps the barrel trained on you as she stares Rose down.

"Should I choke you harder?" Camelia says. "Your FetLife profile says you like it like that."

"Y-you--" Rose says. "You a-are going to p-pay--"

"Does it fill you with shame, Rose, that this cowering wimp is the only person who can get your cunt wet?" Camelia tilts her head to one side and gauges Rose's reaction to this. Rose shakes violently, claws uselessly at Camelia's hand around her neck. "I know I'd be ashamed. Especially if he was my own cousin--"

"Once removed," you offer. Camelia looks over at you as if she actually cannot believe that you really exist, then back to Rose.

Rose gulps. And though her voice is pinched, she manages to choke out: "I'm not afraid of you. I dare you to try to kill me. You'll regret it."

"I would never do that," Camelia says. Rose seems satisfied with this - then Camelia continues: "If you make any more trouble, though, I will kill him."

Rose stops struggling. Her hands fall to her side and she goes still.

"I'll kill him," Camelia repeats. "I'll tie you down and make you watch while I cut off his head with a hack saw. Don't think I won't."

The expression on Rose's face is almost as frightening as Camelia's threat to murder you. You've never really understood the concept of dead-eyed rage until now.

"Tell me you understand," Camelia says.

"I understand," Rose says. There is nothing, nothing at all of human emotion in her voice. It's a voice as dead as her eyes.

Camelia lets her go, steps back, and looks her over. She seems to be happy with what she sees. Rose, motionless as a stone, stares back.

"I'll be in touch," Camelia says. "Don't come back to this place. My partner owns every security camera in a two mile radius so we'll definitely see you coming."

She opens the door of the apartment, slips inside, and locks it behind her.

"Are you okay?" you ask Rose.

Rose's head swivels to regard you.

"Camelia has to die," she says.

END OF EPISODE 5.  

May 21, 2017

Sable flew into a rage earlier, shrieking at Alex that he was an idiot who could never get anything right. Alex, at the time just an intern, had been the only employee on Sable's team to stay through the weekend to help finish the code sprint. But it turns out that his work was even worse than just not doing anything at all. With a single keystroke, Sable deleted the entirety of his 48 hours of marathon code-monkeying.

"Get out my sight!" Sable said at the end of a 20-minute dressing-down. "You call yourself a programmer? Pathetic! Go learn how to flip burgers, it's all you'll ever amount to!"

Now Alex sits at his desk outside Sable's office, his face in his hands, weeping uncontrollably. He keeps trying to snap himself out of it and get back to work, for Sable's sake, but every time he lays his fingers on the keyboard he feels a convulsion of self-hatred that forces him to stop. He knows he'll never be good enough. Why try?

A couple hours later, Sable pokes her head out of her office door and peers into the otherwise empty hive of workstations where Alex sits. "Come here," she says.

Alex chokes back his tears enough to make himself presentable and follows Sable to her office. He knows what's coming: he's going to be fired, and he deserves it.

Sable leans against her desk and holds up a small package wrapped in bright wrapping paper. "What is the meaning of this?" She asks.

Alex, filled with embarrassment and sadness, slowly explains: "w-well, I got you a present for your birthday," he says. (He left it on Sable's desk in the morning, and now, close to 11 PM, she has only just noticed it. He doesn't tell her that part.)

Sable looks at the package. "It's my birthday?" She says.

Alex nods.

"That makes me... 26?" Sable says, as if uncertain.

Alex nods.

She sits at her desk and tears open the wrapping paper, dropping it on the ground. Dutifully, Alex picks it up, because he knows she'll forget.

It's a little box of chocolates. (Alex picked it out at Alegio, here in town, and it cost him way more than he could afford. He doesn't tell her that, either. He figures since she's so rich, she expects only the best.)

Sable peers at the box for a few moments, turning it over in her hands a few times.

"I don't like chocolate," she finally says. She hands the box back to Alex.

"O-oh... Oh. O-o-okay... I'm sor--"

"You can eat them. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"Yeah. I mean- y-yeah, definitely. I'm so sor--"

"Please return to work." 

Alex turns to go, welling up again, but Sable calls out: "Wait."

Alex turns back around, hangdog expression on his face.

"You should quit," she says.

Alex can only sadly agree. "You're right. I'm nothing... I won't come in on Monday."

"What are you talking about?" Sable says. "I mean you should quit school. Come work for me, full time. I don't want to lose you at the end of the summer."

"W-what?" Alex says.

"I'll pay you," she says, "if that's the issue. I understand that not having a degree significantly lessens your earning power. So, then - $20 million dollars wired right to your bank account. Tonight. Then $2 million per year henceforth in perpetuity."

"M-million--" Alex stammers.

"Money is nothing to me. I need you by my side, Alex. I need you to help make the world right again."

"But... why me?" Alex says, unable to stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks now. "I'm useless."

"Useless?" Sable says, aghast. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Alex can only stand there, silent.

"Wait a second..." Sable says - coming to a sudden realization. "Were there a couple white chocolates in there?"

Alex nods.

"I do like those," Sable admits.

Alex tries to hand her back the little box, but she waves him off.

"Sit down," she insists. "We can share. I think we both need a break."

Alex has never had a more perfect moment, before or since, than the 30 minutes he spends eating dainty chocolates with Ms. Guiteau in her office. 

---

On Tuesday, Alex is the first one into the office - besides Sable, of course. Even despite the abuse Alabaster and Sable laid upon him yesterday, he managed to drag himself out of bed and make it to work.
 
He's still getting set up at his PC when Sable does that now-familiar ritual: poking her head out, telling him to come see her.
 
Sable sits back down at her desk and beckons Alex over.
 
"What is it, Ms. Guiteau?"
 
Sable tugs Alex by the wrist and guides him to a kneeling position in front of her chair. Before he can protest, she shoves his head against her crotch.
 
"Mmmf--!" He grunts, half-smothered.
 
Desperately, Sable unbuttons her pants and lifts her little butt just enough to snake her way out of them. She kicks them off, but not completely, so that they lie bunched up on the floor around one of her ankles. She forces Alex's face to her crotch again. The front of her plain white panties are darkly stained with her need and the outlines of her cunt lips are visible through the sheer wet fabric.
 
"Smell me," Sable commands.
 
Alex, on hands and knees, inhales deeply, and involuntarily wags his butt when he does so. He darts his tongue out and starts licking her through her panties.
 
Sable raps her knuckles on his skull. "I didn't tell you to lick me. I told you to smell me."
 
Alex nods obediently, and his tiny nose tickles Sable's clit. He lays his hands on Sable's thighs and fills his nostrils with her womanly scent. Sable gazes down at him appreciatively.
 
She shimmies out of her panties now, leaving her naked from the waist down. Her pussy drips freely on the leather seat. She props both of her ankles on the desktop so that both of her lower holes are proudly on full display. Alex stares at them, glassy-eyed, his lips slightly parted. Sable pets Alex's hair like he's a puppy. Then she guides his face lower, down to her ass. She has a particular penchant for this, it turns out.
 
She hunches forward a bit and brings her keyboard to her so she can work while she sits like this. "Now you can lick me," she tells him.
 
Alex moans a happy and very girly moan as he gets to work. He tongues her anus inside and out, and intimately acquaints himself with her taste. His tongue is little, but wet and eager, and very hot.
 
For the next several hours, Sable diligently codes while Alex eats her asshole. This is all it takes to make her cum again and again, at random intervals. When she cums, she doesn't make any more noise than a little "nnn~" and she doesn't bother to warn Alex that it's about to happen. Alex, his eyes closed and his entire focus on licking Sable out, occasionally finds himself doused in a rain of fragrant girl-cum that sloshes and spills all over him, ruining his clothes and matting his hair. Sable doesn't care about that, and neither does he.

---

Cerise still won't talk to you and you're not looking forward to another long night spent alone with only Rose for company. You need to blow off a little steam - and something else, too - so after work, you go to the apartment that Whitney shares with Alex.

Alex himself is still hammering away at his workstation PC, so you should be able to get some alone time with Whitney. It's just what you need to relieve the stress.

"There's my Aladorkster," Whitney says when she answers your knock. She returns to the living room and sits down on Alex's couch. She's still in her Whole Foods frock, watching an episode Judge Judy and sucking a lollipop.

You follow her in and sit beside her. "Was this your first day?" You ask.

"Uh huh. My manager Ryan is a real asshole. He kept bitching at me because I didn't ask the customers if they found everything they were looking for. It's like - no one wants to make conversation in the checkout lane, doofus. If you didn't find what you were looking for by the time I'm scanning your shit, too bad."

"That's really--" you begin.

Whitney turns her attention back to the TV. "Hey!" she hollers to one of the people on the screen, "you fuckin' liar! You know you didn't pay her any restitution for the damage to her tires!"

From years of friendship with Whitney, you've learned that growing up in a trailer park imparts two notable traits: 1) yelling at daytime television, and 2) knowing certain $20 words involving the legal system, such as "restitution."

Judge Judy now affirms Whitney's assessment of the man's truthfulness re: restitution for the tires, and this pleases Whitney. 

Whitney crunches down on her lollipop now, chews it, and discards the stick in a small bowl on the coffee table. You realize she must have been eating these things nonstop since getting back from work: the bowl has over a dozen such discarded lollipop sticks, and next to it is a large open bag of dumdums - sour apple flavor. Whitney immediately grabs another one, unwraps it, and gets to sucking. Not before leaning her head back and vigorously rubbing the lollipop against the back of her tongue for a few moments, that is.
 
"What the hell are you doing?" You ask.
 
"Hmmm? ...Oh." She looks at you, her dumdum's stick protruding from the left side of her lips as she grins a devilish grin. "You'll see~"
 
That phrase, from her, has never signaled good things. You decide to take the initiative: you find the remote control beside her on the couch and click the TV off. With your free hand, you slip your fingers underneath the shoulder-strap of her frock.
 
Whitney giggles. "You're a little seducer now, huh?"
 
"Don't call me little," you say, kissing the side of her face several times. "I'm bigger than you."
 
"Ooh, scary," Whitney says. "I'm shaking."
 
"Maybe you should be shaking," you intone.
 
"What, are you going to rape me now?" Whitney says, swaying side to side to help you get her out of the frock. "Tired of dumping your load inside another boy? Need a real pussy to relieve yourself?" She might be teasing you, but she's in your lap now.
 
You pull the lollipop from her mouth, but she only lets it go after puckering her lips so it makes a wet 'plop' as it leaves. A long, sticky strand of saliva connects her parted lips to the shiny green bulb of the sucker, before the growing distance finally snaps it apart.
 
"I've got something better for you to suck," you say.
 
"Not yet," Whitney says. She bops the tip of your nose with an index finger and takes the dumdum back from you. She sticks it in her mouth again.
 
You don't really care which of her holes you get right now, so if she doesn't want it in her mouth, you'll just have to do something else. You hook your fingers in the waistband of her shorts, and she raises up a bit in your lap so you can pull them down. Of course, she doesn't have any panties on.
 
"Slut," you say.
 
"You love it~"
 
She grinds her bare mound into your crotch, but you're already hard - you don't need a lap-dance. You reach between where your bodies meet and unzip your fly, letting your dick spring free. Whitney's hairless pussy sliding back and forth across the shaft makes you curl your toes in simultaneous pleasure and frustration. You grip her by the waist and thrust back against her, enjoying the tease.
 
Whitney stares at her own work intently, the way your dick gets wet with her cream and lewdly parts the lips of her cunt on each upstroke. She keeps one hand on the stick of her lollipop, sucking. It's a weirdly erotic vision: Whitney naked only from the waist down, wearing a crop top and sucking on a sucker while she wags her hips and undulates against your straining cock.
 
She looks you in the eye. "I want you in my ass today," she says.
 
She pulls the sucker from her mouth for a moment. Then she tilts her head down, lets her tongue loll lazily out, and drools a viscous stream of spit. It comes down slowly - very slowly, and very thickly - in a single long unbroken mass that lands on the head of your rampant dick.
 
You groan as she reaches down and rubs the slick mushroom tip of your cock with her palm. Next she grips you in her fist and smears the drool all around your shaft for good measure.
 
She leans back in your lap, bracing herself with one hand against your knee. Putting the sucker back in her mouth, she drools into her other hand and then digs two fingers into her own asshole. You're impressed at how easy it is for her. Has she been practicing? Seeing her get herself ready for your cock, pushing her fingers in and out as if she's masturbating with her asshole, makes your dick throb in lust.
 
"That should be good," she finally says.
 
She straddles you, her knees on either side of you now, and lowers herself against your dick. You meet immediate and intense resistance from the clenched entrance of her ass.
 
"Unggg--" she grunts. She loops her arms over your shoulder and hunches forward for support as she tries to force you in. She wrenches her eyes closed and grits her teeth in pain, but won't stop trying.
 
"Relax," you offer.
 
"Why is your cock so big?" Whitney whines. "Jerk..."
 
She she needs some help. You put your hands on her shoulders and push her down, simultaneously thrusting your hips. And that does it: your dickhead breaches her opening, taking Whitney's anal cherry once and for all.
 
Whitney gasps like she's just had the wind knocked from her. You can feel her trembling in your arms - the vibrations feel great on your dick. The way she involuntarily clenches and unclenches her violated anus, trying to get used to your girth, also feels great.
 
"Ow... ow, ow ow! It's too big!" Her voice is much higher pitched than usual, and she sounds like she's about to cry.
 
"That was the worst part," you insist. "It'll be easy now."
 
"Ow, ow, ow," she mutters, despite your encouragement. Her breaths are sharp and loud as she sucks them through her teeth.
 
"Shh," you say. "If Alex can do it, you can too."
 
"Alex is a little faggot gay boy," Whitney hisses. "Of course it's easy for him! Ow-- owww. You're too big... you're too big, Ally..."
 
You let her adjust to your size for a few moments. Slowly, the vice-like tightness of her anus loosens, just a tiny bit, and you start to ease her down. Millimeter by millimeter, her ass sinks down around your member.
 
"Oh god," you groan, relishing the heat and unparalleled snugness of Whitney's ass as it engulfs you. She's still breathing sharply - and you can feel a couple wet tears when her cheek brushes up against yours - but she's a good sport and works through the pain. Eventually you're up to your nuts inside her.
 
"Fuck," Whitney grunts. "Fuck, fuck..."
 
You're not sure if that one is pleasure or pain.
 
"I'm gonna fuck you now," you tell her. That's a fair warning, and not a request for permission. Whether it hurts or not, you can't stop now.
 
Whitney nods.
 
You grab her waist again and pull her up a couple inches. She helps you out. But you don't pull out too far because you can't resist the soft, silky insides of her ass, the radiating warmth or the pressure of her muscles gripping you. You need to get as deep inside her as you can. You slam back against her. Her shocked "unfff" is all that escapes her lips.
 
Soon you establish a steady pace inside her, short jackhammer thrusts that send waves of tingly pleasure up your spine. Whitney is like a ragdoll in your hands, completely pliant, and unable to resist even if she wanted to. Maybe this was more than she bargained for.
 
You almost don't notice it when the front door opens and Alex walks in.
 
You stop immediately, but Whitney puts a hand to your chest and keeps bouncing up and down. "Don't..." she breathes. "Keep going. Let the boy watch."
 
And he does - Alex watches with interest. There's surprise on his face but not necessarily the sort of embarrassed shock you might expect from someone who walked in on their roommate with her boyfriend. More like curiosity.
 
"Go get changed," Whitney commands him.
 
"Yes Ms. Whitney," he says, timid.
 
You keep fucking Whitney for a minute or two after Alex disappears into his bedroom. You're close to losing your load inside her deepest parts when she suddenly draws all the way off of you and stands, leaving your poor dick throbbing and pulsing against your belly, the air cool against it.
 
You groan in delirious need for release. Whitney bites down on her sucker, discards the stick, and smiles. "Let's go," she says. "I'll make you feel REALLY good now..."
 
She leads you into Alex's room. Your head is thrumming and you're not thinking straight, not even seeing straight - you just need to cum. Anywhere will do.
 
Alex is sitting on his bed, looking down at the floor, blushing. He's wearing that outfit Whitney picked out for him - you could have guessed as much. It's a gossamer-thin pink negligee that hugs tightly to his milk-pale skin, complete with a pair of crotchless panties that leave his hard little dick pointing straight at the ceiling. And there's an addition you weren't prepared for, too: long pink knee socks and a pair of fuck-me pumps. Whitney's got him all tarted up.
 
Alex might be abashed about wearing a slutty outfit like this, but his dick really likes it. It drools into his lap where his thighs are pressed tightly together. Even from across the room, you can see it throbbing.
 
Whitney climbs into the bed with him, pets the top of his head gently. "Like we practiced, ok?" she says.
 
Alex nods. He lies down, on his back, and opens his mouth as wide as it goes. Whitney crawls over on hands and knees to position her head over Alex's. She leans down, way down, joins her mouth to his and makes out with him wetly.
 
At least you think that's what you're seeing - it turns out you're wrong. Whitney pulls back to reveal that instead of kissing Alex, she's been drooling into his mouth the whole time.
 
You peer down and see that Alex's upturned mouth is about half-full of Whitney's frothy saliva. And she isn't done yet: she pinches all of her fingers together and reaches into the back of her throat to gag herself. She retches and heaves a bit. Then pulling her hand away, she drools even more ropes of slimy spit into Alex. She goes until the level rises to the back of his teeth. He takes it gamely - with, in fact, the closest thing to a smile you can have while you've got a wide-open mouth full of spit. His face is an absolute mess now. So is Whitney's - she hasn't been exactly fastidious about making sure all her spit gets to the right place. Her face is almost as wet and ruined-looking as Alex's.
 
"Fuck him," she pants, her voice hoarse. "Fuck his mouth."
 
You climb onto the bed and straddle Alex's face. Your eyes meet - but as your dick comes into his frame of view, just inches above his head, his eyes fix on that instead. He's got a glazed-over, stupid look as he stares at it.
 
Whitney kisses you. "He's a little cockslut," she whispers. "Look at how bad he wants it."
 
Alex nods eagerly at this, the saliva in his mouth sloshing back and forth like a glass about to spill.
 
You won't deny him if it's what he wants. You line your cock up and sink it in. The little ocean of drool in his mouth is like heaven against you as he closes his lips and it overflows hotly in all directions. Looking down, you see him with his eyes tightly closed as the escaping saliva runs all across his nose, eyelids and forehead - and down, too, around his chin and his cheeks. He looks barely human like this.
 
Supporting yourself on your hands against the mattress, you fuck in and out without any mercy. You fuck Alex's tiny throat like a cheap onahole that you don't care about breaking. He gags and heaves, but that just makes your slimy dick even wetter, and increases your pleasure. The only resistance Alex puts up is balling his fists and beating against the mattress.
 
Whitney leans back and plays with her cunt while she watches you orally rape this unfortunate boy. With her other hand, she massages your balls. The bed squeaks underneath you.
 
"That's right," Whitney tells Alex, "eat my ass off Ally's dick. You're such a darling cockslut... fuck... fuck, you're so cute like this..." She rubs her clit in quickening circles and squirts a little load of girlcum all over Alex's bedsheets.
 
"I'm gonna blow," you groan - for Whitney's sake, not for Alex's.
 
"Don't!" Whitney says. "It's my turn. I want it inside. I want you to cum inside me."
 
"Then hurry--" you say.
 
Whitney hurries. She quickly circles around and positions herself in front of you - sitting on Alex's face to do so. She spreads her legs wide and beckons you to use her cunt.
 
You pull out of Alex's mouth and seat yourself to the hilt in Whitney's creaming pussy. The two of you fuck like that, mashing viciously back and forth against each other. Your weight and force of your fucking grinds Alex's head oppressively into the mattress. He's gasping and grunting for air, close to passing out you would guess, but that's no concern of yours. You just need to blow your load.
 
"Cum in me, cum in me," Whitney coos, her voice taking a sing-song lilt. "Cum inside me, Ally!"
 
You throw your head back and cum, blasting the back of Whitney's pussy with shot after shot thick white semen. She wraps her legs around your waist, pulling you even deeper as you creampie her, her entire weight now pressing down on Alex's skull. You cum so much that it spills out around you, drips down and smears into Alex's beet-red face.
 
When you finally finish and pull out, Whitney sits up on her knees to let Alex breathe. He gasps like a resuscitated drowning victim, his entire body shuddering.
 
Whitney, glowing in post-orgasm ecstasy, rubs a hand in the region between her belly button and her pubic mound. "I'm so warm..." she purrs. "In here... you came so much..."
 
As she does this, gravity takes over and your cum drips in fat pearls out of Whitney's cunt. They fall and splatter against Alex. Your cum mixes with the bubbly mess of spit coating every square inch of his destroyed face. It's hard to tell what his expression signals, through the nearly opaque layer of slime and jizz covering him.
 
His face is still bright red and he's still gasping for air, when Whitney, her voice almost motherly in tone, presses her cunt to his lips and says "there, there... you like it, don't you?"
 
She humps back and forth, gently now, not putting a lot of weight against him - just rubbing herself lazily against his different features. She massages her pussy mound with both hands to help the cum run out of her. She leaves sloppy little trails of your cum everywhere she rubs against Alex like this. And she isn't wrong, Alex does like it: the first thing he does when he moves again, is use both his hands to rub the nasty mess into his skin and play with it. Whitney laughs and cums on Alex too, her cream just adding to the mess. Alex whines happily.
 
"He's perfect like this, isn't he?" She asks you.
 
You look down at Alex's crotch. At some point, he came on himself.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, galgamer and sexually curious young man. (You comfort yourself by remembering the first rule: it's not gay if the balls don't touch.)

April 19, 2015

The North High Mindbreakers have prevailed over the Sobu Beansprouts, bringing your team out of the round robin stages and into the tournament proper. One step closer to winning the national championship.

Rose has been on her best behavior since you struck your deal with her, and she came in clutch on a couple tough questions. Math was never your strongest suit, for instance; she fills your gap quite nicely.

You've got a couple hours of downtime to kill before your next match begins, so you do what comes naturally: you go back to your hotel room to masturbate. But when you open the door to suite #421, you find an unwelcome sight: Whitney sitting on your bed.

"How did you get in here?" You demand.

"Hehe," she laughs - a little wheeze of delight more than a laugh, really. She isn't going to tell you.

"Get out," you say. "I need to practice for the next match."

"Right," Whitney says. "And what practice materials are you using today?" She pulls your laptop from underneath a pillow. Your eyes bulge as she pops the lid open and reads from your browser history: "Let's see... 'Take Me to Ariake'? Looks interesting.... chicks with dicks, wild..."

"Give me that--" you demand, lurching forward to grab the laptop back, but Whitney is nothing if not nimble.

"Or maybe today you're feeling up for some 'Byuu Byuu Bitch'? 'Two Siblings Fela Pure'? 'MC High School'?" She dances around the room as you chase her.

Finally you catch her and tackle her to the floor, but you get the sense it's only because she let you. She tosses the laptop aside.

"This isn't funny," you tell her.

"It's not," she says. Lying beneath you, her bubbly demeanor is suddenly gone.

"I told you before not to go through my things," you say.

"I wanted to know. You're still jerking off to your old porn comics," Whitney says. "That means you're still dedicated to 2D girls. Right?"

"Of course. They're not annoying the way real girls like you are. What about it?"

"If you only like 2D girls, why did Rose have her tongue 10 inches deep in your mouth the other night?"

You sit up. Whitney wriggles free and sits up across from you, too.

So she saw.

After striking your deal with Rose on the bus, Rose sealed it with a kiss that turned into a lot more than a peck on the lips. She stole your first-ever kiss on that bus - and a couple other firsts, too.

"Your own cousin, Ally--"

"Once removed," you say.

She slugs you in the shoulder. "Dick munch."

"I can't help it," you say. "I've never wanted anything more than I want to win this tournament. And she said she'd purposely lose if I didn't-- you know..."

"Then you're gonna win," Whitney says. She stands. "Masturbating before a competition clouds your brain and zaps your energy. Everyone knows that. You need to be focused for the matches ahead!" She pounds a fist into her palm for effect.

"So what are you telling me?" You say.

She smiles. "I'm gonna drill you all night long, Ally~" 

---

You walk with Sable from the campus of Darkbloom Analytics, across the street to the multi-level garage where employees park.

Tonight is the night you promised to teach her how to ride a bike.

"Where do you want to practice?" You ask.

"We can do it back at my place," Sable says as you walk with her up a steeply inclined ramp.

Being alone with Sable back at her place. Sounds perfect. Maybe you'll find out whether or not she's got more than just a voyeuristic streak.

"Here we are," Sable says.

You're standing before a windowless white panel van. Parked beside it, not even chained up, is an obviously high-end bike with a carbon fiber frame.

"Some car for a billionaire," you say. "I was picturing a Ferrari or something."

"It's economical," is all Sable will say.

"You want some help loading the bike in?"

"Why?" Sable says. "This is it."

You look around the grimy parking garage, confused. And then it dawns on you.

"Don't tell me you live in this van."

Sable walks around the back and opens the doors. You peer inside. The two back rows of seats have been removed, replaced by a mattress, some curtains, a small closet, a PC, radio, lamp, mini fridge, hot plate... you notice now, extending from one side of the van's exterior, a single fat cable, connected to an outlet on a nearby concrete beam. This must be how she powers all of her appliances.

In this tiny space, Sable has all the trappings of a home.

"But why..." you breathe. "Why live like this when you're a billionaire?"

"Large spaces make me uncomfortable," Sable admits. (You have to say, her living space inside this van looks incredibly cozy). "Besides, I rarely need to go home except for sleep. Everything else I might need is on campus. It would be nothing but a waste of time to commute back and forth to a house somewhere else in town."

Her logic is absolutely insane, and you have no way to counter it. How do you reason with someone who thinks like that?

[ ] We can at least practice somewhere nicer.
>[X] If this is where she wants to do it, then fine.

Sable puts on a bike helmet, elbow- and kneepads that she retrieves from inside her van/home.

When she's done suiting up, she struggles to get her legs over the bike. You hold it steady for her and she braces herself with one hand against the side of the van as she clambers awkwardly and tries to seat herself. She's all limbs and wobbles.

"Is the seat adjustable?" She asks when she's finally sitting down straight. "This is uncomfortable."

You reach down and find a lever for the seat height that loosens easily. With Sable sitting on the seat, the mechanism immediately slides down to its lowest point with a loud whump that startles both of you.

When you get your bearings again, you realize that, with your hand still gripping the lever, your arm is now right between Sable's thin legs. Her crotch is just milimeters from the crook of your elbow - you can feel her body heat, even.

You quickly tighten the lever again and pull away. "How is that?" You ask.

"Much better."

You put one hand on her back and one on the center of the handlebars. She's very warm.

With you to help guide her, she uses her feet to walk the bike away from the van.

"You have two handbrakes," you explain. "This one controls the back tire, and this one controls the front. Try not to use the front brake on its own because you'll go flying over the handles."

"Oh -- oh," Sable says. She sounds a bit frightened. "Okay. Noted."

"The main thing is staying balanced. You'll get a feel for it."

"Please don't let go of me," she says. Her voice is small and uncertain.

Your heart skips a beat. 

You guide her in lazy circles around the parking garage. She keeps using her feet to walk the bike around instead of trying to pedal. Eventually you decide to coax her to the next thing: "Try putting your feet up, huh? See how the pedals spin."

She tries once, then twice - but both times when she raises her feet off the ground, she tilts precariously to her left and nearly topples over. You catch her both times.

"Okay. Okay. Okay," she repeats, calming her frightened breathing. The prospect of falling clearly petrifies her.

"I've got you," you say. "Try again."

"I think this is fine," she says. "I can ride my bicycle like this."

"You're not Fred Flintstone," you chide her. "You've got to use the pedals. Here, I'll hold you from the side you keep tilting to."

You circle the bike - taking care to never remove your hands from her back - and hold her from the left side.

"A-again?" She says.

"Again."

She lifts her feet, tentatively, and sets them on the pedals - one after the other.

She's leaning hard against you, but at least her feet are off the ground.

"You're tilting way too much to this side," you tell her. "Try to shift your weight - not too much. You want to stay centered."

She pedals and you walk with her slowly as she tries to pull away from her lilt. But it takes more coordination than she's capable of at first. She frequently stops with no warning, making tiny frustrated "nnn--" noises as she tries to get comfortable and stable again.

Usually when someone is struggling with an easy task, you feel nothing but frustration. But you could do this with her all night long. It's... kind of fun. 

As is usually the case with learning how to ride a bike, eventually there's a breakthrough moment. Soon enough you feel that she's pedaling herself without leaning against you at all. Even though you still walk alongside her, hover-handing her, she's doing it all on her own. You're not sure if she even realizes this.

You stop in place and let her pedal past you.

Her head swivels to look back at you, fear in her eyes. "Alabaster--!! I'm falling!"

"No you're not," you say.

She looks down, surprised at herself. She's still pedaling. You're nowhere near her, and nonetheless she's upright, keeping herself balanced and propelling the bike.

"How am I doing this?" She asks. "I'm not consciously... I'm not--"

"Don't worry about it. Your muscles are taking care of it for you."

She picks up speed and loops around the parking garage with apparent ease. Even a tight-ass like her can't help laughing. She even rings a tiny bell on one of the handlebars - the brrrrng, brrrrng of it echoes off the concrete walls.

"I'm doing it!" She cries.

You give her a thumbs up as she breezes past.

And then she eats shit. 

You rush to her side and lean down to help her. She's a mess of tangled limbs. One of the bike's wheels spins impotently in the air.

She wiggles free and looks at her left hand: there's a nasty red abrasion from her wrist up to the meaty part of the palm where her thumb connects. She isn't bleeding, but it looks like it hurts pretty bad.

"Are you o--" you begin.

"You let go of me!" She shouts. "Look! Look what you did!" She holds up her palm for you to see. Her eyes are filling with tears.

You try to help her to her feet, but she swats you away. She stands unsteadily on her own and gives you a hard shove.

"Hey!" You say, indignant. "It's just a little scrape. That's all--"

"This is a waste of time!" She says. "Frivolous, dangerous, and now you've gotten me injured!" She takes off her helmet and chucks it at you. You narrowly dodge it. It clatters on the ground of the parking garage, somewhere behind you.

"Don't act like that," you say. "You're not hurt that badly. We can try again tomor--"

"No. Never again. You no-good, useless... why do you even work here?"

"I-- what?"

"The work you do could be done by a trained monkey. I can't believe I ever let someone like you... this is unbelievable, unbelievable..."

She tugs off her pads and lets them fall to the ground too. Putting her palm to her mouth and literally licking her wound, she storms off, towards her van. This is, from her point of view, the end of the conversation.

[ ] Let her go.
>[x] Stop her. 

She opens her van and slips inside, sitting on her knees on the mattress there. You don't want to end things on this note, so you do the only thing you can think of: with catlike agility, you dive in after her before she can shut the doors again.

"Get out of my house!!" She shrieks.

"You don't have a house," you remind her. "Houses generally don't get registered at the DMV."

"Get out! Out! Out out out!!!"

You grab her by the shoulders and hold her firmly. "I'll leave," you say, "just as soon as I make sure that scrape isn't going to get infected."

Sable stares at you with raw hatred in her eyes - it's honestly scary - but you're going to hold your ground here. 

"Do you have a first aid kit or something?" You ask. You close the doors of the van and click on the lamp. In the amber glow, you hold her wrist up and peer at the abrasion. It's covered with black grime from the parking garage's filthy ground.

"I can take care of myself," she says, voice low with loathing. "I don't need a moron like YOU to help me. Look at all the good your help already did."

"Don't be a baby," you say.

"Excuse me?"

"I said don't be such a fucking baby. Holy shit. Are you five?"

"How DARE you-- coming into my home, insulting me--"

"That's your fault. If you want to be pissy, I can be pissy too. Do you have a first aid kit or not?"

Sable points at a small cabinet mounted above her closet. You root through it - there are more pill bottles here than one healthy person could possibly need - and find a little white metal case with a red cross on it. You pull it down and clack the lid open - it's got the usual stuff, bandages and hydrogen peroxide and antiseptic wipes. Just what you need.

You take one of the wipes and rip open its protective packaging. "Here," you say, holding out your hand. Sable winces back, holding her injured wrist protectively to her chest.

So it's gonna be like that. You crawl forward and grab her arm, pulling it taut so you can get to her scrape.

"Stop--" Sable says. "You idiot! You stupid ass!"

"This might sting a little," you tell her calmly. You put the wipe against her abrasion and rub it gently.

"hhhhhh----" she hisses sharply through gritted teeth. You're coming to realize that this fiery-tempered woman is a complete wuss. "Ow!" She cries. "You're hurting me! Ow!"

You finish her off with a capful of hydrogen peroxide that brings renewed hisses and "ow ow ow"'s. She calls you every synonym for "stupid" you've ever heard, and some you haven't.

You rub some neosporin on the wound, then cover it up with some bandages. Why a woman like Sable stocks her first aid kit with Hello Kitty bandaids, you don't quite understand - but they're cute, at least. 

When you're done, Sable jerks her hand away and peers at you, still angry.

"You should thank me," you tell her.

"It hurts!" She says. "You hurt me! Why would I thank you?"

You crawl over to her, hands and knees - get very close. She tries to pull back, but she's already up against the opposite wall, and there's nowhere for her to go in these close quarters.

You take her hand again, and kiss it softly.

"W-what is that?" She stammers.

"I'm kissing your booboo all better. Since you still want to be such a baby about it. I thought it might--"

Sable hauls off and slaps you in the face. Hard. And with no warning.

You reel back onto your knees, shocked. Then it's Sable on all fours, closing the distance to you - she tenderly grabs your face and kisses your cheek where she slapped you.

"What the fuck, Sable?"

She slaps you again. You grab both of her wrists and pin her to the wall, grimacing. "I am not afraid to fight a woman," you growl at her. "So you'd better think very carefully before you go and hit me again."

Sable giggles like you told her a joke. "I don't know if I love you or hate you..." she says.

It's not the voice of someone who's got a great hold on reality.

[ ] Be rough.
>[x] Be gentle. 

You lean in and kiss Sable on the lips. She writhes under your grip, and moans against your mouth. But she doesn't fight you. She opens her lips to you and lets your tongue snake inside.
 
You kiss her deeply like that for moments stretching into minutes, tasting the sweetness of her mouth, the wetness of it. She breathes hard against you - you can feel the bursts of her exhalations against your face. She isn't an experienced kisser, either -- her teeth knock against yours a few times, and you have to guide her in this as well. She's a hopeless woman.
 
You're still holding her wrists against the wall, too - for safety's sake. You don't want anymore outbursts to ruin the mood.
 
When you pull back, she has a dreamy look on her face. "What do you think now?" You ask.
 
"I hate you," she says. "Kiss me again..."
 
Queen of mixed messages, this one. You kiss her again. She moans, a deep and guttural sound that comes from somewhere in her lower diaphragm. Against better judgment, you let go of her wrists now and hold her about the face, to pull her closer, possess her more completely - she wraps her hands around your back and lets it happen.
 
"I thought you were a homosexual," she says, pulling away.
 
"Alex is a special case..." you sigh. "Forget about it. I wanna fuck you... I really wanna fuck you..."
 
Sable's eyes go wide. "Nnn--" she moans. "I'm not--"
 
"I'll be gentle," you tell her, your voice catching with desire.
 
Sable pushes you back, gently, so you lie supine on the mattress. She crawls on top of you. She grabs your head, running her hands through your hair, and kisses you some more. Between these needful, searching kisses, she says: "I wanted to try something..."
 
"What's that?" You ask.
 
"I'm... I just..."
 
"Out with it," you grunt.  
 
She grabs you by the collar and peers deep into your eyes. "I can only orgasm with anal stimulation," she says. "It's been that way since I was a child."
 
You reach out and tug at her pants. She helps you, kicking them off, tossing them aside. Sable is older than you, but she's got the body of an undeveloped teenager - her ass is nice and soft, but not very big, and the neatly trimmed strip of hair above her cunt is as fine as down. You reach around and part her ass cheeks with one hand as she leans back in to kiss you again.
 
Your index finger finds what it's looking for: the tight ring of her anus. She gasps into your mouth, then moans sweetly. Her tongue laps against yours in appreciation.
 
You pull your hand back and hold your index finger to her mouth: she gets the message. She sucks it down and swirls her tongue wetly against it, getting it ready - and then your finger is back at the entrance to her asshole, slipping inside.
 
"Oh-- ohhhhh," she coos, throwing her head back. She looks back down, fixing you with a simmering gaze. "That's so nice.
 
"I'm gonna fuck you here," you tell her. "I'll make you cum with your ass if that's how you want it."
 
She's suddenly uncertain. "I-- I've never had anything as big as... as big as you... in there..."
 
"I said I'll be gentle," you insist.
 
Sable falls back and spreads her legs. She holds them open for you with one arm looped under each of her knees. It's as inviting a sight as you've ever seen. The ring of her anus is dark brown and pulsing, but somehow also cute. There's a little freckle just on the outside of it. You could melt.
 
"Fuck me, you stupid prick!" she shouts.
 
You'll never understand her. But if she wants it that bad...
 
You unzip your pants and pull your cock free. You spit on your hand and get the shaft of it slick for her. She stares at it with unconcealed lust in her eyes, her lips slightly parted. Her little rosebud clenches and unclenches, winking at you - in anticipation or fear, or maybe both.
 
You push the tip of your cock against her ass. You take it nice and slow and enjoy the taut sensation of its resistance against you. She lets her head fall back, baring her pale neck, and pants like a bitch. "Do it, do it, do it..." she says.
 
And then you're inside her. The snug confines of her ass are unbelievably tight and hot. It's better than any fuck you've ever had up till now. She's got an ass made to pleasure cocks.
 
"Oh god..." you groan. "You're so fucking--"
 
She slaps you again.
 
"Shut up! Fuck me, you bastard! Just fuck me!"
 
Time to hold her down again. You're sick of being hit like that. But she whines with need when you hold her wrists and says: "No... no, let go... I need to play with myself, too..."
 
"Are you gonna slap me again?"
 
She shakes her head violently no. As you establish a steady pace inside her clenching ass, you slowly loosen your grip on her right and and finally let it go. Her fingers immediately find her clit.
 
"That's it," she pants. "I'm going to cum on you. Keep fucking me... I'm going to cum on you!"
 
You don't care. With every forward thrust, you seat yourself just a little bit deeper into her greedy insides, until you can hear your heavy balls slapping against her. You fall forward and kiss her again, pumping her in and out - fast, deep strokes that nonetheless have a sort of weirdly gentle rhythm to them. Her masturbating fingers between the two of you are rubbing her fat clit so quickly that you can hear the slick friction of it. And then you feel a wet explosion against your crotch as she cums herself silly.
 
Pulling your lips away, you watch as her eyes roll to the back of her skull and her mouth hangs open in a silent scream. She's still rubbing herself as you fuck her, in and out. You never break the pace, enjoying the messy wetness and heat of your mating. Her face is flushed and she squirts all over you.
 
"Ahhhn~~ Ahhhnnn~" she gasps again and again.
 
You don't warn her that you're about to cum. You just let it go. As you squirt your seed into her, her ass sucks you deep, clamps down and refuses to loosen - she's making sure you can't pull out until you're empty. You seal the lewd act it with a final, glorious kiss while you fill her perverted Christmas Cake asshole with what feels like gallons of sperm. She isn't even masturbating anymore, but this alone - the sensation of you cumming inside her ass - is enough to make her cum a final time, too.

Sable falls asleep almost as soon as you dismount, slumping against the wall of her van, your cum still leaking from her. She must have been so overcome with pleasure that she passed out. You clean her up as best you can, tuck her in and kiss her goodnight.

"Ala..." she mutters in her sleep. "Ala... Ally..."

Strange woman.

You clean yourself up in the sauna at DA, and drive over to Whitney's. She's been sending you worried texts nonstop since she found out about Camelia a few days back, and you need to keep her placated by showing her you're still alive. Plus, it's not like you hate being with her...

---

A little bit later, you're sitting in Alex's living room with Whitney while Alex showers and recuperates from another round of hard use. It couldn't be helped. Whitney smelled sex on you right away, and demanded that you repeat what you did to Sable, only on Alex this time.

(Alex seemed a little bit forlorn that he wasn't there too, but he didn't say anything. You're not sure if it's because of his feelings for you, or for Sable.)

Lounging on the couch, you frankly need a little recuperation too. Twice in less than two hours is a little tiring.

"So is that wannabe pirate still stalking you?" Whitney asks, handing you a bottle of coconut water. You guess that it's Alex who keeps the fridge stocked with these $5/serving drinks, not Whitney.

"It's worse than you think," you say between sips. "Look, it's better if you stay out of it. I don't need you making a bigger mess than the one I'm already in."

"You know I'm not gonna do that," Whitney chides. "I won't let some crazy bitch push you around. That's my job!"

You shake your head. "Camelia is more than just crazy. She's an actual terrorist."

"What, like ISIS?"

"Well, first of all - congratulations on knowing something. But no, not quite like ISIS. I'm pretty sure she's domestic."

Whitney stares at you blankly for several long moments. "Like a cat?" She says.

"No, not--" you begin, sigh, and start over. "I mean she grew up in the US and isn't working for some foreign entity. Think along the lines of the Unabomber."

Whitney shakes her head.

"Timothy McVeigh? ... Nation of Islam? ... Antifa? ... Ku Klux Klan?"

"Ohhhh," Whitney says. "She's racist. Gotcha."

You drop it there. You don't have the time or the energy for this conversation. 

As Alex comes out of the bathroom, dressed again but still sopping his wet hair with a towel, Whitney grins.

"By the way, Ally," she says. "Alex had something he wanted to tell you."

Alex is visibly shocked by this. Still holding the towel, staring at you like a frightened deer, he's unable to form any words.

"Go on," Whitney says. She stands, runs around him and holds his shoulders. She takes his towel away and steers him to you.

"I... I don't..." he begins, but he can't say it.

Whitney sighs. "Fine. I'll tell him for you." She pokes his cheek for effect as she says: "Alex is sad because you keep fucking him and you don't even have the common courtesy to kiss him too."

You sputter on your drink.

"Isn't that right, Alex?"

He pokes his index fingers together. "I... I mean-- it's not l-like-- I don't w-want to f-force--"

[ ] This is too much. Make your excuses and leave.
>[x] All right. It can't be helped.

You're not comfortable with this, but you need to keep the restless natives happy.

You stand, close the short distance between you and Alex. You take his chin in your hand, turn his head upwards, lean down and kiss him.

It's a short kiss, and you try to prevent yourself from getting too into it. You're not gay, after all.

Alex warms to it, and when you pull back he's blushing deeply.

"That was nice," he says. "You taste like wintergreen."

"Uh... yeah," is the only coherent thing you can manage.

"You were my first kiss, Ally. I hope I wasn't too clumsy..."

This kid is going to be the death of you.

"It was-- well, I should be going," you say.

Alex is still smiling stupidly. Whitney laughs. "See ya, Ally," she says. 

April 20th, 2015

You're drilling with Whitney for the upcoming final rounds of the tournament tomorrow, when a frantic Mr. Langley calls you.

"Slow down..." you say, unable to decipher the crazed pace of his shouting. "Relax. What is it? ... He -- what? Oh Jesus."

---

Half an hour later you're at a bedside in the ICU of St. Luke's medical center in downtown Boise, staring at Hank, your fellow teammate.

He got hit by a car.

Now he lies in a full body cast, hooked up to a series of beeping monitors, his arms and legs suspended from straps at odd angles. Weakly, he gives you and the rest of your team a thumbs up. That's Hank for you.

"What are we gonna do now?" you say. Hank's parents weep. You and your teammates share uneasy looks.

"Hank taking part in the finals is out of the question," Mr. Langley says. His panic has given way to resignation: "We don't have any backups... I'm afraid this is it for us, guys."

"No..." you say. "No, goddamn it. It can't end here. Not like this."

The crying of Hank's parents is really getting on your nerves. You need some peace and quiet to think this through...

"Hank was never that important as a player," Rose says. "I can't remember the last time he answered a question. I'm sure we could get him out of here long enough for him to sit at a buzzer and fill the open slot on our team."

"Rose..." Mr. Langley says. "Be reasonable here."

"I'm being reasonable!" She cries, stomping her foot. "He'd only be gone for three, maybe four hours. It would hardly even impact his odds of surviving!"

"Rose is right," you say (in times of desperation, you have to swallow your pride). "We could try it."

"Mmmmf mmff mffff," Hank says through his cast. Whatever it was, it seems to signal his consent.

"Hank needs to recover," Mr. Langley says firmly. "That's more important than quiz bowl. Besides, there's no way we can take him out of the hospital. Guys... I'm sorry. It's over."

"Maybe not," comes a voice from the back of the room. Whitney steps forward. "I'm a student at North High too. That's all I need to play on the team, right? I could fill in for Hank."

Mr. Langley frowns. You and the team look around, unsure what to say.

In times of desperation... 

---

To keep Sable and the rest of your team in the good graces of management, you've been attending the daily stand-up scrum meeting in her stead. This morning at the scrum, Rose sidles up to you. She whispers from the corner of her mouth: "Don't slouch, Alabaster. Didn't that asshole from Youtube teach you anything?"

"That's really gross," you whisper back, your eyes fixed forward. "Someone should have taught you how to check your ableism. For all you know, I've got a chronic back condition that makes me stand like this. I can link you a few Tumblrs on body privilege if you'd like to educate yourself."

"Oh, I already know you've got a back condition," Rose says. "You were born with no spine."

The thing about trading barbs with Rose is that occasionally she gets the better of you. The risk is part of what makes it fun, if you're being honest.

"I've been informed that we need to work together to create the upcoming sensitivity training," Rose says. "I'm going to go ahead and assume you haven't done any work on it."

"Of fucking course not," you say.

"Of fucking course not," Rose repeats. "Like usual, I have to do everything. I have a conference room reserved on the third floor. You can come review the material with me after scrum."

"I'd rather gouge my own eyes out," you spit.

"That's fine too," Rose says. "And you can tell Steven Armstrong that you decided not to do what he asked of you."

>[x] Go with Rose.
[ ] Forget it. 

You stand next to Rose in a quiet, out-of-the-way conference room as she pulls up a video on her laptop. She clicks play.

The video opens with a fast-paced montage of a toned blond guy on a windsurfing board, complete with non-offensive instrumental rock music straight from the 1990s. In various shots from various angles, he vaults into the air, twisting and doing flips, while uninteresting guitar riffs swell to a bland crescendo.

Soon the montage smash-cuts to the same man, standing in front of a featureless white background, now wearing a tight polo shirt and dockers. He speaks with a thick Australian accent: "Oi! I'm champion windsurfer Ty Fobbler, here to tell you that being sensitive - is cool."

"Turn this off," you say. "For the love of god."

"Shh," Rose hisses.

"When I'm not out on the ocean doing sick stunts with my longboard... I'm respecting women and minorities."

Ty rambles for a little bit while you let this statement kick around in your head. Finally, you say: "wait, hold on -- does that mean he doesn't respect women and minorities while he's windsurfing?"

"Shut the fuck up, Alabaster."

"...that I like to remember with a simple acronym: SURF. Safety, Unity, Respect and Friendship."

"I'm actually going to die if this goes on any longer," you say. "Turn it off."

"Alabaster--"

You reach over and close the laptop's lid. Blessed silence.

"You are unbelievable," Rose says. "This video has plenty of good material for the training."

"I'M unbelievable? What's unbelievable is someone paid actual, real-life money to make this video. It's the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen. Where did you find this stupid shit?"

"It was on the website for the National Australian Minority Business Leadership Association. They have an entire off-the-shelf sensitivity training module that they offer for free."

"We're not using it," you say. "We'll make our own material."

"No way," Rose says. "We don't have the time. On top of that, using an external vendor absolves us of legal responsibilities--"

"I don't think I'm getting through to you. Whatever we do for this stupid training session, we are not going to use THAT. That's final." You fold your arms. "Have a little fucking dignity for once in your life." 

Rose is saying something else, but you're hardly paying attention. Instead, you do a quick google on your phone. You cut Rose's ranting off and read aloud for her edification: “'outrage as notorious womanizer and #MeToo target Ty Fobbler tries to rehabilitate public image with sensitivity training webinar.' How's that? Like the idea of using a sexual predator to preach good manners?”

Rose sputters. “I-it’s about the message -- not the person--“

“Like I said. I’m making an executive decision. We’ll do our own training.”

“Who on Earth died and made you king? Tell me. You come waltzing in here like you own the place just because Armstrong said you could help out. But I don’t seem to recall anyone saying you were in charge here.”

“Of course I'm in charge. Only one of us has ever lost an election to the other one. That means my decisions automatically supersede yours.”

“FUCK you. You absolute pig—“

"I love that. I'll never get sick of it."

"FUCK YOU!" She stands up, almost tripping in her haste and anger. "I need to take a powder break. I can't deal with you right now, Alabaster."

"That's President Soliloquy to you."

Rose balls her fists up and lets out a savage, incoherent grunt. Arguing with you and not being able to get physical always does a real number on her.

She spins on her heels and goes stomping away. "Three terms!" She cries on her way out. She points at herself - "three terms!" - then points at you - "to one! Three terms to one! You fucking prick! That means I win!"

She slams the door of the conference room on the way out. You can only laugh. Rose leaves her cell phone behind when she goes to the bathroom. All the talk about bugged phones recently must have her spooked about taking it along.

Regardless, now is the perfect time.

You take her phone and unlock it (Rose uses the same PIN for everything - dumb bitch). You make a download that replaces a common, everyday app on the phone's home menu. The replacement app is identical to the old one in every way, except for a critical difference: it surreptitiously reports the phone's coordinates back to you at all times.

This way, you can keep an eye on her. In case she does something stupid. And you know she will.

You set the phone back down exactly as you found it, feeling momentarily satisfied with yourself. But then comes an awful epiphany.

Over the past few years, you've had a lot of time to come to terms with the fact that for all of your surface-level differences, you and Rose think eerily alike. In fact, this trick with the hidden GPS tracker was initially her attempt at stalking you, back during the days of StuCo campaigning and quiz bowl in-fighting.

She agreed to give it up as part of your rules of engagement. But... if you think it's necessary to track her... she must have that idea's corollary in her head too.

You check your phone. The fake version of the app has a small error on one of its screens that's almost impossible to detect unless you know what you're looking for -- which you do. If you've got the tracking app on your phone, you'll be able to find an icon in one of the sub-menus that's misplaced by just a couple pixels.

And so it is.

At some point, Rose bugged you. She has a 24/7 bead on your location whenever you have your phone with you.

[ ] Remove it.
>[x] Let it stay. 

There's something else about Rose: she can put a bullet through a quarter at 20 paces. You've seen her do it.

Maybe it isn't the worst thing to have someone like that with her eye on you.

Not that you need her help. Of course you don't.

Plus, knowing that she has a tracker on you - you can plague her with self-doubt and self-loathing. Every time you go to visit Whitney - or anyone else for that matter - she'll see. And you can just picture her curled up on the couch in Cerise's apartment staring at the little pin indicator, the one that puts you square in Whitney's apartment. All the things she'll be imagining, while she fixes her tear-filled eyes on that screen. It'll drive her bonkers.

Really - by letting it stay, you're letting her torture herself way more than you ever could.

When Rose returns, she's calmer.

"What do you suggest?" She says. "I'm open to ideas."

"Let's just cut out the unnecessary extra stuff," you say. You hold your hands in front of you, palms out, thumb to thumb. "I picture a simple, three page powerpoint. Slide 1: 'fuck white people.' Slide 2: 'especially the men.' Slide 3: 'especially the straight ones.'" You lean back in your chair. "That's what you really want, right?"

"Yeah?" Rose says. "And would all three of those slides apply to you?"

You grimace.

For the next few hours, you hammer out a presentation you can both live with. It basically boils down to: don't call anyone a cunt or a nigger.

Stackleford's gonna be devastated. 

When you get back to your workstation, you see a meeting invitation on your Outlook calendar. It's from Vivian.

The title of the meeting is "Spontaneous Lunch Date (S.L.D.)"

The attached email says:

>I have scheduled a spontaneous lunch date with you, Alabaster Soliloquy, to take place at 1:15 PM today. I hope you will accept. In the interests of increased spontaneity, feel free to push the start time of this meeting either forwards or backwards by a maximum of five minutes." 

>[x] Accept.
[ ] Decline 

At 1:10 PM, you arrive in a place you've never seen before. The upper-level executives at DA have a private dining room on the 19th floor where they can eat in style, away from the hoi polloi. At this time of day, most of them have cleared out, but there are a couple faces here.

Among them is Cerise. She's eating with Nelson Berenstoin, going over some details of the investigation. From what you've heard, it's making real progress - thanks in no small part to the efforts of Fazil.

Cerise catches your eye, then quickly looks away. She hasn't said a word to you since your escapade with her friend, Galatea. Every night since then she's gone straight from work to her bedroom, carrying a fresh 12-pack of beer along with her every time. Occasionally from her bedroom you hear crying; and that's the only trace of her voice you've heard in days. 

"Thank you for coming," Vivian says as you sit down at a small round table in the corner covered with a long satin tablecloth. Vivian has a garden salad and lemon water in front of her. A waiter swoops by to drop off a fancy paper menu for you.

"Thanks for inviting me," you say. "Very spontaneous."

She blushes. "Ahem. I -- want to be forthright. This is more than merely a social call."

"If it was merely a social call, I'd think someone replaced you with a doppelganger," you say. You look up at the waiter. "I'll take the chicken cordon bleu. And uh, some coke."

"As you wish, sir..." He strides away.

"There is going to be a board meeting on Friday and I'd like you to be present in your capacity as proxy. Things may become... fractious."

"You want me to screw your mother again," you say, tenting your fingers on the table.

Vivian blinks rapidly.

"Go ahead," you say. "Tell me what it is."

"I'm not certain..." Vivian says, regaining her composure. "Mother and uncle Vasily have been deep in discussions--"

"Uncle Vasily?" You say.

"Yes," Vivian says.

When you meet this with a confused stare, she explains further. "Mother's maiden name is Kerimov. Uncle Vasily is her brother. Were you not aware of this?"

The intrigue grows deeper.

"Forget about it," you say. "I'll be another Sable for you. Vote however you say. And hey, as a bonus, I'll drag the real Sable along too. Two votes for the price of one."

"Mmm," Vivian mutters. "Of course, I am not legally allowed to tell you how to vote--"

You kick her foot playfully under the table. She startles. "Of course not," you say. "But I'll take your advice into careful consideration."

Vivian nibbles on her salad. 

"You said you were into Lolita fashion?" You ask after your food arrives.

"Mmm."

"That's pretty interesting. I have to be honest, it's hard for me to imagine you in an outrageous Lolita outfit like the ones you see online."

"Are you saying you can't imagine me wearing something so elegant and stately?" She says. She sounds offended.

"I mean... look, I'm just saying that I have this image of you in my mind as this high-powered executive type. Not a fashionista. It's just different, that's all."

"You have me exactly wrong," Vivian says. "I'll prove to you just how wrong you are."

You've never seen her so animated.

"So, what then--" You ask. "You're going to model for me or something?"

"Come to my house this weekend. I will show you the very image of class and grace!"

You narrow your eyes at her.

"This one is more than social too, isn't it," you say.

Vivian smirks. Now that's eerie.

[ ] I'll go.
[ ] I have other plans. 
>[X] I'll go... but first, tell me why my quiz bowl performance fascinated you so much.

Now it's your turn to smirk. She blushes and recoils and averts her gaze.

"W-who told you about that--"

"It's all right," you say. "No need to be embarrassed - I'm just curious. Okay, a little weirded out. But mostly just curious."

She dabs her lips with her napkin and then folds it neatly, setting it down on the table.

"You had a command over your own mind that I found appealing," she finally says. She still won't look at you. "I can tell that you have great intelligence. And yet you go in your own direction with it. I like to imagine..."

She trails off.

"That's it?" You say. "You just happened to see me on TV and thought I was cool?"

Finally, she looks at you. "There is much you do not understand," she says. "But -- never mind. If you still want to visit my home, I will have our chauffeur pick you up on Saturday at 4:00 PM."

Somehow, you're more confused than you were before you asked.

"All right," you say. "Wear your most extravagant dress. I only settle for the very best."

"I would do nothing less, Alabaster Soliloquy."

Just then, the waiter returns. He sets a shiny pewter dish before you, on top of which is a long line of fine white powder and a crisp $100 note on it.

"Your cocaine, sir."

You look up at him, slack-jawed, then over to Vivian, who seems to have no reaction - she must be used to this sort of thing in the executive dining room.

"Uh --" you say. "I meant Coca-Cola."

"Of course sir. Apologies." He takes the cocaine and scurries away.

"You aren't ready for this world yet, are you," Vivian says.

"Guess not."

"That's all right. I can help you." She stands, and before you can stop her, she leaves. 

At home that night, Cerise's crying is especially loud.

"Has she talked to you at all?" You ask Rose. "She won't even look at me."

"Yeah, she talked to me the other day at work... once. To call me a two-timing cunt who ruined her life. Words to that effect."

You wince.

"What should we do?" You ask.

"She's your sister, not mine."

You stand, go to her door, and try it - locked, of course.

You knock. No answer.

"Cerise," you say, leaning your head against her door.

No answer.

You look back at Rose.

>[x] Rose, pick her lock for me.
[ ] Nevermind. Let her grieve on her own time. 

Rose can't catch a break. Just like at Galatea's apartment, her lockpicking skills get interrupted by the target opening the door for her. And this time it smacks her in the nose. She stumbles back, smarting. "Goddamn it," she shouts.

"What do you want, you asshole?" Cerise says to you.

"Can I come in?"

She says nothing, but when she goes back into her room, she leaves the door open for you. You enter and shut it behind you - for now, it's just the two of you.

Cerise curls up at her desk chair, both legs looped over one arm, her back propped against the other. She stares at her computer screen.

You hear, tinnily and through a pair of headphones on the messy bedroom floor, the jingle of Skype's incoming call music.

The screen says:

>Incoming video chat from gman.

It rings for a few moments, then you hear the disconnected call sound.

>Missed video chat from gman. (420) 

This girl has called Cerise 420 times since just a couple days ag--

The incoming call music starts playing again. Make that 421 times, then.

"If you're not going to answer, why not block her?" you suggest.

Cerise's lips tremble.

"I mean..." you begin. "Look, I'm sorry about how hard this is for you. But this isn't my fault. She's the one who betrayed--"

"I know!" Cerise shouts. "I know! I shouldn't be mad at you... I know..."

The call disconnects. Cerise covers her face with both hands.

"These past couple weeks," she says, her voice muffled, "I thought it was you who ruined my life. By bringing this Camelia woman into everything... but all along... it was me. The things I told Galatea... things I promised you I'd never tell anyone. It was all my fault. It was me... it was me. I ruined your life. Again."

You sit down on her bed. You can't say you disagree with her assessment. If not for her loose tongue, you wouldn't be in the mess you're in. And if not for what happened a few years ago--

You try to put that thought out of your mind.

The music is playing again. Galatea is calling.

"Block her already," you say.

Cerise shakes her head emphatically no.

"Why?" You demand.

She doesn't say anything.

>[x] Answer the call for Cerise.
[ ] Block her for Cerise. 

You pick the headphones up off the ground and put them on. Then you lean across the keyboard, grab Cerise's mouse and answer the call.

Cerise doesn't realize what's happening until Galatea's face is already on the screen.

Standing in front of Cerise's webcam, you're eye-to-eye with the girl who ratfucked you.

"Hi," you say, voice dripping with anger.

Galatea's eyes go wide with shock, and then -- she's gone. She doesn't hang up, but she suddenly ducks down, out of frame of her webcam. All you can see, dimly, is the contours of a bedroom even messier than Cerise's, if such a thing is possible.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Cerise shouts. She grabs the cord of the headphones and yanks them from your head. "Gal has anxiety! She can't deal with strangers!"

"I'm sure that's what she told you," you say.

Cerise isn't paying attention, though. She sits up straight in her chair and puts on the headphones. "Are you still there, Gal?"

A pause. Then Cerise looks up at you. "She says she isn't going to come up if you're in the room."

"I am not leaving you alone with this lying bitch so she can smooth talk you again."

"Then why did you answer?" Cerise says.

"I wanted to talk to her myself, since you didn't seem to have an interest in it."

"Well now I do," she says. "We have things to discuss. Alone."

"For the love of god..." you mutter. "Listen to me, Cerise. You cannot trust this girl--"

"I know that, you shit. You think I don't know that? This is goodbye. I need closure. So let me have it."

You sigh. There's no winning here. So you step out of the room and let Cerise have her conversation. 

You sit awkwardly in the living room across from Rose, each of you on your own couch, while you wait for word from Cerise.

After a few minutes of silence, Rose leans back in her seat and spreads her legs wide, giving you a free view up her skirt - no panties, of course.

"Not now, Rose."

Her face curls up in anger.

More than half an hour passes. Finally, Cerise comes out of her bedroom.

"I'm going to Galatea's," is her simple declaration.

"Excuse me?" You and Rose say in unison.

"Don't wait up. I'll be back in a little while."

You stand. "Hold on. Hold the fuck on-- what happened to 'this is goodbye', huh? Closure?"

"No no no no no," Rose says, shaking her head. She clutches at her hair. "You can't... Camelia... she's... no no no no..."

"Camelia gave her okay to it, apparently," Cerise says. "Alabaster, this is -- I've been trying to meet up with Gal -- I've been trying to meet up with Galatea for a really long time. With her anxiety and everything... I mean, we've only been on cam for a few months. So her inviting me to her apartment is a big deal. And I need to see her. At least once."

"Don't you get it?" You say. "She isn't who she says she is. How do you know her whole anxiety thing isn't just an act? She's working with Camelia, for fuck's sake."

"I know who she's working with!" Cerise shouts. "I know the risks. You're not going to stop me. You can come too, if you want. But you're not going to stop me."

>[x] Tag along. [optional: bring Rose]
[ ] Let her go on her own. 

Rose actually falls to her knees and grabs one of your legs when you try to leave with Cerise.

"You can't!" She says. "You literally CAN'T--"

"Tchh-- Get off of me, you sow. God."

"Don't go! Don't go!"

"Camelia isn't going to hurt me. She still needs me for whatever she's up to. We'll be fine."

You kick free of Rose's grip and back away. "Of course," you say, "you have to wait here. I don't think Camelia likes you quite as much." (You know Rose definitely isn't going to listen to instructions, but that's okay. As long as she doesn't try to go in guns blazing.)

Rose is actually crying now. It's... a little endearing how concerned for you she turned out to be.

You kneel down so your face is level with hers, but she's alternately inconsolable and ashamed that she's inconsolable, so she won't meet your gaze.

"I'm not going to die," you tell her calmly, "before I make good on the promise."

"Promise...?" She says.

You take her face in your hand, squeezing her cheeks, and make her look at you. "It's going to happen, Rose. I already told you. When you least expect it."

She sniffles back her mucus. "Fuck you," she snarls.

You let her go. "There we go. That's more like it."

You stand. "Let's go, Cerise." 

You walk up the stairs to Galatea's apartment with Cerise. When you get to the landing where her unit is, you see Camelia, standing outside Galatea's door. She's carrying on a conversation in fluent Russian with the whores who live across the way.

Camelia steps aside for Cerise and lets her into the apartment. They share a mutual look of hatred that could shatter glass.

You try to follow Cerise in, but Camelia stops you up by grabbing your arm. The whores, sensing that now isn't a good time, head back into their own apartment.

"Dirty people," Camelia says, nodding at the closed door across the way. "Shame Hitler cocked it all up with Soviet campaign."

"Don't change the subject," you say. "Am I not allowed to attend the 1st Annual Lesbo NEET Summit?"

"Do what you want. But you're not going to interfere with my plans," Camelia says. She narrows her eyes. "Your sister won't either."

You jerk your arm away from her. "Yeah? Or else what? I'm sick of your games."

"That depends," Camelia says. "What do you prefer? Shall I come to you with a rod of discipline, or shall I come in love and with a gentle spirit?"

"Cute," you say.

"I know that Cerise means a lot to you," Camelia says. "And you feel responsible for her. After all, her shitty life is all your fault. Isn't it?"

You glower.

"Well, Galatea is my Cerise," Camelia says. "I owe her the same debts of kinship. I'm keeping her safe."

"By involving her in multiple class A felonies?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Camelia says.

"So that means you two are sisters, then?"

"All women are my sisters and all men are my brothers. And anyone who loves God must also love their brother and sister."

"I never took you for a Christian fundamentalist," you say.

"I told you. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Am I free to go?"

She steps back and lets you inside. She doesn't follow. 

Galatea's room is at the back. You head inside.

Cerise is there. But she's the only one who is.

Your blood runs cold. This was a trap after all. Camelia set you up. She--

Cerise gets down on the floor, lying on her side, and lifts up the bedskirt. "There you are. Motherfucker. Get out here." 

From under the bed, almost inaudibly, you hear: "no"

"Don't make me drag you out by your ankles, Gal. I swear to God."

"i won't come out"

"That does it," Cerise says. She reaches under the bed and does exactly what she threatened: she drags Galatea out by the ankles. Galatea does her best to stay under the bed, clawing at the carpet, but it's no use.

Now out in the open, she sees you standing there too. She hides her face by going prone and burying it in the floor.

Cerise grabs her shoulder and flips her onto her back. Galatea keeps her face covered up with both hands. She's practically hyperventilating.

"You can have this back," Cerise says. She pulls a locket from her jeans and drops it on the carpet beside Galatea's head.

"i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry"

"This too," Cerise says. She pulls out a folded bunch of papers with frilly handwriting on it - way prettier than Cerise's is. It must be a letter from Galatea. This joins the locket on the floor.

"i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry"

"You did the worst thing possible. All this time you pretended to be my friend and then you turned around and sold me out to the fucking devil."

"i never wanted it to be like this"

"Yeah? Me either." She stands up. "You're pathetic. You know, I thought maybe I could... I don't know. Say goodbye in a nice way, at least. Talk with you for a little while. But seeing Camelia out there... you really are working with her, huh?"

Galatea nods.

"By choice?"

Galatea nods.

"It's over," Cerise says. "I... forget it. It's just over."

"i still love you"

Cerise is at a loss for words here. She turns and walks out without replying.

Galatea is crying.

[ ] Leave.
>[x] Talk to her. 

You sit cross-legged beside her.

"I'm, uh, the little brother," you say. "What Cerise said was pretty harsh, but if makes you feel any better -- you probably deserved a lot worse than that."

"you're right. please go."

"I need to know that Camelia is the only one you told all of Cerise's secrets too. There are things that could get us in a lot of trouble."

"i only told camelia"

"Is she your sister?"

Galatea doesn't respond. She's shutting down. She gets on her belly and crawls under the bed again.

You follow Cerise's lead, lying on your side and lifting the bedskirt. Galatea is curled up in the fetal position, her back to you.

"Why did you do it?"

"it doesn't matter"

"It sure as shit matters. You ruined a perfectly good relationship. And you made my sister really sad, which frankly, kind of pisses me off. Uh... don't tell her I said that."

"i did it because it was fun"

You can't believe this girl. "Fun?" You sputter. "You fucked with our lives for fun?"

"no. no. hacking was fun... i didn't mean to hurt anyone. i didn't mean to hurt cerise."

"Well, you did. What are you going to do about it?"

She doesn't say anything to that.

You stand and are about to leave when she pokes her head out from under the bed. She looks at you with frightened eyes. You're starting to believe the anxiety thing isn't really an act after all.

"please take those things back to cerise. i want her to have them."

She points at the locket and the letter. You scoop them up. Might as well.

"tell her i'm sorry"

"You said that more than enough already. It won't make any difference coming from me."

Her eyes fill with tears again. "when i met cerise..." She trails off and falls silent.

"Out with it. I don't have all day."

"she told me that i saved her life... if that's true... i can be happy with that"

"Great. Is that all?"

"tell her she saved my life too"

You think about that for a long time as you walk down the stairs and back to the car where Cerise is waiting. 

April 20, 2015

"One more time," Whitney says.

You're sloppy drunk off of the three beers that Whitney practically forced down your throat, and dressed only in boxers. You have to be up in 7 hours for the first match of the finals. But Whitney won't let you sleep - she's making you practice questions over and over, reading from the trivia books that you toted along to Boise with you.

"I -- hic -- I can't do this anymore," you slur.

"Come on, you pussy! You quitter! That's loser talk!"

You grudgingly get dressed again, donning five uncomfortable layers of shirts, pants and socks. You would dearly like to sleep, but Whitney is too obnoxious and persistent - she isn't going to leave you alone. And plus, she guilted you into drinking and doing this practice session with her. It's her birthday, after all, and you didn't get her anything. In fact, Rose and Cerise were the only two people to give her any actual presents: from Rose, a gift card to Taco Bell (which, weirdly enough, Whitney said was perfect) - from Cerise, a Furby modified to say "fuck you" (which Whitney squealed over).

The rules of Whitney's quiz bowl drilling are simple enough: every time you answer incorrectly, you lose an article of clothing.

"What year did Gen-gahis Ka-han die?"

"Genghis Khan," you say. You hiccup again. "It's pronounced Genghis Khan."

"Don't be such a fucking dork. What year did he bite it?"

"1227."

Whitney lets out a "grrr." She's primarily in this to see you strip.

So of course, she does what she did last time. She flips to the section on sports trivia - your weakest topic by far. Who won the 1943 World Series? How many field goals did Wilt Chamberlin score in his record setting game? What was the score in the final match of the 1999 FIFA Women's World Cup? The answer to all of these, as far as you're concerned, is a disinterested shrug. And so you're quickly losing the shirts off your back. Among other things. 

"What was the number on Dale Earnhardt's--"

"Wait a second..." you say, your vision focusing and unfocusing. You're down to your bottom layer of clothes. "Why am I the only one getting naked here?"

Whitney looks at you like a confused puppy. "You're the one drilling."

"You're on the team too," you say. "That means you need to practice too." You reach out and grab the trivia almanac from Whitney's grasp. She resists, but only weakly.

Looking down at the text on the page, the letters swimming for a moment before they resolve themselves, you read: "What was the number on Dale Earnhardt's NASCAR vehicle when he died?"

Whitney shrugs. "NASCAR is dumb as shit. Ask my dad, he knows."

"Your dad isn't on the team," you say. "Besides, you literally just read this question."

Whitney rolls her eyes. "You interrupted me before I could get to the answer, dickweed!"

Sometimes you wonder how Whitney manages to dress herself in the morning. "The answer is 3. Take your shirt off," you say.

Whitney actually blushes - it's rare to see her get flustered. She probably didn't expect you to be so aggressive about it. But she regains her composure quickly enough, her surprised look melting into a broad grin.

She slips her tanktop over her head, revealing that she isn't wearing a bra underneath. Somehow, her torso is just as tan as the rest of her. You can't help staring at her small but inviting breasts. She takes the opportunity to grab the trivia almanac back from you.

It's going to be a long night. 

---

Driving home with Cerise, you watch the pin indicator on the tracking app that you bugged Rose's phone with. Sure enough, it's not sitting tight at Cerise's apartment. It's following behind you in traffic.

Rose, you sneaky bitch. As expected.

When you're back in town again and nearing the apartment, you watch Rose's location indicator suddenly swerve down a side street and race to beat you back home. By pulling what must double the speed limit or more, she makes it. When you walk through the front door, she's still out of breath.

"There you are," she says. "I've been going crazy waiting here for you two. I thought for sure Camelia was going to be coming here to murder me or something."

You sigh and shake your head. 

Cerise, predictably, heads straight for her bedroom. You put your hand against the door and keep her from closing it on her way in.

"Leave me alone, Alabaster. I need to sleep."

"All you do is sleep," you tell her. "I live under the same roof with you and we hardly ever hang out."

"Why the fuck would I want to hang out with you?" She says, folding her arms. "At least sleeping doesn't constantly annoy me with its unsolicited opinions."

You frown. "Isn't that what dreaming is?"

"Alabaster, I swear to fucking god."

"Look, I just need to make sure you don't hang yourself or something. It's the least I can do as your sibling."

She pokes the inside of one cheek with her tongue, huffing in frustration. "So what do you suggest, oh loving brother of mine?"

"Let me in, first of all."

She steps aside.

"What now?" She says.

"We're gonna have a family movie night." 

You sit at Cerise's computer desk. Cerise sits on her bed.

"You're making pretty good money now, right?" You say.

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Invest in some Febreeze. Holy shit. Do you do absolutely nothing but drink beer and masturbate in here?"

"There isn't enough Febreeze in the world to spritz away the sin of incest happening in my fucking living room," Cerise shoots back. "If you and Rose were any thirstier, you'd be a pair of desiccated mummies."

"Whatever. Do you still watch anime?" You ask, dropping the back-and-forth of insults and hoping to turn the conversation at least somewhat civil.

There was a long time when Cerise pretended to hate your "Japanese cartoons," but after your parents died and you were marooned in the Mallory home, you learned the truth: Cerise was secretly a fan too. The long nights you spent together watching anime in your room kept you both sane.

(She never did develop an appreciation for the true classics, which she derided as "moeshit," but you could at least begrudgingly respect her taste. She's no Stackleford.)

"Sometimes," Cerise says in response.

"What are you watching this season?"

She shrugs.

"...Nothing?" You say.

"I'm catching up on my backlog, that's all."

"What shows?"

She shrugs.

She's more depressed than you thought.

"We'll start with the undisputed best anime of 2018," you announce. "Darling in the Franxx." 

Cerise seems wholly unimpressed as the bright explosions and involved battle sequences flash on screen. Then again, she seems wholly unimpressed by pretty much everything.

"I knew you had shitty taste, Alabaster, but this is beyond the pale."

"Come on. You like Trigger."

"They should have stopped beating around the bush and just name this show 'Evangelion, Except The Robots are Powered by Fanservice'."

"Whatever. I'll turn it off, then."

"I didn't tell you to turn it off. Anime is a fucking wasteland these days. I'm sure there isn't much else to watch."

She's wrong about that. And you're going to prove it to her. Whether she likes it or not.

You binge watch deep into the night, Cerise making snide comments the entire time. At some point, you end up getting out her laptop to watch on that instead, so you can sit together on the bed, propped up against the wall.

And eventually she's nodding off against your shoulder.

"Stop drooling on me," you say.

"Mggh?" She groans. She wipes her mouth with the back of her palm and then smears it on her pantleg. Ever the lady.

"By the way..." you say. "Your gay friend asked me to pass on a message on for you. She says you saved her life too."

"Tell her to go fuck herself," Cerise says, dozing off again.

You're starting to doze off, too. 

At around 3:00 AM, you're rudely awoken by the vibration of your phone in your pocket.

It's from Kay Vera.

"10 AM at the Rutabaga Cafe," she says. "I'll be waiting."

"It's 3 in the fucking morning," you grumble.

Beside you, Cerise snorts and tosses in her sleep.

"...is it that late? I must have lost track of the time. I've been working all night."

"Christ you're annoying. I have work tomorrow, you know. During normal human hours."

"What does tomorrow have to do with it? I want to meet at 10 AM today."

"Not TOMORROW," you say. "I mean-- you know what, nevermind. The point is, I have work. So it can't be at 10."

"I can push it to noon, but that's the best I can do. Find an excuse to be there or you won't get another chance. You're not my only lead."

>[x] I'll be there.
[ ] Forget it. 

She hangs up just as soon as you say it.

"Fuck you too, Kay..."

You glance at Cerise as she softly snores and stirs restlessly in her sleep. You really are worried about her. Not that you'd ever say it out loud.

One of Camelia's conditions on the meeting with Kay was that she wanted to be in the cafe too, to visually verify it happened. You're not sure how to let her know, though. You have no contact number for her. Except--

>[x] Message Galatea
[ ] Go to Galatea's apartment in person.
[ ] Don't try to let Camelia know.

You slip into the master bathroom for a little privacy, using the mobile version of the Skype app. The call rings - and rings, and rings. No answer.

You try again. Same result. This is pointless... you should have known that she isn't going to pick up.

Is she asleep? No, you think - of course not - she's a piece of shit loser hikkikomori NEET. 3 AM is her primetime.

You send an IM.

>Tell your boss that the meeting is a go. Noon.

Surprisingly, you get an almost immediate call back from Galatea.

You answer it. But it isn't Galatea on the other end. It's Camelia.

"That's great news, Ally!" She says, smiling into the webcam.

"Don't call me that."

"You're a real workhorse. I knew I could count on you."

You hover over the disconnect button, but Camelia continues:

"Listen, I'm glad you reached out - but in the future, try to avoid calling Gal yourself. Let Cerise be the go-between."

"Why?" You demand.

Camelia picks up the webcam from where it's mounted on Galatea's monitor, and points it down, under the desk. Amidst a mess of used tissues, empty bottles, tangled cords and other trash, Galatea sits hunched and trembling. When she sees the camera focused on her, she lets out an "eep!" and hides her face.

Camelia points the webcam back at herself. "Getting calls from strange numbers sends Gal into conniptions. She doesn't deal well with that kind of thing."

"Your friend needs a shrink," you say.

"She's got what she needs right here," Camelia intones. "Don't go armchair psychologist on me, now."

You hear loud banging from Camelia's end, as of someone pounding on the front door.

"Motherfucker..." Camelia sighs. Then she shouts: "Wrong apartment, asshole! The whores are across the hall!"

You hear pounding again, but fainter - the john must have taken Camelia's advice.

"That happens way too much," Camelia says.

"Seems like a very healthy environment for Galatea," you say drily.

"What do you care?" Camelia says. She hangs up. 

At lunchtime, you slip away from an increasingly flirtatious and touchy-feely Alex to go have lunch at the Rutabaga Cafe.

Camelia is there, of course - sitting by herself at a table on the opposite side of cafe from the one where Kay Vera sits.

As you approach Kay's table, you're startled by a rottweiler. It barks and snarls at you, foam dripping from its lips and pointy teeth. You fall to your ass, shielding your face uselessly with your forearm. It strains against its leash, trying to get to you, but the owner pulls it back.

"Down, Lady. Down!" Kay shouts.

The dog circles around and lies at Kay's feet, still staring evilly at you.

You stand, shaking with adrenaline. "What the fuck," you say. "Warn me next time."

"I'm sorry," Kay tells you. "Lady is very protective."

You look at the ground where Lady is now sniffing itself.

You sit. "I hate to be crass about this," you say. "But Lady's got a penis. Just so you're aware."

"So?" Kay says. "He looked like a Lady to me."

Weirdly enough... you can kind of see what Kay means.

"I got him a few years ago when I did this expose on a bar that violated health codes," Kay explains. "The owner was stalking me and sending me death threats and so on. Lady is peace of mind. He keeps me safe."

He perks up his ears and looks at you. His drawn out rrrrrrr suddenly turns into more barking.

"Shhh," Kay chides. Lady shuts up. Kay looks at you. "Lady's not being very gentlemanly today. He knows something's up."

"Forget about it," you say. "Let's talk."

"I'm all ears."

[ ] Tell her something true.
>[x] Tell her something true, but embellished.
[ ] Tell her something false. 

"No one followed you, did they?" You ask, casting furtive glances this way and that, really hamming it up for her.

"Worry about yourself," Kay says. "I'll worry about me."

You sigh. And then, as if coming out with a big secret: "would you believe me if I told you that David and Mara Darkbloom have an abusive relationship?"

Kay is silent for a long moment. Then she scribbles something down on her notepad. "What have you seen?"

"I'm just an intern, but they've been using me--"

"I know. You're a proxy on the DA board," Kay says. How does she know that?

"Bizarre, I should think - to have an intern in his first couple weeks of work serving one of the highest functions in the company. How did that come about?"

You explain the mostly true version of events: being asked by a flighty manager (unnamed) to attend a meeting, going against Mara in David's absence, being appointed after one of the board members got nabbed by the FBI.

"I'm seeing a theme here," Kay says. "That other intern is also accruing a weird amount of power within the organization. Rose Manroy, is it?"

"Mallory," you say. "What about her?"

"She's being put in charge of some sort of company-wide training... high level stuff. I never knew you Gen Z types were such world-beaters, but you're taking over the company."

"I don't know who told you that stuff about Rose, but--"

"My source leveled some very serious allegations. Says the training is necessary because DA is dominated by a culture of misogyny and abuse. I could definitely work it into a fluff piece - this stuff about David and Mara, too. People eat that shit up."

"Rose told you that?" You stammer. "SHE'S the abusive one--"

"Interesting..." Kay says, writing on her notepad.

"Don't write that down." 

"Anyway, I never named my source," Kay says. "That would be unconscionable. But this unnamed source does also say that you're one of the worst offenders."

"I'll kill her..." you mutter.

"So it's true, then. Very interesting."

"What? -- Hey. Don't write that down! No, listen, stop, it's just - it's a thing we do, ok? We fight, that's all."

"Physically?"

You massage the bridge of your nose. "We're getting off track here. I'm just telling you, there's no abuse. Nothing -- non-consensual, all right?"

Kay smirks. "This is a really great story I'm getting here. Almost as good as the hacking scandal. Two interns who hold - considerable sway over the multi-billion dollar company they work for... signals extreme chaos in the organization. On top of that, using the company as a proxy in their microcosm of the culture war - and also in their sadomasochistic war for total sexual control over each other's bodies... and on top of all THAT, they're cousins."

"Once removed!" You shout, loud enough to draw stares from nearby tables. Lady perks his ears up and rises to his feet. You lower your voice. "Once removed. First cousins, once removed. It's not like we're just 'cousins,' for godsakes. We're not. We're removed. Once."

"Uh huh," Kay drawls. "And her mother also legally adopted you. So Rose isn't just your cousin, she's also your sister."

You bang a fist on the table. "Step sister! That doesn't count!" Others are staring again, Lady is barking, so you draw back to an insistent hiss. "Step sibling incest doesn't count, everyone knows that. It's not real incest. It's not even CLOSE-"

"It sounds like you have very strong opinions about this. Would you like to elaborate some more?"

"No," you say. "This conversation is over. I'm done, this is done. We're done."

"You haven't even told me about David and Mara yet."

"Goddamn it..."

"Maybe you'd like to try telling me the real reason you're here," Kay says. "That girl in the eyepatch put you up to it, didn't she?"

You instinctively try to look back, but Kay puts a hand on yours, stopping you: "Don't look at her. Look at me."

You look at Kay.

"You don't strike me as a terrorist," Kay says. "You're too inept for that. Is she forcing you to help her?"

[ ] Yes.
>[x] I don't know what you're talking about.

"I don't know any girls in eyepatches," you say. "And I'm certainly not working with any terrorists."

Kay fixes you with a serious look. "You're mixed up in some terrible shit, Alabaster. There are very few people out there who are actually on your side. Believe it or not, I'm one of them."

"I just inherently distrust reporters," you say.

"Be that as it may, you've got a job to do, don't you? You want my notes?"

"...What?" You say, playing dumb.

"You can have them. In fact, I'll show you everything I've got. That girl's on a warpath and I don't need her fucking with my life too. Based on what I've pieced together - she wants to know about Sand Reckoner."

"What the hell is Sand Reckoner?" You say.

"Nothing special. Just a plot to take over the world."

"I-- what?"

You can't even finish that thought before you hear a commotion from the front of the cafe. Whitney just walked in. She's shouting at Camelia. 

April 21, 2015

You smash through the last few brackets of the tournament with ease. Whitney admirably serves her role as bench-warmer - so does the rest of the team - allowing you and Rose to cruise effortlessly to win after win.

"Who conceived Daylight Savings Time?" - George Hudson, of course. "Which foreign nation was the first to be visited by a sitting US President?" - Panama, answers Rose without batting an eye. "Who led the Taiping Rebellion?" - Hong Xiuquan. Who doesn't know that? "What is the integral of tan(x)/sin(x)?" Rose doesn't even need scratch paper to tell you that it's ln(tan(x)+sec(x))+C.

You rack up points like it's nothing. You demolish the rival schools without even trying.

And then - you hit the wall. 

It's all or nothing, win or go home: the final match of the national quiz bowl championship. The Mindbreakers are up against their toughest challengers yet: The Marduk Institute Nerves.

This magnet school from Manhattan has dominated you up and down the scoreboard, nearly shutting you in the first half of the match.

You and Rose have managed to claw the team back to a competitive standing in the second half. But with time running out, it becomes apparent that your efforts won't be enough. You're going to lose. You've come this far, and you're going to lose.

There is only one question left, and the Nerves have enough of a lead that even if you get the correct answer, they'll still win. The only possible hope remaining--

"For 500 points," says the announcer, "what is the study of eggs commonly called?"

The Nerves' star player buzzes in, a Chinese boy named Ji Shin. That showboating bastard. Instead of playing it safe and letting the clock run out, he wants to twist the knife.

"Uvology," he says triumphantly.

"I'm... sorry, that isn't correct," the announcer says. "That's a penalty of 500 points. North High, you have the chance to steal."

The difference between the two teams is just 400 points now. Which means if you can get the right answer...!

But you don't know it.

You rack your brain, and you can't make the answer come. Think, Alabaster, think! You're fucking it all up at the most critical moment!

Someone buzzes in. You give a panicked glance to Rose, but her equally panicked glance back at you is a wordless confirmation that it wasn't her.

"Whitney Price," the announcer says. This is the only time Whitney has ever buzzed in.

"Fuck!" Whitney says.

"Excuse me?" The announcer says, shocked.

"I know this! ...Shit. Hold on. I totally know this!"

The announcer frowns. "I ask that you please refrain from using foul language."

"Fuck, sorry! But I really know this. Give me a second..."

"You have five seconds," the announcer says.

You close your eyes and lean against the podium, hands over your forehead. Right now, you hate everything about the world and everyone in it. The chance at a national championship, ripped away from you not once but twice in the span of just a few minutes... goddamn it, Whitney...

Then, just as time is running out:

"Wait!" Whitney cries. "Wh-what is - what is oology! What is oology!"

You look at Whitney. She's hopping up and down excitedly, pointing her finger at the announcer. "What is oology! That's the answer, that's totally the answer! What is oology!"

The announcer replies with a cold stare. But over the course of a few moments his steely expression breaks into a Cheshire grin.

"Congratulations!"

An uproar of adulation and applause from the crowd. Shellshocked looks on the faces of your opponents. An even more shellshocked look on Rose's face - on yours as well, probably.

And then there's Whitney, still hopping up and down, whooping and hollering like the world is ending. 

Of course the Nerves challenge Whitney's answer, on the basis that it should have been just "oology" rather than "what is oology," but after a heart-stopping moment of conferring by the judges, they rule that answering in the form of a question is, while gauche, not a disqualifier. Ji Shin looks like he's about to cry, and runs away from the stage before anyone can stop him.

Karma is delicious.

You and the rest of the team pose with an oversized trophy for the cameras. ESPN and various news outlets surround you, their lights nearly blinding you as confetti rains down from the rafters. This is everything you wanted, and more. You and Rose hold the trophy from either side, hoisting it up together and smiling -- for once able to enjoy a nice moment of shared victory.

Whitney elbows her way to the front of the team and grabs the trophy from both of you. She holds it by the base, hands high above her head, baring her armpits and sideboob to the whole world.

"Smartest girl in the universe!!!" She yells. "WHOOOO! WOOOOOOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOO!!!!"

"Do you have anything to say?" a reporter asks her.

"Two things!" Whitney shouts. "I just dunked on every single dork in Dork Bowl and -- last night I sucked Alabaster Soliloquy's dick! Eat shit, Rose!"

You do an honest to god double-take.

"You WHAT?" Rose sputters.

That's the moment the photographer from North High picks to immortalize forever on camera, the one that goes in your senior yearbook and gets hung on a giant poster in the school's foyer: your slack jaw, Whitney's ear-to-ear grin, Rose's lips just beginning to curl up in rage. 

---

"Are you fucking with Ally?" Whitney shouts at Camelia.

You stand up, watching helplessly from across the cafe. It feels like watching Whitney dig her own grave.

"Are you sure you don't know any girls with eyepatches?" Kay asks from somewhere behind you. "Seems like your girlfriend does."

Camelia doesn't even bother to stand up as Whitney rants at her. She's saying something to Whitney now, but from this distance, you can't hear. Anyway, Camelia is anything but fazed by Whitney's anger.

"Fuck you!" Whitney shouts. You can hear that one.

Camelia is talking again. But she isn't talking for long.

Suddenly, Whitney is on top of her. She lunges over the table and tackles Camelia bodily to the floor. Camelia tries to fight back but it's no use. Whitney is a blur of punches and kicks.

Camelia quickly becomes a limp ragdoll beneath her, passed out, her face bloody. Shocked patrons are circling, some are calling 911. Lady is barking madly.

END OF EPISODE 6. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, onahole collector and bicycle tutor. 

June 6, 2014

The Roomba has a homemade bomb glued to the top of it. Cribbing variously from the Anarchist's Cookbook, Youtube tutorials, and an archive of Cerise's circuit bending streams, you're a self-taught expert in remote-control mayhem.

Instead of moving autonomously, the now-deadly Roomba is your zombie slave, going exactly where you tell it to with the RC transmitter in your hands. A hi-brite flashlight helps you see where it's going in dark spaces. A V-shaped plow helps it overcome debris. And a GoPro strapped to its front, livestreaming back to your tablet, completes the device. You've got a fully controllable IED that can go almost anywhere.

You sit on a curb with Whitney across from a shuttered strip mall near the edge of town. The weeds and graffiti are taking over: this place was a victim of the 2008 recession that never recovered. Years of disuse have left the buildings dilapidated and busted.

"This better be worth my time," Whitney says. "I'm not missing spaghetti Friday just to watch you vacuum an old Sears store."

(Whitney used to worm her way into dessert for dinner Sunday every week at the Soliloquy household. Although mom and her wonderful desserts are gone, Whitney was not to be deterred. Now she butts into the Mallorys' spaghetti Friday every week.)

"Just watch," you say.

The Roomba is moving around the largely-empty interior of the store. On the live feed, you see tipped-over shelving units, dangling wires and scattered trash. More graffiti, too. A rat skitters past and disappears.

"Freaky," Whitney says. She grabs a beer from the nearby 12-pack, pokes a hole in the side with her pocket knife, and shotguns it while she watches the real-time video stream. 

"Let me try," you say. She hands you another can of beer and her knife. But you're hopeless. Whitney has to show you the mechanics of how to properly shotgun a beer, guiding you through poking the hole and popping the lid at the right moment.

"Dork," she says, holding the can while you try to chug.

It's the first beer you've ever had. It's pungent and unpleasant and too warm from sitting out all day. You find yourself sputtering and gagging instead of getting it down smoothly.

"Haha! You're a riot, Ally." She pats you on the back like a mother burping a baby as you wipe your mouth with the back of your palm. "You'll get the hang of it. Being a delinquent takes practice."

"Yeah?" You say. "Well, watch this."

You guide the Roomba between a pair of shelves that have collapsed into one another. You turn the tablet off.

"Hey!" Whitney says. "Rude!"

You point across the street, directing her to look at the storefront. Her gaze slowly sweeps up. And then you hit the detonate button.

A bloom of orange and red is visible through the previously-darkened windows - which now bulge and then shatter from the pressure wave. The boom is almost deafening. When it settles, an incipient fire is obviously visible inside.

"Holy..." Whitney breathes.

"I call it the Roomburner. I've got five or six stashed away in the crawlspace at Rose's house."

"Roomburner," Whitney says, rolling her eyes. "Even when you're cool, you're a fag."

You watch the smoldering fire with her appreciatively for a few moments.

"Shit... we better get out of here, huh?" Whitney says.

You pack your remote control and tablet into your backpack. Whitney grabs the beer. Running down the sidewalk with her, her peals of laughter ringing in your ears, you feel the first happiness you've had since that awful night a few months ago.

You like to watch things burn. You want to do it some more. 

---

Kay slips a business card into your hand. You're too taken aback at Whitney's attack on Camelia to really register anything of what she's telling you.

"Call me in a few days if you're still alive and not in jail," Kay says. She takes Lady's leash and disappears out a side exit, leaving you gawking and dumbfounded.

Whitney is still delivering vicious hook after vicious hook directly into Camelia's battered face when you finally gather the wherewithal to go over and lay a palm on her shoulder.

"Fucking bitch!" Whitney is screaming. "How dare you!"

"Whit--" you begin, but think better of using her name. "Let's go. Now."

Whitney looks back at you. "Did I do good?" She asks. She's smiling. She genuinely wants to know.

You drag her to her feet, grab her hand, and brush past the fearful patrons crowding around.

You flee with her down the street for a ways, until you see a sight you should have suspected: Rose's Prius pulls alongside the curb.

"Get in," Rose says. "Are you two all right?" 

Rose drives. You sit in the passenger seat, and Whitney sits in the back.

"I told you to observe," Rose says, glaring at Whitney in the rearview. "What part of 'observe' entails beating up the most dangerous woman on the planet?"

"Don't oversell her," Whitney harumphs. "She's a wuss. Can't even take a punch."

"We're done for..." you mutter. "Goddamn it." You're not sure who you're madder at: Whitney, for attacking Camelia; or Rose, for thinking that sending Whitney into that cafe was a good idea.

"You need to stay with us for the time being," Rose says. "Camelia knows who you are, and if she retaliates..."

"Let her retabliate, then!" Whitney says. "I'll retabliate her face into dust!" She punches her own open palm.

"Rose is right," you say (ugh), "you'll be safer with us."

Whitney pouts for a moment, then: "What about Alex?"

>[x] It can't be helped. Invite Alex over, too.
[ ] He doesn't need to be involved. He'll be safer where he is. 

Rose stays home with Whitney. You return to work to grab Alex and Cerise and circle the wagons.

First stop: Cerise's office. She's sitting across from Fazil, deep into a meeting that you have no qualms about interrupting. You pull up a chair beside Fazil and sit down.

"Excuse you," Cerise says.

"We're going to have a guest or two tonight," you tell her.

"Thanks for asking first, asshole," she says. "Who?"

"Whitney. Maybe her roommate too. I'll explain when we're back home."

"Should I step out?" Fazil asks. "This sounds as if I am becoming quickly the third wheel."

"Yeah," you say. "Cerise and I are going to be heading home soon."

"Fuck that," Cerise says. "Fazil, you can stay. Tell him what you just told me."

"Is this okay?" Fazil says, uncertain.

Cerise nods.

Fazil gesticulates as he launches into an involved explanation. "I am thinking to myself yesterday that the perpetrator of the recent hackings must be a skilled individual. If so, I think further, perhaps he has a reputation. So I think to check around on parts of the internet in which such characters have prestige. Aha! A similar pattern has happened in the past. A so-called black hat known only as Galatea. Researching this person's attacks on banking institutions and government facilities, the methods are nearly identical. I believe this person is responsible for March 10th and the foiled rootkit hacks also."

Fazil, you motherfucker. You're getting too close to the truth.

"Interesting story, isn't it?" Says Cerise.

She already knows this information. Is this her way of telling you that she won't intercede on Camelia's behalf to stymie the investigation? If so, and Fazil traces it back to her... what then?

"You're doing excellent work, Fazil," Cerise says. Fazil can't hide his dopey smile. "Take the rest of the day off if you like - I'm heading out early, too."

"Thank you, Ms. Soliloquy. Good day!" 

Down in the R&D labs, you run into Ken doing some work at a PC workstation outside Sable's main office. Well - one of his two monitors has work on it, at least. On the other, he's watching an episode of Ed, Edd 'n' Eddy. He chuckles at the on-screen gags every few moments.

Weird guy.

Not seeing Alex out here, you breeze past and try the door to Sable's office, but it's locked. You knock - no answer.

Great...

You take a seat beside Ken. "Is Alex in there?" you ask.

Ken pulls down his headphones. "Pardon me, pardner. Can you kindly repeat yourself?"

"I said is Alex in there." You nod in the direction of Sable's office.

"I reckon he is," Ken says. "Been in there nigh on an hour or so."

It's either something really important or something really perverted, and you want to know in either case.

You're thinking of how to get past Sable's door when a woman's voice startles you. "Are you Alabaster?"

"Uh, yeah. What's up?"

The woman extends a lithe arm, and you shake her hand. "I-I'm Noelle," she says. "Noelle Keki. I - ah - I just got assigned to the team... dragged up from the server room. Go figure!" She rubs the back of her head and laughs, almost as if apologizing for her own presence.

"Nice to have you aboard," you say, being polite but wishing this conversation would be over.

"If it's not too much trouble, I, ah, I was wondering if you could answer a few of my questions? I was told you just recently went through some orientation yourself. I hope I'm not bothering you!"

"I'm, uh, a little busy right now," you say.

"Oh, hmm..." she mutters, dejected. "A-at least you could help me set up my PC? I need the passwords to the team Slack and network directories. If you have even just a couple moments... I'm so sorry for the intrusion..."

This birdlike, nervous girl - who seems to be a few years older than you - is charming despite her awkwardness. Or maybe because of her awkwardness. Since Alex and Sable are tied up right now, you suppose you can at least give her this much help.

When she walks you over to her computer, you're surprised to see a wallpaper on her desktop bearing characters from your favorite anime of last season: Magical Witchy ~Pero Pero~. A show about cute little girls in revealing outfits who fight monsters - a dime a dozen, right? - but the writing, production values and sheer cuteness of the main characters put it head and shoulders above the average moeblob pander-fest.

Noelle's wallpaper certainly isn't safe for work - the scantily clad witch trio with their panties on full display, and a hint of the main character Lillith's nipple showing - and Noelle blanches when she realizes that she left it visible. She quickly pulls up a folder and maximizes it to cover up the offending image. She gulps and stares down at the desk. She's so embarrassed she's almost shaking.

>[x] Hey, I'm a fan of that show too.
[ ] Don't mention what you saw. 

Noelle's face quickly transforms from shame to shock. "R-really?" She says.

"What, is that a surprise?"

"You just don't look..." she trails off. "Are you all caught up?"

"Yeah," you say. "Can't wait for season two next fall."

"I know!" Noelle says. "Do you think Lillith is going to accept the Archon's challenge?"

"How could she not?" You say. "The Archon still has Lucy hostage."

"But Lucy's such a bitch!" Noelle says. She's suddenly much less shy than before. "I don't know what Lillith sees in her. She'd be better off with Lulu!"

"Please," you say. "The double-tsundere dynamic between Lillith and Lucy is the best part of the show. They're destined to be together."

"I can't believe you!" Noelle laughs, feigning anger. "I start to think maybe you have good taste and then you go dropping these shit-taste bombs on me. What a drag... Hey, did you read the manga too?"

"Of course. Show-only fans are missing half the story."

What follows is a 20-minute back and forth over the relative merits of each of the witches. Noelle is a big Lulu partisan - no surprise, given Lulu's shy and submissive demeanor is so similar to Noelle herself - but what can you say? You've always preferred the main girl in most series. The main girl is usually the best one.

You get Noelle all set up on the network while you yammer. It's nice to finally meet someone who has something approaching good taste around here. 

Not long after, Alex steps out of Sable's office. His hair is mussed and he's out of breath. Sable was definitely messing with him. You're not sure if you're jealous, turned on, or a bit mad at Sable for abusing him like that. (All three?)

"Hey Ally," Alex breathes. He sits at his PC and swipes his hair back. "Back from lunch so soon?"

"I left for lunch two hours ago," you say.

"O-oh... I lose track of time I guess..."

"Did you have fun in there?" You say drily.

"I--!" Alex is too embarrassed to answer.

"Nevermind. Say, I was thinking of... uh, having a sleepover. What do you say?"

"Sleepover? Alex says. His voice is a mix of excited and anxious. "I'll have to get my air mattress out of the closet... and wash my guest comforter..."

"No, not at your place. Over at mine. Whitney's coming too. It'll be fun."

"I see," Alex mumbles. Then, thinking it over: "Okay! Let me finish up a couple things first."

You chat some more with Noelle while Alex closes out a couple pressing work assignments. Noelle's breathy inflections make her hard to understand at times, but when you get her excited about a certain topic, she suddenly takes off like a rocket. It's kind of cute. Okay, it's really cute.

She's a fan of magical girl series, slice of life, and yuri (in that order). She insists that she isn't a lesbian, but that she finds the love between two best friends sweet and pure.

You catch Alex glancing at the two of you every once in a while. Is he getting jealous? He finishes his work up quickly and tells you he's ready to go. 

Cerise, Whitney and Rose are waiting back at the apartment. When you bring Alex in, introductions are in order. (Cerise has met Alex once before, but she was too worried about those /csg/ threads to really have paid much attention.)

"When did you get so popular with women?" Cerise says, folding her arms. "One day you're a friendless loser, the next you've got all these girls crawling all over you."

Whitney watches in the background, snickering to herself.

"Alex isn't a--" you begin.

"Honestly," Rose says. "You're hopeless. A womanizing pig. I shouldn't have expected anything less."

"Alex is--"

"Not that I have anything against you," Cerise tells Alex kindly, "it's just that Alabaster is such a--"

"--Such a creep sometimes," Rose says.

"--That we're really concerned..." Cerise continues.

"For your well-being, that is." Rose says.

"I'm a boy," Alex cuts in. His voice is very small.

"You're a..." Cerise says.

"A..." Rose says.

The expressions on Cerise and Rose's faces are very different, but somehow convey the same basic emotion. They look at Alex with barely-concealed wonderment. 

Rose is the first to speak. "No you're not," she tells him.

"W-what?" Alex says.

Rose takes his hand. "You can tell us. We don't judge here. You can be yourself... if you're a girl, that is..."

"Really..." Alex says. "I'm a b--"

Rose cuts him off by hugging him to her bosom and petting his hair. "Shh... shh, it's ok. I understand."

You pull Alex out of her grip. "I'm the creep here, huh?" You say. "Contain yourself, Rose."

"Trans-misogynist!" Rose screams.

"H-honestly," Alex insists, "I'm not anything else but me! Just plain old Alex! A boy!"

"Look at what you've done to her!" Rose cries.

"How is your perversion MY fault?" You say.

"How isn't it?" Rose spits back.

Whitney comes between the two of you and prevents this from blowing up into a real fight. "Boy or girl," she says, "he sure knows how to suc--"

"Who's up for some Settlers of Catan?" You quickly intervene.

Cerise blinks herself out of her stupor and manages to pry her eyes away from Alex. "Yes... that sounds fun. I'll grab it out of my room." 

Whitney pairs up with you. Cerise, Rose and Alex are solo. Of course, having a team of 2 isn't much help when Whitney can hardly understand the rules of the game.

That is - she's no help until the moment a trade negotiation with Rose goes south. Whitney fixes this by lunging over the table, grabbing Rose by her drills and screaming: "give us your bricks, you fucking cunt! Right now!"

The trade really helps your strategic position. What doesn't help is that Alex is willing to give everyone else his resources for basically nothing (sometimes literally nothing). Rose immediately gets the pilfered bricks back from him in turn.

This could be a long night.

Near the end of the game, Alex's eyes suddenly light up. He turns to Cerise. "That's where I know you from!" He says.

"Huh?" says Cerise. She's deep into her fourth beer and a bit slow on the uptake.

"I knew I recognized you... you're Sakura Dokuhaku! The circuit bender!"

Cerise shakes her head. "I... I haven't done that in-- you watched my streams?"

"All the time!" Alex says. "I really admired your skill. You were part of why I got into software engineering." He laughs, nervously, as if starstruck. "It's such a pleasure to meet you, wow! I almost didn't recognize you out of your french maid outfit..."

That was Cerise's gimmick back when she livestreamed for E-tips. She donned a maid costume and electronically modified toys like Furbies to make them do weird things. Most of her fans were perverts who got off on it for reasons that have always been beyond you, but some, like Alex, had a legitimate interest in the mechanics of it.

Cerise pokes him in his shoulder, nudging him back a bit. "You're not one of those weirdos from /csg/, are you?" She says suspiciously. "That's the last thing I need."

"CSG...?" Alex says. "I don't know what that means."

Cerise is satisfied here. "Thanks," she says. "It's nice to meet a fan." 

"Why did you stop?" Alex asks. "It would be so cool if you came back. Don't you think?"

Cerise is less than convinced. "After a four year hiatus? Would I still have any fans left?"

"You'd have me, at least!" He gives a mock salute.

Cerise doesn't respond.

"If it's a question of finances, don't worry about it," Alex insists. "I'm a millionaire, you know! I'll buy you the supplies you need. Consider me... a patron of the arts!"

"I don't need any supplies," Cerise says, looking away. "I still..."

Alex cocks his head.

"You still have all that junk?" You ask, surprised. "I thought you said you sold it off."

"Of course I have it!" Cerise snaps. "You think I'm gonna let some stalker make me give up my hobby forever? I just... keep it stashed away, that's all."

Alex is sitting on his knees and balled up fists, leaning forward excitedly, smiling. "That's great, Cerise! Or should I say Sakura? Will you show me? Give me a live demo? I'd be so grateful!"

"It's in my room..." Cerise says. She still seems anxious and uncertain of herself. She hasn't done anything like this in a really long time, and the last time she did, it ended with her fearful over what she believed was an obsessive stalker.

(Of course, that "stalker" was you. You were sick of her livestreams eating up bandwidth and making too much noise in the next room over. So you posed as a crazy fan to spook her.)

The death of your parents and the loss of your childhood home was the final nail in the coffin. She never did her show again.

"I guess I could," Cerise says. "Just once. For a dedicated fan."

Alex beams with joy. "Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Cerise stands up and leads Alex towards her room where her old gear is.

>[x] Go watch too.
[ ] Stay here and play with Whitney and Rose. 

It's just as well. Rose and Whitney are deep into a sidebar argument over whether "weirdened out" is a real phrase, and it doesn't seem like it's going to end anytime soon.

You enter Cerise's walk-in closet with her and Alex. There's a white sheet here covering up a large bulky object. With it still covered up, Cerise wheels out into the bedroom.

She struggles, though, and has to clear a path through all the junk on her floor to wheel the thing out. She uses her feet to sweep all the accumulated detritus side-to-side, her hands still tugging whatever it is that's covered by the sheet, but she manages.

Alex, ever the solicitous one, helps her. He bends over, picking various things up and tossing them aside for her. He pauses at one point to peer innocently and uncomprehendingly at a vibrator that he grabs hold of - you slap it away from him before Cerise can notice him holding it.

Finally, she has it where she wants it.

"Gentlemen," Cerise says, "I give you..."

>[x] Hold on. You need to be wearing the maid outfit to complete the look.
[ ] Go on. 

Cerise tosses a can of hairspray at you, and it clonks against your forehead with a metallic 'ping'.

"Ass," Cerise says.

"Jesus," you groan, rubbing your head where you got hit. "I just thought... you know, for such a good fan, it would only be courteous."

Cerise looks to Alex for guidance. That's game over, then. He's definitely not going to make her wear it if she doesn't want--

"Ally's right! The costume totally completes the look! You should wear it!"

Cerise sighs. It's 2-to-1. She heads back to her closet, grabs a hanger down and pats the dust off a frilly maid costume. "I'll be right back..." she grumbles, and disappears into the bathroom.

"Your sister is really cool," Alex says.

"I wouldn't go that far."

"The best!"

"Definitely too far," you say. 

She comes back out, dressed to kill in her old maid outfit (shocker that it still fits.)

You wouldn't tell her so, but it looks really nice on her. Better than nice - beautiful. She even wears the headband and the fake spectacles to complement the nerdy-cute look.

"You look amazing!" Alex says. He doesn't have your same stinginess about compliments, clearly.

Cerise rubs her elbow with the other hand. "Thank you..." she says. "Honestly, this old thing feels so silly."

Alex's eyes are dewy with excitement. "No way. You look like a mad scientist. I love it!"

You're not sure how "French maid" equates to "mad scientist," but you suppose he's remembering the outfit in the context of Cerise getting knuckle-deep in the innards of children's toys and turning them into unholy abominations.

Cerise grabs the white sheet covering up the main attraction.

"Gentlemen," she says. "I give you: the Furby Organ."

She whips the sheet back. 

It's immediately clear to you that Cerise didn't just hold on to her old circuit bending gear. She kept at the hobby on her own time. She must have spent months, maybe even years working on this, this... this monstrosity sitting before you. A piano and synthesizer unit wired up to dozens of dead eyed, half-skinned Frubies. When Cerise plugs it in and powers it up, they come alive all at once, groaning and talking and making painful sounds in a totally unsynchronized cacophony that sounds like a good approximation of hell.

"Wow!" Alex says. "So cool!"

This is anything but cool to you. Frankly, it's a little scary.

Cerise clicks a few buttons and turns a few knobs, and the Furbies fall silent again. Then she sits at her bed, cracks her knuckles, and gets to work on the symphony.

Playing the keyboard like a maestro, she elicits a melody of torment from the zombified Furbies: "Me-- me worry-- achoo achoo - me- achoo- HAIL SATAN HAIL SATAN achoo -- worry. Feed me. SATAN. Feed -- SATAN. Feed SATAN. DEATH DEATH DEATH - achoo. Worry."

Alex, sitting on the bed beside Cerise, bounces up and down on his butt. He's giggling as he watches the madness unfold. Surely these two people are the most evil sadists you've ever met.

"More!" Alex cries. "Haha!"

"La la la la-- woo-- Hello! Sleepy. Hungry. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE."

The stock phrases, and the Satanic perversions of said phrases, resolve into an approximation of the Phantom of the Opera theme. She plays the fucking Phantom of the Opera with hijacked Furby innards. What the fuck, Cerise.

When she's done, she's got a big dopey smile on her face.

"You HAVE to do your stream again!" Alex says. "That's too good not to share with the world!"

"You really think so?" Cerise says.

"I'll do whatever it takes to get you set up! It's amazing! You're a true artist!"

Cerise shakes her head, as if to deny this, but she's still smiling. You're not sure whether unleashing this horror upon the world is a good idea, frankly. 

"Isn't it cool?" Alex asks you, hopping to his feet and circling the bed to gaze up into your eyes.

"It's... something," you say noncommittally.

"Don't be like that," he pouts. "You should encourage your sister's hobbies."

"I don't know whether encouraging cruelty to animals is the right thing to do," you say.

Alex pokes you in the tummy and then grabs one of your sleeves. "You can be kind of a jerk sometimes," he says.

"Forget about him," Cerise interrupts. "He never liked the circuit bending thing. If I want to do another stream... not saying I will, but IF.. what would you suggest?"

You sit at Cerise's desk chair as Alex explains how Twitch would be a perfect platform for her. Great... your sister becoming a popular Twitch streamer. That's just the kind of attention you all need right now.

In the midst of his explanations, Alex walks over and sits down in your lap, totally uninvited.

"Unf--" you groan, not prepared for Alex to suddenly use you as his personal cushion.

"--and there's even monetization opportunities," Alex is saying. "You could be a big hit... make a lot of extra money--"

"Uh," Cerise says, looking strangely at the two of you, taking in the sight of Alex lounging on your lap.

Alex leans back against your chest, chummy and oblivious as ever, and blathers on. Cerise stares you in the eyes as if to wordlessly ask: what the hell am I seeing here?

You shrug. Alex has been clingy and touchy-feely like this ever since that encounter in the sauna. You can't say you're surprised.

"Alex, is there a reason you're..." Cerise begins.

"Huh?" Alex says, confused.

"Nevermind," Cerise says. She seems to be putting up a mental barrier here. You can see the thought pass into her mind: are they--? and then being quickly rejected. And then being replaced with: But maybe...

[ ] Be forthright.
>[x] Let her wonder. 

You know Cerise's porn habits better than anyone else on Earth (except maybe that weird Galatea person...) So while you still don't want her to know that you've, uh, fooled around with Alex - you can't resist the fun of making her go crazy with curiosity.

You wrap one arm languidly around Alex's midsection and rest your other hand on Alex's shoulder.

"Mm~" Alex moans ever so slightly to himself as you gently massage his neck. He keeps talking excitedly to Cerise about the future of her circuit bending stream, but neither she nor you are paying attention anymore. Alex squirms around in your lap happily.

"Is there something wrong, Cerise?" You ask.

"What? No, I-- I-- it's..."

You pat Alex on the head. He blushes and giggles and keeps talking.

Cerise is transfixed. There's obviously a whirlwind of unchaste images raging in her mind's eye. Some of them may even be true.

After a little while, she speaks over Alex's monologue: "Excuse me..." she says. "I should... I should go change back into my normal clothes. I'll be right back."

She disappears into her bathroom again. She takes way longer changing than she did the first time around.

Alex takes the opportunity to rub a hand seductively against your crotch. He puts his lips to your ear. "I like your massage," he purrs.

"Not here," you tell him.

"Why not?"

"She could come back any second."

"I don't think she'd mind~"

"I'd mind," you tell him. He makes a frustrated little "mou~" noise but relents. A few moments later, Cerise is back in the room, looking a bit flushed. 

After another half hour of conversation about the minutiae of circuit bending that you neither follow nor care about, Alex is falling asleep in your lap. That's kind of a problem -- you don't want to be stuck in here all night. You shift your weight gently and lay him down on the chair. He stirs a bit, but doesn't wake.

"I'll get him out of your hair," you tell Cerise, grabbing the chairback.

"You can leave him here," she says. "I'm going to bed too anyway."

You frown. A suspicious bit of generosity, that. "Is he going to be safe with you?"

"I could ask the same thing of you!" Cerise says.

You make rather a show of shrugging. "I don't know what you're talking about," you say.

Cerise squints, trying to get a read on you, but she's just going to have to wonder for now.

"Goodnight, dear sister."

You step out of the bedroom.

In the living room, Whitney and Rose are passed out over the destroyed Catan board, having obviously gotten into a pretty nasty fight about something. Even though you turned Alex down, your hijinks with him left you in great need.

[ ] It's time to deal with Rose like you and Whitney planned.
>[x] Whitney needs to be punished for what she did earlier at the cafe. You're sure Rose will agree.
[ ] Go to bed for now. You've got unfinished business with Alex tomorrow morning. 

You wake Rose up by slapping her in the face.
 
"What the fu--" she begins, but you cut her off by grabbing her hair and dragging her halfway across the room. It's vicious and quite painful for her and she kicks and tugs but can't get away.
 
You pin her on her back and get on top of her. It helps, here, that Whitney is almost impossible to wake up. It's not time for her to be part of this yet.
 
Rose sneers at you, pure defiance in her eyes. "I'll scream," she threatens.
 
"I'll scream," you repeat in a mocking voice. "Boo hoo. Too afraid to face me on your own?"
 
"Fuck you. You worthless pig. I'm not afraid of you. I own y--"
 
You slap her again. "Shut the fuck up. I'm sick of your voice."
 
She shivers underneath you.
 
"I told you it was coming. Didn't I?"
 
Rose says nothing. But that fire in her eyes means you haven't come close to quashing her resistance. Oh well.
 
"You're a rapist," she says. "You're a monster. You make me sick."
 
"Stop lying. Your cunt is wet right now, isn't it?"
 
"How dare y--"
 
You reach down, flip up her skirt and feel her bare pussy. It's more than wet. It's dripping freely down her soft little slit, over her ass and onto the ground.
 
"You want me to rape you," you tell her. That's not a question.
 
"No--"
 
"Say it. Tell me the truth."
 
"I would never--!"
 
You get up on your knees and sit over her face, freeing your throbbing cock from the confines of your jeans. She scrunches up her nose and turns her head this way and that, trying to avoid it, but that just succeeds in rubbing your dick all over her face. You masturbate yourself slowly against her, enjoying the softness of her cheeks and the wetness of the tears welling in her eyes. You leave little trails of precum all over her, marking her.
 
"Do you smell it?"
 
"Fuck you-- mmf--"
 
You rub the head against her lips. You push out a little dollop of precum directly into her mouth. "You belong to me. To my cock. Don't you."
 
"I hate you... I hate you..." But despite her words, she's licking her lips, too. "Just get it over with..."
 
"No," you say.
 
Her eyes widen in despair.
 
You move away, lying back on top of her, and use your hand to molest her freely flowing pussy. You put your face right up against hers. "Tell me that you want it first."
 
"No!"
 
You grab her cheeks with your other hand and squeeze them. "Say it!"
 
She spits on you. You slap her, with real force this time - and then she starts to cry. More than cry. She sobs. It's a pitiful sight.
 
You get off of her, stand up.
 
"Where are you going?" she shouts, clambering onto her hands and knees, staring up at you like the bitch in heat she really is.
 
"If you don't want it, I'll just have to get it somewhere else..." you say.
 
She falls to the ground and rolls onto her back and covers her face with both hands. She's at the very height of her desperation and confusion.
 
You kneel over and whisper into her ear.
 
Her crying stops for a moment as she listens.
 
"Understand?"
 
"You're sick," Rose says.
 
You pry her hands away from her face. She's beet red and her makeup is running messily. "Do you understand?" You repeat.
 
She nods.
 
You walk across the room and shake Whitney, violently, to wake her.
 
"Mmmh?" she says.
 
"It's time," you  tell her. She cranes her neck up and looks across the room where Rose is convulsing with sobs of confused sexual frustration. Whitney is immediately and fully awake at this sight. She takes off her shirt then kicks off her spats, at the same time clawing your shirt off of your body too. She's wanted this for a long time.
 
When you're both naked, you walk back over to Rose. She stares up at you, dazed and dead-eyed.
 
"You got her started without me..." Whitney coos. "How nice."
 
"I slapped her a few times," you say. You kiss Whitney deeply and enjoy the taste of her tongue intermingling with yours. Rose can only watch, of course. When you pull away, you add: "Every time I smacked her, she got a little wetter."
 
"That's so cute," Whitney says. She nudges Rose with her foot. "Let's fuck right over her face."
 
A suggestion that fun can't be passed up. Whitney gets down on hands and knees with her invitingly pink pussy positioned directly above Rose. You kneel down, grab Whitney's hips, and slam yourself home in one thrust. You'll never get over how fucking good it feels to get your raw cock inside a silky smooth hole like Whitney's.
 
You fuck her hard and fast, putting on a show for Rose who lies just a few inches underneath you. She obviously doesn't want to see this, but she can't look away, either. Every time you pull out, you see her horrified expression, her tear-filled eyes - and Whitney's cunt dripping lewdly all over her.
 
Your hands move up, from Whitney's hips to her torso, and then further still to her shoulders. You brace yourself against her so that you can slam-fuck her as viciously as you can. Whitney's mewls and moans of pleasure transform into distressed little "ahh--"s.
 
She takes it gamely but soon it's too much. "Ala-- Alabaster--" she says, her voice vibrating from the force of your cock slamming deep inside her. "You're being a l-little-- a-a little--"
 
Rose punches Whitney in the tummy.
 
Whitney immediately falls silent, all the air knocked out of her, and she collapses to the ground. You haul her up just enough for Rose to shimmy free.
 
"F-- Fucking whore!" Whitney screams in a rage when she can speak again. "Let's fuck her up, Ally!"
 
You flip Whitney onto her back and hold her legs apart. You start fucking her again. Whitney, trapped beneath you and still hurting from Rose's surprise attack, is powerless to stop you.
 
"Ally--" she whines. There's a sudden hitch of fear to her voice. It makes your cock twitch inside her. "What-- what are you doing?"
 
"You need to learn how to take orders," you growl.
 
"Wh-- what?"
 
You get down over her and fuck her harder still. You fuck her little ass right into the floor as you press your full weight over her. You get your face right up close to hers now and repeat yourself: "I said you need to learn how to take orders."
 
"Ally-- please-- stop--!" She's really scared now. Panicking.
 
You glance over: Rose is naked. She's got a dildo with her.
 
She kneels down and brushes Whitney's hair out of her sweaty face while you continue your brutal fucking. "I'm very sorry," Rose purrs. "But we're going to rape you now."
 
"Bitch!" Whitney cries, but that's all she can manage before Rose shoves the dildo into her mouth. "Much better," Rose says, smiling warmly. "Don't you agree, Alabaster?"
 
Whitney is a real nice fuck, even if she acts like she doesn't want it. Her pussy is still wet and clamping down around you as you pump her full of dick. Rose holds her by the face, one arm wrapped around it and the other pumping the rubber dick into the confines of her throat. She doesn't have much of a gag reflex, but Rose manages to find it. Whitney is gagging and staring with hatred into Rose's glimmering eyes.
 
"I hate to do this," Rose lies, "but Alabaster thought you needed to be taught a lesson... and, well... to be honest... I agree..."
 
Whitney's cunt shudders around your raping cock. You feel her cumming against you.
 
"He said you wanted to rape me too," Rose continues, "so this is only fair. Isn't it?"
 
She pulls the dildo out of Whitney's throat. Whitney coughs and chokes, her face covered in her own slobber.
 
"I'm going to fucking ruin you!" Whitney sputters. Little droplets of spit fly up and land back on her with every syllable. "I'm going to rape you until you pass out! I'm going to break you! You fucking whore!"
 
"That's nice," Rose says. She holds the dildo up. "But I'm going to rape you first."
 
That look of fear is back on Whitney's face again. You never knew you'd have so much fun doing this.
 
You pull out of Whitney with a wet squelch. Rose quickly clambers into position. Now it's Rose with her cunt inches above Whitney's face, rather than the other way around. Rose arches her back and presents her ass to you, inviting you to do as you may.
 
As you get your cock up Rose's pussy for only the second time ever, Rose grabs the rubber dick with both hands and shoves it unceremoniously into Whitney. Whitney hisses with a mixture of pleasure and raw anger.
 
"Fuck me Alabaster, you fucking rapist piece of shit!" Rose screams. "Cum inside me! Rape your fucking cum into me!"
 
Rose pumps the dildo into Whitney to the same rhythm of your dick pumping her in and out.
 
"I'm going to cum," you tell Rose."
 
"Don't you dare!" Whitney says.
 
"Oh, shut UP," Rose groans, "speak when you're spoken to."
 
You gently push Rose's tail bone so her lower half droops down and her puffy mound rests directly against Whitney's face. "That'll keep her quiet," you say.
 
"Oooh~" Rose groans, trembling with this new perverse pleasure. She redoubles her efforts on Whitney's pussy. "That feels very nice..."
 
You're fucking at an upwards angle now, which means you can get even deeper inside your cousin's cunt. Her insides are softer and a bit tighter than Whitney's, too. She doesn't milk you off like Whitney can but the heat and snugness make up for it. So does her newfound enthusiasm. She fucks back against you without inhibition.
 
Rose bows her head and fully gives herself in to your incestuous mating. And then comes a new, even more perverted command: "Lick me," she tells Whitney. "Lick me while he cums inside me. Do it or I'll stop using this thing on you!"
 
That's almost enough to push you over the edge. You feel that tingle deep in your crotch and the cum boiling inside you, getting ready to fill her with a hot load.
 
"Oh-- oh--" Rose moans, overcome with evil delight. And then-- "Oh fuck, Alabaster... she's doing it... she's licking me..."
 
You slow the pace just long enough to reach down and ruffle Whitney's hair a bit in appreciation. "She's a good pet after all," you say.
 
"VERY good," Rose agrees. "Lick me, you dyke bitch! Oh god..."
 
You fuck Rose with slow, deep, forceful strokes now. All the way in - all the way out. She's shaking from the dual sensations of your eager thrusts and Whitney's apparently talented tongue.
 
And then it happens. Your balls tighten and your cock bursts, a wet explosion deep inside Rose's greedy slut cunt. She grinds her pussy mound against Whitney's mouth and gets herself off too, her breathy exhalations so high-pitched they're almost inaudible. She gets the dildo all the way inside Whitney's cunt and leaves it there. At the height of her pleasure, she slaps Whitney's clit, hard, and this brings Whitney off too. The three of you cum wetly together, your thick seed and Rose's girl-cum leaking all over Whitney's face, Whitney squirting all over the floor. And then you collapse in an exhausted heap.
 
Hopefully Whitney got the message.

November 3, 2014

"I will NOT wear that outfit to the winter ball," Rose says, again. "You can kiss my ass, Alabaster."

"How many times do we have to go over this? That's President Soliloquy to you--"

"Go to hell!"

"--And if we don't advertise for StuCo, how are we going to get new secretaries? We're hemorrhaging talent here."

"Because of YOUR incompetence!" Rose says. "And we can get fresh blood without parading me around in-- in this DEGRADING outfit." She indicates the bunny costume you picked out for her - the one now laid out on the desk between you.

"You have no say in this. You don't hold an elected post in StuCo anymore, which means I can dismiss you at will. Wear the costume or you're gone."

Rose grabs it off the desk, along with a pair of scissors. She holds the scissors to the costume like a madwoman with a hostage. "I'll do it!" She cries.

The rest of the student council is hanging back, watching in stunned silence as the argument continues to escalate. This meeting has... not gone very well.

"You better think long and hard about what you do next," you snarl.

"Maybe I'll jam these scissors down your throat, then!" Rose screams.

"I-- I think Rose is right," says one of the StuCo people now -- one of Rose's old polo-clad toadies. He tries to defuse the situation: "if we want to try a cosplay theme, maybe we can find something less revealing--"

"Shut the fuck up," you snap at him. "Was I talking to you? This is a conversation between me and Rose."

"I swear to God, Alabaster, I will cut this thing in half!"

You close the distance between the two of you and put a hand on her shoulder. It looks chaste enough to the rest of the people in the room: just a President reassuring an angry underling. But Rose winces at the force of your grip, which is anything but reassuring.

Rose's eyes simmer and her lips are trembling with a mixture of fury and fear that you've come to cherish. "I hate you," she hisses.

You whisper so only she can hear. "I hate you too. That's why I'm gonna make you wear the costume. And if you want to fight me... then maybe after the ball, I'll drag you into the utility closet, cut the costume in half FOR you and--"

"Are you Alabaster Soliloquy?"

You turn. A pair of men in snappy black suits stand before you. 

"Who wants to know?" You ask.

"I'm Agent Cooper, and this is Agent Cohle. We're with the FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"I don't--" you begin.

"It's about some arsons," Cohle says. "We think you may have useful information."

Your stomach drops. Actually, your whole body feels like it drops. It's as if you're falling headlong into a bottomless pit.

Rose puts herself between you and the agents. "Is this boy being detained?" She asks.

"I'm sorry, young lady, we're not talking to you," says Cooper. "Alabaster, you're going to need to come with--"

"Is he being detained?"

Cohle gently pushes her aside. "Yes. He is. Alabaster, please come with us."

They flank you and lead you from the room, past the disbelieving eyes of the other StuCo members. You could vomit.

Rose follows you into the hall.

"Tell them nothing!" she cries after you. "Just say you want a lawyer! I'll call dad right away!"

Cooper stops, wheels around, and points at her. His index finger is right in her face. "Stop butting in. I can arrest you for interfering with an investigation."

"No you can't," Rose growls. "Fascist pig." Then, to you: "Don't tell them anything, do you understand! Only that you want a lawyer! That's it!" 

---

In the morning, you've got a decision to make: stay all together at Cerise's apartment (and try to find a damn good excuse for Alex to stay here with you), or go about your day like normal. You haven't heard from Camelia one way or another, and who knows what that crazy woman is going to do next.

In the predawn light, you watch Rose and Whitney's dozing forms beneath the blanket that you draped them with. In their sleep, they've cuddled up together. As rough as you've been with both of them, you don't want to see them come to harm from Camelia. That goes for Alex and Cerise, too.

Complicating things even further is that it's Friday - the day you're supposed to show up for a board meeting at Darkbloom Analytics. Disappointing Vivian and David Darkbloom could have dire consequences of its own.

>[x] Go to work as normal.
[ ] Stay home. 

Rose and Whitney fight over who gets to use the shower first, an argument Whitney prevails in: she headbutts Rose and pushes her bodily from the guest bathroom.

Rose pounds uselessly on the locked door. "You idiot! You'll pay for that! Don't think you won't!"

Back to their old ways, it seems. Your suggestion to Rose that they give up fighting and shower together is met with a hailstorm of indignant insults, as if she wasn't just rubbing herself on Whitney's face a few hours ago. You'll never understand her.

By the time Rose and Whitney are clean and dressed again, Alex is awake too. "Thanks for the sleepover, guys!" He says, stretching and yawning. "It was a lot of fun!"

"How about spending the weekend?" You suggest.

"R-- really?" He sounds like a little kid being invited to a birthday party.

"Of course," says Rose. "We always have room for a sweet girl like you."

"But I'm a b--"

Rose ruffles his hair.

Cerise is the last one awake - hungover, as usual. "Work today?" She asks. She rubs the sleep from her eyes.

"It's the best way," you say. "We don't want to..."

To look suspicious, you'd like to say, but saying that would itself look suspicious to Alex. So you just let the thought trail off.

You gather your things and head out. 

On your way into work, there's a gaggle of reporters standing outside the DA campus. A man you recognize is at the center, speaking into a mass of foam-covered microphones. Scanning your mental banks, you finally put a name to the face: this is Devin Isstein, the weaselly looking congressman you've seen on the news.

"I feel very confident, yes," he's saying. "The signals look good. I think David Darkbloom and his board understand that the public demands transparency... whether before the House or the Senate, yes, I think there's going to be testimony, yes, absolutely. I think so. Definitely."

The reporters are shouting questions at him now. He's eating up the attention.

You spy Kay Vera in the back of the crowd. She's listening and taking notes but not asking any questions, herself.

"Still alive," she muses as you brush past.

"Yeah."

"Things are getting interesting now. That slimy motherfucker up there wants your sister to talk to congress."

"That slimy motherfucker can go to hell," you reply.

Kay laughs. "Come to my apartment Tuesday. I'll show you something to really blow your socks off."

You don't reply one way or another. 

Instead of scrum, you have to be present for the board meeting at 8:00 AM. You practically have to drag Sable out of her office to get her to come along, but eventually she relents.

"I'm in the middle of important work here, Alabaster!" She yells as you lead her by the hand down the halls and to the elevator. "You owe me for this. Big time!"

"And what exactly do I owe you?" You grouse. Then: "Wait. Don't answer that. I'd rather not know."

"I can't be bothered with this stultifying corporate tedium," Sable says on the elevator ride. "The research I'm involved in is so much more important. Every moment I spend away from it is another moment wasted. Don't you understand?" You start to reply, but she cuts you off: "Of course you don't understand. You understand practically nothing. Useless man."

She's in one of those moods again. Maybe you should start toting around an emergency supply of Xanax to shove down her throat when she starts getting keyed up.

"It'll be over before you know it," you tell her. "Then we'll be right back in your beloved dungeon."

"Hmmph," she says. 

"Please, sit," says David as you enter the broad-paned conference room on the 20th floor. "We'll begin presently."

You take your seat beside Vivian and across from Sable. The rest of the board is already present. At one end of the table, David. At the other, Mara.

Mara is none too pleased to see you.

There are some perfunctory updates from each department about mundane issues like the budget for new hiring and social media outreach. David cannot look any less interested: he seems more concerned with the lint on the arm of his chair than what Vasily Kerimov has to say about the company's financial structure.

But then again, maybe that's some kind of power move. As you understand it, Vasily is aligned with Mara against him. You're not sure where the other board members stand in this little war.

"Let's not waste time," David finally says. "Mara, you had something for us?"

"Yes," Mara says. "I think the proper moment has come. I will of course allow you to pick which house of congress we appear before."

David chuckles. "You seem to have it in your head that a public shaming in the halls of the Capitol will wash everything away. Why?"

"The public wants spectacle. Catharsis. Why not provide it?"

David steeples his fingers. "Loss of dignity, for one," he offers. "And it won't sway public opinion anyway, so why bother?"

"Are you afraid of something?" Mara asks. "Or just too proud?"

This is worse than being at a friend's house when the parents start to fight. Vivian seems to be of the same opinion. She fidgets uncomfortably in her chair, her fingers worrying themselves in her lap. The rest of the board seems to be uncomfortable, too.

Well, except for Sable. She's busily writing on her notepad, oblivious to the back-and-forth between David and Mara.

"I see you've stacked the board in your favor - as usual," Mara says. "So a vote won't amount to anything. No matter. You can't prevent me from going on my own. Nor any of the rest of us who might want to testify. So think about whether you want to stay in control of the narrative we present, or not."

There is an agonizingly long silence as Mara's words hang heavy in the air.

Finally, David stands.

He strides across the board room.

He wraps his hand around Mara's throat, lifts her from her seat, and presses her against the wall. Not forcefully. But firmly.

"Behave," he tells her. 

Mara stares him down.

"Stasi is a phone call away," Vasily says, his voice thickly accented and obviously angered.

David pays his brother-in-law no mind. "Abandon this foolishness," he tells Mara. "You don't want a repeat of Vail."

"You don't either," she says.

He steps back. There's a red mark on Mara's pale neck where he held her.

"What do you think, Alabaster?" David asks, not taking his eyes off of his wife.

"W-what?" You stammer.

"Do you want your sister stripped naked and publicly whipped? Humiliated on the national stage?"

"No-- of course not--"

"Nelson, how would you like to have some doddering 78-year-old congressman put your security protocols under the microscope as if he knows the first damn thing about them? Telling the world you're incompetent?"

"I'd hate it," he says.

"Steven, you used to be a Senator. Surely you wouldn't mind having your former colleagues jeer at you for three hours and ostracize you and tell the world that they never suspected the depths of your corruption?"

"You've made your point, David," Armstrong says.

"This meeting is over," he says. "Anyone who speaks again about going to Washington will suffer the consequences."

The look between David and Mara could melt steel. 

The elevator ride back down is long and awkward (even if Sable is unfazed). Vivian accompanies you too.

"I apologize for my parents' behavior," she says.

"Don't mention it. I'm sorry that you have to live with those psychos."

"They aren't as bad as they seem. Recent events have rattled them both."

She puts on a brave face, but she's trembling - just a tiny bit.

Your hand brushes against Vivian's. You lean into it, slowly, and take her hand in yours. It's damp and limp, but very warm.

She doesn't acknowledge it, but she does stop trembling.

"Things may get worse before they get better," Vivian says.

"I'm not scared," you lie.

"Thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy. I would understand it if you no longer want to come to my home this Saturday, given the circumstances."

"Why don't we go somewhere else?" You offer. "You know, like a d--"

"That would be quite impossible," she says. "I'm very sorry. No."

>[x] I'll go.
[ ] We'll do something special next week. 

She nods.

When the elevator gets to the lobby, Vivian steps off. Not before leaving you with this:

"I've never held hands with a boy before. It feels very odd. Not unpleasant, but it makes my heart rate fluctuate. Please warn me next time."

You're definitely not going to warn her next time. 

As lunchtime approaches, you find yourself in a protracted debate with Noelle about the relative merits of yuri undertones versus outright yuri. She prefers the former whereas of course you prefer the latter. She sees the undertone approach as heightening the sweet sense of mystery and longing - of course, you just like to see two girls kissing.

"Typical," Noelle says. "You miss the entire point of the genre!"

"So sue me," you say. She swats your shoulder playfully. You're really beginning to warm to her. And she seems to be warming to you too.

"Are you doing anything for lunch?" she asks.

>[x] What do you have in mind?
[ ] Sorry, I've got plans. [Alex/Cerise/Sable/Rose] 

You sit with Noelle in the theater room of DA's rec area, watching an episode of Magical Witchy on the projector screen. Morning anime club can go fuck themselves. This is where it's at.

Noelle eats her lunch in the seat beside you. Her eyes widen and she stops chewing whenever there's a particularly gratuitous bit of fanservice - you're starting to doubt her insistence that she's not a lesbian.

"It's such a breath of fresh air to meet someone who can talk about this stuff with me," Noelle says. "Most of the people here have such shitty taste... there's this group that uses the theater--"

"I know!" You say. "Oh my god. That weird fat girl who runs it, and--"

"--and that Stackleford person! What a loser!"

You laugh, and try to suppress your grimace of shame over knowing Stackleford so well.

"Coming up from the server room was the best decision I ever made," she says.

"Did you know my sister?" You ask. "She used to work in there too."

"Cerise? Yeah, we were pretty tight. I mean... as tight as you can get with Cerise. We're both a little anti-social. Her more than me, I think. But we got along."

"Cerise is a little depressed, that's all," you say.

"Well why wouldn't she be?" Noelle says. "Especially now. I mean, the stuff you see in the news... the things they're saying about her."

"All lies," you say.

"Oh, of course. I know Cerise didn't do that hack. I mean, I was there with her on the night it happened."

"You were?" You think about this for a few moments.

"Hey, this is gonna sound weird..." you say.

"Shoot," Noelle says.

"I know this reporter who's covering the hack. Do you think you could call her up and tell her what you told me? That you know Cerise is innocent?"

Noelle is suddenly shy and uncertain. "I-- if I get caught talking to the press--"

"I'll buy you something," you say. "That Lulu figma you were talking about yesterday. The one you've been wanting."

Noelle stares down at her lap. She's silent for several long moments. "You don't have to bribe me," she finally says. "I'll do it. Your sister taught me a whole lot... I respect her. It wouldn't be right to stay silent while she gets smeared."

"Thanks," you say, sincerely. You hand her Kay's business card.

Noelle looks at you with a devilish grin. "Okay," she says, "maybe you do have to bribe me. You owe me a date now."

Maybe she's not a lesbian after all. 

On your way out of work that afternoon, a garbage truck pulls up beside you, next to the curb. The squeal of its brakes is annoyingly shrill and loud.

You wince and hurry to walk past it before the fumes of hot garbage waft over you. But suddenly an arm descends from the back of the truck and grabs you.

There's a strange metallic pressure around your midsection as it clamps you and fixes you in place. You tug uselessly at the mechanism, disbelieving, as it lifts you into the air.

"Help!" You scream. "Help!" The garbageman on the back is watching passively.

Your path through the air pulls you through a complete 180 degree arc. You dangle over the open pit of the truck.

And then you drop inside. 

You land with a soft plop among a bunch of black garbage bags. The stench is unbearable - you retch and have to fight back vomit. The truck's top-facing sliding gates draw almost completely closed, leaving only a sliver of light to illuminate the interior.

"Stay back!" A voice shouts, echoing off the filthy steel walls. "I'll beat you to death!"

"...Whitney?" you say. Your eyes slowly adjust to the dim light. It's her, all right.

She clambers forward on hands and knees. "Oh, thank God," she says. "I'm so glad to see you."

"What happened?" You ask.

"I dunno," she says, shrugging. "Someone threw me in the trash."

---

"Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

"Whitney... we could very well be on our way to an execution here. Do you comprehend that?"

"Then let's have a little fun before we die, Ally, geez. Is it bigger than a breadbox?"

You massage the bridge of your nose. Somehow, Whitney got it in her head to pass the time by playing 20 questions.

You and Whitney are sitting on top of a pile of fetid garbage that you've slowly grown nose-blind to. The dump truck hasn't made any other stops since picking you up at least half an hour ago. Judging by the smoothness of the ride and lack of acceleration/deceleration, you guess you're on the highway.

"Yes. It's bigger than a breadbox."

Whitney stares at you dumbly for a few seconds. "...How big is a breadbox, again?" She asks.

"Oh my god. What is wrong with you? This is the absolute stupidest thing we could be--" you stop, suddenly struck by a realization.

"You know what?" You say. "I'm actually not sure how big a breadbox is."

"Then how do you know your object is bigger than one!"

"Because it's pretty fucking big. It's definitely bigger than however big a breadbox is."

"How can you know that!!"

"I just do! Okay? It's absolutely bigger than a breadbox!"

"I demand my question back!"

You throw a rotten banana peel at her. She dodges it and tosses a moldy carton of Chinese takeout in retaliation.

Grousing, you check your phone. You've got bars, which means Rose might have a bead on your location. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

[ ] Turn your phone off. You don't want Rose getting involved in this too.
>[x] Keep your phone on.
[ ] Send a message to someone. [choose who] 

You put your phone back in your pocket. As scary as the thought of it is... Rose might be the only thing between you and an untimely death.

You trust her.

That feels weird to admit, even to yourself.

But you do. 

The truck goes through a few hard turns that cause you and Whitney to sway back and forth as if on the deck of a ship in stormy seas. Then over the course of several minutes, the truck slows, finally coming to a hard stop that jostles you so much you nearly faceplant into the grimy metal wall.

"Did we st--" Whitney begins. She gets cut off when the entire bed of the truck raises up at a steep angle, a chute on the bottom comes open, and you both go sliding out under gravity's pull, along with all the garbage bags. The noise and sudden rush of motion make you stomach do cartwheels.

As you writhe free of the slimy mountain of garbage, picking bits of unidentifiable glop from you hair and squinting against the blinding intrusion of sunlight, you feel a gun press to your temple. When you can see well enough, you find that it's a man in a hi-vis vest, gloves and bump cap - you're being held hostage by a garbageman.

So is Whitney.

You're in the middle of a municipal landfill, kept at gunpoint by what looks like a street gang who unionized and made a foray waste management.

The man with a gun to your head grabs one of your hands and tugs you forward, leading you down from the pile of garbage bags. He guides you towards a concrete shed where another gaggle of equally vicious-looking garbageman sit at control panels. Whitney is being dragged along too, close behind.

You step inside. At least it's air-conditioned in here. And it doesn't stink quite as bad.

"Knees, bitch," the man with a gun to you says. Better do as he orders.

One of the men, who seems to be their leader, steps forward and gazes down at you. "Where is she?" he demands.

"I don't know what you're talking about..." you say.

He backhands you. You see stars for a brief moment. When you reach up and touch your face, you feel a trickle of blood from your lips.

"Boss ain't gonna accept that," your interrogator says. "Where is she?"

"Who is 'she'?" You ask. "Are you guys working for Camelia?"

"With her. Yeah," the man says.

Whitney groans. "Tch, Ally! I thought you said Camelia was a racist. Why is she working with all these black people?"

"What?" You say, glancing at her in confusion. "What are you talking about? I never told you she was--"

The man quizzing you grabs your collar and shakes you back into focusing on the topic at hand. "One more try," he says. "Where the fuck is she?"

"I don't know," you say. "We haven't seen her."

He raises a fist as if to lay into you. You brace for pain, but another person's voice stops him before he even begins. 

"Shawn, you psychotic motherfucker. Let that boy go."

He drops you back onto your knees. You look up at your savior: a man in the gaudiest business suit, wearing the gaudiest facial hair that you've ever seen.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ you idiots," he says, sweeping his view side to side around the room, eyeing his goons accusingly. "What did I tell you all? Huh?"

He waits for an answer that doesn't come. Shawn, who was moments ago brash and commanding, stares at his feet like an admonished child. You're getting the sense of an organizational hierarchy here: the garbage-toting lackeys, Shawn the shift supervisor, and this guy, Mr. Businessman, the owner.

"Let me say it again, then," Mr. Businessman shouts. He holds up three fingers: thumb, index and middle. There are fat jeweled rings on all three. He counts down as he talks.

"Period Blood said we got three untouchables up in here. Hackergirl, Hackergirl's girl, and Bastard Man over here." He points at you with the last of his counting fingers. "So what the FUCK possessed you to go kidnapping him in broad daylight like a bunch of dumb fuckin' niggers with a suicide wish?"

A long silence.

"Someone answer me, you fuckin' retards!" He marches around the room, squaring up to several of his men in turn, none of whom will even look him in the eyes. By the time he gets to Shawn, he's seething and his eyes are bulging. "Explain yourself," he demands. "So help me."

"She beat the red bitch up," Shawn explains timidly, nodding in Whitney's direction. "Haven't seen her since... we need to find her for the--"

"Think I don't know that? Think she can't take a punch? Moron. She's no pussy like you, she'll turn up when she's good and ready. And if she wants to settle up with her assailant over there, then she'll do it by herself on her own goddamn time." He puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head in utter disbelief. "Going around trying to win brownie points with Period Blood by breaking her most sacrosanct fuckin' rules... goddamn. Brown-nosing moron piece of shit."

Even though Mr. Businessman is a good four inches shorter than Shawn, Shawn is almost cowering, he's so scared.

"And he's ugly too," Whitney offers.

"Whitney..." you begin. "This isn't the--"

"Yeah," Mr. Businessman agrees. "Uglier than a pile of dog shit. Good catch. Can't forget that. Ugly motherfucker." 

He turns and kneels before Whitney. He looks from her to you. "This your girl?" He asks you.

"She's--"

"You're goddamn right I'm his girl," Whitney answers for you.

"Y'all hear that?" He asks his men. "This is Bastard Man's girl. By the commutative property of people who are not to be fucked with, that makes her untouchable too. You motherfuckers following this? Need to take some notes?"

He looks back at Whitney. "Is it true? You're the one who beat down Period Blood?"

"Beat her so hard she probably lost her good eye," Whitney growls, a delighted catch to her voice. It's a bit spooky.

"I like you. Who are you?"

"I'm your fucking nightmare," Whitney says. She doesn't seem to understand that she's still in the middle of a hostage situation.

Mr. Businessman nods. "All right. I like it. Nightmare. Anyone who can put the beat down on that crazy bitch definitely deserves the name." He looks back at you. "You got some good taste in women, my man."

"Thanks..." you say. 

Mr. Businessman grabs Shawn by the back of his vest. "Now apologize to this fine young couple for wasting their time on a beautiful Friday afternoon."

"You've got to be fucking kidd-"

He pulls a pistol from his waistband and holds it threateningly under Shawn's chin. "I will pistol whip you to death, motherfucker. Apologize to the nice people."

"Sorry," he grunts, setting his jaw.

"Suck my dick!" Whitney replies, cupping her crotch obscenely. Goddamn it, Whitney...

Mr. Businessman puts his gun back in his waistband, straightens his coat tails and his cuff links. He motions for you and Whitney to stand, which you do, uncertainly. The environment in the room is by no means friendly -- no matter what he says.

"As the owner and proprietor of Palo Alto Waste & Water Management, I would also like to extend my heartfelt apologies for the behavior of my subordinates. To make it up to you, please accept these coupons for a free dinner at The Sizzler."

"Fuck yeah," Whitney says, suddenly elated. She takes the coupons from the man. "Sizzler's my favorite. That almost makes up for the hostage thing."

"Whitney, for the love of God," you say.

"Those expire in a couple weeks," he says, "so don't waste any time."

"Who are you?" You demand. "How do you know Camelia?"

"Name is Tyrus," he says. "Tyrus Kang. I'm a legitimate businessman who has a legitimate strategic partnership with the woman."

He hands you a business card. It actually identifies him as "Tyrus Kang, Legitimate Businessman." A bullet-pointed list describes what he offers:

>* Waste Management
>* Water Treatment
>* Strategic Partnerships
>* Growth
>* Knowledge
>* Networking and Partnership

"Uh... you have partnership on here twice," you say.

"Don't you know the difference between partnership and strategic partnership?" Tyrus says. "Dumb asshole."

"Are we free to leave now?" You ask.

"Yeah, sure," Tyrus says. "Then again, if you've got a moment, you could--"

Whatever Tyrus was about to say next is cut off by a hail of gunfire from outside. You hear a commotion, men screaming, and the report of pistols -- also the click-click bang of shotgun blasts at regular intervals, too. 

A man bleeding horribly from his leg stumbles into the control room.

"The fuck is going on?" Tyrus demands. The other men in the room are circled around the windows now, facing where the gunfire game from. They're all armed with nasty-looking semi-auto and automatic pistols.

The wounded man collapses to the ground, screaming. "Some fat fucking white bitch with a shotgun! Came out of fucking nowhere!" One of the men kneels down and applies a tourniquet as the wounded man leans back, grits his teeth and groans in agony.

"Rose..." you mutter.

Tyrus might have just gotten through declaring you an untouchable, but he doesn't hesitate to grab your neck, haul you down to the ground with him, and hold a gun to your head as he hides behind one of the control panels in the room. More shotgun blasts ring out and the room fills with even more fleeing lackeys, some of them also bleeding.

Whitney dives behind the console too and tries to haul Tyrus off of you, but Shawn swoops behind her and incapacitates her, holding her arms behind her back. Whitney struggles uselessly. You're both immobilized.

It's quiet outside. Several quietly tense moments pass.

"Bring Alabaster out!" comes a voice muffled by distance. Yep: it's Rose. "Bring him out unharmed, and give him to me!"

"Fuck you, bitch!" Calls one of the men out the window.

"Who's that?" Tyrus asks you.

"Fucking Rose!" Whitney growls. "Always showing up at the worst possible moment!"

Tyrus glances at Whitney. "Great... Nightmare's got a nightmare. This fucking day, I swear to god."

"Rose is my girl too," you say. "So that also makes her untouchable."

"She's not fucking untouchable as long as she's pointing a gun up in my face," Tyrus says.

[ ] Intimidation: You better let me go. Rose means business.
>[x] Negotiation: Let me talk to her. 

"Let me talk to her," you say.

"You got a thing for crazy bitches or something?" Tyrus asks. His breath stinks of menthol. "That's at least three by my count: Period Blood, Nightmare over here, and now this bitch. Any other homicidal fucking borderline-personality-having girlfriends I should know about before I enter into parley here?"

"One or two, maybe..." you say. "I kinda lose count."

"Did you one day decide to go pimping at the psych ward?" Tyrus says. "How the hell do you sleep at night without worrying which one of them is about to Lorena Bobbitt your scrawny ass?"

"Please," you say, "she's actually a reasonable person. Just let me talk to her."

Tyrus stands up, using you as a meat shield. A gun to your head, he marches you out of the room. Shawn follows close behind with Whitney. You have to hand it to Tyrus: he's not afraid to face a threat himself... to a degree, anyway.

"Alabaster--!" Rose cries when she sees you. Then: "Whitney!"

"You're a dumb fucking cunt," Whitney yells.

"Put the shotgun down," you tell her.

Rose considers this. But she doesn't relent. "You let Alabaster go!" She screams at Tyrus.

"What are you? Bout 4 foot 11?" Tyrus says. "Goddamn. Who taught your upper-middle-class ass to use a sawed-off? Shouldn't you be doing decoupage or studying for the SATs or some shit?"

"Let him GO!" Rose shrieks. She stands her ground even as more armed men file out of the control room. She's obviously and badly outgunned.

"Rose..." you say. "Do you trust me?"

"Wh-what?"

"I said. Do you trust me?"

Her eyes fill with tears. "I... I..."

"I trust you," you say.

She sniffles. "You're a-- a useless-- pathetic-- annoying--"

"I trust you," you repeat. "Please trust me, too. Put the shotgun down."

"Alabaster..."

You nod at her. Finally, she lowers the gun.

"Drop it," Tyrus tells her. "And then you can have them both back."

Rose drops the gun to the dirt ground. Tears are flowing freely down her face. You've never seen real fear like that from her before.

Tyrus crab-walks over to the shotgun, leans down, and picks it up. At the same time, he lets you go.

Tyrus nods at Shawn, and Shawn lets Whitney go too. She half-runs, half-walks over to where you're embracing a sobbing Rose.

"Get the fuck off my property," Tyrus says, toting his new shotgun over his shoulder. "Crazy fucking honkies."

He motions in the air for his men to fall back. They head inside. He follows close behind. 

---

"I'm never gonna get this stench out of my Prius..." Rose grumbles as she drives you and Whitney back to Cerise's.

"Nice to see you too," you say.

"I understand that you got shoved into a garbage truck, but did you go swimming through the garbage too? I'm actually gagging here."

"No one invited you, Rose!" Whitney says. She leans on her tailbone and kicks the back of the driver's seat. Rose lets out an annoyed "oof."

"I'm taking my Volt back," Rose tells you. "You can have this trash-smelling Prius if you want it. Have fun driving around in your mobile casket."

"In your dreams," you say. "I like the Volt. My Volt."

"It's MY Volt, you ass!" Rose says. "You unbelievable jerk! I just risked my life to save you and now--"

Whitney kicks the back of the seat again. "No one asked you for your help! How did you find us anyway? Stalker!"

Rose glares at Whitney in the rearview. "None of your business, slut. I told you last night to speak only when spoken to."

"If you weren't driving right now, I'd choke you out! Don't test me!"

It feels really odd to be able to bicker and argue like this when just moments ago you were certain you were about to die. It makes you appreciate the little things in life. 

When you walk through the door of Cerise's apartment, you see something you definitely didn't expect.

"I'm a little teapot, short and stout~ Here is my handle~ Here is my--"

Alex chokes on his singing as his gaze sweeps around to meet yours. He freezes in place, beyond mortified. Cerise, for her part, looks like a child with her hand caught in a cookie jar.

Alex is wearing Cerise's old maid costume.

Whitney cups her hands to her mouth. "Oh my god," she squeals, her voice a bit muffled but definitely excited.

Rose is stunned completely silent, and can only blink rapidly as she takes in the sight.

"I... I lost a bet," Alex explains. "This was my punishment game..."

"You're an awful person," you tell Cerise.

She blushes and looks away.

"Alex," you say, "go put your normal clothes back--"

"No way!" Whitney shouts. She puts her hands on her hips. "If he lost a bet, he's gotta take the punishment! That's the rule. He's wearing it all night long!"

Alex makes a pouty face, but doesn't resist this declaration.

Cerise sniffs the air. "What the hell happened to you?" She asks, masking her sudden concern with a harsh tone. "You smell even worse than normal, Alabaster."

"It's a long story," you say.

>[x] Tell her the truth (where Alex can't hear, of course.)
[ ] No reason to scare her. Leave it at that. 

You pull Cerise aside into her bedroom and give her a quick version of the events.

"Jesus..." Cerise mutters. "Some kind of organized crime syndicate, you think?"

"They must be," you say. "No one who calls himself a legitimate businessman can possibly be a legitimate businessman. The weird thing is, he held a gun to my head and he's still way less scary than Camelia is. At least he's not psychotic. Just ruthless and venal."

"That might be true, but even still--" Cerise stops, retching. "God, Alabaster," she says, "you really stink. You need a shower."

You perk your ears up. You can hear the faucet in the guest bathroom running already, and a brewing argument between Rose and Whitney over who gets dibs.

>[x] Can I use your bathroom, Cerise?
[ ] Use the guest bathroom [with Rose, to reward her / with Whitney, to make up for last night / with both, to smooth things over.] 

"I'd rather not get in the middle of the catfight going on out there," you explain.
 
"I don't blame you," Cerise says. "...But you better not stain my tub with your garbage juice or some shit."
 
She leads you into the master bathroom. Unlike where she sleeps, this space is at least a little clean. While the countertop around the sink is jam-packed with all sorts of clutter - bottles of hairspray, makeup, toothpaste tubes, and so on - it's at least well-maintained in other respects. The floors and porcelain tub are clean, the air is fresh. Definitely not the horrorshow you expected to walk into.
 
"Feel free to use my body wash, but don't touch my shampoo. That stuff is 15 bucks a bottle and I'm almost out."
 
"Whatever," you say. "I just need to get clean. That's all." You strip off your shirt, and only as you pull it over your head do you realize how damp it is - and how disgustingly it reeks. Being stuck in that dump truck was worse than you thought.
 
Cerise grabs a plastic bag from the cabinet under the sink and offers it to you so you can drop your shirt in it. You're so disgusted with your own clothes now that you don't have any shame left - you quickly kick off your shoes, socks, and pants, and drop them in the bag, too.
 
Cerise blushes and averts her gaze.
 
Wearing only boxers - boxers that you also badly want to get out of - you turn and reach into Cerise's tub. You fiddle with the knobs, but the water is ice cold no matter what you do.
 
"How the hell do you make it warm?" You demand.
 
"Wait a second," Cerise says.
 
She puts down the bag full of your soiled clothes. "Whoever's got the shower out there is hogging all the hot water," she explains.
 
"Well, get it back!" You demand.
 
"Keep the faucet running," Cerise says. She steps up and flushes the toilet beside the tub now. From the hallway, you hear two shrieks: Rose and Whitney. Are they showering together?
 
You hear scuffling now, and arguing. The change in temperature must have been an unpleasant shock for them, but why are they taking it out on each other?
 
Cerise flushes again, eliciting two more shrieks of pain. Cerise can't stifle her chuckle.
 
Your hand under the faucet finally feels warmth now. Rose and Whitney must have given up on showering.
 
"You're an asshole, Ally!" you hear Whitney's voice call through Cerise's door. Then thudding and slamming and more indecipherable arguing.
 
You pull the mechanism on the faucet that activates the showerhead. You don't waste any time: you hook your thumbs in the waistband of your boxers and step out of them.
 
Behind you, Cerise makes a choked gasp of surprise. "What is wrong with you?" she humphs. "Freak."
 
"You've seen worse," you say, waving it off. "Sorry, but I really need to get this grime off of me."
 
You step over the edge of the tub and bask underneath the refreshing rain of warm water.
 
"I'll get you a change of clothes..." Cerise says.
 
You nod, your eyes closed, and hear Cerise step out of the bathroom.
 
A few moments later, while you're lathering yourself with her coconut bodywash (a little girly-smelling, but whatever), you hear the door of the bathroom open again.
 
"What the hell, Cerise!" You shout. You're too shocked to cover yourself.
 
"I've seen worse," she rejoins. You hate when she turns your words back on you. "Here's your clothes."
 
She sets them down on the lid of the toilet for you.
 
"Are you done now?" You say. "Did you enjoy the show?"
 
She gives you the finger before turning around and starting for the door again. The room is so full of steam that she's hard to see when, right at the threshold, before opening the door, she stops. She turns her head to the side, looking at you in her peripheral vision.
 
"Are you having sex with Alex?" She asks.
 
"You're a hopeless pervert," you say. "Your imagination has run totally wild."
 
"That might be true," she says, "but you're even worse. And either you're having sex with him, or Alex is a liar."
 
Alex, you snitch... didn't anyone ever tell you the benefits of keeping things secret?
 
"There might have been... an unchaste interaction or two," you admit. "Not that it's any of your business. At least I never paraded him around in a French maid costume."
 
Cerise turns around, folding her arms. You've seen each other naked plenty of times before, and you're too far into your bickering mode to really care that she can see all of you right now. "Unchaste interactions," Cerise says, rolling her eyes. "That's rich. All the times you called me a degenerate for what's in my bookmarks--!"
 
"You're still a degenerate," you tell her. "Your actions today prove that beyond any shadow of a doubt. Not to mention whatever depraved things you've been doing with that girl who was catfishing you."
 
"Does that make you jealous?" She sneers.
 
It does.
 
"Not at all!" You say.
 
Cerise frowns. "When did we get so gay?"
 
"I am NOT gay," you say. "You might be. I'm not."
 
"You've been railing a boy on the regular for the past couple weeks, you fag. That's pretty fucking gay."
 
"I've been having sex with plenty of girls too," you insist. "Whitney, Rose, Sable--"
 
"Your boss?" Cerise breathes.
 
"Does that make you jealous?"
 
She shakes her head. "You're such a pig."
 
"You sound like Rose now," you say.
 
Cerise grabs a can of shaving cream off the counter and chucks it at you, but you dodge the attack. Unfortunately, in the attempt to dodge it, you slip - and bash your head against the soap holder on the wall, before falling onto your back.
 
Cerise is at your side immediately.
 
"Bitch!" You yell, rubbing your forehead. You're bleeding.
 
Cerise's hands are over her mouth. "I'm sorry!" She says. "I didn't mean..."
 
You look up at her. She's leaning over the side of the tub, and her top is soaked with water. "Are you okay?" She says.
 
"You're getting wet," you tell her.
 
"I am NOT--" she starts, then looking down at herself: "Oh. Yeah. I guess I am."
 
She takes off her top, baring her breasts. Now it's your turn to blush and avert your gaze.
 
"You've seen worse," Cerise says. Running theme, it seems. "Sit up. Let me look at that."
 
You sit up. Cerise examines your forehead. The cut must not be very bad, because even though head wounds bleed profusely, yours is already slowing down. Cerise grabs a little bottle of peroxide and rubs some of it gently over the welt, however much good that'll do.
 
You can't help staring at her fat tits while she works. They're right at eye level, after all. Since Cerise has a habit of wearing baggy clothes, you're continually surprised at how big they really are when she's naked. They're as pale as milk and invitingly soft looking. You can't help the reaction you have.
 
"Tch-- Alabaster, you're disgusting," Cerise says. So she noticed that.
 
"Don't act mad when you walk in on a guy showering and see a dick," you grouse. "Get out if it offends you so much."
 
Cerise steps back. But instead of leaving - she pulls down her shorts and panties. You leap to your feet, trying to merge yourself with the wall. "What are you doing?" You shout.
 
"Conserving water," Cerise says. "More importantly, making sure you don't pass out from the concussion I just gave you and drown in this bathtub."
 
"Get out!" You demand. But she's already stepping into the tub with you.
 
"Turn around," Cerise tells you. "If seeing me naked offends you so much."
 
"What are you doing?" You demand. She holds you about your midsection and guides you in a semicircle so her chest is against your back and you're both standing underneath the showerhead.
 
"You looked a little woozy," Cerise says. "I didn't want to leave you alone since you might fall down again. I'll hold you steady while you finish showering."
 
"I'm done," you say.
 
"No, you're not..." Cerise rests her chin on your shoulder and peers into your eyes. "I'm not letting you out of here until you're clean again. I don't need you stinking up the place."
 
She grabs her bodywash and squirts a dollop into her palm, lathering it up. She applies it to you - neck, chest, armpit, arms - and even lower still. You try to keep it from happening but your cock stands fully at attention as her delicate, searching fingertips trace tightening circles over your body. Her touch is so soft and--
 
"Cerise..." you gulp.
 
"Shh. It's okay," she says.
 
"This isn't... are you drunk?"
 
"I'm not jealous," she says, apropos of nothing. Or more accurately: responding to an earlier piece of conversation. "I want to be clear about that."
 
"Fine. You're not jealous. You win."
 
"I'm not a brocon, either" she tells you. Her fingers are tracing a sudsy path around your groin, the edges of her hands occasionally brushing against your pubic hair. You watch her working you over, unable to peel your eyes away.
 
"Fine... you're not a brocon... Cerise, if you go any l--"
 
"But I want to see," she growls, her voice low and needy. She presses her body hard against you, her tits mashing into your back. And then she grabs your cock.
 
"I NEED to see," she says. "It's... not about you, I swear... but without Gal to-- and now that I know you're-- I just NEED to see what you do with Alex... I... I..." she gulps, so turned on she can hardly even talk.
 
Her hands are obviously inexperienced and she doesn't hold you as tightly as she should. (Wait, she shouldn't hold you at all... but no, if she's going to do this... it should be tighter. Your head is swimming in confusion and lust.)
 
"You can make me a video for me, or... or just let me sit in the corner, that's fine..." She masturbates you up and down while she describes all the ways you can fuck Alex for her sick enjoyment. Her hand is barely big enough to wrap all the way around you. With the water and the slippery soap and her loose grip, it's more frustrating than anything else. You buck your hips, trying to find relief. You don't care anymore that she's your own sister.
 
"Cerise... I'm gonna--"
 
She bites your earlobe. "It's okay," she whispers directly into your ear. "You can cum. I'll just imagine it going all over Alex's face..."
 
"Cerise!" You throw your head back, and you really are woozy now - you almost collapse. She braces herself and holds you steady. You arch your back, feel your cock twitching against her smooth palm. She reaches around with her other arm now and jerks you off using both hands, one stacked on the other. She suddenly picks up a frenzied pace, her hands a blur against your straining dick, and she chews on your earlobe while she jerks you off. But her eyes are always glued to the sight of your leaking cockhead. Nowhere else.
 
You cum, your vision going white as you squirt pulse after pulse of sticky seed into the drain and all over your older sister's hands. She gasps in perverted delight. Her eyes sparkle. Only when you're empty does she let go of you.
 
You stumble forward, dazed, as Cerise falls to her ass in the tub. You turn, still standing under the shower, and watch. She rubs her cunt madly with the hands she just used to bring you off. You're sure she's smearing some of your cum against her throbbing clit, too. Her mouth purses into an O as she screams silently in thundering orgasm, and she squirts her cum all over the wall of the shower. Her legs are spread-eagle and she gives you this show without any shame or inhibition. When she's done, she falls flat on her back, panting.
 
You turn the shower off.
 
Cerise is still breathless. She rests the back of one palm against her forehead.
 
"Jesus..." you moan. "Oh my god... what did you do..."
 
"Will you show me?" Cerise pants. "Please?"
 
You're not sure what to say as you step out of the tub, dry yourself off and get dressed.

>7 PM

"Don't you dare-- god fucking damn it-- STOP," you yell.

Whitney sticks her tongue out at you.

Rose laughs at your misfortune. Until it happens to her, too. "What's the matter with you, Whitney? Stop that!"

But she won't. Whitney refuses to do anything but spam that move where Kirby floats above the stage and turns into a rock.

Alex catches up to her though. He grabs her and gives Kirby a good hard bitch-slap like only Princess Peach can provide.

"You cross-dressing little shit!" Whitney says. She grabs Alex - in real life, that is - and gives him a noogie.

"Save me, Ally!" He cries, reaching plaintively for you as Whitney rubs her knuckles viciously into his skull.

>9 PM

Alex ordered pizza for everyone. Naturally, Rose and Whitney fight over the last piece.

Alex suggests they share it, but the evil stare from both of them that he receives for this suggestion is enough to make him back off.


>10 PM

"One, two, three, four... that's Boardwalk, and I will definitely buy that," you announce.

"This game is fucking stupid," Cerise says. She flips the board. Play money and property cards flutter through the air.

"Real mature!" You shout.

"I agree with your sister," Rose says. "This game embodies the very worst aspects of capitalism..." (Of course she would say that. She was almost bankrupt.)

"Does anyone still want to trade for Baltic Avenue?" Whitney asks.

>11 PM

Birdemic: Shock and Terror is the best worst movie you've ever seen. God bless Alex for suggesting it. You all eat fresh-popped popcorn from a giant pan together while lobbing jokes and snide comments at the screen. Whitney laughs so hard that she almost passes out.

Cerise breaks out the beer and you try to come up with rules for a drinking game - but the movie is so ridiculous that you all agree to just chug. Whitney and Cerise can hold their liquor quite well, but you, Rose and Alex are pretty ruined after just a couple drinks. Alex especially is getting pretty fucked up. His face is deeply flushed and his speech is badly slurred.

The girls pass him around like toy, getting a little more handsy than you'd like.

"You're cute," Whitney says, playing with the frills on his maid outfit.

"VERY cute," Rose agrees. She ruffles his hair. Rose and Alex both really seems to like that. He mewls happily.

"Do you like that outfit?" Cerise asks.

"M-maybe...".

"You can keep it..." she purrs.

Of course, even though you don't like seeing THEM get handsy, when Alex is in your hands, you can't help yourself either.

"Save me, Ally!" He says for the second time tonight, burying his face in your chest as he sits in your lap.

"Of course," you say. "I'll protect you from these rotten perverts." You spin him around in your lap and ward off the others, letting him get comfortable again as you watch the rest of the movie. But surreptitiously, you keep copping feels on his ass -- and dry hump him too, just a little. He doesn't resist being violated like that. 

>2 AM

Everyone is asleep except for you and Cerise. You're alone with her in her bedroom.

It's time to do what you've been planning to do for a long time.

Something that's been building up for years.

Something you've longed for.

Something neither of you can resist any longer.

You download an emulator along with a ROM of Street Fighter II: Turbo. It's time to settle who's the best at fighting games.

...But maybe this wasn't such a good time to settle the age-old rivalry. You can hardly see straight. Cerise's tolerance for alcohol carries her: despite the fact that you're using Akuma, Cerise dominates you.

"Loser," she sneers after beating you for the seventh or eighth time.

"I was... hardly trying..." you mumble. Sitting at her computer, staring at the game over screen, you feel your head drooping. You let your controller drop to the floor.

"Will you sleep in here tonight?" Cerise asks.

"You want me to...?"

She shrugs. "I was just asking."

You're honestly too exhausted to go find a place out in the living room. You crawl on hands and knees into her bed. She follows.

For the second time in just a few nights, you sleep with your sister. 

November 14, 2014

"And therefore, I move that the case be dismissed with prejudice."

Saul Mallory has just finished a whirlwind recitation of every misstep that federal agents took in apprehending you: illegal searches of your web history, an illegal search of your locker at school, multiple Miranda violations, a tainted chain of custody for major pieces of evidence, and prosecutorial overreach in charging you with terrorism-related offenses. Among many others.

"Finally, I would like to add," Mr. Mallory says, approaching the bench, "that charging Alabaster as an adult is an absolutely unconscionable way to treat this case - for a young man who was a child at the time of the alleged crimes, after all. A young man with such an obviously promising future. Straight A's in high school, student council president, leader of an academic trivia team poised to take the national stage - scholarships on top of scholarships already lined up - this boy is not some thug in training, your honor. Let's have a little sanity here, huh?"

Judge Tigee mulls this over.

Pulling this man as the judge in your case, Mr. Mallory has informed you, was the luckiest thing to ever happen to you. And he's right. Tigee says: "if there's one thing I hate, it's seeing a boy like Alabaster Soliloquy getting railroaded. He should be free to forge his own way in life."

With a bang of a gavel, your case is dismissed. Forever.

"I would also like to move--" Mr. Mallory begins.

"Say no more," Judge Tigee replies, rising from his chair (struggling a bit under his own mass here - he's really a fat guy). "The records of this case are hereby ordered sealed."

Before he steps down, though, he bows his head a bit, thinking. Then he turns to you: "Young man... appreciate what has happened here. I am dismissing your case and giving you a chance to turn your life around. Don't take that for granted. I can tell that you are troubled - perhaps for good reason. Losing your parents is the hardest thing a young man can face. But you're 18 years old now. If you appear before me again, I will not be so generous." 

Mr. Mallory was the only one in court with you today. Rose and Whitney had school, Mrs. Mallory had work. (All three of them called you frequently in jail. Rose in particular. She claimed it was to brag about keeping the quiz team and student council afloat in your absence, but you could hear the notes of worry on her end.)

And of course, Cerise... was being Cerise. She didn't show up either.

You ride back home in Mr. Mallory's BMW in silence, staring out the passenger side window.

"I'm sending you to a therapist," he says.

"What?" You say. "I don't need--"

He pulls over to the shoulder of the road and kills the engine. He turns in his seat to face you. "Do NOT," he says. He points at you. "You're going. This isn't a negotiation. You're going or I will throw you out on your ass, understand? No matter what Rose or Charlotte have to say about it. I'm through with this 'woe is me' act."

You can tell he's serious. "Whatever," you say, and go back to staring out the window.

"Whatever..." Mr. Mallory repeats bitterly. "You're a real piece of work, Alabaster. You think about how goddamn lucky you are. You could have gone to federal prison. Do you grasp the gravity of that fact?"

"Maybe I'd be better off."

He shakes his head, starts the car again, and pulls back onto the road. 

---

Saturday morning passes much the same way Friday night did: messing around, watching bad movies, and having a good time. It's, by a wide margin, more fun than you've had since all the craziness in your life began.

You hope the same is true for Whitney, Rose and Cerise as well.

You're so involved in the fun that it comes as a surprise when there's a knock on the door. It sours the mood - the fear of Camelia striking looms large - but when you glance out the peephole, you realize what this is.

Vivian's chauffeur has arrived to pick you up.

You open the door.

"Greetings. Are you Alabaster Soliloquy?" He has a posh British accent and an equally posh suit. You recognize this man... but you can't place his face...

The others watch from behind you.

"Are you ready to depart?" The man asks.

"Who... who are you?" Cerise says. She sounds frightened.

"I'm David Darkbloom's personal driver," he says. "The name is Damon."

Your heart skips a beat. Damon. No, that's impossible. There's no way...

But there he is. Damon. He isn't the grubby, slimy, wormy chav you used to know, but it's definitely him.

"The young mistress is waiting. Will you come for her?"

You can only nod. A promise is a promise.

"Come back soon, Alabaster..." Cerise says.

You step out of Cerise's apartment, walk down the stairs, and towards the waiting limousine.

END OF EPISODE 7. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, yuri fan and hostage negotiator. 

What no one told you beforehand is that Darkbloom's mansion is the site of a high-class soirée today. You wander, confused and feeling badly out-of-place, past the alabaster colonnade at the head of Darkbloom's multi-acre backyard. Waiters and waitresses with silver trays of champagne and hors d'ouerves bustle around crowds of dapper executives and their spouses. A banner reads "Welcome, PACG" in a Gothic cursive font, hung over a raised stage of beautiful white wood where an orchestra plays soothing baroque.

Two things you notice right away:

1. The waiters and waitresses are all dressed in bunny costumes.

2. The orchestra is clad in orange prison jumpsuits, their arms and legs shackled.

You catch snippets of conversation as you walk around the backyard.

"...so much NIMBYism in this town, it'll be hard to get the permitting squared away..."

"...thought I might send the factory overseas to China, but all the fuckers over there are unionizing too..."

"...blow over before too long. First it was MeToo, now this data privacy stuff, pretty soon - who knows? Common people are easily distracted, we shouldn't be..."

"Alabaster!"

A booming voice catches your attention. You turn. It's David Darkbloom. "I'm so glad you could make it. It's nice to see at least one friendly face at these get-togethers."

"What's going on? What's the occasion?" You ask.

"Ask my wife," he says. His tone is that ancient jokey resignation to the old ball-and-chain adopted by husbands since the invention of marriage. "She coordinates all of these club events."

Darkbloom grabs a flute of champagne from a passing bunnygirl and knocks it back in a single gulp. He sets it back on her platter and she hurries away without a word.

"What club?" You ask.

"The Palo Alto Club for Growth," Darkbloom replies. "It's a PR thing with local businessmen and city government types. Mara's always been much better with outreach than I." 

"David, there you are, ya bastard!"

Your conversation gets cut off by the arrival of Steven Armstrong, Darkbloom's head of human resources. He throws an arm over Darkbloom's shoulder and shakes him, pointing at him with his free hand. "Never let this man buy you a yacht," Armstrong tells you, as if that's something you need to worry about. "Third time this year I've had to send it back to port for repairs! Some Christmas bonus, huh!"

Darkbloom roars with laughter. He pulls away from Steven's grip and extends a hand. Their handshake is like a battle both men refuse to concede. "That's no fault of mine," Darkbloom chides. "You know what they say the word 'boat' stands for."

"Another thousand?" shouts Armstrong, his knuckles turning white in Darkbloom's palm, "Try another million! Where'd you get that thing built? Somalia?"

"Close. The Seychelles."

Their handshake ends with no clear victor. Armstrong slaps Darkbloom's shoulder. "You motherfucker. Just tell me you're cutting my salary next time. I'll lose less money! -- Say, when are we gonna do that rowing thing you keep going on about?"

"June looks nice to me," Darkbloom says airly.

"Yeah, and in June you'll tell me August." Armstrong looks at you, winking. "He's afraid of me. Knows I'll beat him!"

"Is that so..." you mutter awkwardly. This conversation is moving way too fast for you.

"Of course! Played college ball, you know. I've still got it." He flexes a bicep to show you its impossible size.

"Excuse us," Darkbloom says, laying a hand on your shoulderblade and leading you away. 

"That's... quite an orchestra," you say as David walks with you. "I've never seen anything like it."

David smiles. "Mara's idea. Turning around the lives of the wayward through the power of music. Soothes the savage breast, and so on. It's good for appearances. -- And for rubbing the past in my face, of course."

"So they're really prisoners?" You ask. A lithe man in bunny ears approaches you from the side, momentarily startling you. He offers you up a platter of fancy looking cheeses on toothpicks, which you decline.

"Indeed. On loan from downstate. They get a day in the sun and we get an evening of entertainment." He pauses, perking up his ears. "Shame their repertoire is so limited. Pachelbel's Canon - dreadfully cliche."

You look around, stunned at the number of obviously powerful people accumulated all in one place. "I feel under-dressed," you admit, glancing down at your plain shirt and blue jeans.

"It's no matter," Darkbloom says. "I'm sure Vivian will be elated to see you in any case."

"Where is she?"

"In her bedroom, getting ready. She takes an eternity to primp herself when we have these events. Doesn't want to be seen out-of-sorts."

That hardly makes you feel better about your current attire.

Walking with Darkbloom, you pass by a man who's impossible to miss: Tyrus Kang. He's decked out in a colorful suit, even more outlandish than the one he wore at the landfill. He's accompanied by another, smaller man dressed in an equally garish outfit. You've never seen that one before. They talk among themselves and eat crackers together. Tyrus makes eye contact with you but says nothing as you walk by.

>[x] "Who's that guy?" (Ask about Tyrus nonchalantly.)
[ ] Don't mention him. 

Darkbloom chuckles. "He stands out like a sore thumb, doesn't he? That's Tyrus Kang. Ghetto trash from Baltimore who failed up and up and up, until suddenly he found himself on the board of directors at the Club for Growth."

Darkbloom clearly takes a dim opinion of the man.

"Do I need to be explaining this to you?" He asks. He doesn't give you a chance to answer before continuing. "Ever since Mara got a directorship at the club, I've seen far too much of him for my liking. I'd steer clear of him if I were you. And that goes double for his husband."

You sputter. "--Husband?"

"Mm. You know the type. Sweet and feminine and submissive, all flowers and sunshine, all the time. Until he thinks you're threatening his man. Then he'll bash your skull in with a baseball bat. ...Ah -- there it is."

You shudder at this last comment, and take a moment to realize that Darkbloom has stopped in front of a long buffet table. At the center of the table is a fountain of white chocolate fondue.

"You must try this," Darkbloom tells you. "My chef Maribelle made it this afternoon. It's the best dessert you'll ever have. I guarantee it!"

You ladle a warm helping of the fondue into a bowl, grab a plain digestive biscuit and dip it in. You nibble on it.

It's great.

But...

"To be honest with you, my mom's desserts were always better than this. I guess nothing else can really compare."

"Ah," Darkbloom says, sounding a bit deflated. He brought you here especially to show off his cook's exemplary skills, after all. But then: "Of course. A mother's cooking always holds a special place in the heart of her son... You and your sister lost your mother a few years ago, didn't you?"

You nod.

"My condolences. Late as they are. I must say: she raised two truly remarkable children. I'm sure she was a wonderful woman."

As gracious as Darkbloom's words are and as sincere as they sound, they ring somehow hollow. 

You and Darkbloom sit side by side on a pair of white folding chairs, among a sparsely populated row of such folding chairs, to rest and admire the orchestra.

"What's up with the bunny costumes?" You ask. "Was that Mara's idea too?"

Darkbloom rolls his shoulders. "My own special stipulation," he admits. "It makes things more interesting. Bunnies always fascinated me..."

You catch the eye of one of the bunnygirls as she passes with a tray of sweets.

It's Noelle Keki.

When she sees you sitting next to Darkbloom, she blushes a shade of neon red and turns the other way, scurrying off. Her cottontail wags behind her as she disappears into the crowd.

[ ] Excuse yourself and track her down.
>[x] Continue talking with Darkbloom about...

[ ] Small talk. (Don't rock the boat.)
[ ] The hack, and Cerise's investigation.
>[x] Sable, and the research she's working on.
[ ] Vivian, and her role in the company. 

"I'm really curious," you say, "so maybe you can help me out. Talking to Sable is like talking to a wall sometimes... I've asked, but I can't get any real understanding of her work from her."

Darkbloom shakes his head. "You're not the only one to butt up against Sable's wall, Alabaster."

"Uh--"

"If you ever do get a good understanding, please make sure that I'm the first one you tell about it. It can get a bit annoying to spend billions on so many projects that I know hardly anything about."

You blink. "You're joking. You really don't know what she's doing?"

Darkbloom pats you on the back. "Alabaster, please! I thought I would be free from all this wearying shop-talk if I spent my time with you, of all the people here! Aren't you Generation Z children supposed to be concerned with work-life balance and so on?"

"I just thought I'd ask," you say lamely.

"Well, let me ask you something first. What do you know about Tyrus Kang?"

Is that an accusation? It wouldn't surprise you if he knew about your little adventure with him the other day. Actually, it would surprise you if he didn't.

Darkbloom continues: "You were eager to know his story. To know why such an eccentric individual ended up in my backyard. Well - what if you didn't have to ask?"

"I'm not following you," you say.

"Think about it. What if you never had to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"Anything at all."

"I really don't follow you now."

"Aha," Darkbloom says, holding up an index finger. "And there's the rub. I don't think many people do follow. Maybe only Sable follows. But that is what she's working on. May I show you something?"

You stand with Darkbloom in his vast dining hall - a high-vaulted, dimly lit and frankly kind of spooky open space of dark wood flooring and grey arched walls - staring at a picture hung in a central location above the oak dining table. You're the only two people here.

"It's called Expulsion from the Garden of Eden. My favorite piece of art. Masaccio - One of da Vinci's forerunners."

"Is that real?" You ask. You recognize the painting. It's a pretty famous piece - your years in quiz bowl taught you about it.

"No. I offered them as much as a billion dollars to cut the fresco off the wall of their little chapel, but in the end I had to settle for a high quality replica. It's one of the only times anyone has ever told me no."

He looks at you, eyes bright. "I think about this painting all the time. Knowledge wasn't Adam's curse. It was incomplete knowledge. We know only enough to know that we know nothing. Isn't it awful?"

You can only shrug. Darkbloom looks appreciatively back up at the painting, silent for several long moments.

"Sable will help us fix it all," Darkbloom says.

You begin to say something, but a voice interrupts you.

"Father... Alabaster Soliloquy."

You turn. Vivian is here. 

Vivian wasn't kidding when she told you she was into Gothic Lolita fashion. She's wearing one of the most outrageous outfits you've ever seen on a human being: a black-and-white evil doppelganger of rococo's ostentation, all ornamented with a web of frills and lace and puffy bows, her hair braided loopily and also done up with bows. She looks like a guest at the world's most expensive funeral.

Darkbloom smiles warmly when he sees her. It might be the first genuine expression you've ever seen him make.

"I've got one for you," he tells his daughter. "He bugs Gore."

Vivian smirks. "George Bush. I thought you said you would make these more difficult."

Darkbloom sits in the chair at the head of the dining table. He scratches the back of his head in faux frustration. Finally, he says: "How about this one, then? Captain over Rome."

Vivian thinks for a brief moment, then her face lights up. "Emperor Octavian!" She says, unable to contain her own excitement. Her eyes are wide with childlike enthusiasm.

"You're too good for me," Darkbloom says. "I concede defeat... this time."

Vivian giggles haughtily, a hand to her lips.

"What are you guys talking about?" You say. You're utterly confused.

"It's a game that father and I play," Vivian explains. "He devises an anagram of a famous person's name, and I have to figure out what the name is."

"Here's a good one, Alabaster," Darkbloom says. "Let's see if you can do it too: I'll make a wise phrase."

You stammer and stutter impotently.

"William Shakespeare," Vivian says after seeing that you're obviously lost here.

"I knew that..." you say. It's a bit aggravating to get stood up by a pint sized loli.

"And here you told me that this Alabaster fellow was smarter than you!" Darkbloom laughs. "I almost believed you, too. I should have known that no one could ever match my daughter."

Vivian blushes deeply. "I-- I never said such a silly thing!"

"Do you know, Alabaster," Darkbloom says, "that Viv taped all of your performances at the national championship a few years ago? She used to watch them every day. Most little girls are obsessed with boy bands or movie stars - my girl was obsessed with a high school quiz champion."

"F-father!!" Vivian stammers. She's shaking with embarrassment. "Th-those are-- awful lies!"

>[x] Join the teasing.
[ ] "Stand up" for her. 

"I don't blame her," you say. You put your hands on your hips. "I'm pretty much the greatest. Why wouldn't she be obsessed with me?"

"I am not obsessed with you!" Vivian says. She's completely losing her cool. This elegant little girl has a hair trigger when it comes to you.

"I don't know," you say, shrugging. "What else would you call a girl who watches me on videotape every day? That sounds pretty obsessive to me. Downright stalkerish."

"That's a fair point," Darkbloom cuts in. "She was utterly smitten."

"It was NOT every day," Vivian insists.

"Every other day?" You ask.

She locks her elbows and balls her fists. "This is absurd. To think I would invite you into my home only for you to, to-- to so PATHETICALLY make this play at getting under my skin--!! It won't work!"

"I think it already did," you muse.

"Father! Enough of this! Intercede already! See this unruly boy out!"

Darkbloom does anything but. "In 2014, she wanted a special dispensation to attend your high school," he tells you. "Just to get to know you in person. Isn't that right, Viv?" He pokes her.

She spins on her heels as if to walk away, but Darkbloom grabs her and plops her in his lap, laughing. She huffs in frustration, folding her arms and making a pouty face, looking away from both of you.

"Of course I had to say no," Darkbloom continues. "Her education must always take first priority, and with all due respect... the public school system was not the proper place for her. But now that you two are coworkers, I'm not going to let her pride get in the way of what she wants." 

"I never knew I had a fan," you say. "I'm flattered - honestly! I can give you my autograph if you like."

Vivian hops up from Darkbloom's lap. It takes her obvious effort, and she makes a little "oof" when she lands on her platform shoes. (Even in those shoes, she's several inches shorter than you). "I will not be patronized," she says. "I have already proven my intellectual superiority. The idea that I would be infatuated with someone so obviously less intelligent is--"

"Oh, really?" You say. You sit down in a chair directly facing her. You're at eye level with her now. "Who invented quaternions?"

"William Rowan Hamilton!" Vivian says. "That's clear! Everyone knows that! What country is sixteenth smallest on Earth by land area?"

"Palau," you say, hardly pausing to count. You make a show of yawning. "Did you learn that today in kindergarten?"

Darkbloom laughs. "I should get out a notepad and keep score. Or maybe I'm becoming a third wheel here."

"No you aren't," Vivian says, not even glancing back at her father. "Stay and witness the crushing superiority of my mind!"

What follows is twenty grueling minutes of back-and-forth trivia sparring - a bout in which neither of you get an answer wrong. Darkbloom watches, interjecting with wry comments here and there, but otherwise he just enjoys the spectacle.

Eventually, Vivian is almost breathless with the mental exertion and excitement of competing with you. You realize that this is a sort of unrealized dream of hers, finally coming true: if she wanted to attend high school with you all those years ago, it means she probably wanted to be on the quiz team with you too. She never had the opportunity to show off in front of you -- until now.

"This has been great fun, you two," Darkbloom says. "But I must go see to my guests." He stands. "Will you join me outside?"

[ ] Vivian, let's go back to the party.
>[X] Vivian, show me around your house

"I'm not a very social person, to be honest," you say. "And I definitely wasn't prepared to find myself in the middle of a party..."

Darkbloom frowns. "I see," he says. "I'm not surprised. Viv is also a bit of an introvert, after all. As am I. So I certainly understand not wanting to go out there unless you must."

"Vivian," you say, "if that's the case, why don't you show me around your house? That is -- if your father doesn't mind, of course."

"I don't mind if Vivian doesn't," Darkbloom says.

"That will be fine," Vivian says. She flicks her hair and glances away. She tries to conceal excitement beneath aloofness, it seems.

Before Darkbloom departs again, he grabs you by the arm, tugs you towards him and leans in close, whispering. He does an excellent job of making this look like a fatherly handshake, but it definitely isn't. "Viv is still a child," he says. "And not a wanton harlot like some of the other girls in your life. Do nothing untoward. I am always watching."

He lets you go, steps back. Locks eyes with you.

You nod. He nods.

And then he goes. 

When Darkbloom is gone, Vivian twirls to face you.

"I will begin by showing you my bedroom," she announces.

"Ah--" you begin. "Maybe we should--"

"No," Vivian interjects. "I insist. Let us go at once."

Vivian's bedroom is as depressingly ornate as her outfit. The walls are papered in a black and purple fleur de lis pattern, and her four post bed is veiled with black gossamer. While she has a few teddy bears sitting on her bed - a stuffed penguin, too - all of them come in dark colors, naturally. The furniture is antique: an ancient armoire that looks like it was reconstructed from the remains of a sunken boat, a Victorian vanity with an obnoxiously tall mirror at the center, a bedside table carved from a single piece of marble. And more chhuni clutter on top of all that.

You sit uncertainly on her bed, feeling as if a landmine is about to explode. You don't want to make yourself too at home. You can almost feel Darkbloom's omnipresent eyes on you.

"Will you admit now, and truthfully," Vivian says, trying to loom over you, "that you are nothing compared to me?"

"I'm sorry. What?"

"You were unable to best me today, even though you thought you could, and even though you tried your hardest. You were unable to keep up with my father's anagram game. You are not as rich, and certainly you are not as refined as me. You must face reality, Alabaster Soliloquy. I am, in every way, your better."

"Is this how you flirt?" You say. "Get real. I would never lose to a pipsqueak like you."

"P-pipsqueak," she says. Her lips tremble with the indignation of your name calling. "Very well-! You need to be shown more thoroughly. Several days ago, you implied that I wasn't elegant enough to wear Lolita fashion. I will demonstrate the error of your ways."

"You already showed me..." you grumble. "Isn't that what you're wearing now?"

"Ufufu~" she laughs. You're not sure if it's annoying or endearing. "You have not yet seen my full power. Please wait warmly!"

She disappears into a walk-in closet, shutting the door behind her. 

When she comes out, she's wearing a dress that makes her look like the bride at a wedding in hell. Although the palette is predominantly white, there is no mistaking its Gothic appeal. The satin crosses and long buckled boots and gaudy jewelry only accentuate the look. It's outright eerie.

"What do you say to this!" She demands.

"I say you look like a weirdo. Is this how you spend your free time?"

Her eyes narrow as she stares hard at you, as if assessing the value of your very soul. "I do not believe you," she finally replies. "You are lying. In actuality, you are bowled over by the tragic grandeur of my elan. Your heart mourns for my beauty!"

You roll your eyes. "Who told you that talking like an anime supervillain is scary? Because it's the opposite of scary."

Vivian turns and retreats to her closet again. 

The knowledge that Vivian is stripping naked inside that closet, puts images in your head that definitely shouldn't be there. For all of Vivian's attempts at cutting a fearsome figure, her father is right: she's a child. And moreover, her tiny, pale, frail frame is exactly the kind of body that turns you on.

You're a hopeless pervert, after all.

Vivian returns a few minutes later, this time dressed like a maid.

"I am given to understand that middle-class men such as yourself will often fantasize about the prospect of hired help, because you do not actually have the benefit of real hired help at your disposal."

"Are you telling me you're going to be my maid today?" You say.

"N--" she begins, choking on her own words. "Don't be ridiculous. This is merely to show you that I am alluring and elegant beyond all of your wildest imaginings. I would never stoop to being an actual servant."

"You really are a weirdo," you say. "Hey, do you still have those tapes of my quiz bowl matches? Maybe we should review them. Then you'll be reminded of why you said I'm smarter than you."

"Do not change the subject. Admit that I am elegant. Admit that I am the best Lolita you have ever laid eyes upon. Admit -- that I am cute!"

"I guess some people find annoying little girls cute," you say, playing disinterested. "I never saw the appeal." 

Your eyes fall upon the box in her hands. It looks like it's more than a prop: it looks like a gift. It's wrapped in a bow and seems to have real heft to it -- judging by the way she shifts on her feet uncomfortably and lets her arms droop while holding it.

"Are you sure you're really not here to serve me?" You say. "What's in the box?"

"Nothing," she says. "Nothing for you, in any case."

"Now my feelings are hurt," you say. "You treat me like this special guest and then you go around with presents for someone else. That's no way to treat a person. Whatever happened to elegance and class?"

Vivian closes her eyes and sighs deeply. "If I give this gift to you, Alabaster Soliloquy, will you finally admit the truth you know in your heart?"

"Absolutely," you say.

She hands it to you. You unwrap the bow and look inside. It's a boxed lunch - prepared with loving attention to detail, as authentic and as appetizing as something you would find in Japan.

"I understand these are called bento," Vivian says. "They appear not infrequently in the childish cartoons you enjoy. I prepared one for you, to demonstrate that I can outclass you even at your own most cherished hobby. Now: admit the truth! Admit I am the best!"

"Wow..." you say, peering at the rice and sashimi and tempura chicken and thinly sliced ginger with wasabi, and the expertly decorated cupcake set aside for dessert. "You are... cute."

"What?"

You look up at her. "That's what you said you wanted to hear, right? You're cute."

She turns red. "I never asked to be called cute. You have a defect of hearing."

"Vivian Darkbloom is cute. Cute!"

Vivian seethes. 

"Should I eat this now or save it for later?"

"Do as you wish," Vivian says. "I am through with you. A hopeless person such as yourself isn't worthy of my time or attention."

You shrug, pull out the chopsticks and start eating - right there on Vivian's bed.

"What are you doing?" She demands.

"As I wish," you reply. You chew a morsel and swallow. "This is pretty good. Did you make it yourself?"

"Of course I made it mys-- do not avoid my questions. What possesses you to think it is acceptable to eat inside my bedroom?"

"Lighten up. I'm not a messy eater. I won't get any on your stuffies."

You grab the stuffed penguin by its scruff and hold it up. "Right, Mr. Penguin?" You say. Then, changing your voice to a falsetto, you fill in the penguin's response: "That's right, Alabaster! You're a valued guest! Eat as much as you'd like!"

"Tch-- you might be the most trying person I have ever met. Presumptuous, arrogant, and rude." She snatches the penguin from you. "Unhand Johann at once."

"Johann" You say. "You named a stuffed penguin Johann?" Before Vivian can insult you again, you offer an olive branch: "Forget about showing me your house. Why don't we watch something together with Johann while I eat? It can be -- a spontaneous lunch date."

Vivian's hard expression softens. "A... spontaneous lunch date," she says. Her hands fiddle in Johann's fur.

"If you're willing to do that with a terrible person like me," you say. "I appreciate all the effort you went through for my sake... I want to call a truce. You're too cu-- too elegant and refined for me to let you stay mad."

She pouts. But she doesn't say no.

Instead, she takes a remote from her bedside table and clicks a button on it. A mechanism in her ceiling opens and giant flat-panel screen descends from the ceiling.

You expected, if she said yes, that you would watch a movie with her on the PC in the corner of the room. Not on this cinema-sized screen directly in front of her bed.

She climbs onto the bed with you, sitting beside you.

As with when she sits at most chairs, her feet do not touch the ground here, either. She keeps Johann in her lap.

"I will not show you your own quiz bowl tapes. I no longer have those in my possession." (Somehow, you don't believe her.) "With that in mind, what would you like to watch?"

[ ] Something cute.
>[x] Something scary.
[ ] Something funny.
[ ] A mature anime series. 

"Since you're so enamored with morbid things," you explain.

Vivian smirks. "I will show you the real meaning of terror. You will tremble with fear at the gory spectacle on the screen."

She uses the remote to navigate folders on her PC - this flatscreen display must be connected to it. You briefly see, before she pulls up a folder labeled "movies" that she also has one labeled "Alabaster Soliloquy."

She's definitely obsessed.

The movie Vivian selects is called "Oculus." It's about an evil mirror that warps your perception of reality whenever you're near it.

It's actually a pretty creepy movie, by the standards of western horror -- some of the scenes do genuinely impart a feeling of disquiet. You aren't "trembling with fear," but all in all, it is kind of spooky. It's the kind of fucked-up weirdness that you enjoy.

Vivian, on the other hand, isn't having a very good time. By the point one of the characters in the movie accidentally bites into a lightbulb, she has her face firmly buried in Johann's fur, her hands clenching him so tight that her tiny forearms are shaking.

"Are you okay?" You ask, setting aside your mostly-finished bento. (There was a lot of food there. You ate as much as you could.)

Vivian doesn't respond. You nudge her shoulder.

"I am asleep," she announces, her voice muffled by Johann.

"If you're asleep, how are you telling me you're asleep?"

There's a long pause. Then she replies, "I have the power of speaking in my sleep. It is the characteristic of the highly gifted."

You gently pull Johann back. But she blanches and panics and reaches out for him. She grabs hold of him again and buries her face in his fur once more. When you try to take the penguin a second time, she jerks away from you, turning in the opposite direction.

"I'll turn the movie off," you tell her. You find the remote and kill the power. The room is awash in silence.

Vivian doesn't budge.

"Still asleep?" You ask.

She nods, her face ruffling back and forth on top of her stuffed animal.

"All right then. Since you're asleep, I'll go back to the party."

You stand.

"Wait," she says.

"Hmm?"

"Please do not depart." Her voice is still muffled.

[ ] Tease.
>[x] Soothe. 

You sweep your arms underneath Vivian and in one fluid motion haul her up. Even though you're no strong-man, Vivian is so tiny and light that she's easy to tote around.

"Alabast-- What are you doing!" Vivian's voice is a mixture of righteous anger and surprise. She peers up at you over Johann's head, the rest of her face still obscured.

"I'm putting you to bed," you say.

"Let go of me at once," she demands. "I am not a child."

"Of course not. I'm not saying you are. You're an elegant and refined lady. But since you're asleep, you should be comfortable too, right?"

Vivian makes a cute little murmur of indecision.

"I cannot sleep in this outfit," she says. "Please, let me change into my nightclothes first."

You take Vivian to her closet and set her down on her feet in there - man, this place is bigger than your bedroom in the Mallory house, and jam-packed with racks full of expensive designer clothing. You turn to leave so she can undress in privacy.

"Alabaster..." She gazes at the floor, rubbing her elbow.

"What?"

"Please do not leave me alone."

"...Even while you change?"

Her lack of reply is reply enough of its own.

This is ringing as many alarm bells in your mind as possible. Doing this is most definitely a BAD IDEA. A very bad, horrible, no good, terrible idea that is likely to get you killed.
 
"I think I should step out," you say weakly.
 
"No... no." Vivian's insistence is equally weak, but so pitiable that your heart breaks in two just to hear it.
 
"Well, ah-- I'll turn around, at least," you say.
 
"That is acceptable," she says.
 
(Darkbloom can't fault you for this, can he?)
 
You turn and face the door. But you have a sinking realization: the door is mirrored. And so are the walls.
 
Vivian is already pulling off her dress. You can see the reflection of her doing it.
 
You have two options here. Stare at the ceiling, or close your eyes.
 
...So why aren't you doing either one?
 
The pace of your heart is quickening, your mouth is going dry. Your temples throb. It's as if there's something coursing through your veins commanding you not to rip your eyes away from the sight you're seeing, even if every rational part of you says you must.
 
Underneath Vivian's dress is a pair of conservative, but lacy, panties - black of course - and a matching bra that she absolutely doesn't need. You pray that she doesn't remove these as well, because you definitely don't have the strength to look away now. She might be the smallest and most pale girl you've ever seen, so small that she looks like she might break in two if you're not careful. (Careful with what?) And she's half naked right in front of you, her black underwear a wonderful contrast against her almost anemic skin.
 
Her toes curl and uncurl in the lush carpet of her closet. She catches your gaze in the mirror.
 
"I see that turning around did not defeat your baser instincts," she says.
 
"Sorry..." you reply. You look up at the ceiling, embarrassed - caught.
 
"You do not need to look away. Actually, I prefer that you don't."
 
BAD. BAD IDEA.
 
You turn around.
 
"I have to admit that the film was scarier than I anticipated... and although it is irrational... I am a bit afraid of mirrors right now. I would prefer if you kept a watchful eye on me..."
 
"I... listen, I feel kind of funny," you say. It's like all the blood pressure in your body is distributed between your throbbing temples and your crotch.
 
"That would be the effect of the aphrodisiacs," Vivian says.
 
"The what?" You breathe.
 
"I hope I did not go too far," she continues. "I did not intend to find myself in a vulnerable position like this where you might ravish me. I expected to leave you in a state of longing, is all."
 
You rub your face in disbelief.
 
"But now I need the stabilizing influence of your presence. And that being the case... I should show you what your body is telling you it wants."
 
She unclasps the hook on the back of her bra and peels it away. Her board-flat, pale body is adorned by two tiny pink nipples, the only raised surfaces on her chest. She's so thin that the barest hint of her ribs is even visible.
 
"This is-- really bad," you manage. "Your father--"
 
"He does not like the idea of this," Vivian says, "yes. But that is how fathers are. I am a young girl in my rebellious phase, so this is to be expected."
 
With that, she hooks her hands in the waistaband of her panties and pulls them down.
 
Her cuntlet is hardly more than an indentation in the puffy mons of her hairless pubic area. Impossibly small and pristine - and almost demanding violation. You can see the hint of wetness glistening on the outside.
 
And then she throws on a nightgown that covers it up.
 
You huff in frustration, your cock straining in your jeans. "Is that-- is that--" you stammer.
 
"All?" She says.
 
You close your eyes and shake your head violently. It SHOULD be all. Anything more is bound to have awful consequences.
 
"Do you need me to take care of you?" She says.
 
"Yes," you reply immediately. Damn the consequences.
 
"Take me to bed," she coos. You scoop her up again, princess carrying her -- and notice as you take her back to her bedroom that she isn't only holding her favorite stuffed animal, but also the panties that she just stepped out of.
 
As you lay her down in the soft and satiny bed, she snuggles up with the penguin and gazes at you with glimmering eyes.
 
"I have never..." she begins.
 
That's obvious. She hadn't even held hands before a couple days ago. What you're about to do is wrong on so many levels.
 
You unzip your fly. Standing over her bed, freeing your cock, you feel hopelessly and deliciously depraved. But, you reason, the last traces of your resistance disappearing: this situation is her fault. She spiked your food with aphrodisiacs. She should have expected this.
 
"Oh my..." she breathes. She hides from the sight of your veiny, pulsating cock in much the same way she hid from the movie a few minutes ago. But curiosity gets the better of her and she peeks up at it after a moment.
 
"It is nothing like what I expected," she says. "Please... do not rape me... I would never be able to take it..."
 
You have at least enough sense to agree to that. You climb up onto the bed, on your knees, and straddle her. You hover over her face, your cock wagging back and forth. Her eyes follow it as if hypnotized.
 
"You are a perverted man," she says, even as her tongue hangs partially out of her mouth.
 
"Touch it," you tell her.
 
She reaches up and lays a smooth hand against the shaft. You shiver with electric jolts of pleasure.
 
And then you realize what the panties were for. She grabs them, and using both hands, wraps the silky fabric around your leaking dick. Your precum quickly makes a dark stain in the crotch of the material.
 
"Do you enjoy that?" Vivian asks. "I believe this is called a pantyjob."
 
This perverted little girl with her panties wrapped around your cock, lying in her bed surrounded by a collection of stuffed animals, is about to make you cum. And she's barely touched you at all.
 
"Jerk me off," you growl.
 
"Like-- like this?" She asks uncertainly. She uses both hands now, neither of them able to fully encircle you, and tugs gently back and forth.
 
You help her along, bucking your hips in her grasp and not being afraid to rub your leaky cock against her unblemished cheeks, too. You can hear her inhaling deeply, basking in your scent as she stares transfixed at the obscene sight inches from her face.
 
The head of your cock pokes through one of the leg holes in the panties now, and a giant dollop of slimy precum oozes in an elongating strand before landing right on forehead. She never stops jerking you off, the wonderfully smooth fabric milking even more precum out of you. It drips messily all over her nose, lips and chin, too.
 
Vivian's eyes are glazed over and you can feel her weight shifting beneath you. Looking back, you see the cause: she's got the hem of her nighthown hiked up and she's rubbing her thighs together, trying to masturbate without the aid of her hands.
 
A new sensation turns your focus back to her face. She's licking the tip of your dick as she pumps it. Her dainty, bright pink tongue is lapping your dick-leak directly from the source, and she swallows it greedily.
 
"I'm gonna cum," you say. "I'm gonna fucking cum."
 
Vivian nods silently, granting you permission to blow your load as you wish. She increases her pace and you thrust your hips in ecstasy. Back and forth through the warm silk of her panties, your aching dick finds relief. She licks up and down the shaft now in sync to her pumping - a quick learner, able to pick up such a great technique so quickly - and her wet, searching tongue is quick to bring you off to an explosive orgasm. As the first surge of semen races up the shaft of your penis, she quickly envelops the expanding mushroom head with her panties. You groan, and fire spurt after spurt directly into them. She massages it all out with circular twisting motions, squeezing and tugging at the same time, to make sure you're dry.
 
When you're spent, she pulls the ruined panties away and gazes at the white, creamy stains on the inside. She sniffs at it, appreciatively, savoring the aroma of your seed. It makes her eyes droop, half-lidded, and a stupid smile spread across her flushing face, the face that's still wet with precum.
 
Then comes something you really didn't expect. She lifts her butt up off the bed and puts the filthy garment back on.
 
You stumble off of her, stand, and gaze at the lewd sight.
 
"It's so warm..." she purrs dreamily. "I'll be warm all night..."
 
She mashes a palm against the crotch of her panties, smearing your cum all over her pussy.
 
"Nnnn-- ohhhh--" she murmurs, her voice distant and breathy. She gets herself off - a little shuddering orgasm that makes her purr and shiver with delight. The already darkly stained and dirty underwear becomes inundated with wetness as she loses control of herself and cums in her panties too, her fluids joining yours. "Alabaster--" she pants, over and over again, in heat. "Alabaster-- Alabaster-- you're so warm against me-- you're so-- so--"
 
She's quickly drifting out of consciousness, falling asleep for real as she continues to lazily masturbate your cum against her dripping genitals.

Since Vivian is drifting off, you figure you should let her rest - and face up to what may be your quickly impending doom.

"Please don't go..." she murmurs, turning to her side. She grabs Johann tight and snuggles him again. "I do not want to be alone."

"What do you want?" You ask.

She points - as if holding her hand aloft requires a lot of effort right now - and indicates a bookshelf against the wall. You walk over to it.

"The one about the prince," she says.

You sweep your eyes across the spines. Machiavelli's The Prince is here, but somehow you don't think that's what she meant. You keep searching, eyeing tomes of high modernist literature and a complete set of Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. But soon enough, you find it: a little hardcover boardbook, its thin spine bearing the title: "The Little Princess."

You take it out and hold it up. "This one?"

She nods yes.

You go back to the bed, pulling with you the stool from in front of her vanity. It's small beneath you, a little wobbly and awkward to sit on, but it'll do. You crack the book open and begin.

"Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, there was a little princess who was very lonely..."

Vivian smiles to herself and pulls her blankets up, getting comfy. Her eyes are already drifting closed again. 

When Vivian is well and truly asleep, you leave.

On your way downstairs, you run into Darkbloom. You can't help wilting a bit under his gaze.

"There you are. I was looking for you. Were you in my daughter's bedroom?"

"Y-- yeah."

"I trust you were chaste and wholesome," he says.

You cough. "Of course. We watched a movie... I read her a story. She's asleep now."

(Eliding over some minor details, there.)

"The one with the prince?" He asks.

You nod.

He laughs. "That's her favorite. I'm surprised she let you read to her like that - usually she's a bit too proud for it these days. You're a nice boy, Alabaster."

He leads you the rest of the way downstairs, towards the backyard where the party is ongoing.

"But," he says as you near the sliding glass doors, "As much as I appreciate your presence in my home today, I did ask a favor of you. And you haven't delivered."

"I'm sorry?"

"You've been meeting with Camelia, and you haven't killed her yet." 

"Do you see that man, Alabaster?" Darkbloom points out a tall, grey-haired man in a navy blue suit, who's busy playing grab-ass with one of the bunnygirl waitresses. The waitress is obviously distressed, but also too timid to resist. You pass the two of them by as Darkbloom leads you back towards the orchestra. "That's the chief of the police department. I personally cut him a check for $100,000 to call off the BOLO for you and your girlfriend."

"Because of the cafe," you say.

"That's right. Whitney packs one hell of a punch, too - based on what I've heard of her. It's a shame you don't want her working for me. I understand why, but I'd dearly love to get to know her better. She would have such a bright future with this company, under my wing, if her energies were diverted in a more productive direction..."

"I get what you're saying," you cut in. "You can fix things if I do what you want me to. But why should I?"

Darkbloom stops and faces you. But you're not going to back down here: you're sick of being a pawn.

You press him. "Camelia wants you gone, you want her gone. Why am I the middle-man? Do it yourselves."

Darkbloom's stony expression cracks into the faintest of grins. "I see your point perfectly well, Alabaster. What kind of man would commit murder with no motive other than the say-so of his boss? Only a moral coward. You must come to your own decision based on your own reckoning. It's unreasonable to expect anything less."

He puts a fatherly hand around your shoulder and turns you 180 degrees so that you face his mansion again. He sweeps his other arm wide to indicate its grandeur. "The spoils of war should always be the knight's secondary motivation, distantly below honor and so forth," he says. "But there are spoils here too. The king's own castle, complete with a sleeping princess atop the spiral staircase." He turns his face to leer at you, close enough that he could kiss you on the cheek if he wanted.

"So there's that," he says. 

Mara approaches as David releases you from his grip. Even though she wears an ornamented brooch around her neck, you can see a hint of red at the apex of her throat. The vestige a bruise from when David choked her during the board meeting. In heels, she's taller than you, and she looks down her nose at you as if examining an insect that crawled onto her dinner plate.

"Did you enjoy my daughter's body?" She says coolly.

"Mara, don't be hard on the boy," Darkbloom says. He puts his hands on her shoulder and sways side to side with her, slow-dancing to the music. He tilts his head slightly to one side, gazing lovingly into her eyes. "Excellent choice of entertainment tonight, dear. I've simply never heard a bank robber hit such beautiful arpeggios."

"Would that I could say the same," she replies. "We must do something other than bunnygirls next time. It's so gauche, David."

He smiles and doesn't respond. Instead he leans in for a kiss -- one that Mara returns. Their moment of spousal intimacy lingers for just a bit longer than seems proper.

"Is that Isstein fellow here?" David asks, lacing his fingers through his wife's to dance more formally with her.

"He is."

They move in lazy circles around the lawn.

"He's got a rough campaign coming up," Darkbloom says. "How much does reelection cost these days?"

"He seems to think $1 million is a fair contribution on his behalf."

Darkbloom frowns. "Mara, you mustn't let these beltway types get too uppity. Is he still here? Let me speak to him."

Mara breaks their dancing to lead Darkbloom over to the congressman.

[ ] Accompany them.
[ ] Find Tyrus. [optional: ask about where Camelia is.]
>[x] Find Noelle.

You weave in and out of little pockets of partygoers, catching more snippets of conversation. It's the sort of conversation you never expected to hear in real life: plans for Senate campaigns, haggling between multibillion dollar tech CEOs, moaning about the recent admission of a Turkish man to the local country club. You hear one person wager a private island over the outcome of the Stanley Cup, so convinced he is that Las Vegas will win.

You're in the lap of high-powered degeneracy writ large.

Soon, you find Noelle sitting by herself at a folding chair underneath the shade of a small tree. Her serving platter is sitting on the grass beside her, full of empty champagne flutes. She's got her chin in her hands.

When she sees you, she blushes. But there's no hiding now. She doesn't try to leave.

"Hi," you say. You're not sure what else to say besides that. Start small, right?

"H-hi," she stammers, looking away.

"When did you become a waitress?" You ask. You pull up a chair and sit beside her.

She shrugs.

The sun is starting to set and her skin looks a bit pallid in the orange glow. She definitely isn't the kind of girl who decides to throw on a bunny costume and service billionaires on a whim. Her skin tone alone is evidence enough that her ideal weekend activity is being cooped up inside with her favorite TV shows, not mingling with the rich and famous.

"I do it every once in a while," Noelle says. "Mr. Darkbloom saw me in the server room when I started a few years ago and said I'd be perfect for these events..."

"Does it pay well?"

"I wouldn't be here if it didn't..." she says. "But it's so embarrassing to be seen by a coworker." She turns, looking you in the eyes, pleadingly. "Don't tell anyone about this, okay?"

You put one hand to your heart and raise the other one like you're taking an oath.

"I do solemnly swear," you say.

She smiles. Until:

"...On one condition."

She punches you in the shoulder. "You... you jerk. Blackmail? That's low!"

"It's in my nature," you say. "Sorry."

"Out with it, then. What is it?"

>[x] Touch fluffy tail.
[ ] How about grabbing a drink with me? 

You slowly extend your hand towards her.

Her eyes widen. "Don't -- d-don't you dare!"

You reach for her.

"Alabaster! I know what you're about to do, and I'm telling you not to do it!"

Your hand is getting closer...

"Alabaster!!"

"I... I can't help it!" You shout, feigning psychic agony. You grab your wrist with your other hand as if trying and failing to hold yourself back. "I've been... possessed... I must... obey..."

"Th-that's not funny! Don't you d--"

You reach through the gap between the chairback and the seat and touch her fluffy cottontail. It's soft and warm. You ruffle it playfully.

She sits bolt upright as if given an electric shock. "Gghh--" she chokes.

You wipe your forehead with the back of your palm and slide down in your seat, as if exhausted. "Whew," you say. "I feel so much better."

"You're just as bad as all the other perverts here!" Noelle yells. She swats your shoulder.

"Hey," you say, "that's quid pro quo. Now your secret is safe with me."

"I was going to give you a link to the leaked premiere of Magical Witchy," Noelle says. She folds her arms and harumphs, blowing her hair out of her face. "But now you can go shove it up your ass."

"It leaked?" You say.

"Yeah. And only a select few people have seen it. Yours truly included! You could have had an early in, but now..."

You give an exaggerated shrug. "Well, someone will post it on a public torrent site eventually. No big deal."

She kicks your foot with hers, and you get into a little kicking match. It ends when she dissolves into peals of laughter.

"You're not a very good bunnygirl," you tell her. "Most bunnygirls don't kick people, you know."

"You're right," she says. "I'm not. And I've had about as much of these rich people as I can stand,. Do you want to get out of here?"

[ ] Let's go to your place.
>[x] Let's get dinner.
[ ] Sorry, I have other plans. 

You duck away from the party and go around the side of the Darkbloom residence, towards the carport where all the guests are parked.

"Meet you there?" Noelle asks.

"Uh-- I should ride with you. I didn't come here in my own car."

"Oh," Noelle says. "O-Oh. Well... you see. You see, the thing is..."

The thing is that Noelle drives a rusted-to-shit 1998 Toyota Golf with the passenger side window missing - in its place, a black garbage bag secured by duct tape. The inside of her car is littered with junk - not garbage, but a bunch of useless stuff, piles of manga and DVDs, CDs, a couple cartons of bottled water, some dry cleaning bags with recently laundered outfits in them. That sort of thing.

"I'm so embarrassed," she says as you set aside a pile of cords and an old tablet from her passenger seat so you can sit.

"If it's any consolation, I've seen at least one or two cars in worse condition."

"If I knew I was going to have a passenger--"

"You definitely wouldn't have cleaned your car," you say.

"Yeah. You're right."

She looks at you. "Hey, get out for a sec. I need to change out of this ridiculous costume."

"What-- right here?"

"I'm not going out to eat dressed like a Playboy Bunny!"

You step out of the car. Since Vivian, uh, "relieved" you a little bit ago, it's easier to be on your best behavior as Noelle makes herself more presentable.

Still, you can't help taking a peek. Unfortunately for you, the windows are tinted enough that you can only see the vague outline of Noelle's form as she finishes getting dressed again. No real detail.

She leans over the console and opens the passenger side door. "I saw you looking, freak. Where do you want go eat?"

"Do you like subs?"

"Hell yeah. Let's go."

Since Noelle's budget is limited and you don't believe in paying for a date's meal, your options are slim. You suggest Subway, which she shoots down on principle; so instead, it's Jimmy John's.

You like this place well enough, but you don't see what the fuss is about. At least with Subway, you get to choose what kind of bread you want.

You and Noelle sit down to eat at a corner booth, making small talk about anime. It's pretty amazing how closely your tastes align. Not perfectly, of course - but more closely than most people you know.

"Did you hear about Comiket?" She asks.

"Yeah, they're invading America."

"San Francisco, specifically! Lots of Dojin groups are coming overseas to be there! It'll be amazing!"

"If you're suggesting what I think you are," you say, "you can forget it. I'm not a convention type of guy. Sorry."

Noelle pouts. "You've never been to one before?"

"And I never will."

"You're such a bore. If you got over yourself for ten seconds, you'd realize that cons can be pretty fun."

"There's a lot of fun things in this world. We can't experience all of them."

She groans.

>[x] Fine. If it's with you, I can endure it.
[ ] I'm standing firm. I won't go. 

Noelle groans again. "Quoting cookie-cutter doujin lines at me isn't helping your air of superiority," she says. "You'll fit right in with the other con-goers."

"I've never been more insulted in my entire life," you say. And it's true.

Noelle laughs. As she goes on about how great American Comiket is going to be, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You check the display. It's a notification from the tracking app you sneaked onto Rose's phone. It's alerting you that Rose is nearby. According to her location pin, she's across the street.

You look up, peering out the window. In the gloom of evening, it's impossible to see exactly where she might be camped out.

[ ] Engineer a way to bump into her and confront her.
>[x] Let her stay. 

She can watch if she wants, you decide. The only one she's hurting is herself.

"Is your phone more interesting than me?" Noelle asks.

"Huh?" You glance up at her.

"Honestly, people who get all absorbed in their phones instead of talking to the person right in front of them... those kinds of people really piss me off."

You put your phone away. "I'm a busy guy," you say. "It can't be helped."

"Is Mr. Darkbloom sending you eeeevil plans?" She asks. She makes a wiggly motion with the fingers of both hands.

"Now, why would he do that?" You say.

"I saw you rubbing elbows with him. Hey, it's pretty cool. I know a guy who's friends with one of the richest people on the planet!"

"Yeah, and I know his pet bunny."

Noelle turns beet red. She takes a piece of ice from her cup and chucks it at you. It slides down the front of your shirt, making you dance frantically with the cold shock of it against your skin, until you manage to shake it out.

You sit again, composing yourself. "I can neither confirm nor deny my friendship with him," you say. "But if I leave to go work on a world domination scheme, I'm sure you'll understand."

"Of course. And I'm sure you'll understand my foot up your ass," she counters. She's a lot less stiff and timid when you get to know her. 

Noelle's phone buzzes. She takes it from her pocket and checks it.

"Is your phone more interesting than m--" you begin.

"Mother shitter," Noelle says.

"Uh."

"I'm sorry. I just got some bad news." She puts the phone away.

"What is it?" You ask.

She sticks her tongue out. "My world domination scheme got foiled."

Your conversation continues for another hour or so. Your food is long since finished and your drinks are empty save for the meltwater from the ice. Your conversation flows so freely that you hardly notice the time passing.

You discuss work matters at length, specifically how strange Sable is. Then the topic of Ken comes up: Noelle wants to know what his deal is. You explain that he's some sort of westaboo, and the concept seems as bizarre to her as the concept of a round Earth was to ancient people. She can't wrap her mind around it.

"It's some prince and the pauper shit," she says. "He comes from the land of riches but he wants to slum it with American crap. What a nutjob."

"Not every American cartoon is terrible," you say.

"Really. Name a good one."

"The Simpsons."

She makes a face. "Six good seasons and seventy decades of the worst TV ever made. I swear that human beings haven't worked on it since at least the turn of the millennium. It's being perpetrated on us by a malevolent AI."

"Fair," you say. "But you still admit that it used to be good."

"Used to be."

"Well, that's what he likes."

She shakes her head, still not getting it.

And so it goes. Eventually it's another text to Noelle's phone that forces you to part ways.

"I'm sorry," she says. She stands. "I have to go deal with something. Can you get back home on your own?"

"I'll manage. Somehow."

"It's a really awful thing to do, I know. I'll make it up to you, okay?"

You lean back, lacing your fingers together. "Of course," you say. "You can make it up by wearing that bunny tail again on our next date."

Noelle walks over to the drink machine and dispenses a piece of ice specifically to throw it at you. This time you're prepared. You block it with your tray.

"See you later, freak," she says.

She leaves. Even if she says she's mad, she's smiling.

[ ] Hitch a ride with Rose.
>[x] Find your own way. 

You slip out the exit and hurry down the road. It isn't too much of a walk back to the apartment.

Glancing at the display on your phone, you see Rose's tracking indicator pulling up practically right next to you - but looking around, you can't see any trace of her, or her car. It freaks you out.

She was like this back in high school, too. Fucking Solid Snake levels of stealth when she wants to flex her stalker muscles.

A few minutes on, you pass a brick building with neon green graffiti on it that makes you do a double take. You walk backwards, turn and look directly up at it.

It's a sign that says:

>HEY DICKFACE ---> 

In hastily painted letters about ten feet tall. The arrow is directing you to an alley. The paint is still wet and running.

You can guess it's for you. And you can guess who did it.

>[x] You told Darkbloom off. Time to tell her off too.
[ ] Leave. 

You step into the alley.

It's empty, save for a couple dumpsters. Maybe the sign really wasn't for you?

But of course it was. Just before you leave, the lid of one of the dumpsters flies open and she pops up like a prairie dog. She's eating a loaf of bread.

"Jesus Christ," you say. "Should I start calling you Oscar?"

"Don't knock it till you try it," Camelia says. "Restaurants around here throw out perfectly good food all the time. It'd just go to waste otherwise!"

Her face is still badly bruised and her good eye sports a particularly nasty looking shiner. Whitney beat the living shit out of her.

"You know a lot about garbage, huh?" You say.

"Tyrus and his goons are morons," Camelia says. "Almost as bad as that dyke bitch who thinks she's your girlfriend. Sorry if they roughed you up."

"I don't care anymore," you say. "About him or about you, or about Darkbloom or anyone else. I'm neutral, you understand? Switzerland. I won't interfere with whatever it is going on between you and Darkbloom. I expect you not to interfere with me."

Camelia steps out of the dumpster. She squares up to you, but she's hardly threatening. "What if I told you that David Darkbloom is running the world's biggest child prostitution racket?" She says.

"He's..." you say. "No. He's really--"

"Nahhh," she says. "But that would be pretty bad, huh?"

You turn. "Goodbye, Camelia." 

She grabs your arm, stopping you. "Let me try again. What if I told you that he knew about the world's biggest child prostitution racket, and did nothing to stop it? Plus the world's biggest gun running racket, and the world's biggest drug cartels, and the world's most wanted terrorists, and the world's worst serial killers?"

You shake your head.

"Gal has all the evidence. Criminals talk, you know, Alabaster. They talk on Facebook, they email, they text. Darkbloom's got us all inside his own personal panopticon but he isn't pulling the trigger on any of these sick fucks. Why? That's supposed to be the trade, right, privacy for security. But we get neither. Why?"

"I don't know," you say. "I don't want to."

"Of course you don't want to. But you will. You can't escape it. We're kin."

"The world's full of bad people," you say. "I'm just looking out for me and the people who I care about." You step back. "Darkbloom offered me a lot of money to murder you. In case you were wondering, I turned him down. You should thank me."

"As if you could get your nut up to kill someone. Let's not kid ourselves."

"Well, he's offering me a hell of a lot more than you are. I'm done doing errands for you."

"No, Alabaster, let's get this straight. I don't expect YOU to do anything for ME. I expect you to do it for you. For your lovers. For your future children. For the world? Justice? But least of all me, anyway. Has nothing I've said gotten through to you? Do you actually pay attention to anything in the world around you? What do YOU want?"

"I want you to leave me alone," you growl.

Her good eye sparkles. "No you don't. I make things too interesting. Try again, and honestly this time."

"I don't know." You look away.

"I'll fuck you, if you want. I've got nothing better to do today."

You massage the bridge of your nose. "There's no way you're a real human."

"Sure I am. Just a bit sideways, that's all. Ooh, sideways - there's an idea."

Your phone buzzes again.

"You better get that," Camelia says. "It's probably important."

She turns and goes back to the dumpster. She lifts the lid and then hops inside.

"Wait--" you say. "Tell me Whitney's safe."

"She's safe," Camelia says. "I like a girl who fights back."

She closes the lid.

You check the phone. It's a text from Kay Vera:

>Can you meet me at my apartment tonight?

>[x] I'm on my way.
[ ] Sorry, no. 

Kay's apartment is pretty close, and it's on the way back home. You walk the rest of the way there.

Rose is still following you. It's starting to get a bit obnoxious, frankly.

Still... you sort of don't want her to stop.

Outside the gate, you ring the buzzer that corresponds to Kay's unit number. You don't get any vocal response, even though there's a speaker mounted above the buzzer - but a click lets you know that you've been invited up.

You walk a little ways down a winding concrete path lined with well-groomed grass and hedges, then up a set of stairs to apartment 221. (Somehow, that number feels wrong. Why?)

You knock, but there is no answer. You figure you might as well go for broke, and try the handle. It's unlocked.

You notice two things right away. First: Kay is lying on a mat on her living room floor, curled over herself like a scorpion, her feet dangling directly above her head. She's focused intently as she maintains her balance.

Second: the ceiling, walls, and floor are completely lined with foil. Copper garland is strung all over in a sort of grid-like pattern.

Lady, Kay's rottweiler, lies on a doggy bed, sniffing his crotch. At least he's not trying to maul you.

"Close the door," Kay says, her voice a bit strained - given that she's got most of her weight on her neck and chin. You do as requested.

"Oh my god..." you mutter. "You live inside an easy bake oven."

Lady gets up, walks over to you and sniffs you curiously. Finding nothing apparently objectionable, he walks over to Kay.

Imitating his master, he gets down on his chest, his front paws curled underneath him, his hind raising high into the air. This is his best attempt at this truly impressive scorpion pose Kay is holding.

"You look like something out of Oldboy," you tell her.

"Good taste," Kay says. "But I pull it off better."

"Seriously, what's up with all this foil?"

Kay unfurls her body and stands up, spritely and energetic. "It's a makeshift Faraday cage. No signals in, no signals out. Speaking of..."

She goes to her counter and pulls up a weird looking, homemade, boxy remote with an antenna on it. It has a single red button on it. She points it at you and clicks the button.

You hear an electric clkk-clkk and electricity arcs from the antenna.

"The hell was that?" You demand.

"EMP device. Your phone is dead."

"What the f--"

"Don't whine. It'll be fine in a few hours... probably."

Lady is weaving in and out of Kay's legs. She reaches down to ruffle his fur. "You came alone, right?"

"You're crazy," you say. "I know a lot of crazy people, too, but this takes the cake."

"It's not crazy," Kay says, "if they're really watching. And they are." 

"And who do you think is listening?" You ask.

"NSA, CIA, DA -- take your pick. I'm the woman who knew too much."

"Sounds scary," you say. "What do you want?"

"Just you. You're a popular man, after all. The more I piece together, the more your name keeps coming up."

"Get to the point. Popularity is keeping me busy right about now. And if you really did kill my phone, you might get an unwelcome visitor pretty soon."

Kay sighs. "You're on a mission, right? To steal my shit? Smuggle my findings back to that terrorist?"

"No," you say, truthfully. "I'm done working with her."

"That's fine," Kay says. "But I'm not done with you. Maybe you'll want to see what I've got."

You eye her suspiciously.

"Come with me," she says.

She leads you back - towards her bedroom. 

"Here you go," says Kay. "Take a look." 

You step up to the whiteboard. Your jaw goes slack. Your extremities feel weak. It's too much to take in all at once like this - you become nauseated with the shock of it. (https://i.imgur.com/CJbtFKj.jpg)

Mara Darkbloom and Camelia are both linked to the Russian mafia. Noelle is an FBI agent who intends to "interview" you and Cerise. Cerise is suspected of coordinating the 3-10 hack.

There is nothing intelligible you can say, except for this: "you've got to be fucking kidding me."

"It goes even deeper than this," Kay says. "I've only just begun to piece it together."

"How... just, how? Are you some kind of detective? FBI agent?"

"Quantico wanted me," she says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting up (why do all the girls in your life have to smoke?) "But after Afghanistan, I was sick of working for the government. That being said - if I could find this much, this quickly, working on my own... how far behind can the FBI be?"

"I'm going to be sick."

"It's a classic Gordian knot," Kay says. "The more I tug at it, the more complicated it becomes. More and more, I'm beginning to think the key to cutting through it all lies with one person in particular."

"Who?" You ask.

Kay points to a picture near the bottom of the board.

"Renee Carte..." you mutter. "Why do I recognize that name?"

"There is no 3-10 hack without Sable Guiteau," Kay says. "And there is no Sable Guiteau without Renee Carte."

That's right. Alex told you about this woman. She was Darkbloom's former R&D lead, forced from the company in disgrace.

Kay sighs. "I tried to talk to her yesterday, but she called me a two-bit MSM whore and suggested that I go fuck myself. Apparently she's the type who prefers alternative sources for her news."

"Renee Carte... Renee Carte..." you repeat. There's more to that name than the spark of recognition from what Alex told you. But what is it? You try to think, but come up short.

"She mentioned your name," Kay says. "Asked about you in particular."

"Me? Why me?" You say.

Kay shrugs. "Wouldn't say. If you want more than that - and I think you do... you should go talk to her yourself. She might be more receptive to you."

"Where is she?" You ask.

"Central California Women's Facility, maximum security wing. Serving a life sentence."

"For what?"

"She tried to murder Vivian Darkbloom."

END OF EPISODE 8. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, sexiest man alive now that Aniki is gone and bedtime story reader extraordinaire. 

March 10, 2014

Mom is washing dishes while you sit at the dining room table working on a homework assignment. History essays are such a drag...

"Make sure your sister eats tonight," Mom calls from the kitchen.

"Huh? Why me?" You ask. "Have you given up on feeding us?"

Mom tsks. "Don't you remember anything I tell you? It's your father and I's date night." You cringe inwardly at her bad grammar. "I didn't have any time to make dinner so the two of you will have to go catch-can tonight."

You look across the table. This would explain why Dad is busily reading the menu for Casa Familia, a local Mexican place.

"Cerise can feed herself, I'm sure," you say.

Mom comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands dry on an apron (that can't be hygienic). "Keep an eye on her, Alabaster. She's more depressed than usual right now."

"Being a leech is pretty depressing, yeah."

Mom folds her arms and scowls at you. "You're absolutely awful. Where did I go wrong?" She glances over her shoulder, back towards the kitchen, thinking. "There's leftover pie ala mode with homemade double-fudge ice cream from last night," she tells you. (Dessert for dinner Sunday always has metric tons of delicious leftovers by the end of it). "You and her can eat that."

"I always wanted diabetes," you say. "Sounds good."

She scowls at you, again. "Don't go thinking I care whether you enjoy it or not! I just don't want all that food to go to waste!"

You stand, brush past her, and check the fridge. The banana cream and white chocolate meringue pies from last night have barely even been touched, and they look exactly as mouth-watering as when they left the oven. At least you'll eat well tonight, even if Mom isn't going to be around. 

Mom stands in the doorway of the kitchen. "So please... make sure Cerise gets something on her stomach. All right?"

"Doesn't she get enough calories from all the beer she drinks?" You say. Before you close the door of the refrigerator, you notice you're running low on soda.

"Cerise needs our understanding," Mom tells you. "She's trying her best to find work. We should encourage her as much as possible."

"You can't coddle her forever," you say. "She won't find a job if she knows she can always live off you. It's time to cut the cord, don't you think? Kick her out already."

"Maybe I should kick YOU out! At least Cerise is grateful for my hospitality!"

"Yeah, she says she is. Anyway, if she can whore herself out on webcam, she feed herself too. Send a text to remind her if you're so worried about it."

Mom rolls her eyes. "What goes around comes around, Alabaster. One day your father and I will be gone and you'll be the one who needs Cerise's help. She'll remember how you treated her."

"I highly doubt that," you say. "On both counts. I'll never be desperate enough to need her help - and even if I did, she'd be too blackout drunk to remember five minutes ago, nevermind five years ago."

Mom shakes her head.

"Listen," you say. "I'm about to run out of Coke. Get me some on the way home from your date."

"Need me to shine your shoes, too?" She spits.

"If you're offering..."

She takes the dish towel from her shoulder and swats at you with it. "Fine!" She says. "I'll get your stupid drinks. But... but only because I was planning to stop and get myself some anyway."

"Of course," you say. You start towards the stairs, heading for your bedroom. On your way out, you glance her up and down. "Maybe make it Diet Coke for you, though," you say. "You could use it."

This is the last thing you ever say to her. 

---

"I'll come too, naturally."

"Excuse me?" You say. "No. Absolutely not."

You sit in Kay's living-room-turned-Faraday-cage, on a shitty faux-leather couch, absentmindedly petting Lady, who lies beside you. Once he gets to know you, Lady is a pretty docile creature. His face is in your lap and his brows are furrowed as he peers up at you.

Kay sits across from you in a recliner, sipping tea. She sets her cup on the table now and steeples her fingers. "I think you're forgetting what you told me a few days ago at that cafe."

"What? What does that have to do with anything?"

"A story about you and Rose--"

Almost as if on cue, there's a banging on the door. Lady's head perks up, and he starts barking madly. Kay stands, strides to the door, and gazes out the peephole.

She looks back at you. "Your sparring partner is here," she tells you. "And she's got a shotgun."

[ ] Tell her to go away.
>[x] Invite her in. 

"Everything is fine," you call through the door. "Go away, Rose."

"Prove it!" She calls back.

"What the fuck do you mean, prove it? I'm TELLING you--"

"Prove it! I need to see evidence that you're all right!"

You lay a hand on the knob to let her in rather than continue arguing. Kay stops you. "Are you sure she isn't going to start blasting as soon as you open that door?"

"90% sure," you say. Kay makes a face. "95%."

You open the door. Rose barges in, shotgun held in one hand at her side. She pushes the flat of her palm to your chest and looks you up and down as if inspecting a precious treasure for signs of damage.

That's when a black blur whizzes past your peripheral vision. Lady is airborne - and tackles Rose to the ground with a violent thud. He snarls and barks, his face right above Rose's. His foam slobber drips all all over her face. Only because Kay yanks him back by his collar, does Rose avoid getting mauled.

"What is wrong with you?" Rose screams, stumbling to her feet. She wipes the drool from her face with the back of her palm. "Keep that, that - ANIMAL away from me! I could sue!"

"And surely I have no legal recourse against a girl who brings a sawed-off shotgun into my domicile," Kay rejoins. She's still holding an excited, barking Lady back.

"Screw you, lady!" Rose shouts. "You dumb--" Rose stops herself short, glancing around, finally realizing how bizarre the surroundings of Kay's apartment really are. "Do you live in an Easy Bake oven or what?" she says when she can speak again.

Kay laughs. "Your boyfriend said the exact same thing."

"I am not her boyfriend," you insist, at the same moment Rose insists, "he is not my boyfriend!"

Kay sighs.

Lady is less crazy by this point, so Kay lets him free. He immediately puts his snout in Rose's crotch, sniffing loudly, and Rose has to awkwardly dance around the foyer to avoid him.

"Should I ask how you found me here?" You say, turning this way and that to watch Rose struggle against the animal.

"Someone's gotta keep their eye on you!" Rose says. She pushes Lady back and tries to hold him down, but no use. "Who knows what crime syndicate wants to kidnap you today?"

"Your cousin's got a point there," Kay says.

"Once removed!" You both shout.

Kay sighs.

"Honestly, Alabaster. Talking to the press. You could get us both fired!"

"How do you know she's press?" You ask. Lady really won't leave poor Rose alone. He's following her all around Kay's living room as you shut the front door and watch. "Were you talking to her, too?"

"Don't change the subject!" Rose says. "This isn't--" she notices the whiteboard sitting beyond the open door of Kay's master bedroom. She walks in, uninvited, and looks at it.

When she returns to the living room, she's a shade of pale green.

"Oh my god, Alabaster..." she says. 

A little while later, Rose is fully apprised of the situation. You intend to go to the prison where Renee Carte is staying, hitting the road first thing tomorrow morning so you can make it to visitation hours on Sunday.

"As I said, I'll come too," Kay adds.

You frown. "And as I said - no."

Kay shrugs. "I could always run that fluff piece about how you and Rose are using Darkbloom Analytics as your personal rape-fight playground."

Rose's right eye twitches.

"And of course," Kay says, "you're not the only ones who have ever talked to me. I've got sources all over. You might be surprised..."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You ask.

Kay grabs a tape recorder from a shelf on the other side of the room.

"My editors have been all crazy about the Russian angle to this hack story," Kay explains. "What with Mara Kerimov being connected to the Russian mob and all. I'm not sure if there's any connection to the Russian government in particular, but I did find at least one person who said some interesting things."

She clicks play. A tinny recording of her talking to a girl you recognize begins to play: 

"So you've been involved with Alabaster Soliloquy in a romantic sense for only a few weeks now?"

"I mean, I've been boinking him for a few weeks, yeah. But I've been laying low for years, just waiting for my chance!"

"Right. What do you say to the accusation that you're in league with the Kremlin?"

"I'm no freaking gremlin. Don't be crazy."

"But your personal history is - spotty, to say the least - and your apparent grasp on English is characteristic of a Russian national who learned it as a second language."

"Me, Russian? That's unpossible. Totally prepompsterous."

Kay begins to ask another question, but the sudden sound of a ringtone cuts her off. It's the Tetris theme.

"Whoops- sorry. I thought I put this thing on silent..."

She apparently picks up the call. "P, baby! How the heck are ya?"

"P?"

"Pyotor Petrovovich," she explains. "I just call him P, you know, like a codename. He's my handler."

"Oh my god..." Rose mutters, rubbing her forehead in frustration as she listens along. "Just, turn it off. I can't take this..." 

"I don't mean to strong-arm you," Kay says. She clicks the recorder off. "This kind of bullshit isn't what I want to waste ink on. What I really need to know is how this Renee Carte person is connected to the scandal. That's the key to everything. And like it or not, I'm gonna find out."

"You don't mean to strong-arm me, but you're going to blackmail me anyway," you say.

"Basically. Yes."

"Why do you care so much?" You demand. "You've got a juicy story either way, don't you?"

Kay sits back down, kicks back, pets Lady. "This detail is the difference between having a juicy story that keeps people talking for a week, or uncovering a truth so huge that my name goes down in history forever." Her eyes have an insane glint, a fire in them. "Fuck Woodward and Bernstein, fuck Edward R. Murrow. Fuck HL Mencken and especially fuck Randolph Hearst. This world is going to remember Kay Vera as the greatest journalist who ever lived." 

It's time to make a couple choices. Your Volt seats four people comfortably, and Kay has made it clear she's coming along for the ride.

That leaves you with two more spaces open. So... who do you want to take with you to visit Renee Carte in Prison?

>Alabaster will invite the top two choices.

>Cerise 
>Rose 

"Renee Carte..." Cerise says, back home. She's sitting on her bed, across from you. "Why do I recognize that name?"

"I don't know," you say. "She might have come up at work. She was Sable before Sable, apparently."

"No, it's not that," Cerise says. "It feels like I've met her before, somehow."

"She's been in prison for six years, so I don't know how that could be true. Still..." You frown. "I know what you mean. I kind of feel the same way."

Alex knocks on the door of Cerise's room. He pokes his head in. "Hey, Cerise? I was wondering if you wanted me to order some more pizzas tonight. Since it's the last night of the big sleepover and all... it's the least I can do."

[ ] Let Alex order, since he wants to feel like he's contributing.
[x] Offer to cook for everyone instead. 

"Don't waste your money," you say. "I'm sick of pizza, plus I just ate. Let's go with something else."

"Thanks for answering on my behalf, you asshole," Cerise says. "Did you forget that you're a guest in my home here? Isn't it me who should be making dinner plans?"

Alex furrows his brow. "Please don't fight... I'm sorry..."

You stand, shrugging. "It can't be helped. I'll have to show Alex the joy of dessert for dinner Sunday. Even you should be fine with that, right, Cerise?"

"It's Saturday," Cerise reminds you.

"Fine. Jesus. Dessert for dinner Saturday, then. The day of the week doesn't matter, you know..."

"It matters so much!" Cerise shouts. "There's no such thing as Dessert for Dinner Saturday! It's always Sunday!"

"Whatever," you grouse. "Then eat a piece of bread, call THAT your dinner, and you can consider this Dessert for Dessert Saturday. What's gotten into you?"

"I just want you to respect this family's traditions."

"I do," you say. "Unlike you, I actually learned a thing or two about how to bake."

"You should teach her!" Alex offers. "Pass on the family tradition!"

Cerise casts Alex a withering glare that makes him shrink back. But you like the idea. Cerise should learn how to make something other than instant noodles. 

In the kitchen, you root through Cerise's cabinets to see what you've got to work with. As expected, all she keeps on hand is shitty ramen and beer. You write up a long list of ingredients, walk to the living room and chuck the notebook at Rose.

"You ass!" She cries, rubbing her forehead where the metal spirals on the spine of the notebook hit her.

"Go to the store and pick that stuff up," you instruct her. "And be quick about it."

"I'm not your fucking maid," Rose hisses. She tosses the notebook back.

"I'll go," Alex offers, trying to defuse the situation.

"No," you say. "You can't cave in like that. Not with a person like Rose." You pick up the notebook and toss it back at Rose - this is quickly becoming a game of hot potato.

"I'm not going tolerate this kind of treatment," Rose says. "You are not going to push me around like some-- ghhh--"

She gets cut off by Whitney grabbing her hair and tugging her head back. Her expression is dazed as Whitney forces her to stare straight up at the ceiling.

Whitney leans over, putting her face over Rose's. "Let's go to the store," she purrs. "I'm not going to let you mess up a dessert for dinner night. It's been way too long."

"F-fine... just... l-let go of me..."

Whitney lets go, and Rose snaps upright again, rubbing the back of her head where Whitney held her so roughly.

"You guys are... kind of weird," Alex says.

"We'll be right back!" Whitney says, saluting you. "You can count on us!" She grabs Rose by the hand and tugs her up. They leave together, Rose still grousing. 

You go back to the kitchen and pull out the pots, pans, mixers and other implements you'll need for cooking. They're the same ones mom used, back then... Cerise kept them, even though she never uses them herself.

The sight of them fills you with warm thoughts. But also some bitter ones, too.

You try to put it all out of mind.

All this stuff is stashed away in the lower cabinets, well out of reach, and by the time you have it sorted out, you're already feeling a little bit daunted. Now you have to clean this stuff too, since it's been kept in dusty storage for so long.

Hopefully, cooking invigorates you. Usually, it does.

"Mr... Mr. Ally?"

You turn your head. Alex is standing at the threshold of the kitchen, bare naked - except for the apron from Cerise's maid costume, which just barely covers his intimate parts.

Cerise appears now, standing behind Alex. Her arms are folded, and she grins like a lioness above a felled gazelle.

"Alex offered to help us tonight," she says. "Isn't that right?"

He nods, silent, blushing.

[ ] We can't let him wear this. Rose and Whitney could be back any minute.
[x] All right. Looks like you'll be helping us, Alex. 

You go back to the kitchen and pull out the pots, pans, mixers and other implements you'll need for cooking. They're the same ones mom used, back then... Cerise kept them, even though she never uses them herself.
 
The sight of them fills you with warm thoughts. But also some bitter ones, too.
 
You try to put it all out of mind.
 
All this stuff is stashed away in the lower cabinets, well out of reach, and by the time you have it sorted out, you're already feeling a little bit daunted. Now you have to clean this stuff too, since it's been kept in dusty storage for so long.
 
Hopefully, cooking invigorates you. Usually, it does.
 
"Mr... Mr. Ally?"
 
You turn your head. Alex is standing at the threshold of the kitchen, bare naked - except for the apron from Cerise's maid costume, which just barely covers his intimate parts.
 
Cerise appears now, standing behind Alex. Her arms are folded, and she grins like a lioness above a felled gazelle.
 
"Alex offered to help us tonight," she says. "Isn't that right?"
 
He nods, silent, blushing.
 
"You came at the right time," you tell Alex. He can't even maintain eye contact with you. "Get these dishes washed for me, okay?"
 
You indicate the pile of cooking utensils in the sink.
 
"Ah-- I--" Alex stammers. He knows if he stands at the sink, you'll have a clear view of his backside.
 
"Come on," you say. "They're not going to wash themselves."
 
Alex steps uncertainly to the sink, turns on the tap, and gets to work. He's diligent, despite the embarrassing circumstances, and cleans each item with exacting attention to detail before setting it in the dish strainer off to the side.
 
You stand behind him, leaning your tailbone against the countertop opposite the sink, watching. Cerise joins you. Alex's perfectly round and smooth butt bounces in time to his scrubbing. You can see just the very tip of his penis hanging down from between his legs.
 
The kitchen is tiny, and Alex can clearly hear your conversation, but that doesn't stop Cerise whatsoever:
 
"How did you find such a perfect trap to turn into a fuckbuddy?" She says. Alex tenses at this. "I can't believe someone like him could really exist."
 
You shrug. "Lucky, I guess. You should thank Whitney, though. She's the one who got me into his pants."
 
"Trust me, I'll definitely thank her. That dumb skank finally did something useful."
 
You turn to look Cerise in the eye. "I want to be clear here," you say, "I'm not gay."
 
"Of course you're not," Cerise says, licking her lips. She steps forward and puts her hands on Alex's shoulders. Alex goes rigid. He's blushing so hard you can see even the back of his neck turning a bit red -- he's utterly mortified.
 
You realize that Cerise, who isn't THAT tall for a girl, is still a little bit taller than Alex. There's no denying it: Alex was made to be bullied around.
 
"Who could fault you for wanting to have sex with a pretty little thing like this?" Cerise says, petting the top of Alex's head. "Any man would."
 
"Exactly my point," you say. "I'm glad at least someone understands." As nonchalant as the conversation is, you can feel your cock hardening by the second.
 
Cerise squats down, and unceremoniously lays a hand on either globe of Alex's ass. She spreads the cheeks now, baring the pale pink rosebud of Alex's hole. "...And who could fault you for wanting to get inside a gorgeous pussy like this?" Cerise breathes.
 
Alex makes a choked "chhh--" sound. He shivers.
 
"I didn't tell you to stop working," you tell him sternly.
 
With trembling hands, Alex does his best to keep cleaning the dishes. It's hard for him with both you and Cerise examining his asshole, and he works at a slow pace. He keeps making uncertain, fearful little whinnies too.
 
"It's so small..." Cerise says. Her voice is full of lust and wonder. "You really got your dick inside him? You made it fit?"
 
"All the way," you say. "He opens up pretty nicely if you use a little force."
 
Cerise curls her lips into an O and blows a few quick breaths against Alex's opening. He bows his head, knees knocking together, hardly able to take even this minor stimulation.
 
"That is so cute," Cerise says, grinning broadly. "I really want to see what he's like with some dick up him... I want to see you fuck him..."
 
"Mr. Ally..." Alex whines, as if asking for help. But no help is going to come.
 
Cerise surprises you: she leans in, sticks her tongue out, and licks Alex's asshole. Alex moans and bucks his hips wildly, as if trying to escape, but Cerise has him pinned against the sink. You hear for a few moments the wet slurping sound of Cerise's searching tongue. You see the erotic sight of her face buried in Alex's ass, working him over. Alex's little dick is as hard as you've ever seen it, and you glimpse him pressing it against the door of the cabinet below the sink, writhing a bit, getting some minor relief from the pressure of his own weight.
 
Cerise pulls back. Alex's boypussy is wet and shiny with her saliva in the fluorescent lighting.
 
She looks up at you. "He's ready... fuck him, Alabaster. Shove your dick in him..."
 
You're ready, too. You pull your pants off, your boxers too, leaving yourself naked from the waist down. You get in position behind Alex, bracing yourself against his shoulders.
 
"Be... be gentle..." he begs you.
 
Cerise doesn't get up. Instead she settles down, sitting on her butt directly beneath you and Alex. She cranes her head up, watching where the two of you are about to be mated.
 
She proves to be an enthusiastic helper here, too. Before you reach down for your throbbing cock to guide it home, Cerise is already there. She grabs you with one hand and guides the tip of your dick to Alex's quivering hole. There's something demented but deliciously perverted about your older sister helping you rape this defenseless boy, and it makes you tingle with pleasure at the thought of it.
 
"Do it," she breathes.
 
You do it. You slam forward, forcing your cock past the puckered outer ring in one thrust. Alex opens up for you like a trained whore. His voice is staccato and girlish as he moans to the sensation of being raped.
 
Cerise watches transfixed at the lewd sight inches from her face. Her jaw hangs slack and her eyes glimmer, unblinking. You glance back, and see that at some point she tugged her pants down just far enough to expose her plump pussy. She has both hands working it at a frenzied pace. One hand fondles her clit while the other works three fingers in and out. The sound of your sister masturbating adds to the obscene sound of your cock squelching in and out of Alex's soft, tight fuckhole. His insides are like velvet against you.
 
Even though he asked you to be gentle with him, you're not: you slam in and out of him, desperate to find your own relief, banging Alex roughly against the cabinets and sink. The tap runs unattended, Alex having given up all pretense of actually washing the dishes - he's as pliable as clay in your hands, unable to do anything but let you fuck him as you may.
 
"Ally... Ally..." he says. His voice is small and stuttering. "Please... p-please s-- please s--"
 
"Out with it," you grunt, still fucking him.
 
"P-please say mean things to m-me..."
 
Below you, Cerise hisses. "Fffuck," she says. "Fuck!" You hear a little splatter and see that she's cumming all over her own hands.
 
You're not sure how to do demeaning sex-talk properly, but you try to imagine the sorts of things you like to say to Rose. So you end up treating Alex pretty much like a slutty girl instead of a boy:
 
"You're a cunt," you tell him. You let your voice drip with malice and harshness. "You're a dirty, worthless whore. You're my fuckdump... thank me for turning you into a slut!"
 
Alex's ass tightens around you with every nasty word you call him, and he finds the energy to fuck back against you. He enjoys being abused. "Thank you!" he cries, panting, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Thank you! Thank you for making me a slut!"
 
You can see, over his shoulder, the front of the apron staining darkly. Alex is ejaculating from your abusive words.
 
"I'm gonna cum," you say, warning Cerise. "It could be messy..."
 
"Do it!" Cerise shouts, still masturbating, totally lost in a sea of debauchery - not caring what happens next.
 
"You hear that?" You tell Alex. "I'm going to blow my nuts inside you now."
 
"Thank you! Thank you!"
 
You feel a new sensation: Cerise fondling your heavy balls, her fingers still wet with her own cream -- encouraging you to commit this ultimate act of defilement on Alex. That pushes you over the edge. With a groan of delight, you seat yourself as deep up Alex's insides as you can get and blow a hot load into him. You cum and cum and cum, your vision going white and dizzy. When you can see straight again, and look down, you see your cum running in fat rivulets all around the tight ring of Alex's slut ass. It's dripping on Cerise's face - you're indirectly cumming all over your own sister's face. And she couldn't be happier. She's cumming herself fucking stupid, gasping, turning her head side to side, shaking all over.
 
"Thank you... thank you..." Alex repeats over and over. "Thank you..."
 
You pull out with a loud plop and the rest of your slimy semen runs from Alex's ruined asshole, onto Cerise's face. Without you to support him any longer, Alex collapses in a heap on the ground, lying in Cerise's lap.
 
When he looks up, weakly, he sees what's happened. "I'm sorry..." he stammers. "I made such a mess..." and immediately he gets onto his weak, still-knocking knees to lick it clean. He licks your cum off Cerise's face and swallows it dutifully while Cerise frigs three or four more orgasms out of her spasming pussy. The tile floor is dripping with her cum. When her face is clean, Alex gets down on all fours to lick this puddle up too, moaning like a sow into the ground.
 
Cerise leans her head against the cabinet, breathing ragged. "See?" She pants. "I knew he'd be good at cleaning..."
 
You could get used to Saturday evenings like this.

"Give me the chocolate, Cerise."

Cerise hands you a few boxes of semisweet chocolate. You add it to the pan and let it melt down, slowly stirring. "And with just a little cream, it becomes completely delicious," you say, summing it up. "Even a moron like you should be able to make something this simple." You pour in the heavy cream.

Next, you roll out some pie crusts. "I'm making three, so I'll let you choose one," you say. "But only one! And, uh, only because I can't decide. Alex, you can choose one too."

"Make something with white chocolate, Ally!" says Alex, bouncing up and down on the stool. You hand the whisk to him and let him stir for a little bit - he likes to help.

He's still wearing his naked apron getup. Rose and Whitney haven't seen yet, but they'll probably lose their shit if they do.

"Cherry pie sounds good too," Cerise says. "I've got a craving for it."

You smile to yourself as you work the rolling pin. Cooking brings out your softer side. "That's my favorite," you hum. "Hey, do you know that Cerise is French for Cherry?"

"Of course I know that. You might not respect my intelligence, but don't treat me like a fucking retard. As if I don't know what my own name means?"

You grimace. "Excuse me for trying to make conversation with you! You won't catch me making that mistake again!"

You grab a bag of frozen cherries from the freezer. "All I'm saying is that cherries always make me think of you," you say. Then, realizing yourself, you quickly add: "--which is why I usually don't bother with them..."

"Guys..." Alex pouts. "Please don't fight. I want you two to get along like brother and sister should!"

It continues like this for several hours. Eventually, Cerise actually has a pretty solid understanding of some simple cooking techniques, the same ones passed on down from mom to you.

"We'll make a marriageable wife out of you yet," you say. "I'm sure there's someone out there who'd be stupid enough to let you have them, as long as you learn a few basic skills..." 

#1

The melody of Skype's incoming call music may as well be nails on chalkboard to Galatea, who startles and rips her headphones off just as soon as she hears it.

The call rings and rings while Galatea drips fluid into her vape pen, shoves it in her mouth and nurses it like a kid sucking her thumb. She considers closing Skype completely, deleting her virtual machine, nuking her hard drive, leaving the state, changing her name, moving to Pluto.

After a few moments, the call disconnects.

>SakurdaDokuhaku: Are you okay?

She shakes her head. She's pretty fucking far from okay.

But she made a promise. She sets her vape pen aside, takes a deep breath. She puts her headphones back on.

>gman: sorry i got nervous haha
>SakuraDokuhaku: We don't have to do this if you don't want to. 

Galatea bites her lip.

>gman: no i want to

The ringtone plays again. Galatea forces herself not to rip off her headphones this time. Her finger hovers over the left button of the mouse - hesitating - and the call is just about to drop again when she answers.

Cerise appears on the screen. Galatea has seen plenty of photos but this is the first time she has ever seen the flesh-and-blood Cerise in motion. Cerise's warm smile calms her fluttering heart.

"Hi," Cerise says. "It's good to see you."

Galatea blinks. For a brief moment, she had forgotten that her cam is on, too.

She stares down and to the side, fighting the urge to hide.

"Still doing okay?" Cerise asks. "Gal?"

Galatea nods. "i'm sorry," she says.

"For what? Remember what we said about apologizing for no reason."

"you're right. i'm sorry."

Cerise lets that one slide.

This is her first time seeing Galatea, ever - Cerise didn't have the benefit of photos beforehand, like Galatea did of her. "You're cute," Cerise tells her, practically crooning.

Galatea shakes her head no. She disagrees, vehemently.

"Hey, are you calling me a liar? All this time you kept saying you were fat and ugly and gross. But you're like a Greek goddess or something! You're cute!"

Despite herself, Galatea smiles. 

#10

By now, Galatea is consistently picking up on the first ring. She isn't fully over her anxiety - on bad days, it doesn't permit her to cam with Cerise, relegating them back to IMing - but on the days when she feels up to it, she doesn't hesitate to answer.

Seeing Cerise's face is quickly becoming the highlight of Galatea's day. Cerise feels the same about her.

They keep each other honest. One of the first things Cerise asks is: "did you eat today?"

When Galatea shakes her head no, Cerise is understanding and patient, but firm. "Go get something to eat. You're going to make yourself sick if you don't. Especially with all that goddamn vaping you do."

"vaping doesn't make you sick. in fact, studies show that it's not only safer than smoking, it has potential health benefits that--"

Cerise cradles her head in one hand. "For the love of God, Gal, you're great, but shut up. Go eat."

She goes and gets a toaster strudel that Cerise makes her finish every single bite of before she even thinks of picking up that ridiculous vape pen again.

Later in the same conversation, it's Galatea keeping Cerise honest. When Cerise cracks yet another beer bottle, Galatea says: "how many is that tonight?"

"Huh? Just three."

"erm..." Galatea begins.

"Okay, maybe more like five or six. It's fine. I have a pretty high tolerance."

"i don't want you to pass out at your desk again," Galatea says timidly.

Cerise frowns.

"please... if you're thirsty... think about having something else"

Cerise sighs, squirming in her seat, but listens to Galatea. She gets up, leaves the room, and returns with a glass of water.

"Happy?" She says.

"mm"

"Sheesh. You're like my mother sometimes." Cerise grouses as she tips her head back to take a sip. 

#21

Galatea calls Cerise. This is a first.

"Hey Gal," Cerise slurs. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are shining bright red, her eyes are droopy - obviously drunk. More than usual, even.

"cerise..."

"Wanna do something? Let's watch TV. That's not getting boring."

Galatea is uncertain. She can tell Cerise is sad, on-edge -- distraught.

"i called to say happy birthday"

"You too," Cerise says. Then she pauses for a beat, confused at herself, before cackling. "Oh my god. I'm an idiot. You too! I can't believe I said that. You too! Hahaha-- hic."

Even though Cerise is laughing, Galatea knows she isn't having a good time.

"did you get the letter?"

"No. You sent it like five days ago, you said... didn't you? Did you really send me something? Nevermind." Cerise folds her arms on the desktop and lays her head down. "Sleepy..." she says.

"it should be there soon"

"Uh huh. I'm so FUCKING old right now. I'm 24 years old. Holy shit."

"that's not old"

"I'm ancient. I'm gonna be a fucking Christmas C-- oh my God. I'm gonna turn into Unstable Sable. Can you imagine? I'm gonna turn into a weird dungeon troll. I'm gonna be a high-tech spinster. Oh god..."

Galatea gets up from her chair and roots through her closet. Even though this must be audible to Cerise, Cerise doesn't bother to raise her head off the desktop to look.

Only when Galatea returns and Cerise can see her from her peripheral vision does she realize what Galatea is really up to.

She has a beautiful mahogany cello between her knees and the bow set upon the strings.

Cerise slowly sits upright again, watching Galatea, hardly able to believe it. She's been begging Galatea to play for her, basically since they met - but Galatea has always steadfastly refused. 

#21 Continued

"i'm sorry my letter didn't get there in time... please accept this as your present instead"

Cerise has one hand over her mouth as she expectantly waits.

"it won't be very good... please don't laugh... i haven't played in a very long time..."

"I would never," Cerise says, trying hard not to cry with happiness. She knows perfectly well how difficult it is for Galatea to pick up her instrument again, after everything that happened in the past.

And she's doing it all for Cerise's sake.

Gently, Galatea begins into a slowed-down cello version of one of Cerise's favorite character songs. It's not a composition originally meant for the cello, but it's a breathtaking rendition all the same. Cerise closes her eyes and listens along, fighting back the wooziness of inebriation to immerse herself in the sound. It's better than she could have ever imagined - she truly understands now how Galatea got into Juilliard. It's such a shame that tragedy kept her from fulfilling that destiny.

Galatea has another surprise: she begins to sing, too. It's lilting, slow, almost mournful interpretation of the original.

The lyrics are Japanese, but Cerise knows them, and their translation, by heart.

>I'd like to try having a dream great enough to change my existence.

"Gal... you never said you could sing."

>If I connect it to emotion and empathy, I'll stand by the window.

"This is... oh my god, Gal..."

>And as I'm embraced by tranquility, again I'll be waiting for tomorrow.
>It falls gently: not water, but a lonelier drop.
>In a world without color, I found you: You are a star.

Galatea pauses in her fingering and bowing, and looks up from the frets to gaze into Cerise's eyes.

Cerise is definitely crying now, she can't hold it back. "I love you," she tells Galatea.

Galatea says the next part in English. "Should a crisis approach, first, it will reach you."

And then she shreds. She's an awesome cellist. 

#42

Galatea takes her laptop with her to bed, and Cerise does the same. This is becoming a nightly ritual: sleeping "together," lying in bed facing their screens, drifting off over webcam.

It's the next best thing to actually being in the same room together.

"You're so close," Cerise says as she snuggles up underneath her covers.

"i know..." Galatea replies dreamily, also snuggling up.

But Cerise isn't trying to be cheerful. "I mean you live so close to me. I want to visit you. Just once."

Galatea can't even respond to this. She always shuts down when Cerise brings it up.

"I'm sorry. Forget I said anything."

"do you hate me?" Galatea asks.

"No. I don't hate you."

"you should"

Cerise pokes the lens of her webcam with an index finger as if booping Galatea playfully. "Don't be like that. No I shouldn't."

Even though Galatea loves to fall asleep with Cerise, she also kind of dreads it. Because every afternoon when Galatea wakes up again, she's greeted by a lonely webcam shot of Cerise's empty bed. It means Cerise is already gone for work, being a productive member of society, and Galatea has to wait for many hours before seeing her again.

"will you stay home with me?" Galatea asks.

"You know I can't."

Galatea bows her head. "i'm pathetic"

"It's fine. So am I... I'll text you a lot at work, okay?"

"ok"

"I'll come home a little early if I can."

Galatea smiles.

It isn't long before she's dozing. Cerise watches her for a very long time. 

#81
 
"I'm feeling pretty accomplished today," Cerise says. "I shaved. I'm not a gross fucking yeti anymore."
 
Galatea busies herself playing with some crystals on her desktop. "wow, cool" she says. "i don't need to shave that much but i try to keep on top of it"
 
Cerise laughs. "I'm worse with personal grooming than the hikki NEET. Awesome."
 
"how much do you shave?" Galatea asks.
 
"I dunno, I don't have a schedule or anything--"
 
"no i mean like what parts do you shave"
 
Cerise is briefly taken aback. Galatea isn't even looking at the camera - not that she seems particularly abashed to ask such a personal question, it's just that she seems more interested in the trinkets that she's occupying her hands with.
 
"The usual stuff," Cerise says after a turn. "Legs, pits, you know..."
 
"down there?"
 
Cerise huffs. "Yes, Gal. You weirdo. Down there. It just feels better if it's smooth."
 
"yeah, i agree"
 
"You shave your pussy?" Cerise says. "Bullshit. That's way too much effort for your lazy ass."
 
"no, it's not too bad... i do it when i'm bored... i like the way it feels"
 
"Prove it," Cerise says.
 
Galatea isn't distracted anymore. She's looking at the cam like a deer in headlights.
 
"Show me," Cerise reiterates. "I want to see what qualifies as smooth in your book."
 
"nooo," Galatea drawls, not a refusal, but more like: "I can't believe you're asking me to do that."
 
Cerise lifts the waistband of her sweats and cranes her neck to look down her own pants. "Maybe it's just because I'm proud of my own work and want to show off," she says airily. She looks back up into the cam. "I'll show you mine..."
 
Galatea spends several long moments in contemplation. Finally, she pushes back from the desk, towards the foot of her bed. As the seat of her chair comes into view, it becomes apparent that she's naked from the waist down.
 
Cerise can't contain her laughter. "Jesus. You pervert. You talk to me naked like that all the time, or what?"
 
"sometimes... a lot of the time..."
 
Galatea still has her thighs pressed together. They're pale, almost anemically so, and fleshy -- but overall still thin, and her pussy mound is partially visible. She picks the cam up off her monitor and brings it in for a closer view. At the same time, slowly, she spreads her legs. A tiny pink slit, perfect innie, reveals itself, its lips coming unstuck from one another like a sticker peeling off paper.
 
"see?" she says. She was telling the truth. She's totally smooth and hairless.
 
"I'm jealous," Cerise says, leering. "Your cunt deserves a trophy or something."
 
Galatea giggles. "it's nothing special"
 
"Yes it fucking is. I'm not gay and even I'd eat you out."
 
Galatea turns the webcam so her skeptical face fills the frame. "who's the pervert now?" she demands.
 
"You, definitely. No one with a pussy like that can be anything but a pervert."
 
Galatea giggles again. "well it's your turn now" She scoots back up to her desk and mounts the webcam back where it was on her monitor. No more peep show for Cerise.
 
Cerise stands and shimmies out of her pants. Whatever inhibitions she had are gone. She sits again, but kicks her ankles up on the desktop, angling her tailbone so her cunt is in full view of the webcam. With a lazy index finger, she indicates that her own mound is smooth and pristine too. Her labia are turned partially outwards, and they're darker shade of pink than Galatea's -- bordering on mauve -- an effect amplified by the fact the lips are engorged and pulsing with growing lust.
 
"are you wet?" Galatea says.
 
Cerise doesn't answer that, because the answer is obvious.
 
She doesn't end the show quite as quickly as Galatea did, either. Galatea sits there silently, staring at Cerise's pussy in unconcealed wonderment - she breathes strangely and her glasses literally begin to fog over. Cerise runs a flattened palm around her pubic mound and playfully spreads the lips a time or two to demonstrate her dripping insides to the camera.
 
It's Cerise who finally breaks the silence: "Wanna watch me masturbate?"
 
#90
 
Their setup is pretty sweet - Galatea's idea. The stirrups are a bit kinky but they're for purely practical purposes: they've both had some unfortunate accidents where they slid out of their chairs at the height of their pleasure. Keeping their ankles secure is only logical.
 
The remotely-controlled vibrating dildos are definitely less practical, though: that's just for the purely perverted fun of it. Cerise has the remote for Galatea's and Galatea has the remote for Cerise's.
 
One half of the screen is the Skype cam window, and the other half is a video stream-sync app that lets them watch the same thing at the same time. Cerise chose tonight's entertainment, so of course it's something to do with traps. Galatea doesn't fully see the appeal, but it's got dicks in it, and that's good enough for her.
 
Cerise runs her thumb back and forth on the intensity dial, sending little bursts of vibration through the deepest parts of Galatea's pretty pink cunt. Cerise can hardly believe such a tiny hole fits a dildo that big. It fascinates her, watching Galatea stretch to accommodate it whenever she puts it in. The way Galatea winces at first, grits her teeth and bears it, and then: the dopey smile of sexual relief when she has it inside and she adjusts to being full. Galatea is an absolute doll, a waifish little cumslut in training. Watching her stuff herself with a rubber cock like that makes Cerise shudder.
 
"Darling," Cerise repeats as she watches Galatea writhe, "such a fucking darling..."
 
Galatea of course has a tool of her own to strike back with. She jams on the intensity button controlling the dildo shoved deep up Cerise's cunt.
 
"Ffff--" Cerise hisses, throwing her head back. The movie hasn't even started yet.
 
When it does, Cerise can hardly choose which side of the screen to focus on: the animated debauchery of her favorite hentai, or the lewd sight of Galatea cumming all over herself. Cerise strums her own clit and basks in the nasty show, her brain totally overloaded and overstimulated.
 
"cum cum cum cum cum" Galatea repeats, drooling. She's never very articulate on her best days, but when she's got a dick in her, she's fucking stupid. Cerise loves it.
 
Cerise is trying to enjoy the scene of a fat cock pushing into a trap's defenseless boypussy; two men pinning the little thing between them and using both of the trap's holes without mercy. But Galatea, formerly so shy, is doing everything she can to keep Cerise's attention on her. Now Galatea reaches up with one hand, wraps her delicate fingers around her delicate throat, and squeezes.
 
It's Galatea's favorite way to masturbate. In fact, she can hardly make herself cum without it - without choking herself almost into unconsciousness. She doesn't show any mercy on herself, and her face turns a weird shade of purple, as Cerise creeps the vibration dial ever upwards, and Galatea tightens her grip accordingly. Cerise wiggles her hips to enjoy the buzzing dildo inside her own pussy as Galatea abuses herself.
 
Cerise sets the vibrator to max and watches in squealing delight as Galatea cums so hard she wets herself. The puddle under her ass spreads and deepens and she either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She's throttling herself so hard her tongue is flopped out and her eyes are rolling back. Absolutely destroying her shame and inhibition is practically Cerise's favorite hobby now. Seeing Galatea brought to this sorry state makes Cerise's own cunt spasm and cream in delicious climax.
 
Cerise presses the special button now - the button that activates the ersatz cock's ejaculation feature. A creamy white burst of warmed-up lotion spurts wetly into Galatea's pussy. The force of it is actually audible, a deep squelch that resounds on the mic. Galatea lets go of her throat, gasping for air, and stammers: "fuck, fuck-- cum inside me... cum inside me cerise... cum inside me cerise..."
 
Even as totally fucked-out and ruined as Galatea's mind is right now, she has enough synapses still functioning to hammer on the ejaculation button of her remote, too. Cerise shivers as the pulses fire off, one after another, deep inside, hot and wet. Her belly fills up. A tingly warmth spreads through her insides. She can feel the head of the dildo expand and contract as it seeds her, and distantly she imagines that this must be what getting fucked for real is like.
 
Her imagination is awash in a senseless slideshow of images: men raping vulnerable little traps in dresses, covering them in nasty cum; Galatea magically with a cock pinning her down and breeding her out, Cerise's head being pushed into the bed, a wide grin on her face and an even wider grin on Galatea's as her tongue lolls out and she fires off; then in reverse, her on top of Galatea now, Galatea defenseless; choking her viciously as Galatea struggles beneath her; then a different face resolves that she tries to bid away, but never can, Alabaster, pinning her to a wall somewhere, maybe an alley, blowing an incestuous load in her without a care in the world. And now to Cerise this fake cock is definitely Alabaster's, no one else's, this expanding head and this messy load of semen dripping from her pussy is Alabaster's; he's knocking her up and she doesn't want it but she absolutely does, needs it even, she's cumming hard on her little brother's spurting cock.
 
She briefly passes out. So does Galatea.
 
"Wow..." is all Cerise can say when she comes to. Galatea is panting like a dog, her sweat-sheened chest heaving up and down.
 
The buzzing dildo still stuffed inside Galatea's pussy. The fake cum runs lewdly out of her, mingling in the puddle under her ass.  "again?" she says.

#124

"My fucking brother won't shut up about Rose. Rose this, Rose that. It's like... if you hate her so much, stop fucking talking about her."

"how annoying"

Galatea is wandering around her room, trying to tidy up -- Cerise's orders.

"It gets like this every time the semester is about to end. He doesn't want to go back to living in her house."

"hmm... can't he do summer classes?"

"Pah," Cerise laughs. "The one thing Alabaster hates more than Rose is exerting effort. He'd never do summer school."

Galatea almost trips on a pile of dirty laundry. She catches herself against the back of her chair. She leans in with her face real close to the camera now. "what about an internship?" she says.

"With his grades? No one would hire him."

"your company?"

"Definitely not."

"i mean if you put in a good word for him"

Cerise frowns. "But then I'd have to be his coworker."

Galatea smiles. "would you hate that so much?"

"Of course!"

"it's always alabaster this, alabaster that with you... if you hate him so much... stop fucking talking about him"

"I could slap you right now!"

"yes please"

Cerise shakes her head. But Galatea has a point. It might be good for Alabaster to get some work experience. 

---

You lean against the countertop, nearly out of breath, your face and shirt caked with flour. Alex - himself not in much better shape - nonetheless is quick to grab a magazine and fan you. Always the helpful assistant.

"Iron chef over here," Cerise muses. She glances back at the oven where the pies are baking. "Good job -- really. I didn't know you had it in you."

"I'm so impressed, Ally! You have to do that more often! I never knew you had such hidden talent!"

You wave him off. "I'm never doing that again," you grumble. "I forgot what a pain in the ass it is. Ask Cerise to do it for you next time."

The timer dings. Cerise dons a pair of oven mitts. She grabs the pies from the oven one by one, gingerly setting them down on the stovetop.

She reaches a finger towards one to taste it but you swat her hand away.

"Jerk," she says.

"Don't touch it. You have to let them sit for a few minutes."

Cerise rolls her eyes. So impatient.

"In ten minutes, you guys can serve," you announce "I'm beat. I'll be in the living room."

"Yes sir!" Alex laughs, giving you a mock salute. Cerise swats him on the ass playfully. His spine goes stiff with shock. 

Rose is in the living room, working on the sensitivity training powerpoint on her laptop. Honestly, doesn't she have anything better to do? You really despise her sometimes.

Meanwhile, Whitney busies herself by setting up TV dinner trays. It should go without saying that Cerise has nothing like a dining table in her house. These will have to do.

"Dinner's just about ready," you say. You sit down beside Rose and close the lid of her laptop.

"Hey!" Rose cries indignantly. "Get away from me!" She shoves you, but you're not going to budge.

"Hell fucking yes," Whitney says. She grins stupidly. "What'd you make? Wait, don't tell me! I want it to be a surprise. Wait... no, tell me! I wanna know! Wait--"

"Pies," you cut in. "Cherry, chocolate, white chocolate. Take your pick."

Whitney puts her hands on her hips. "That's peachy as shit, Ally. You need to keep doing this househusband stuff because I'm awful at cooking. Our kids can't eat at KFC every night."

"Your kids?" Rose says. "You fucking wish, you dy--"

You smack Rose on the back of her head. "Mind your manners," you say.

"Go to hell!" Rose rubs the back of her head, grimacing.

Whitney looms over you. She folds her arms. "Well? Where's the food?"

"Calm down," you say. "They'll be on their way out any second--"

"Oh my God..." Rose mutters. You turn your head.

Alex is coming out. He's holding a tray with a pie on top of it - and he's still in his naked apron. He's smiling in a sort of mortified-but-still-happy way.

Whitney laughs without any real sound, a surprised wheeze, really.

He sets the pie down on one of the trays, turns and scurries back to the kitchen. Rose and Whitney both stare approvingly at his butt as he hurries back.

Cerise brushes past him. She's got a stack of paper plates and plastic forks. Eating in style tonight.

Whitney and Rose are at least as predatory, in their own ways, as Cerise. If Alex is going to be safe, it would be wisest to sit next to him.

How will you eat?

[ ] Next to Alex, across from Rose, Cerise and Whitney.
[ ] Next to Cerise, across from Alex, Rose, and Whitney.
>[x] Next to Rose, across from Alex, Cerise, and Whitney.
[ ] Next to Whitney, across from Alex, Cerise, and Rose. 

You're already seated. It's not like you actually want to sit beside Rose or anything, but you're honestly too lazy to get up.

Alex comes back out with another pie. Whitney wheeze-laughs again in childlike joy, as if she's seeing it for the first time. "Ally, you're such a perv~" she says.

"Don't blame me," you say. "That was Cerise's doing."

Whitney pokes your chest. "Nuh-uh," she says. "This has your name written allll over it."

"Cerise, tell her that dressing Alex like a slut was the product of your own demented imagination."

Somehow, it seems perfectly normal to talk about Alex like this as if he isn't even in the room, even though he very much is.

"Why are you lying?" Cerise says, an innocent lilt to her voice. She sits on the couch across from you and Rose. "I would never dream of doing something like that. You're the one who pinned him down and practically FORCED him to wear it..." She looks Whitney in the eyes and lies straight to her face: "I told him no, but he was so insistent... I felt so bad for Alex, honest..."

Whitney laughs. "Ally's such a jerk. I'll have to protect Alex from his clutches."

"You are such a lying bitch," you seethe. "Honestly, Cerise."

Now Rose is the one who slaps the back of your head. "Don't say such awful things to your sister. And stop sexually harassing that poor girl. It's obscene."

"Alex is not a g--" you begin, but Rose slaps the back of your head again.

You grab her wrist and force it down. "One more time," you growl. "See what happens."

Rose doesn't hit you again but her eyes simmer with defiance. 

Alex brings out the final pie and you all begin to eat.

This is Rose's first experience with your cooking - and her first experience with a recipe that originated with mom. When the first bite hits her tongue, she moans sensually. "Oh what the hell," she says.

"It's great, isn't it? It's the best, isn't it?" Whitney says. She's buzzing with energy.

"You did not make this," Rose says, pointing at you with her fork. "I refuse to believe it."

"Believe it," you say. "Just another thing I do better than you."

Rose moves as if to slap you, but thinks better of it.

Meanwhile, Alex is sitting sandwiched between Whitney on his left and Cerise on his right. He takes his first bite, too - he chose a giant slice of the white chocolate meringue. Like Rose, his response is so guttural and primal it's almost sexual. In fact, you see a little bulge poke up in the still-stained fabric of his apron.

You smile to yourself. Even though you don't want to admit it, seeing people enjoy your baking fills your heart with happy feelings.

"Make sure you guys eat it all," you say. "I don't want it going to waste."

Rose is practically salivating as she gnoshes down on her pie. "Thiff iff too damn good..." she says, her mouth full. "Oh my goondeff... oh woww..."

So far, Cerise and Whitney have been perfectly wholesome with Alex. They're both too busy eating as well to molest him. But the oncoming obscenity is inevitable. Although she tries to be sly about it, you see Whitney sneak a hand down between her and Alex, snaking slyly underneath his butt. The way Alex's eyes suddenly bulge leaves no mistake about what Whitney's fingers are doing.

Not even Cerise notices it. But when she offers Alex a sip of her beer, she seems to realize there's something amiss.

Alex has his fork to his mouth, but he isn't eating - his jaw is hanging partially open, strands of saliva suspended between his parted lips. His eyes are glazed over.

"Is it really that good?" Cerise says. "I never realized... guess it's because I grew up with it."

"It's so good..." Alex says. "It's... it'shh... it'shh shoo good..."

With Rose's head more or less buried in her plate, and the top of Alex's tray table covering him from Cerise and Whitney's view, you're the only one that can see what happens next. The stain on Alex's apron gets darker and wetter. He shivers, dropping his fork and hugging himself. 

Whitney's hand comes back up. With a devilish grin, she puts her finger in Alex's mouth. He clamps his lips around it and sucks on it without hesitation. Cerise, thinking this is just a perverted new game, does the same. They fish-hook him together and part his cheeks, holding his mouth lewdly open. He does absolutely nothing to resist.

Rose finally realizes what's going on. "Oh my..." she mutters. "Why must you all insist on assaulting this poor girl?"

"Alex is not a girl," you tell her firmly. "Dumbass."

Rose turns to look at you. "They're sure treating her like one," she says.

"Yeah?" You say. "Is this how you think girls should be treated?"

Rose simmers, not saying anything in return.

But soon Cerise and Whitney quit their pervy game. They take turns feeding a suddenly docile and enervated Alex. He nibbles on the food they offer with a contented smile on his lips.

"That was pretty hot," Rose tells you so that only you can hear. "If that really is a boy, then it's nice to see he knows his place."

She's getting way too into this. You decide to bring her back to Earth. "Will it be tonight?" You whisper.

She gulps. "What?"

"Is it going to be tonight?" You repeat. Her lips tremble. "Are you going to sleep soundly tonight?"

You finish eating, enjoying the sight of Whitney and Cerise babying Alex. Rose eats beside you, first quietly, and then not so quietly. Despite being threatened, she can't help herself from vocally responding to the delicious dessert in front of her. She eats four or five slices before she can't fit another bite in her mouth.

You told her it might be tonight, but it isn't. You sleep beside Alex instead, the better to fend off the circling vultures who would have their way with him. He's the little spoon, naturally. He dozes softly beside you, warm and snug.

Whitney and Rose sleep on Rose's foldaway bed together. You hear them scuffling and bickering all night. 


March 16, 2014

You and Cerise sit at the dining room table as the movers do their work. As soon as the two of you agreed to go live with the Mallorys, they hired a crew to take care of things. You didn't even have to pack - for insurance reasons, the moving company does it themselves.

Saul Mallory stands in the living room, supervising the crew. He's a real hardass, type-A personality, and although he fights for the rights of the downtrodden, he doesn't trust laborers.

Most of the stuff in the house is destined for a storage locker, which the Mallorys are also paying for. So, save for your most-needed personal effects, everything that made your house familiar is getting shoved into a dark concrete box. Who knows how long the trappings of your childhood home will sit there like that, unused, gathering dust, getting gnawed by mice and roaches?

You know you should be grateful for what the Mallorys are doing, but you just feel anger. Not even directed at anyone in particular. Just aimless anger in search of a target.

"Do you remember the last thing you said to mom?" Cerise asks.

You stare. "No, not exactly," you lie. You do remember, and it'll haunt you forever.

Cerise has a far-away look in her eyes. "I do," she says. "It was, 'I just want to be left alone right now.' That was the last thing I said to her."

Both of you are silent for a long time.

"She wasn't mad at you," you finally say.

"Huh?"

"The night they died, mom told me to make sure that you ate. She said you were sad... she wanted you to eat."

Another beat.

"I didn't eat that night," Cerise says.

You massage your eyes. "I haven't been sleeping," you say. "Every time I close my eyes, I see them raising that white sheet... mom and dad on a metal slab in the-- the morgue..."

"Me too," Cerise says.

You both sit there while the movers go in and out, packing it all up. You stare, at nothing.

You go to the fridge and pull out the pie tin. There's one slice of mom's white chocolate meringue left.

"Here," you say, setting it down with a fork in front of Cerise. "It'll just go to waste otherwise."

She looks at it. She grasps as well as you do what this represents. It's the last of mom's cooking that will ever exist.

"I can't," Cerise says. "You have it."

"It's not--" you begin, but this isn't worth the energy. "Fine. We'll share."

You get another fork.

You and Cerise eat slowly - nibbling, really - savoring it in silence together.

As sad and somber as this moment is, the unparalleled sweetness and delectable smoothness of this dessert is impossible not to enjoy. It overrides your grief, however momentarily. Every morsel practically dances on your tongue, coating it and making your tastebuds light up in ecstasy. It's an almost religious experience, mom's desserts, and even after a week in the fridge it's better than any fresh-baked treat from any high-class patisserie on Earth. Bar none, her cooking is and always will be the best you've ever had.

Then finally there's only one bite left - it ends on your fork. You put it in your mouth, chew, and swallow. Cerise watches intently.

And that's the end of it. The last bite of the last pie of the last Dessert for Dinner Sunday ever.

You gaze at the empty pie tin for many minutes.

"What are we gonna do?" Cerise finally says.

You can only shrug. 

---

Shortly after dawn, Whitney has Alex up and dressed and out of the apartment. He's a bit sad to go, obviously.

"We definitely have to do that again!" He says. "Next time, I'll host!"

You're not against the idea.

You, Rose, and Cerise pack a few essentials. A road atlas (no phones on this trip), some snacks and drinks, money for fuel (no using debit cards, either). Oh, and of course, Rose's guns.

You set out.

The bickering starts early. Cerise and Rose fight for who gets to ride shotgun.

"I called it first, you fat bitch!" Cerise snarls.

"It's my car!" Rose shouts. She stomps her foot, tits jiggling, points at herself. "Mine! It belongs to me! I get to sit where I want!"

"Alabaster, tell our slut cousin that--"

"Once removed," you interject.

"Fuck BOTH of you! Tell her that I get the front seat!"

"Are you guys 12?" You say. "Serious question."

You play eenie-meenie-minie-moe to settle the dispute. Rose wins. It's a bit obnoxious the way she smugly beams and gloats at Cerise like she just won some kind of high-value prize. Whatever.

You get in the car and hit the road. 

In the parking lot at Kay's apartment, you have to blare on the horn three or four times before she finally comes outside. She's bleary-eyed and holding a thermos of what must be coffee. She's also got her dog with her, leading it by a long red leash.

"Take that mutt right back inside," you tell her after rolling down your window. "I'm not letting a dog go on a road trip in my new car."

Kay kicks one of the tires. "This thing isn't new. What is it, a 2013?"

"That's not the point," you say. "It's my car and I'm not letting a dog inside of it."

"You'll be sorry if someone comes after us and Lady isn't there to defend you," she says. "Right, Lady?"

Lady licks himself.

"Well... you get the idea," Kay says.

Rose holds up a glock. In the backseat, Cerise hefts a shotgun.

"We're well armed," you say. "A dog isn't going to make much difference."

Kay smiles. She opens her purse and lets you look inside. She's also got a pistol - a tiny little peashooter, but still.

"Guns are nice, but the stopping power of a Rottweiler defending its owner with its life is not to be underestimated." She loops her purse back over her shoulder and puts her hands on the back of her head. "Besides... I don't want him pooping inside while I'm gone. We're not going to be back for a long time."

>[x] Let Lady tag along.
[ ] Make Kay come alone. 

"Don't be an obstinate shit," Cerise says. She pops open the door on Kay's side. "Come here, boy," she croons. Lady hops up into the car, wagging his tail. He licks Cerise's face happily. Unlike you and Rose, Cerise forms an easy bond with him. She pushes him back, giggling. She scruffs him behind his ears. "Who's a good boy? You are! Yes you are!"

Kay gets in too. "Kay Vera," she says, shaking Cerise's hand. "You must be Cerise Soliloquy."

"Yeah," she says. "What's this little doggie's name?"

"Lady."

Cerise cocks her head. "But... but he's a..."

"He looks like a Lady to me." Kay must be tired of explaining this point. "Say, question for you. Are you the hacker known as Galatea?"

"Wh-what? No..."

"But you know her, at the very least. Did she tell you to hack Darkbloom Analytics?"

"I don't--"

"Stop badgering my sister," you say, glaring at her in the rearview. "Or this little trip of ours is off."

Kay leans back, pouting. "Whatever. Excuse the hell out of me for following a story."

You pull out of the apartment complex. Kay lives not very far from where Cerise does, and the public bus that services this street runs past both complexes. That's why it's a surprise, but not majorly so, when you see a bus drive past the intersection with its front LED display hacked to read:

>I LOVE YOU CERISE

The four of you crane your necks to watch as it drives past.

"What do you think?" You ask Cerise. "/csg/ or Galatea?"

She shakes her head. "Which one is worse?"

Soon, you're on the highway. 

The drive is about 2 and a half hours each way - boring as hell.

The radio reception is kind of shitty once you get out of the bay area. It's kind of a drag. You fiddle with the knobs, but all you can get is a mariachi station blasting peppy accordion music over a sheen of static. Silence is better.

"Honestly, Alabaster, you know nothing about my car - do you?"

Rose leans forward and swats your hand away from the console. She scrolls through a few menus.

"Volts have an MP3 storage function," Rose explains. "I think I put a few songs on here a while back... let's see..."

She keeps scrolling. In fact, she's right. She not only put songs on here, but an entire playlist. The first one that comes up is titled "Al_Ro_Wedding"

"Oh Jesus," you groan as a song called 'Such Great Heights' starts playing. "The fucking Postal Service? What the fuck is wrong with you, Rose?"

Rose makes a gasping, choking noise as if embarrassed and quickly clicks to the next playlist - which isn't much better - named simply "Playlist 2." M.I.A. and Run the Jewels is better than that beta Postal Service crap, though.

Cerise stares pensively out the window as you drive through the California countryside. Kay busily writes in her notebook. What, you have no idea.

You wonder what this Renee Carte person is like. 

Halfway there, you stop to get a bite to eat and stretch your legs. You, Rose and Cerise go into a McDonalds to grab a little breakfast, and Kay takes Lady for a short walk.

"I'll take four egg McMuffins with hashbrowns," you tell the clerk.

"I don't want a McMuffin," Rose says.

"Too fucking bad. That's what you're getting."

"I don't want that! Why do you think you get to just order for me? You misog--"

"Oh my GOD," Cerise interjects. "Do you guys have to fight over every fucking thing you ever talk about, ever?"

You shrug. "I guess," you say. "What else would we do?"

"Yeah," Rose says. "Why wouldn't we?"

"What do you want, Rose?" asks Cerise. "The counter guy is right there. Order something else if you want it so badly."

Rose stammers. Apparently she wasn't ready to actually make a decision on what she wanted. She just wanted to say no to you.

"Four egg McMuffins," you tell the clerk again. "And the hashbrowns." He casts confused glances between the three of you, but enters your order nonetheless.

"I hate you..." Rose grumbles, stomping off.

"Same."

You leave the restaurant, food in hand, and clamber back into the car as a group. As you start it up, you notice something dangling from the rearview mirror. An ornate brass pocketwatch.

You grab it, clutching it so tight your knuckles almost blanch.

"Who... who put that there?" Cerise says, fear in her voice.

You look all around, wildly, this way and that - but can't see any trace of Camelia.

"You know who it was," Rose tells Cerise grimly.

"Let's just go," Kay says. She's the only one unfazed. "Don't let that basket case make you scared. We've got a trump card." She pets Lady, who's docile in her lap. 

You pull into the parking lot of the Central California Women's Facility. Kay leaves the windows rolled down so Lady doesn't overheat while you're inside. The guns stay locked firmly away, too. This is the most exposed you'll be for the whole trip - it makes you feel a bit queasy with dread.

You walk as a group to through the front entrance, past the metal detectors, the scowling guards. Kay approaches a security officer sitting behind bulletproof glass. The officer clacks on a microphone to speak through the barrier. "Name and prisoner you're visiting," she says, disinterested.

"Kay Vera," Kay says. "I'm visiting Inmate #310421, Renee Carte. She's my sister."

The guard makes a note of this. "And who are you?" she asks you, Cerise and Rose.

Kay interjects on your behalf. "This is Rose Carte, Cerise Carte, and Alabaster Vera. Renee's other sisters and my husband, respectively."

Kay loops her arm through yours as if you're spouses. You gulp - you didn't expect THAT.

The officer narrows her eyes at you. "I've never seen any of you before. Renee hasn't had any visitors since she's been here." She looks at Rose in particular: "and YOU look a little young to be Renee's sister," she says.

Rose laughs nervously. "Marry me!" she says, swatting at the air.

"Hmmph..." the officer grunts. But this seems to satisfy her. She clicks a button on a console on her side. A buzzer sounds and two steel doors at the end of the short hall swing open. "Visitor's area is the first door on the right," she says. "You have an hour."

You and the others stride through. Time to meet Renee Carte. 

The four of you sit nervously at a round aluminum table in a dreary room full of such tables. Mean-looking female inmates in bright orange jumpsuits sit all around, talking with families - and some, it seems, conspiring with accomplices. The lighting in here is at once too dim and too bright, a bizarre paradox that makes your head ache.

Soon the door leading to the cell blocks opens and a woman comes in, not shackled, and not in an orange jumpsuit - but you recognize her right away as Renee Carte. She's wearing a coat like a doctor.

She sits down across from you. Her face is stony and serious. You spy a faded scar on one of her cheeks.

"Uh... hi," you say. "How are you?"

"How are you." Dr. Carte repeats, her voice flat and affectless. "How are you. That's what you dragged me out of my cell to ask me. How are you."

"Ah--"

"I'll tell you how I am," she says, casting her gaze side to side, making all of you - including Kay - shrink back. "Have you ever had your asshole sold for a pack of cigarettes?" 

An awkward silence descends. You cough. Cerise stares at the ground. Even Kay is at a loss for words.

But suddenly, Dr. Carte's expression breaks into a broad grin. "I'm just messing with you," she says. "I'm fine. A bit pissed you dragged me out of the infirmary, but fine." She leans back, lacing her fingers behind her head. "Who the hell are you people? I don't have any sisters."

You begin to answer, but an obese black woman in one of the prison's jumpsuits walks by and interrupts. "These assholes bothering you, Doc?" She asks.

Her and Dr. Carte share a complicated multi-step handshake. "Nah," Dr. Carte says when it's through. "It's all good, LaQuinta."

She gives you the evil eye. "Lemme know if they mess with you," she says.

"Sure thing. Hey, are we gonna finish that gin rummy game tonight?"

"You fuckin' know it, cunt. I'mma win the last of your cigs off you."

"Pfft. In your goddamn dreams. Tonight is my revenge, baby. You go tell that to LaGuardia too. Let her know the queen is back in court today."

The woman laughs, walking away. "Whatever, Doc. Won't be talking so big tonight."

Dr. Carte leans her cheek on one hand. "So. Who are you, and what do you want?"

Kay introduces herself first. Dr. Carte shakes her head. "Should have known you MSM vultures would come circling. Didn't you get the message when I hung up on you?"

"I'm not a journalist," you say. "My name is Alabaster Soliloquy. I think you asked about me."

Dr. Carte blinks, sitting upright again, gazing at you in disbelief. "You're..." she breathes. "Yes... of course."

>You will control the conversation now. Tell me what you want to ask. The top voted question will win, the conversation will move, and we'll do it again.
>Make your questions count. Time is limited.

 >How do you know me?

Dr. Carte mulls this over. "Your mother didn't tell you?" She says.

"My mother is... she's dead," you say.

"Oh. Oh, I see. When did she die?"

"2014. What difference does that make--"

"How old were you? About 17?"

"Yeah."

Kay is scribbling in her notebook. "Will you fucking stop?" Dr. Carte snaps.

"Nope," Kay replies, not even glancing up.

"That would explain it, anyway," Dr. Carte says, looking back to you. "You weren't supposed to know until your 18th birthday. It would contaminate the data, otherwise."

"What data?" You demand.

"You were-- listen, it's best if I just write this one down."

She rips Kay's notebook away. "Hey!" Kay shouts. "Bitch!" She lunges over the table to grab it back.

"No touching!" A guard shouts from the sidelines. Dr. Carte puts her hands in the air obediently. "No touching," she repeats. "No touching..."

Kay hands her a piece of paper and a pen from her purse. Dr. Carte writes a set of coordinates down: 42°10'42.1"N, 119°42'12.0"W.

"What the hell is that?" You ask.

"A truth that's been buried for a very long time," Dr. Carte says. "That's in the desert a bit north of the border between Nevada and Oregon. Behind a big Joshua tree. Take a shovel."

"I still don't understand," you say.

"I'm very sorry for everything. You were a research subject. Project Penelope. If I told you any more than that... you probably wouldn't believe me, honestly. The video says so much more than I ever could."

>What next?
>What can you tell me about Sand Reckoner?

"I never worked on Sand Reckoner," Dr. Carte says. "But if it's what Darkbloom always yammered on about, I can tell you what it probably is. Think about the world we live in today. The sheer amount of personal data people pump onto the internet without a second thought. It all goes through Darkbloom's filters, he has it all... but sorting through it takes time. Even advanced AI takes time to do it. The sheer volume of it is its own downfall.

"What he envisioned was twofold. First, a way to sort the data instantaneously. He was working on that himself... he's a brilliant man. Second, a way to access the data instantaneously, anyway - unobtrusively. That's why he hired Gustav... and why Gustav hired me... and why I hired Sable. Every generation was better than the last, you see.

"Imagine a simple, non-invasive implant - right here -" she points to a spot near your tear duct.

"No touching!" a guard barks.

"Jesus..." she groans. "Anyway. A non-invasive implant that tells you, instantly-- well, anything you should want to know. You've got a question kicking around in your brain, and the implant - the Sand Reckoner, I guess - tells you. How much does that woman weigh, Sand Reckoner. Bam: you see the number appear over her head. How many calories in this cookie, Sand Reckoner? There it is. Is that man on the street a Democrat or a Republican, Sand Recknoner? Oh, a libertarian, how interesting. What is his most important priority in voting? What is this crowd's most important priority in voting, in aggregate? You see? Total, instant knowledge. Of everything.

"My part was the biometric stuff. I'm a medical doctor, a biomedical engineer, to be precise. I'm no cyber-monkey visionary like Sable is. So I can't speak to how far she's gotten with the data-crunching piece of it. But I made the bio interface happen. That was my great contribution to the world... some reward it got me, huh."

>What next? 
>Why did you try to kill Vivian Darkbloom?

"I did NOT try to kill Vivian!" She shouts. She bangs a hand on the table, stands upright - fuming. A guard barks at her, but she doesn't pay him any attention. "I didn't do that! I love Vivian Darkbloom like my own fucking daughter! You hear me!" She turns to Kay. "You write that down. You publish that in your piece of shit rag. You tell everyone who will listen that I'm innocent. You hear me? Fuck you. Fuck all of you."

"Okay... okay," Rose says, laying a calming hand on Dr. Carte's. "We believe you... sit down. Please. We want to hear your side."

Dr. Carte sits, composes herself before the guards can come and pry her away.

"If you're innocent - what happened?" Says Kay. "I'll publish it if I can verify it."

"David and Mara Darkbloom have a real fucked-up relationship," Dr. Carte says. "Before David Darkbloom got into Big Data, he was running a bunch of online E-pay services and such. It was your basic web 1.0 dot-com boom business. He wanted to make a lateral expansion into artificial intelligence, neural nets and drone-assisted object recognition. This was back when things like that were so cutting edge they were almost sci-fi - around 2000, 2001. Way ahead of the curve. Anyway, he hired my mentor - Gustav Eichman - to head up a new research division for augmented reality. Eichman brought me aboard in 2002 and passed the torch."

"I see," you say. "So you were taking the company in a new direction. Mara didn't like it?"

"Of course she didn't. Mara and her brother Vasily Kerimov had been using Darkbloom E-Pay as their own personal shakedown, money laundering and general-purpose scumbag racket for years. The Kerimovs have deep ties to Russian mafia - this shit is like breathing for them. So when David rebranded to something more legitimate in the form of Darkbloom Enterprises, Mara fought him at every step of the way. A few years later, insult to injury: she finds out David has a bastard child with - some anonymous mistress. It's all downhill from there."

David alluded to this with you. No wonder there's a fault line in his relationship with his wife. 

"By late 2011," Dr. Carte continues, "things are so bad between them that David is marked for death by the Kerimov home office in Moscow. While meanwhile David is shopping around for an assassin to kill his own wife."

"Jesus Christ," you say.

Kay's eyes are saucers. "The Darkblooms were trying to murder each other?" She says. "That's insane. Do you have any evidence of this?"

"David Darkbloom wasn't just trying by this point," Dr. Carte says. "No. David Darkbloom gets what he wants, like always. He arranges to have Mara and her brother killed during a road trip to the their cabin in Vail, Colorado. All set up to look like an unfortunate accident on an icy mountain pass, naturally."

"But it didn't happen," you say.

"Of course it didn't. Mara found out about the plan. So what does she do - cancel her trip? Don't be silly. She's not going to let an imminent whacking put a damper on her Christmas vacation to the family ski lodge. Instead, she brings her own daughter along for the ride. Do you understand what I'm saying? She used 10 year old Vivian Darkbloom as a meat shield so David couldn't kill her."

"Oh my God..." you mumble.

"David finds out Vivian is in the car and tries to call off the hit, but cell reception in that part of the country is bad... and with literally seconds to spare, he saves his daughter from dying in a car wreck of his own creation. After the dust settles, he realizes that he'll never outplay his wife - not when he has at least one thing in the world that he actually cares about. So instead of killing her, he patches things up. How's that for a happy ending?"

"How did you end up going down for it?" You ask.

"Mara doesn't take the attempt on her life lying down - she wants to really put the screws to David. She gets the distract attorney for Santa Clara County, who she's tight with through the Growth Club, to arrest me for attempted murder. I didn't know about any of this until the cuffs were going on my wrists. Darkbloom confessed everything to me, the fucking bastard... at the same time he's telling me that he's hopelessly in love with me and will always love me forever, he's telling me that he can't get me out of this mess he made. That he has to let me rot in prison, for Vivian's sake. Of course I have to understand, he says, wouldn't I do the same thing?"

She shakes her head bitterly. "He's the worst coward I ever met."

"Do you have any proof of this?" Kay repeats. "Anything at all?"

"No..." Dr. Carte says, bowing her head. "No. I'm sorry."

>What next?
>Do you know a girl named Camelia?

"Camelia?" Dr. Carte repeats. "Camelia isn't a girl."

"News to me..." Cerise grumbles.

Dr. Carte ignores this. "There's only one Camelia I know," she says. "You."

"What?" you sputter.

"You're Camelia."

A guard approaches. "Time up," he says. He hauls Dr. Carte to her feet.

"Wait!" you say. "What do you mean, I'M Camelia? What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry--" she says, walking backwards with the guard. "Go to that spot. You'll find out everything!"

"Do you know a woman with an eyepatch?" You cry after her. "That's Camelia! Not me! Do you know her?"

"I d--" Dr. Carte begins, but she's already on the other side of the closing door.

END OF EPISODE 9.

December 6, 2014

"Are you getting along with the Mallorys?"

Dr. Isakai, the pediatric psychiatrist - what this man styles himself as - is quick to note that although he specializes in young patients, he sees plenty of teenagers and even people in their early 20s as well. This does not make you feel any more at ease in an office with teddy bears on the wall trim.

It's your third session, and so far your tactic of not saying anything at all has been a bust. He's threatening to end your sessions entirely if you don't speak up, which would put you in a bigger world of shit than you're already facing.

You shrug. "The Mallorys are fine."

"How about your cousin - Rose, was it?"

"Once removed," you mumble.

"Pardon?"

"She's my first cousin once removed. Not my cousin."

"Is that important to you, that distinction? Why?"

You roll your eyes, shift in your seat. "Don't make this something more than it is. I care to the extent that I care about the truth. I wouldn't call her my sister or my second cousin either. Because she isn't. She's my first cousin once removed."

Dr. Isakai makes a note of this. "I have a great aunt who I'm very close to," he says, looking up from his notepad. "I see her every once in a while, we keep in touch - she was a big part of my life growing up. I just call her Aunt Mimi. Not Great Aunt Mimi."

"That's very nice for you," you say. "I can't help whether or not you're precise in how you use your language. But I am."

"Do you think maybe you're trying to push the Mallorys away?" He asks. "Are you trying to keep yourself from getting too close to Rose, by denying that she's your cousin?"

This asshole really doesn't know what he's talking about. But to placate him, you make a show of pretending to come to a realization. You mug for him, nod. "You know, maybe you're right. I just... I can't accept the Mallorys are family. That's it. You got it."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" You repeat. "I don't know these people. I had no idea until a few months ago that the Mallorys existed, nevermind that I'm related to them. I guess technically I was Rose's classmate for a year, but we hardly even crossed paths before my parents-- now I have to live with them? It's like they're from a different world, practically. It's hard to think of them as family."

Even though you were putting on an act for Dr. Isakai to appear more agreeable, the more you talk, the truer your own words ring to you.

"Yet they're treating you like family. Are they not?"

"Yeah, but..." You trail off.

Dr. Isakai smiles. "Let's explore that. But what?"

"I don't know," you say.

"Start with Rose. You didn't know her before your parents died, okay. Now you do. You share a roof with her. You're in two after-school clubs together. You see her every day. But you don't even want to call her your cousin. Why not?"

You stare at the ceiling, trying to summon the strength not to be honest, but you can't. "She's a shitty person, if you want to know the truth."

You inwardly wince, thinking Dr. Isakai will chastise you for this, but he just nods. "Okay, there's a start. Why? What makes her shitty?"

"I just-- she's just--" you try to find an articulate way to say it, but there is none. So you settle on this: "she's the worst."

"How is she the worst?"

You start gesticulating with your hands for effect as you explain. "I mean -- imagine a person who's wrong, about everything. Not some things. Not a lot of things. Everything. I have never come away from a conversation with her thinking to myself: you know what, Rose has a good point. Never. As in ever."

"But you joined the Student Council. Despite your hatred for her."

"To humiliate her!" You say. You're standing now. "I did it to beat her. And I won! Because everyone agrees with me. Rose is the worst. The living fucking worst. You know one time, she..."

An hour later, you're pacing back and forth around the room, still talking about Rose:

"...which is when she stapled a list, doctor, an eleven page list to my door, of ways I'm perpetuating rape culture. Eleven pages. Front and back. And that's what I woke up to in the morning: Rose, fucking Martin Luthering me. What the fuck even is rape culture? How am I at fault? And so then, when I told her she was being a real b--"

"Alabaster, I'm sorry, but we're out of time today."

"I didn't even tell you the worst part, though--"

"I understand. I think I'm starting to see the issue here. Why don't you sit down for a moment before you go?"

You compose yourself and sit again.

"Next session we'll start broaching some other topics," Dr. Isakai says, "but here's your homework for this week. I want you to go home with an open mind and consider this for next Saturday. Don't say yes or no to it immediately - think about it, mull it over, give it some real consideration."

"What is it?" You say. "Is it a way to defeat Rose for good? You agree with me, right? That she's the worst. Right?"

Dr. Isakai crosses his legs, ankle on knee. "I want you to consider that you're in love with your cousin," he says.

"What."

"It's not uncommon, and it's not wrong. You're trying to push her away because you're afraid of the incest taboo, but you're both adolescents, and you met as strangers, more or less - you can't help your attraction. It's perfectly normal, perfectly healthy..."

"That's sick. You're a real-- no. No. You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you? I hate Rose. That's the opposite of love. They taught you that in school, right? You can understand at least that much."

"Please, Alabaster, do consider it. If we can't find a healthy outlet for you to--"

You stand, fuming. "This is ridiculous. I open up to you, and you come back with this shit? That I'm love with satan's living avatar on Earth? I'm done with this session. You're the dumbest quack I've ever met..."

You storm out, grumbling the entire way down the hall and to Saul Mallory's waiting BMW.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot gluer and medical test subject.

March 10, 2015

It's a dreary Tuesday afternoon with evening fast approaching when you and Cerise arrive at the graveyard.

According to Cerise, it's been about half a year since her last visit. She says she left flowers for them at the time. You're not sure whether it's more bitter to see that the flowers are totally gone now - removed by some groundskeeper, probably - than it would have been to see them sitting on the granite grave markers all rotted away.

Cerise lays a wreath on dad's gravestone, along with a copy of today's newspaper. You lay a bouquet of white and pink camellias on mom's grave, along with a few packages of baker's chocolate.

"This is stupid," you grumble. "Waste of good chocolate if you ask me."

"I didn't ask you," says Cerise, fiddling with the flowers lining the wreath on dad's grave.

"They don't need this junk. It's just gonna sit here for a few days and then get swept into the garbage."

Cerise stands. "It's not for them. It's for us. To remember them by."

"I hate this," you say flatly. You look around the neat rows of graves in the well-groomed grass expanse of the cemetery. You're the only ones here today, it seems. "We're not visiting mom and dad. We're visiting their corpses. We came out here to stand over a couple boxes full of their decaying bodies."

"Why would you say something like that?" Cerise snaps. Her eyes are full of anger. "That's vile."

"It's true."

"What do you know about the truth, Alabaster?" Cerise says. "You think you know everything, you think you're better than everyone. But you don't and you aren't. How dare you come along just to snipe at me for how I find peace?" 

You soften your tone. You don't want to fight - not today. "I didn't mean to be like that. I just want to understand, that's all. What do you get out of this?"

Cerise folds her arms and stares at the sky, thinking. "It's a way to remind myself that they really existed. Sometimes my memories of what things were like... start to feel like a dream I had a long time ago. But if I come here and sit down by their graves, I know that it was all real. All the happiness I had back then was real. I really played Go Fish with mom, I really helped dad build my first bike. I really taught you your ABCs and made you show them what you learned, and they were really so proud of us."

"...You taught me my ABCs?"

"Of course I did. No one else wanted to deal with your whiny toddler ass."

You put your hands in your coat pocket as a buffeting wind picks up from the north. You turn and peer down at their headstones.

THOMAS SOLILOQUY
Father, Husband, Aviator
November 22, 1968 - March 10, 2014

SCARLETT SOLILOQUY
Mother, Wife, Homemaker
September 30, 1974 - March 10, 2014

They're so nondescript - practically anonymous - but it was all you could afford with the assistance provided by the state for final expenses.

"I used to come here all the time," Cerise continues. "I'd talk to them and tell them how things were going. It made me feel better..."

She trails off, but then picks up the thread of conversation again after several long moments. "I know someone like you would never understand, but I can feel their presence when I talk to them here."

"Why did you stop coming?" You ask.

Cerise forces a chuckle. "When you got arrested... it was a little embarrassing to tell them how bad you fucked up. They don't need to know everything."

"Well, it's fine now," you say. "You can tell them I'm free and clear. And that I even have a clean bill of mental health."

"Let's not go that far," Cerise says.

Nevertheless, she sits down indian style by mom's grave and starts talking. "Don't mind Alabaster," she says. "He's still the same old jerk he's always been. Hope you don't mind that I brought him along this time... even if he's annoying."

Over the next half hour, Cerise talks nonstop to the graves and you feel a bit abashed just watching it, but it's nice to hear her speak so much. You normally don't talk that often, these days.

You interject here and there, always to Cerise and not to the hypothetical audience of mom and dad. You get a bit more comfortable with the circumstances as time goes on. But with the sun setting, soon it's time go.

Cerise stands, dusting off the seat of her pants. "Ready?" She says.

"Yeah--" you start, but something holds you back. A flash of an idea - a chance to do something that's been gnawing at you.

You think quick for an excuse, and come up with this: "Go ahead and pull the car around. I've got a phone call I need to make. This is the only place I've had good reception all day."

Cerise gives you a strange look, but doesn't argue. 

---

You poke at the frozen yogurt with your plastic spoon. This crap is in the uncanny valley of ice cream. Not distant enough from ice cream to be enjoyable in its own right like sherbet, but not similar enough to pass as an acceptable substitute.

"I wanted Jack in the Box," you grouse. "I can't believe I let you drag me to a fucking juice bar."

Kay sips at her bubble tea. Her face is partially shadowed by the umbrella over the outdoor table you sit at. "I have a strict rule of one shitty meal per day. We had Mickey D's in the morning so I can't eat fast food again until tomorrow."

"This isn't shitty?" You respond. You lift the spoon above the paper container and let the frozen yogurt run in gloopy drops off of it. Next to you, Cerise groans in disgust.

Kay pulls the straw from her transparent cup. The straw's plastic squeals obnoxiously against the edge of the hole in the dome over the cup's top, making you wince. She puts the straw in her mouth and uses it as a pea shooter to splat you with a tapioca ball.

"What the f--" you begin.

"I can't help it if you chose something gross," Kay says. "Make better choices next time."

Surreptitiously, Cerise reaches below the table and lets Lady, who's tethered to the metal patio table, lap at her own frozen yogurt. Meanwhile, Rose chokes back a kale salad that she insists is "actually really quite good." (The more intensifiers Rose heaps into a sentence, the more disingenuous she's being, you've found.)

Kay tugs back the arm of her peacoat and checks her wristwatch. "It's early yet," she says. "If we hit the road now, we can get there around 9 PM and be back in Palo Alto by early Monday morning."

"That's a hell of a road trip," Cerise says.

"I'm going one way or another, so don't wait up," Kay replies.

"And how exactly do you intend to find those coordinates without using a phone that someone could track you through?" You say.

Kay pulls Camelia's pocket watch from her coat. She dangles it by the chain. "Your terrorist gf was kind enough to set this watch to GMT. With a sextant, I can calculate our coordinates just fine. Old trick imparted by Uncle Sam."

"I guess we'll just pull some centuries-old nautical tech out of our asses, then," you say.

"Out of mine, maybe," Kay says. "I almost sat on the sextant Camelia left in your back seat when we left the prison."

"She left a--" Rose starts to say, but can't seem to get the taste of kale from her mouth. Instead of finishing the thought, she sucks on her glass of water.

"If you three don't want to tag along," Kay says, "drop me at the rent-a-car place we passed on our way here. I don't mind taking a hike with just me and Lady. We need an off-road vehicle to get where we're going anyway. An older one, preferably."

[ ] Let her go on her own.
>[x] Go with her. [with Rose and Cerise in tow]
[ ] Suggest regrouping and trying on another day. 

You and Rose wait on pleather chairs that have obviously seen better days as Kay haggles with the hirsute man behind the counter at AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA Used Rental Cars.

That's 21 A's. You counted. Apparently getting the first listing in the yellow pages is still a concern for some businesses.

The tile floor is grimy with who knows what and the air smells vaguely like sour milk. The newest car on the lot is a '12, but Kay chose a '98 - low tech, untraceable. And cheap.

"One day, 50 dollar," the man says in a thick middle eastern accent.

"45," Kay says.

"One day, 50 dollar."

Kay drums her fingers on the countertop. "That piece of shit Grand Cherokee's blue book is barely 50 dollars. Are you a businessman or a highway robber, Mr. Mauda?"

"Is she really arguing over five dollars?" Rose asks you from the corner of her mouth. "My goodness."

You shrug. "I think it's more the principle of the thing," you reply.

"One day, 50 dollar," the man says again.

"I can go to Thrifty," Kay sneers. "Do you want me to go to Thrifty? I will walk out that fucking door right now and take my business to Thrifty. Watch me."

He squints at her, sizing her up. She doesn't so much as blink.

"You have animal?" He says.

You glance out the window, to the curb where Cerise is playing tug-o-war with Lady - using his own leash as the toy.

"No," Kay says. "No animals."

"You fill tank when you return," the man says. "Or extra fee incurs. Any damage, you pay. 45 dollar."

Kay counts out the money and hands it over. The man hands her a key on a dingy plastic fob.

"I'll take one of these, too," Kay says, grabbing a road map from a turnstile on the countertop. "Thanks, buddy."

"Hmmph," the man grunts.

"Let's go," Kay says, passing by you and Rose, slinging her purse over her shoulder, tucking the map under her arms. "Time's ticking."

On her way out, she doesn't even try to conceal that she actually does "have animal." She pats her knee and beckons Lady to come. "Here boy," she says, plainly audible through the closing glass door.

You and Rose stand.

"Hey," the man behind the counter calls after you. "You tell that crazy woman that she damage car she pay. I have license on record."

What the man behind the counter doesn't know is that Kay used a fake driver's license to conduct this transaction. ("It scored me beer when I was under 21," Kay explained, showing you an old California driver's license identifying her as a 30-year-old named Kim O Chee. "And it's been a real workhorse ever since.") 

Kay sits at the driver's wheel, the map opened against it. She traces a route with a ballpoint pen.

"We can go through northern Nevada," she says. "Probably a bit longer by distance... but we can put pedal to medal on the highways out there and cut some time off the trip overall."

"Sounds fine," you say. "Just as long as this junker doesn't break down in the middle of the Mojave. How many miles did this thing have on it again?"

"230,000," Rose says, frowning, leaning forward to read off the odometer.

"It'll get us there," Kay says. She pets the dash like it's her dog. "Jeeps are reliable. They're fine past 300k, no sweat. This baby'll purr."

She puts the key in the ignition and turns it. The car whines, tries to turn over, and falls dead again.

"Purr, huh?" you say.

"That was a test start," Kay says. She tries again. The car shudders - once, twice - and then finally roars to life.

"See?" She says.

At that moment, the glove compartment pops open for absolutely no discernible reason. You try to latch it shut again but it won't stick. You'll have to ride with its door sitting in your lap.

Kay pulls out of the parking lot of the rental car place and you begin the long journey. 

Less than an hour on, the city has already given way to lonely, dusty desert highways. It's a real drag, not having your phone with you - you're not really sure what you ever did with yourself before the advent of mobile shitposting.

"Ever been to Nevada?" Kay asks you, making small talk.

"His buddy Stackleford has," Cerise says from the backseat, snickering.

"He is NOT my buddy," you say.

"Could have fooled me," Kay says. "When I interviewed him, he wouldn't shut up about how cool you are. As far as he's concerned, you're his only real friend at Darkbloom Analytics."

You almost feel bad about that, until Kay continues: "he wanted me to publish his Naruto fanfiction in the LA Tribune... weird guy. I told him I'd be in touch if we ever establish a fanfiction section."

Rose laughs cruelly. "Stacklebeard's always been the only loser on the planet even worse than Alabaster. Alabaster doesn't like him, but he keeps him around so he can look good by comparison."

Kay glances at Rose in the rearview. "He mentioned you, too, come to think of it. He claims you two dated in high school, pretty seriously too."

Rose lets out a choked gasp of indignation. She once allowed Stackleford to take her on a date as part of some baroque attempt to make you jealous, after a girl in the anime club asked you to prom. Rose then spent the rest of her time in high school ghosting Stackleford and trying to ignore his increasingly desperate texts, IMs, calls, gifts and visits to the Mallory house. It was kind of like how a Rhesus monkey baby will imprint on a terry cloth with a milk bottle taped to it - Stackleford transferred his hopeless infatuation from Whitney to Rose.

"It's not true," Rose says, gritting her teeth. "We never dated."

"It was love at first sight," you cut in. "Real hot and heavy. He was schtupping her every night. It kept me awake, listening to the bed springs squeak... I don't know how she didn't suffocate with all that flab crushing her..."

Kay half-laughs, half-groans in disgust.

"That isn't true!" Rose cries. "It's a dirty lie!"

"When he dumped her, she was absolutely devastated," you say. "She kept going on and on about how she gave her 'precious flower' to him and how she was so sad that she wouldn't be able to marry him--"

"You're a fucking LIAR!!!" Rose shrieks, kicking the back of your seat. "You're a-- that's a lie! It's a fake! You're fake news, Alabaster!!"

You try to say something else, but Rose's barrage of kicks to the back of your seat make it hard to speak. It's only when Lady starts barking at her that she finally quits.

[ ] Punish Rose for her insolence.
>[x] Continue to banter with Kay.

"I'm sorry that my first cousin once removed is such a pain," you tell Kay. "She can't help herself. Hardly better than an orangutan, impulse-control-wise."

"That's rich, coming from YOU," Rose says. "If someone drew a vagina on a wasp nest, you'd probably put your dick in it."

"Draw a vagina on your vagina and let's put that theory to the test," you say.

Rose chuffs, folds her arms, and stares out the window. Nothing beats beating her in a back-and-forth.

"If they had a Nobel prize for advancements in fucked up family dynamics, you guys would be shoe-ins," Kay says. She fiddles with the A/C knob - the desert sun beating through the windows is starting to make things a bit toasty. A sign on the roadside welcomes you to Nevada - the Silver State.

"Why are we even letting you tag along?" You say. "I'm starting to think that that Dr. Carte person was right. You're just a vulture."

"I hope I'm cuter than that," Kay says. "Anyway, good luck finding your latitude and longitude without me. At least not without Daddy Darkbloom coming a-knockin'. Or worse."

"I don't get wanting to be famous," you say. "What makes you so obsessed with being the best reporter, or whatever?"

"If you're not the best at what you do, why bother?" Kay says. She winks at you. "A wise man once said: it's not enough that I should succeed..."

"Don't quote me at me," you say. "It's not as clever as you think it is."

Kay frowns. "Like you didn't steal it from an internet meme. You aren't as clever as you think you are, either. Impressive to little girls, maybe, but I can see right through it."

"Yeah?" You say. "I guess being 52 comes with its perks."

Kay sticks her tongue out at you. "If I can look like this at 52, I'll be doing pretty good. Right, Lady?"

Lady perks his ears up at the mention of his name and makes eye contact with his master in the mirror. Kay blows him a kiss, which bizarrely, Lady seems to return by quickly licking his chops. He puts his head back in Cerise's lap.

"So what are you," you ask Kay, "a crazy dog lady?"

Lady perks his ears up again.

"Not you," you tell him. "Your owner."

He puts his head down.

"No one I've ever dated had the cojones to bite a stalker in their dick," Kay says. "Lady did. Way more reliable than a man."

"Keep a lot of Skippy in your cabinet?" You say.

"That's disgusting," Kay says. "Anyway, I prefer Jif." 

"This is all off the record," you tell her. "I'm serious. I don't want to read about how Alabaster Soliloquy puts his dick in wasp nests in the news tomorrow."

"Maybe you should stop putting your dick in wasp nests, then," Kay says. "As if you read the news anyway. I think the median age of my audience is somewhere north of 70."

The car lurches suddenly. The check engine light comes on, burning an angry red on the console.

"Fuck," Kay says.

"What was that about how this baby'll purr?" You say.

"Shut up," Kay says. She keeps driving.

"Are you gonna check the engine?" You ask.

"We need to keep going," she insists. "The check engine light doesn't mean anything."

You arch an eyebrow. "I'm no mechanic, but I'm pretty sure it means to check the engine."

"I drove on a check engine light for 4 years when I was first out of the air force," she says. "It's fine. Not something I'd expect a child of privilege like you to understand. You haven't ever owned a car that's older than you are." 

Nevada's highways are as desolate as the reputation that precedes them suggests. There is nothing to look at for miles in any direction besides sagebrush and rocks.

As you drive through a sleepy town named Felicity, Kay pulls off into the parking lot of a Walmart. She keeps the car running as she steps out and pops the hood. You follow her out to stretch your legs.

"I guess you're not immune to good advice after all," you say.

"I didn't like the sound the engine was making," she explains. "It had nothing to do with the light."

"Right..." you mutter.

She pulls a long, thin metal... thing... from the engine, holds it up and squints at it.

"Fucker's dry as a bone," she murmurs. "Jesus Christ."

"Is that a problem?" You say.

She looks at you like you're the biggest idiot on the planet. "Is that a problem? Yeah. A dry dipstick is a pretty big problem. We'll need at least five or six quarts of oil. Might as well buy a shovel or three while we're here, too."

"Be my guest," you say. "We'll wait here."

"Go screw yourself," Kay says. "I'm too busy being useful in other ways right now. I need to check our longitude and see whether we're east or west of the coordinates."

You sigh and shake your head.

[ ] Go in with Rose.
>[x] Go in with Cerise.
[ ] Send Rose and Cerise, stay with Kay. 

Cerise steps out of the Jeep. She arches her spine, hands against the back of her hips, stretching languidly and yawning. "Fuck it's hot out here," she says.

You catch a glimpse of her pale midriff as she stretches and you try not to leer. After all the weird sexual misadventures lately, the line between appropriate and inappropriate sibling behavior has been pretty much obliterated. But the lingering taboo keeps you from really embracing that.

"Wanna go buy some stuff?" You offer.

"Yeah, I need air conditioning that actually works worth a shit. Some beer, too."

"Do not leave me alone with this animal!" Rose says, shirking away in her seat from a lazily sleeping Lady.

Kay looks up from the map where she's carefully measuring distances and doing back of the envelope calculations. (She's just trying to ballpark the location for now - precision coordinate calculations will have to wait for nighttime, she says.)

"That's a good point," Kay tells Rose. "Lady needs a walk. Would you be so kind--"

"No," Rose says. "No. No. NO."

"Thanks," Kay says as she shakes Lady awake. She hands Rose the leash. Rose looks at the dog with bulging eyes, like he's a hideous monster about to devour her alive.

You turn and walk towards the store with Cerise.

"How many different kinds of motor oil are there?" you say, looking incredulously up and down the auto aisle.

"The different numbers are viscosity or something," Cerise says. "It doesn't matter. We're not trying to keep the stupid thing in top shape, we just need it to get us there and back." She grabs a few bottles off the shelf and puts them in the basket looped over one of her arms.

A man on a motorized scooter beeps past. His eyes are dead and he weighs something like 500 pounds. His T-shirt/tent says that Dale Earnhardt was a Real American Hero.

"I think we're in hell," you say.

"Something like it," Cerise muses. She turns to face you. "Shovels next?"

In lawn & garden, you pick out a couple sturdy looking steel shovels. You heave them up over your shoulders. "What do you think Dr. Carte meant when she said I'm Camelia?" you ask.

Cerise shrugs. "Maybe Camelia is a future version of you who got a sex change... coming back to the past to convince you to get a sex change."

"You're a sick person," you tell her. "Your mind is warped by all the pornography you consume."

"You fucked a little boy in a maid costume over my FACE," Cerise says. "You have absolutely no room to criticize me."

You try to come up with some kind of retort, but she honestly has a point there.

But now that she brought it up, and you have a moment alone together, you feel a spark of curiosity.

>[x] Talk about what happened in the shower, and with Alex.
[ ] Move on, don't press her on it. 
 
"What was that about, anyway?" You ask as you stroll down the aisles towards the beer coolers.
 
Cerise plays dumb. "What was what about?"
 
You won't let her weasel out of it so easily. "You know what. It's like you caught Whitneyitis or something. I know you're a pervert, but..."
 
You don't finish the thought.
 
"I told you already," Cerise says, rubbing an elbow with the hand that's looped through the shopping basket. "It's not about you, it's..." She sighs. "So I'm a pervert, so what. How could I resist seeing one of my fetishes up close and personal like that?"
 
She roots through the individual-serving beer bottles in the tall glass case, as if trying to focus on anything but you.
 
"Well..." you say. Your heart is beating like mad. "I guess I'm a pervert too. And-- it was fun, with you watching. I wouldn't mind letting you watch again. If you want."
 
Cerise is holding a bottle of Corona by the neck. She looks at you. "...We're degenerates, huh?"
 
You stare at the ceiling. "Yeah. I guess so."
 
"I like being a degenerate with you," Cerise says softly.
 
You look back down at her. "Me too."
 
Real American Hero man beeps past on his scooter again. Talk about a mood killer.
 
"I did more than watch, though, didn't I?" Cerise says after a turn.
 
You clear your throat.
 
"I won't do that again... if it's TOO weird," she says, stammering a bit. "I mean... touching you, sitting underneath you like that. Doing things with you... l-like that."
 
You massage the bridge of your nose. "Cerise... one thing you have to understand about me is, I'm never going to say no to cumming on a girl's face..."
 
She slugs you in the shoulder. "Pervert," she says. Then: "...does that mean you want to do it again?"
 
You can only nod.
 
"...Now?" She says hopefully.
 
You gulp. "What do you mean, now? Okay, you definitely have Whitneyitis."
 
"We could be dead tomorrow," Cerise says. "YOU could be dead... so if you're okay with it... and I'm okay with it... we should take the opportunity while we can."
 
You look around, uncertain. "Even IF I said yes," you begin, "this is kind of a public place, isn't it?"
 
Cerise grins.
 
---
 
A few moments later, you sneak into the dressing room where Cerise is already waiting for you.
 
The quarters here are cramped, with barely enough room for you to stand facing one another.
 
Cerise steps forward, putting her arms against your chest. "I just want to be clear again," she says, peering up into your eyes, "I am NOT a brocon. Just... a curious young woman. That's all."
 
"Young?" You say.
 
She slugs you again.
 
"Sit down," she tells you. "We gotta be quick... and quiet."
 
You sit. Cerise turns around and gets down on her knees in front of you. She scoots up close.
 
Just seeing your older sister between your legs causes you cock to lurch in your jeans. You're already erect. With shaky hands, Cerise reaches out for your fly.
 
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she unzips you. You're not sure whether it's just an attempt to be quiet, or her own trepidation that makes her dawdle. You decide to help her out, regardless. You unbutton your jeans, lift your butt and pull them to your ankles. Now only the thin fabric of your tented boxers separates Cerise from her prize.
 
She runs a soft hand against your bulge.
 
"Alabaster, has anyone told you that you have... a really, really big dick?"
 
"I've heard that, I guess. How would you know, anyway?"
 
"I guess I don't have a lot to compare it to, but..." Her hand lightly brushing and cupping you is only making you harder and harder. So is the sight of her face just inches from it.
 
"Wow," is all she can finally come up with.
 
What she does next surprises you. She puts her lips and nose directly against your crotch and rubs her face against it. You close your eyes and try to suppress a groan.
 
"I love the way you smell..." Cerise says, voice slightly muffled. She inhales deeply and fills her lungs. "That's why I always..." she begins, but trails off. You can't think straight enough to ask what she means. You can only gaze lovingly down as she rubs her face against your straining dick and breathes your scent. She looks like she's in utter bliss.
 
"It won't bite," you encourage her.
 
She spends a few more lingering moments sniffing you all over, driving herself into animal heat. She squeezes her thighs together and puts a hand down the front of her pants. Finally when you feel like you can hardly take the tension anymore, she snakes a few fingers into the fly of your boxers and fishes out your dripping cock. Her eyes cross stupidly as it fills her vision and she stares at it like a worshiper at an idol. Her lips part hungrily.
 
"Kiss it," you tell her.
 
She kisses it. She trails little pecks up and down the shaft. You pull your nuts out and she kisses those, too, each in turn, twisting her face this way and that to get at them. As she kisses you, she continues to huff and breathe deeply to fill her nostrils with your smell. Her kisses get wetter, more lingering, and lewder. She holds the edge of the bench between your legs as she works, wrapping her lips around you and leaving strands of saliva wherever she goes. She ends finally at the head, where your precum is leaking out in fat droplets. She latches her lips around the tip, right over the piss slit, and sucks your precum up directly from the source. Her cheeks are blushing and her eyes are gleaming with lust.
 
"Ohhhh," you coo, trying to keep your voice to only a whisper.  It's too good not to let your voice out a little. Inexperienced though she is, your sister is a great cocksucker. You pet her hair in appreciation.
 
She releases your dick from her lips and peers into your eyes. "Take off your boxers... I wanna..." she gulps. "I want to lick your asshole, Alabaster..."
 
You pull your boxers off and lean back against the wall so she has access. She dives in without hesitation. You have no idea where things are headed with your sister, but the deliriously pleasurable sensation of her tiny, pink, wet tongue lapping at your anus is all you need right now, and it overrides any other thought. She whimpers softly while she works, still masturbating herself, and services you. You reach down and hold the back of her head. You feel her tense beneath you as you press her firmly and beckon her to go deeper, faster. She eagerly rims you out, your cock and balls resting obscenely against the top of her head, your dick oozing into her hair. You can hear her tongue working you over, moving back and forth. You can feel the drool all over your insides and dripping down again.
 
It's so good that you feel the familiar ache deep in your belly and know you're going to cum soon. "Cerise..." you grunt. "Cerise..."
 
She pulls back, practically gasping for breath, her face wet with her effort. "No," she pants, "no, do it here... do it in my mouth... I want to taste you cumming in my mouth..."
 
She grabs the base of your pulsing dick and gets her mouth around it as best she can. She gets four or five inches in before you feel her throat constricting and she gags. The gag causes a miniature explosion of spittle to course down your cock. The smooth viscous sensation of it combined with her tongue straining repeatedly against the sensitive underside of your shaft brings you over the edge. You grab the back of her head, again, and force her down just a little bit more.
 
"Fuck!" You cry, not caring who might hear. "Ohhhhhh fuck, Cerise, I'm cumming! I'm gonna cum down your throat!" You stand partially, your knees still bent, and press your cock into Cerise's clamping esophagus. She sputters and retches around you, and you empty your nuts into her. You fucking cum in your sister's mouth. You see stars and your toes curl as your incestuous seed shoots in slimy ropes to the deepest recesses of her wet mouth. As you pull back, she squeals in ecstasy, still fingering her own cunt.
 
In total, primal lust now you push her onto her back and rip her pants off. "Alabaster--" she moans, still coughing from the rough use of her mouth. You reach down slap her hand away from her pussy. You dive between her legs, holding her knees apart as you get your face up close to her wet cunt.
 
"Alabaster!" She cries, louder this time, hands to her face as she stares down at you.
 
Cerise's dark punk pussy is plump and pretty, and soft as silk, and as much as Cerise likes your scent - you like hers. This pussy of your older sister's that's been sweating all day in a hot car is the best thing you've ever laid eyes on, and you don't care that she's related to you. You need it. You nuzzle her clit a little with the tip of your nose, before you clamp your mouth around it - and start servicing her like only you know how.
 
"Ohhh--" she gasps, breathless with the sudden shock of it. "Ohhhhh my god-- how are you so-- ffffuck! Oh, fuck!"
 
Your tongue swirls around her clit at alternating speeds, and laps wetly at her parting labia. She doesn't need to know that you've had practice, a LOT of it. That practice is finally paying off for a noble cause: making Cerise cum in your mouth. Her cunt is the sweetest thing you've ever tasted, like honey almost, her wetness a thick nectar that you greedily drink down. You eat your sister out as she squirms and writhes, and you have to hold her still with one hand under each knee, to make sure she doesn't float away.
 
Soon she's bucking her hips and grinding her pubic mound against you. "Alabaster, fuck, fuck!" She grunts. "I'm gonna cum! Make me cum!"
 
You nod enthusiastically.
 
"I love you!" She screams. "Oh god!" And then it happens: she orgasms, her spasming pussy releasing a deluge of cream that you struggle to keep up with. Just as you came on her, she cums on you: you take it all, and then some.

You get some snacks for the rest of the drive on your way out of the store - along with the other items you need.

Kay takes the motor oil from you and fills the reservoir in the engine as Cerise climbs back into the Jeep with Rose.

"By the way," Kay says. "Are you from Alabama?"

"What?" You say. "Why?"

"No reason. I went to take a piss while you guys were loitering in there, and heard some odd noises from over by the ladies' wear. Know anything about that?"

You don't respond to this and get back in the car instead.

In the car, Rose is gazing at Cerise suspiciously. "Did you do something weird?" She demands. It's like she can smell it on her. Maybe she can.

Cerise kicks back in her seat and leans against the window, closing her eyes. "Get fucked, Rose," she says.

The next few hours pass in relative silence. 

---

"Are you assholes gonna help?" Kay says, dumping another shovelful of dirt. Her sweat-sheened face is illuminated by the most brilliant moonlight and starlight you've ever seen. You can see the whole milky way out here.

You lean against the Joshua tree and shake your head. "I'm exhausted," you say, wheezing. "We've been working for hours now..."

Kay checks her watch. "It's been 20 minutes," she says. "Fucking pussies."

Rose sits on the ground, shovel at her side. She rubs her temples in apparent agony, not even bothering to swat Lady away when he comes over to lick her face. Cerise is on her back, even worse for the wear, gazing at the stars.

The desert floor is littered with 2- and 3-foot deep holes.

"Maybe it's gone," you say. "Maybe someone else got to it first."

"Fuck that!" Kay says, turning back to her work, and digging again. Through all the effort, she's ripped off her peacoat and discarded it, revealing her white undershirt and well-tanned skin. She's lithe and toned, and uncommonly strong for her size, it seems. And she's driven, too.

"Why am I the only one around her who wants to get this goddamn -- whatever it is -- dug up?" She demands. "I'm not going home empty handed! Not after driving 9 hours through the desert with the fucking Beverley Hillbillies!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" You demand, stepping forward. "You know, you're a real--"

You hear a metallic clank.

Rose looks up. Cerise clambers to hands and knees. Kay freezes in place, shovel still in the earth.

Then she snaps to, and digs around the newly discovered treasure. She finally gets it unearthed well enough to dispense with the shovel - she gets on her knees and claws at the ground now.

And finally she pulls free a galvanized steel container about twice the size of a shoebox. A faded label on the lid reads:

>PENELOPE
>CAMELIA - CATCHRESIS - GALATEA

"Galatea..." Cerise breathes, reading the label as well.

Kay heaves a deep sigh of relief. "You can thank me later," she says, her own physical exhaustion seeming to finally catch up to her.

She clacks two clasps on either side and opens the hinged lid. 

---

"Betamax..." Kay moans, punching the steering wheel in the Jeep. The hike back from the little gorge was brutal, especially with Kay complaining the whole way. She's still complaining now. "Fucking Betamax! What the hell is that! Who EVER used Betamax? Who? Goddamn it."

The three tapes inside the box are going to be a little hard to watch.

Even worse than Kay is her fucking dog. All of a sudden, he won't shut up. He's been barking and straining against his leash like mad since you got back to the car.

"We'll figure something out," Rose says. "Let's go home for now... and--" she casts a frustrated glance at the still-slavering Lady. "Good lord, will you shut your dog up?" she demands.

"Betamax... Betamax!" Kay repeats. "I swear to god!"

You're more interested in the other thing that was in the box. A ziploc baggie with a tiny plastic nubbin in it - no bigger than a grain of rice, and about the same shape - partially transparent, with a piece of tiny circuitry visible at the center. From one end of the oblong device stretches and coils a long, thin, delicate-looking wire. Really long, in fact - maybe 7 or 8 inches.

Was this... thing... once inside you? Is it still?

"Galatea," Cerise repeats. She ruffles Lady -- trying to calm herself as much she's trying to calm him, you think. "Is that-- that can't be a coincidence, can it?"

"Of course it isn't," you say. You put the baggie back in the steel box and turn off the dash light. "You can talk all about it with her when we get home."

"N-no way," Cerise says. "I never want to talk to her again. Fucking bitch..."

You shake your head.

Still grumbling, Kay turns the key in the ignition. The car struggles to start up, as expected. When it finally does, and the headlights come on, you see a tall blond man standing in the road before you. He has a shotgun in his hands.

"Give me Sand Reckoner!" He shouts. He has a thick accent - Russian. Next to him, a motorcycle. 

Kay doesn't hesitate. She floors it.

You feel the sick rush of shifting momentum as she cuts the wheel and swerves around the motorcycle even as she accelerates. Gravel and rocks kick up loudly all around the tires as she comes perilously close to driving the car into the ditch. But she navigates it with ease. The Jeep fishtails a bit as she comes back to the center of the gravel path, but she keeps it well under control despite that.

"Get down!" Rose screams, grabbing Cerise by the back of her head. They go ducking to the floor. You duck, too. Right before you do, in the rearview mirror, you see the man falling to his knees and leveling the shotgun at the car. You hear the explosion of buckshot, but Kay already has enough distance that the spread prevents him from hitting anything.

Rose pokes her head up and gazes out the rear window. Lady is going fucking nuts now, and he's looking out the rear window with her.

"Oh shit," Rose breathes. She turns to look back at you and Kay. "He's getting on his bike."

Kay is driving as fast as the car will allow, but she's topping out at maybe 60, 65. Whatever bike that Russian had, it has to be faster than that. There's no way you can make it to the highway again before he catches up.

Rose slides back into her seat and fishes around for her shotgun.

You wheel around, still sitting on the floor in front of your own seat. You poke your head around it to watch her as she quickly loads the gun and readies it. "What are you doing?" You hiss. "Stay down, Rose."

"Fuck you," Rose says. "It's kill or be killed! I'm not going to die with my head between my legs!"

"Rose! Goddamn it!"

The whine of the souped-up motorbike is quickly drawing close. You pop your head up for a split second to check where it is - and are momentarily blinded by the bike's headlight. He's right on top of you.

Kay swerves this way and that, seemingly at random. It makes you almost seasick.

"Don't!" Rose tells her. "Let him! Let him get up alongside!" She goes to roll down the window.

You reach out to stop her. She swats your hand away.

"Don't do this right now!" Cerise screams from where she sits on the floor. "Fight later, you dumb little shits!"

You feel a rising bile in your chest, not anger, but fear. Rose is sitting right out in the open, ready to roll down the window of this speeding car and face an armed man head-on - her gun against his. She could be dead in just a few seconds' time. Even if she's your best hope for survival, you can't bear to watch this. You don't want her to die. You don't want her to get hurt. Not even a hair on her head.

"Rose, please..." you say.

She rolls the window down.

"Rose! For the love of god!"

The wind whipping in her hair, she waits for the coming assassin - keeping her gun low at her side, so he can't see it. She's not only going to face him, she's going to play goddamn quick-draw with him.

"Rose! Get down, you fucking cunt! I can't believe th-- Rose! Rose! I lo--" 

The whine of the bike suddenly dies.

Rose looks down at you. "I think he's dead," she says.

"W-what?" You sputter. You sit up in your seat. "What the hell happened? You didn't shoot..."

"Someone hit him," she says. You look through the rear window again. The bike is a fast-receding wreck on the side of the road. Two figures stand over it, and the man lies seemingly dead between them.

"What do you mean, hit him?" Cerise says. She sits up in her seat again, too.

"With a... with a bat, I guess," Rose says. "It all happened so fast."

You can hardly believe your luck.

But was it luck? Who the fuck else is out here, stalking the night, with a will to murder?

You don't have very long to ponder this. Because as you approach the end of the unpaved portion of the access road, Kay has to slam on her brakes. Blocking the path is a bright orange Lamborghini. 

Rose holds the shotgun out the window as a different, louder motorbike approaches from down the gravel path. You're still scared as fucking piss (whatever that means) but you have a pretty good idea who's coming, and you don't think she wants to murder you.

The two figures are wearing darkly visored motorcycle helmets. Rose hefts the gun threateningly.

The one on the back steps off, hands raised. The figure opens its visor: Camelia. Of course.

"Whoa nelly," she says. "I'm friendly, I swear. Sorry for choking you that one time."

The other figure steps off now, too. He pulls off his helmet completely. "Boom, bitch!" He says. He pumps his fist in the air and dances happily - way too happily for someone who just killed another person. He steps from foot to foot, swinging his bat at nothing. "Home fucking run! Hell yes!"

You recognize this man. He was with Tyrus at Darkbloom's garden party. He has a high, feminine voice and slender frame.

Camelia pulls off her helmet now too. She tosses it aside. "Why don't we all ride home in style? We might need to book it... that piece of roadkill back there probably isn't the only one."

"Who are you?" Rose demands of the man with Camelia.

He grins broadly. Turning to Camelia, he asks: "Is this Little Lion?"

Camelia rolls her eyes. "Honestly. Why does she get to be Little Lion and I have to be Period Blood? Tell your husband I think that's bullshit. He needs better nicknames."

He looks back at Rose. "Name's Marquis. Daddy sent me."

"You're with Tyrus?" Rose demands.

"For life," he says. "Til death do us, et cetera."

"I'd love to stay and chat," Camelia says. "But honestly - we need to go. Now."

>[x] Go with them.
[ ] Go with them by yourself, send Kay and the rest back in the Jeep.
[ ] Don't go with them. 

When Camelia tries to get into the driver's seat, Kay pushes her back. "I'm driving," she announces.

"Fuck you, you Little Eichmann cunt," Camelia sneers.

"Fuck YOU, you terrorist piece of shit. I'm the best driver here."

"She's right," you tell Camelia. "She knows how to drive a car. Let's just go, okay?"

Marquis laughs. "Yeah, let the journo drive. She's cool." He gets on his bike again, puts on his helmet. "Wanna come on back with me, or still wanna go with the Little Rascals?"

Camelia gives him the finger.

"Okay," he says. "I'll pull up the rear. See you back in Cali."

Camelia grumbles as she gets into the passenger seat alongside Kay.

With five people and a dog, the Lambo is packed tight. Cerise sits with Lady in her lap, and you sit with Rose in yours.

"Don't even think of doing anything," Rose tells you.

"As if I would ever want to do anything with you," you sneer.

Kay puts the car into gear and peels away. 

Camelia roots through the metal box as Kay speeds down the highway.

"Sick," she says. "Betamax. Super cool. I'm sure Gal's got something in her closet we can rig up to play this."

She looks over at Kay now. "This shit remind you of Afghanistan or what?" she says. "Killing foreigners in the desert, I mean."

"Fuck you. You hideous person."

"Oh, I know," Camelia says. She snaps her fingers as if remembering something. "It's not as fun if they're not kids - right? Or maybe you just like droning the enemy from a distance."

"For your information?" Kay says. "I wasn't active combat. I was a photographer."

"I see," Camelia says. "So did you take pictures of the children's hospitals before or after your friends bombed them out?"

Kay begins to say something, but she gets interrupted. As Camelia predicted, you have company.

You see the headlight, glinting through the passenger side window as you zoom past: yet another motorbike pulling onto the highway to tail you.

And then another.

And then three more.

Camelia passes Rose's shotgun back to her, and holds tight onto a revolver of her own.

"This is gonna suck," Camelia warns you. 

Even at over 120 MPH, Marquis can steer one handed: with the other, he pulls his bat from a strap across his back and holds it at the ready. The bikers have fucking guns, though - and the first shot of the firefight is aimed at him.

It misses. He swerves, pulling up alongside the Lambo on Kay's side, and Kay allows him the clearance to stay at her flank like that. You're not sure precisely what the strategy is, but they seem to know what they're doing.

One of the bikers gets up alongside the other end of the car, but he's dangerously close to the edge of the road by doing so. Kay veers just a little bit to force him to fall back.

"Can you kill?" Camelia asks Rose.

Rose nods.

"You better," Camelia says.

You hold Rose tight, around her waist, her soft tummy against your hands. This is about all the tenderness you can manage. Due to the situation and your own hesitance.

Another biker gets up behind Marquis now, on the driver's side. He's got some sort of auto pistol or Uzi that he aims at the back window -- directly at Rose.

You and Cerise yell as he peppers the side of the car with automatic fire.

But Rose is focused -- she takes aim through the shattering glass and blasts.

The explosion is deafening, blinding. You smell sulfur and feel the insane rush of wind blowing through the broken window.

Rose got him.

She's breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. You run your hands all over her body, half hugging her and half feeling for any evidence of bullet wounds - but there are none. Your touch seems to calm her.

"Great job!" Camelia says, shouting over the sudden din of wind in the cramped Lambo.

Two more are coming up along the passenger side now. Camelia rolls down the window and climbs up - sits on the door and takes aim. She fires, but her aim isn't very good -- and the bikers hail back with suppressing fire that forces her into the car again.

"Bastards," she grunts.

Kay can't force them back because the highway is wider at this point. They're right on top of the car now.

"Get the dog down!" Rose yells at Cerise. Cerise curls up into an almost fetal position, pulling Lady with her, clearing the view to the window opposite Rose. The first biker in line raises his Uzi - too late. Rose kills him.

In just a few seconds, you've witnessed Rose kill two men.

"Annie fucking Oakley!" Camelia whoops.

Rose's face is a mask of grim determination.

Marquis pulls around the front of the Lambo, makes it to the passenger side and falls back. Like this, he's maneuvered around to the second biker approaching from that side, and manages to get the jump on him. Before the biker can react to Marquis' unexpected appearance, Marquis scores a hit - and the skidding, sparking bike, along with the body of its driver, takes out the last of the two remaining bikers in the rear.

"Holy fucking shit," Cerise screams.

"Is that it?" You ask.

No. Red and blue lights in the rear view now. A goddamn cop. 

Camelia gets back on the door again. "Gonna do something you don't approve of," she warns.

"Are you for fucking real?" Kay shrieks. "You're gonna kill a fucking cop now?"

"What do you suggest?" Camelia shouts back. "How do you like the sound of 20 to life?"

"You stupid whore!" Kay says. "I can't believe you made me a part of this!"

"YOU made you a part of this!"

Camelia takes aim - and this time around, her aim is truer. Or maybe not. She hits the front left tire, and the shitty little sheriff's deputy cruiser isn't able to keep up with one of its tires blown out. It skids to a stop in the middle of the road.

She gets back inside. "Totally on purpose," she avers.

"I hate you!" Kay yells. "I hate you so fucking much! You deserve to be dead!"

Camelia lugs a black box that looks a bit like a stereo up from the floor. She turns it on and fiddles with the knobs. A voice resolves.

"All cars, all cars! We have a multiple homicide incident on 140 west of Adel! All cars! Be on the lookout for orange Lamborghini license plate F-K-N-R-U-T-O! Armed and extremely dangerous!"

"This is... bad," Camelia says. 

---

"Here!" Camelia shouts. "Here, here! At the marker up there! Pull off to the shoulder!"

Reluctantly, Kay slows down and pulls alongside the mile marker. The forest of spiny trees and plants on the left-hand side is thick and lushly green - an oasis, maybe?

"Go, keep going!" Camelia says. "Let's ditch this bitch in the bushes."

Kay drives through the shrubbery for a quarter mile or more until the road isn't visible -- and hopefully, the Lambo isn't visible from the road anymore, either.

As you all step out of the car, Kay squares up to Camelia and grabs her by the collar. "Youuuu cunt," she spits. "You brought the fucking Russian mafia down on me? Cops? Give me one good reason not to waste you right here and leave you for the coyotes!"

"Here's one," Marquis says. He pulls his motorbike alongside now and unholsters a pistol, pointing it at Kay. "How about we all stay chill here, what you say?"

"The murdertwink is right," Camelia says. She steps back from Kay's grip, dusts off her vest. "We need to make good time here. We don't want to be seen on 140 if we can help it, and plus I'm sure the ghetto bird is gonna come out any time now. But I've got a nice family SUV parked a little ways from here -- we can make it to 395, doing the speed limit like good little citizens -- hopefully before the podunk assholes coming for us have time to really respond."

Kay shakes her head, aghast and enraged.

"Well let's fucking go, then," you say. "Lead the way."

As she promised, Camelia has a boxy white SUV hidden in the bushes here. You climb inside and hit the road - Kay still at the wheel - and don't encounter any more cops until you're back on highway 395. You're driving south and they're blazing ass north, sirens blaring. Kay pulls aside like a "good little citizen" for a heart-stopping moment, to allow them passage - and they don't even seem to take notice of you.

"This is insane..." Cerise says. "Absolutely fucking bonkers..."

At least the seating in here is more spacious. Still, with Marquis riding along too, you're one seat short. Rose voluntarily sits on your lap again.

"Are you okay?" You ask her - practically whispering in her ear so she's the only one who can hear, genuine concern in your voice.

"No... no, I'm not," she whispers back.

You hold her tight.

Strictly because the road is bumpy up ahead and you don't want to deal with her whining if she falls and hits her head or something. 

You reach down and pull the lever on the seat that lets it recline. You keep ahold of Rose and the two of you tilt swiftly back as far as the mechanism will allow. Rose gasps a little at the sudden motion.

"Warn me next time, you ass," Rose says.

"Let's get some sleep," you say.

You close your eyes. Rose, in your arms, wiggles a little bit to get comfy. For all her bravado, it's easy to forget she's a very short girl - sitting in your lap, her head just barely comes to your shoulders. She uses you as a pillow.

Cerise and Camelia lean back, too, and start to doze - Marquis, even. The only sound in the SUV is the steady hum of its engine as Kay drives south, once more entering into the Nevada desert. She's a goddamn machine, that woman - ready for an additional 9 hours of uninterrupted driving after a treasure hunt in the desert and a firefight that almost killed her.

She said at the Rutabaga cafe that she's on your side. You hope she really is. Having a girl like that against you is a scary thought. 

For the next few hours, you drift in and out of restless sleep. Rose's body warmth against you is nice at first, and then grows uncomfortable. Your shirt and pants grow sticky with sweat where she presses against you - both your sweat and hers.
 
She also has a really annoying habit of tossing and turning. It's all you can do to keep her still while she twists about in your grip.
 
This combined with Cerise's godawful snoring means that your quality of sleep is already pretty compromised, before you even begin to factor in all the various worries keeping you awake as well.
 
It's just before dawn, a little after 4 AM, when you come to with a start, and a weird thrill in your gut. This is not an uncommon occurrence, especially on nights when you're having trouble sleeping, nights when you're anxious, or nights when you're overheated. On nights like those, you tend to wake in the predawn hours with an overbearing horniness and an urge to cum as quickly as possible. Call it the midnight demon.
 
You adjust to being conscious again and glance around the low-hung interior of the SUV. Cerise is still asleep, her face pressed up against the window, snoring. Camelia is passed out too, ditto Marquis. Even Lady is dozing, curled up at Cerise's feet, a contented expression on his black and mahogany face.
 
Only Kay is still awake. Her eyes are peeled on the road ahead.
 
Well - then Rose wakes, too. In addition to her bad habit of twisting and turning, she has a bad habit of stirring whenever you do.
 
"Are you awake...?" She mumbles, her voice still low and sleepy.
 
"Go to bed, Rose."
 
"Mmm..." She snuggles against your shoulder.
 
You give her a few moments to drift off again. When you decide she's well and truly asleep, you make your move.
 
You brazenly let your hands roam all over her body. Her blouse is damp and clings to her torso, and through the fabric you feel the soft give of her fleshy body. Every little squeeze and push of your palms against her unwitting form makes your already hardening cock get a little harder still. At the same time as you grope her, you buck your hips, just a little, reveling in the pressure of her ass in your lap pressing down. It brings you some small relief - just enough to tease you and drive you further. Rose only, finally, wakes again when the transit of your molestation arrives at her bulbous cow tits.
 
"Wuhh--" She begins, confused.
 
"Shh," you warn.
 
"What are you doing?" She says. It's not a rhetorical question. She's still out of it - doesn't understand yet what's happening.
 
"Be quiet," you whisper.
 
As she becomes aware of her situation, she tenses in your lap. You keep mauling her breasts with both hands. Her deer-in-headlights reaction is simply too delicious - you decide to be even bolder still. You run your hands down her sides, causing her to jump in ticklish shock, and get underneath her sticky blouse. Now you're touching her bare skin, your fingertips playing directly across the pale and overfed flesh. When you get back up to her breasts, you push her bra away and grab two handfuls of her luscious tit meat.
 
Rose hisses, in anger or pleasure, you can't tell.
 
"I said shut up," you hiss back. You glance to the front of the SUV - Kay hasn't noticed anything.
 
"How dare you," Rose says. She's keeping her voice to a whisper, too.
 
Rose's tits are way too big to encompass entirely with your hands. Their spongy, yielding texture is a delight to violate and manipulate. You feel them all over, underside to top, side to side, admire how perky they are despite their indecent heft. You pause here and there to tweak her fat puffy nipples, and they harden under your abuse. Rose's breath hitches and she arches her back against you. You can tell the way you're mashing your hands all over her sensitive udders is causing her pain - pain she's trying not to let show - and you can't get enough of it. You want to hurt her some more.
 
"Why-- why--" Rose whines, her voice still low.
 
"I think you deserve it, don't you?"
 
"I-- I'll scream," Rose says.
 
"Is that the only threat you know?" You say mockingly.
 
"I'll do it--"
 
You bite her earlobe and she shudders in your arms. "Scream, then," you breathe directly into her ear.
 
She can't stop the moan that escapes her lips.
 
You decide to move on to other things. You run your hands along her meaty legs now, groping her healthy but under-exercised thighs. As you snake your way towards your real goal, she presses her legs together defiantly - denies you access.
 
You don't have the patience to deal with that kind of shit right now.
 
Roughly, you grab her by either knee and yank her legs apart again. The force and speed with which you do it is wordless warning enough that you're not fucking around right now, and that she isn't going to stop you.
 
Unfortunately, this movement causes an audible rustle that catches Kay's attention. She glances up into the mirror, catching your gaze - and Rose's.
 
Rose's eyes go wide with horror. Kay's reaction is more muted: surprised, curious maybe, but not appalled in the way you might expect. She turns her attention back to the road.
 
Your fingers find Rose's pantied crotch. Her conservative, plain white panties are warm and wet already - so much so, that you can clearly feel the contours of her hot little slit.
 
"Alabster-- we're being watched--" Rose chokes.
 
"You're wearing panties," you sneer. "That ends tonight."
 
"D-did you hear me? We're being wat-- gfff--"
 
You hook a finger in her mouth and fish-hook one of her cheeks to shut her up. Her voice is fucking annoying.
 
"Did *you* hear *me*?" You say.
 
She nods rapidly, raw animal panic taking over.
 
"No more panties. Understand?"
 
She nods again.
 
You grab the sodden garment by the waistband. Looping your other arm around her midriff, you lift her just enough to tug the panties past her butt, before letting her plop back into your lap again. Kay is watching in the mirror once more as you lean forward, pull Rose's panties down to her ankles and off her legs completely. You bring them back up now, wad them into a ball - and shove them into Rose's mouth. Kay watches the whole thing.
 
Rose's cunt slit is dripping lewdly and it's searingly hot to your touch. You molest her freely and openly, sticking your fingers in and out of her body as you wish, parting her labia, squeezing her clit. You're not trying to bring her any pleasure, you're just enjoying the feeling of her in your hands, the anatomical thrill of exploring her most intimate parts. Rose closes her eyes in shame and revulsion, but her body is telling the truth. The more you grope her, the wetter she gets.
 
"Reach down and unzip me," you instruct her.
 
She opens her eyes, looks down at your lap -- but trepidation freezes her in place.
 
You grip her about the nape of her neck, threateningly. You repeat your command. "Reach down. Unzip me."
 
Hands shaking, she does as she's told. She unzips you. And then, without further instruction, she pulls your cock out. Smart, for a sow.
 
Seeing its size and knowing what's coming, Rose is clamming up and getting that dumb, panicky look in her eyes again. She starts to suckle on her own panties like a kid sucking on her thumb, as if to soothe herself.
 
You guide her 180 degrees around so she's facing you -- so you can get a better view of the moment you make good on a years-old promise.
 
She's staring madly at your cock as you, in turn, stare at her stupid, scared face.
 
"I told you it would happen. Didn't I?"
 
She nods.
 
"You knew it was coming. Didn't you?"
 
She nods.
 
"And you wanted it to happen. Didn't you?"
 
She doesn't move. She has her fists balled up against her heaving chest and her eyes are still fixed on your throbbing manhood.
 
You put your finger under her chin and guide her gaze upward. You stare into her eyes. "Didn't you," you growl.
 
She hesitates for another moment before nodding yes.
 
"Put it in," you tell her. "Help me rape you."
 
As if afraid it will attack her, she wraps her fingers around your dick and guides it home. She humps up and down a little bit, rubbing the tip against her sticky outer lips, before she manages to haul herself up enough to align you with the slick, tight hole that you intend to nut inside of tonight.
 
She starts to ease herself down, but you have other ideas. You grab her shoulders and force her down roughly, all the way - getting your dick balls deep up your cousin's hot cunt in one thrust.
 
Rose lets out a muffled groan through her panties.
 
"Ffffuck," you heave. "Fuck you. Ungh-- you're so tight..."
 
You actually purr with pleasure at how good it feels.
 
You start thrusting now. You pump in and and out, bucking your hips as much as this position will allow - your strokes are short, but you're nice and fucking deep inside her. Her inner walls are as soft as her outsides, and just as pliant. They give and conform to the shape of your cock without any resistance. Except for this: at the very depth of your instrokes, the tip of you cock brushes against a hard barrier that you take to be her cervix. And every time it does, she convulses with agony, which only fuels the perverted fire in your belly. You bottom out inside her again and again.
 
"I'm going to cum in your womb," you tell her roughly. "You dumb fucking cunt."
 
You squeeze her ass and use it for leverage as you rape her with increasing force and desperation. The noise is pretty unmistakable now, the steady rhythm of two people mating wetly, the slap of flesh on flesh. No one else is awake, but Kay's attention is pretty much undivided - she's watching unashamedly, and the curious expression on her face means she must like what she sees.
 
You lift Rose's skirt up and pull her ass cheeks apart so Kay can get a nice view of it all: your cock, the way it's raping into Rose's tight pussy, and Rose's pink cherry asshole, too.
 
"I think Kay likes your ass," you tell Rose.
 
She shivers and her pussy clamps around your thrusting dick.
 
"Do you like being watched?" You ask. "Do you like it when people see you getting raped?"
 
She shakes her head violently no. You stop thrusting.
 
"Nnnn--!!" Rose grunts around her makeshift gag. Even after stopping for a second, she's going insane with frustration.
 
"You don't like it. So I stopped."
 
Rose tries to pick up the slack, bouncing up and down a few times before you hold her firmly in place so she can't.
 
"Admit you like being watched," you demand.
 
You pull the panties from her mouth. She lets her jaw hang slack and a strand of spittle dangles between her lower lip and the dirty cotton. She has the stupidest look on her face that you've ever seen.
 
"I liiike itttt--" she whines. "I liiike itt..."
 
"You like being raped."
 
"I LOVE being raped... I love cock...!"
 
You let go of her. "Bring me off," you tell her.
 
She humps against you now, hands on your shoulders, doing all the work. Her pussy grinds right against your pubic hair as she gyrates and thrusts. You lounge, enjoying the sensation of Rose raping herself against your turgid cock. To occupy yourself, and add to the perverted sight, you poke your fingers around inside her wet mouth. She doesn't fight you, doesn't resist - she lets it happen. She keeps her mouth hanging open like the stupid cum-pig she is and gives you free access to poke and prod. Even as you push your fingers all the way to the back of the throat and she starts to gag a little, she keeps on fucking against you.
 
Next you reach around her and put a slimy index finger in her anus. This hardly fazes her anymore. She must be too motivated by the need emanating from her cunt, the instinct telling her to get raped, to care about a minor degradation like that.
 
"Isssh that good?" she slurs as she works her sopping pussy up and down on your shaft. "Do you like my pusshy?" Her face is a mask of raw masochistic pleasure - if pupils really could turn to hearts, hers definitely would right now. As it is, her pupils are widely dilated and dreamy, distant-looking. She fucks against you without a second thought about how much noise she's making. You grunt in satisfaction.
 
"I'm sss- s-still not sssshafe..." she mutters. "But... issh okay... you can cum in me..."
 
This does it. You hold her by the hips and slam into her as hard as you can, three, four times. "Fine," you snarl, "Fine... I'll cum inside... fuck!"
 
"Yessh! Yessh! Knock me up!"
 
Your vision goes blurry as your balls surge and the cum spurts up the shaft of you dick. "Get pregnant!" You spit, and mash your lips against hers. Your tongues mingle and you taste the vestiges of her cunt cream as you empty a load right into the opening of her tiny womb. Rose screams into your mouth. There's a wet explosion as she climaxes on you too, and now you're cumming together. The slimy mess of your dual orgasms runs thickly down by gravity into your lap. You're both too fucked-out and blissed-out to even begin to care. You fall asleep almost instantly, still mated to her.

You manage to get the two of you somewhat, but not entirely clean again before anyone in the SUV awakens. You use Rose's panties to mop up the mess as best you can, and toss them from the window of the moving SUV. God help the parolee on community service who picks them from the side of the road.

Rose, sleeping, hardly stirs as you wipe her off and make yourselves decent again.

With Rose still facing you, you flatten her skirt, haul her legs up so they lie curled over your lap, and wrap your arms around her again to hold her close. You lean your face against the top of her head. You like the way she smells - sweet, like honey or lavender. Holding her this way is... it's comfy.

"Me too..." she murmurs, half asleep.

"Don't start with that shit now," you tell her.

"No... me too."

You look down at her droopy eyelids. She curls and uncurls her fingers against your chest. "I... I love..." she begins, but then she falls asleep again. 

"Yo, you blow a nut on Little Lion's ass or something?"

Marquis is the first to wake up. "Smells like the fuckin Bang Bus in here. Oh my sweet lord."

You cough awkwardly.

"This is why I sleep as little as possible," Kay says. "You miss out on so much while you sleep."

Marquis laughs. "You all right," he tells Kay. "Are we back in Palo yet?"

"Just about."

Marquis tells her where to drop him off - it isn't far. He's gone before Cerise and Camelia are awake again.

"Where to now?" You ask Kay.

"Gal's," says Camelia, answering for her.

Kay frowns.

"Gal's, I guess," she says. 

Kay and Camelia go up the stairs towards Galatea's apartment. Cerise and Rose linger out on the street by the SUV - each for their own reasons. Rose, because she's still a little bit traumatized by her last visit here. Cerise, because of how things ended between her and Galatea.

"You guys go on," Cerise says. "I'll wait out here."

"Cerise..." you begin. "This isn't the right time to be petty. After everything we went through to get to that place in the desert, the tapes in that box... all the shit that's happened the past few weeks... and whatever it is in the past that ties me to Camelia and Galatea... I NEED you with me on this. I don't want to go up there alone."

Cerise stares into your eyes.

"I need you," you say again.

"...Okay," Cerise says.

She steps out of the car.

"But... I'll be calling in a favor," she adds. 

"Gal, honey, I'm home!" Camelia opens the front door and calls into the apartment in a sing-song voice.

No response. Camelia walks inside, takes off her vest, hangs it on a hook. She invites the rest of you into the living room. It's a dark cave, illuminated only dimly by sunlight seeping in around bedsheets over the windows functioning as curtains. Beer cans and pizza boxes are stacked on the coffee table, spare computer parts are strewn all around the wooden floor. A disused CRT TV along one wall stares at you with its dead greenish-gray screen.

Camelia goes back to where Galatea's room is and a few moments later returns with her in tow. Galatea is wearing only a baggy T-shirt and panties and is obviously unprepared for visitors. Her bleary eyes bulge in shock when she sees you, and she spins on her heels, trying to flee back to the comfort and safety of her bedroom. Camelia stops her.

"no no no no no," Galatea repeats.

"Yes yes yes yes yes," Camelia shoots back. She pushes Galatea into the living room and makes her sit on the couch there. Galatea buries her face in her hands and won't look at anyone.

"THIS is Galatea?" Kay says. "The most dangerous hacker on Earth? Bullshit."

"Believe it!" Camelia says, then forces back a shudder. "Ugh. It's infectious. Kill me."

"...What?" says Kay.

"Nevermind. Hang tight for a second -- I'll be right back." She disappears again into Galatea's room.

Cerise sits down beside Galatea. Galatea keeps her face covered.

"Stop stalking me with buses," Cerise says.

"ok i'm sorry i won't do that i'm sorry"

"You're a really pathetic person, you know that?"

"yes yes i'm sorry i'm bad i'm pathetic"

"I'm not going to forgive you just because you're doing this whole 'boo hoo' social anxiety act. Okay? So you can forget it."

"i'm sorry ok i'm sorry"

Cerise grabs Galatea's hands and yanks them away from her face. She forces Galatea to look at her.

And then she kisses Galatea on the lips.

Galatea squeaks - literally, like a mouse, or a dog toy - as Cerise pulls back again.

"I promised you your first kiss, didn't I?" Cerise says. "I keep my promises."

Galatea's face rapidly goes through a panoply of emotions. And then, buzzing with a sort of joyous energy, she lunges forward and kisses Cerise back. Cerise returns the gesture for only a moment before pushing her away.

"I'm not forgiving you," she tells Galatea.

"ok"

"This isn't us making up."

"ok"

"Understand?"

"yes"

She stares at her knees for a few seconds, then: "i love you cerise"

Cerise doesn't reply. 

Camelia returns with a bulky piece of faux-wood paneled electronic equipment under one arm. A goddamn Betamax player.

"I knew Gal had this thing lying around somewhere..." She gets on hands and knees in front of the old TV and works to get it hooked up.

"What the... why the hell do you have a Betamax player?" You ask Galatea.

"..."

"I'm just curious," you say.

"i knew i needed it"

She doesn't explain further, and lets that statement hang in the air.

You sit down on the floor, sweeping away a few stray dust bunnies as you do. Rose sits beside you. Kay stays upright, on guard - she clearly doesn't like being here in the heart of the beast.

Finally, Camelia is done. She sits on the other side of you now, leaning back on her palms, legs crossed in front of her.

"K, Kay," she says. "Roll that beautiful bean footage."

Kay pulls the tape out and puts it in the player. She clicks the play button. 

March 10, 2015

You're alone with mom and dad now.

You step up to mom's grave. How do you talk to a dead person?

"Hey," you begin. Your voice is a bit tremulous with embarrassment and uncertainty. "I just, uh, wanted to say hi too."

You pause, as if there should be a response, but of course there isn't. And you definitely don't feel any otherworldly presence like Cerise supposedly does. You press forward.

"Cerise already told you I'm going to the quiz bowl championship in Idaho, so, ah-- I guess I wanted to say that--" you clear your throat. "When we lost in regionals last year, you kept telling me that I'd make the national tournament this year for sure, and, well... you were right."

You focus on the fine red texture of her granite grave marker. "I d-don't like admitting you were right, so-- y-you'd better enjoy it!"

Even though you know you're really only talking to yourself, you almost can't bear to get this off your chest. You're falling back into old habits. You compose yourself and make another attempt, knowing that if you don't get it out now, you might not ever.

"I also wanted to say..."

You close your eyes and shake your head. It's so damn quiet around here, and you hate the sound of your own voice, talking at nothing.

"I'm... I'm sorry," you finally manage. "I'm sorry for, uh, the shitty things I did and the bad things I said..."

Another beat.

"Okay, that didn't come out right. That sounds dumb. That's not what I wanted to say. I'm just -- I'm sorry. For everything."

You swallow hard and bite your lip.

"I want to take it back, okay? I do... I wish I could go back to that night and say I love you instead of the stupid, fucking shitty... awful thing..."

The tears are trailing down your cheeks now.

"I'm sorry," you repeat. You kneel down and touch the the grave marker with a flattened palm. It's cold and rough. You don't feel any fucking presence. There's nothing here but you and the gravestones.

"I'm sorry. I wish I could hug you. Hear your voice again, talk... just one more time, just once, a few minutes... and make it right. Please... please forgive me... I'm so sorry, mom... please..."

The truth is that you've thought incessantly for a year now about all the things you'd say if you could, but even though you're not really talking to her, you're still somehow unable to string it all together into the coherent speech you planned in your head. You've become just a dumb, inarticulate crybaby sniveling at your mother's grave. Pathetic.

So instead of trying to make any sense, you just let yourself sob for a minute or two - the kind of big, heaving sobs you haven't had since the days immediately following their deaths. It's finally Cerise who interrupts you:

"Alabaster...?" 

You quickly struggle to your feet and wipe your face with one hand. "I'm fine," you lie. You sniffle back mucus. "It's okay, I'm finished. Let's go."

"You're not fine," Cerise says.

You stare at her through rheumy eyes, your vision slightly blurred. You burn with shame that doesn't quite override your grief.

Cerise steps forward. Before you can stop her, she embraces you. Her body is soft and warm and comforting. You bury your face in her shoulder and let the sobs wrack you once more.

"It's my fault," you admit through the tears. Your voice is muffled by her neck. This is the first time you've ever told her the truth. "I sent mom to that store. They went there because of me."

"Shh," Cerise coos.

"No! I sent them there! They wouldn't have crashed if they didn't go there! They would have just come home! They'd be alive!"

"It's not your fault," Cerise says.

"It is my fault! Fuck you!" You grip at her sides and try to push yourself back, weakly. Cerise keeps a firm grip around you, doesn't let you go. "I killed them! I killed mom and dad!"

"No," Cerise says softly. She pets you and even rocks you a bit, her cheek against your head. "No. It was an accident. It's not your fault."

"It was my fault... it was all my fault..." you repeat, unable to make the tears stop. 

---

>09/11/01

...is how the timestamp on the bottom right corner of the screen identifies the date. Off to a great start already.

The woman on the grainy footage looks like an older, brunette version of Galatea. In her hands is a baby with thin, fiery red hair.

On the couch, Galatea's eyes widen. She leans forward, hands on her knees.

"mom..."

"Okay zen, Mrs. Healy" a man with a thick German accent behind the camera says. "Anna is 1.5 years of age, yes?"

Galatea's mother nods -- or should you say Anna's mother nods?

"You even lied about your name too..." Cerise mumbles. Galatea winces.

"Thank you for taking ze time to come here," the man says. He sits on a stool across from Mrs. Healy and you can see now that he's the man known as Gustav - Renee Carte's mentor. "How is Anna zis beautiful Tuesday morning?"

"She's as rambunctious as always," says Mrs. Healy. "Always getting into trouble, this one..." She rocks Galatea on her knee, as Galatea reaches for Gustav's stethoscope.

"Heh heh... naughty baby..." Gustav laughs. He lets Galatea have the stethoscope. She takes it with interest, her clumsy, pudgy hands exploring it as she swings it around. She puts the round chrome end to her ear - the opposite of how it should be used.

"I see intelligence in her eyes," Gustav says. "A very fine candidate."

"She's smart," Mrs. Healy brags. "She can barely walk but whenever I let her loose - straight to the piano in our den. She can't get enough music. I think she'll be a musician, this one."

"Very possibly," Gustav says airily. "Maybe one day little Anna will even go to Juilliard."

"Will Project Penelope help her? To grow and get smarter, I mean..."

"Oh, yes, very much. Anna will be given our model designated Galatea. Purpose is to store kinesthetic data... muscle memory, so on. If you wish her to be a musician - a musician she shall be!"

The tape cuts to another scene. 

>02/28/02

It's mom.

Dr. Carte is the interviewer this time. "Good morning, Mrs. Soliloquy. Thanks for bringing Alabaster."

Mom nods. You, circa age 5, sit on the examination table in the little office, busily playing your Gameboy.

"Having fun, young man?" Dr. Carte asks you. You don't respond.

"I guess he's too wrapped up," Dr. Carte laughs.

"For your information," you tell her, "I'm about to beat the Elite 4. So I don't have time to converse."

"Converse, oooh," says Dr. Carte. "I like your vocabulary. Watch out for Red's Pikachu, now."

You look up from your Gameboy, incredulous. "How do you know about that?"

"That furry bastard took out my level 99 Scizor," Dr. Carte says. "He's a real toughie."

You stare at her for a minute before returning to your game with a harrumph. "I don't believe you. An old lady like you would never play Pokemon."

Dr. Carte laughs, rubbing the back of her head. "First time I've ever been called an old lady..." she tells mom.

"Yeah?" Mom says. "Get used to it. It's his go-to insult." 

"Is Alabaster all caught up on his vaccines?" Dr. Carte asks.

"Yes, of course," Mom says.

"Sorry - I have to ask. You know, there's rumors going around on the internet these days that vaccines cause autism? Terrible stuff, what people will believe just because it's online."

Mom shakes her head. "Well, I don't believe that trash. I take care of my boy."

Gustav comes into the room. "Oh, young Mr. Alabaster --" he says. "Please, zis way. Ve vill be doing ze tonsil removal now."

He leads you out by your hand. Mom watches with a worried expression, wringing a handkerchief.

"We've selected Alabaster to be Camelia," Dr. Carte says. "It's a--"

"Camelia?" Mom says, skeptically. "Isn't there a more masculine name? He's not one of those girly boys you see around these days, you know!"

Dr. Carte chuckles. "It's just a codename. The device works the same regardless. Its primary function enhances memory."

"As if the little hell raiser needs to remember even more stuff..." Mom says. "He brings up things from two years ago to use against me in arguments..."

"Then you'd better watch out," Dr. Carte says, winking. "It's only gonna get worse."

"You're sure this is safe?" She says.

Dr. Carte lays a reassuring hand on mom's knee. "100%. I wouldn't be part of this if I wasn't sure."

"And when do we get paid?" Mom asks. "We could really use the money right away."

"The receptionist will give you your check on the way out. Now, Mrs. Soliloquy, I need to remind you -- your NDA specifies that you and Mr. Soliloquy cannot tell anyone about the implant until Alabaster's checkup on his 18th birthday. Not even Alabaster himself. It would compromise the experiment, otherwise."

"I understand. But-- what if there's a complication?"

"You can always contact Darkbloom Enterprises and we'll schedule you in right away. But there shouldn't be any complications. We've gone through some extreme vetting of this technology, believe me..." 

The next scene makes even Kay gasp. Rose covers her eyes and looks away - so does Cerise.

You're on an operating table, unconscious, with your left eye out of its socket -- dangling bloody and disgusting on your cheek. "Non-invasive implant," your ass.

Gustav stabs your tear duct with the long, thin wire of a device identical to the one you found in that steel box along with the Betamax tape. Using a forceps, Dr. Carte pulls it through the other and connects it -- wrapping it around the back of your ocular nerve... and dragging it deeper still. Gustav wiggles the end that's shaped like a rice grain, lodging it firmly in your tear duct.

Watching along, wanting to tear your sight off the screen but utterly unable to, you reach up and touch your cheek just below your left eye. So it's true. That thing really is inside you. And it's your own mom who volunteered you for it. All so she could get a little extra cash.

The two butchers operating on you put your eye back in its socket now.

"Interesting..." Gustav muses. "Hue change here, too. Note that down, Renee."

Dr. Carte makes a note of this. "I don't understand it," she says. "Why does it turn their eyes blue?" 

>04/21/02

"Thank you. I know it's a pain to come here on a Sunday..."

David Darkbloom is interviewing a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties who can only be--

"No, thank you, Mr. Darkbloom. You've been so generous..."

"Little ░░░░░ will ░░ Cata░░esis." The tape cuts out a bit and loses its vertical tracking for a moment, the video quality degrading. "It's our best model yet. It does ░░░░ it does everything. Your daughter will ░░░░ maybe the most intelligent person to ev░░░░░░ the Earth. She will truly ░░░░░░"

And then it transitions to another eyeball-out operation. 

Dr. Carte and Gustav work just as before, only this time - something goes wrong. As soon as Gustav jabs the wire in Camelia's tear duct - Camelia wakes up.

"AIIEEEEE!!!" the little girl shrieks. Camelia here is no older than three, maybe four at most. She tries to grab for her dangling eye, but Gustav is quick to restrain her, holding her at the wrists.

"Sedate her, goddamn it, sedate her!" He cries, as Dr. Carte fumbles for a needle. She jabs it into Camelia's thigh, but it does nothing. The device, Catachresis, is hanging like a scythe from her tear duct. The little grain of circuitry at the other end dangles in the air.

"More! Sedate her!"

"No!" Dr. Carte screams. "It'll kill her! It's not working anyway!"

David Darkbloom's voice booms from off-camera: "Finish the operation. Quickly."

"We have to stop!" Dr. Carte yells. "Take Catachresis out!" She reaches for it, but Darkbloom is at the operating table now, pushing her back.

"AAAAAH!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!! AAAAAHHHHH!!!!" Camelia's shrieks are increasingly agonzied and horrible as she thrashes and kicks.

Watching along, Cerise has a hand over her mouth, fighting back vomit; Kay's lips are trembling; Rose has her face between her knees. Only Camelia's expression is placid. She reacts as if she's seeing this for the first time, but her interest is detached, distant.

"MOMMMYYYYY! DADDDDYYYY! STOOOP IT STOP IT!! IT HURTSSSS!!!"

"Take it out!" Dr. Carte says again. "This is murder! We're murdering her!"

"We must continue," Darkbloom says. "The experiment requires that you continue."

"No!" Dr. Carte says. "I won't do it. I won't! You fucking bastard!"

"Hmmph," Darkbloom replies, totally unperturbed. He turns, grabs the forceps. "I'll do it myself, then. Gustav, keep her still."

Gustav presses down with all his weight and a horrified Dr. Carte watches as Darkbloom operates on the still-conscious child.

"MY EYE!" Camelia wails. "MY EYEEE! I SEE EVERYTHING!!! MY EYEEEEE!!!!"

The tape cuts to black.

Kay is the first to speak.

"I need a copy of this. This is the biggest scandal in American history. People need to know about it..." She paces back and forth, unable to contain the anger in her voice. "David Darkbloom personally doing human experimentation on live children... my god... this is the worst thing I've ever seen..."

"Do you... do you remember that?" You ask Camelia.

She shakes her head. "It's jumbled. My memories are all jumbled... I only had bits and pieces. It was--"

Cerise is standing. She cuts Camelia off.

"Gal. I need to know something. You have to tell me the truth."

Galatea gazes up at her.

"Were you being honest, about your parents? That wasn't a lie to get close to me too?"

She shakes her head. "it was true"

"What?" You say. "What are you talking about?"

Cerise explains. "Gal's mom and dad. They're dead, too. They died in New York while Gal was interviewing at Juilliard. Gal... tell him what happened."

Galatea wipes tears away. "a taxi... they were sight-seeing... it crashed..."

Your eyes dart side to side in your head as you think about that.

"How did mom and dad die?" Cerise demands.

"A car accident..." you say.

"How did David Darkbloom want to kill his wife?" Cerise says.

"A car accident."

You set your jaw, fight back the trembling that adrenaline brings.

"Camelia..." you say. "Camelia, are your parents dead?"

"Yep," she says.

"And... how did they die?"

She fixes you in her gaze. "Car crash."

You turn your head and stare at the dark screen. And in your chest, a dark hatred begins to bloom.

"So..." Camelia says. "About murdering David Darkbloom."

END OF EPISODE 10. 

December 20, 2014

"Thank you for coming, Rose."

Rose smiles placidly. She interlaces her fingers in her lap.

Dr. Isakai waits a few lingering moments to see if she will say anything, but she doesn't.

"It's been a while," he finally says. "We have a lot to catch up on. Are you still saying your daily affirmations?"

"Occasionally," Rose says. "Whenever I feel anxious. I don't need them as much anymore."

This is a lie. She has never, not even once, said those stupid 'affirmations' that Dr. Isakai recommended a couple years ago.

"That's very good," Dr. Isakai says. "I can tell you've made some real progress - just based on your grades and involvement with extracurricular activities. You're truly excelling."

She beams. "Why thank you, Dr. Isakai."

"I wanted to see you because, well - I want to make sure that you're adjusting to the changes in your life. Welcoming a new person into your family is always a challenge, but especially if that person is an adopted sibling." Rose winces a bit at this, almost imperceptibly.

"I think of a family rather like a team," Dr. Isakai continues, "and any new team goes through four key phases: forming, storming, nor--"

"Excuse me," Rose says, "but I'm not certain I need any coaching here. I know the phases of team development. And psychologically speaking? I'm doing just fine. Alabaster is the troubled one. Not me."

Dr. Isakai chuckles insincerely. "I forgot how blunt you are, Rose. Let me be more direct, then. How are you and Alabaster getting on?"

She brushes some invisible lint off her pleated skirt. "We don't get along, as I'm sure he made abundantly clear. But it's really nothing that I can help. It's all his fault. He's mentally unwell."

"Rose."

Rose clears her throat.

"Do you like Alabaster?"

"No. No, I can't say that I do."

"Why not?"

Rose's smile is faltering - she does her best to maintain it, but it has the quality of a plastic doll's at this point: taut, pained. Three minutes into her session and it's already revolving around him. Just like every other thing in her life these days.

"He's simply... he's simply just the worst," she manages.

"You two argue?"

"Oh, yes. Quite a lot, I should think."

Dr. Isakai uncrosses and recrosses his legs. "Rose, I am bound by doctor-patient confidentiality -- you're an intelligent girl, so I'm sure you already know: what this means is I can tell no one, not another soul, anything either you or Alabaster tell me. Not your parents. Not other doctors. Not the police. There are only two exceptions. The first is if you authorize it. The other is this: if I feel that you or someone else is in danger, I can make sure the person who's in danger gets the help they need."

"I'm not certain I see your point, Dr. Isakai."

"Rose, if Alabaster is hurting you - I can help you. All you have to do is tell me the honest truth. Has he ever abused you?"

Rose's shock is partly feigned and partly genuine. "Abused me? Dr. Isakai..."

Dr. Isakai cuts her off. "Abuse takes many forms. Some of them are subtle."

Rose briefly recalls incidents from the prior week as he continues: "Has he ever hit you--"

>"Stupid!" (whack) "Fucking!" (whack) "Cunt!"

"--or bullied you--"

>"Take it back if you want it so bad. Here -- whoops! You'll have to reach higher than that. ...You mean you're not tall enough? That's kind of pathetic, isn't it?"

"--or threatened you--"

>"Touch my computer again and I will fucking end you. I swear to god, Rose. I will put you in the ground."

"--or used degrading, emotionally demeaning language--"

>"You stupid, fat cow! Useless cocksucking cunt cumsumpster! Go fucking die, you bitch!"

"--or, in any way, at any time, done something to make you feel unsafe?"

Vividly now comes the memory of Alabaster on her bed, looming over her, propped up on his fists with his face hovering inches away from hers:

>"Tonight, Rose? Is it gonna happen tonight? Will I be back in here again tonight, after you go to sleep?"

"You can be honest. There's nothing to fear. I can help you."

Rose snaps out of her reverie.

"No, Dr. Isakai, no. He's never done any of those things."

He regards her silently.

"We don't get along, but he would never do something like that. The truth is..." she stares at her lap, thinking. After a turn, she suddenly looks back up, smiling bright. "The truth is, I feel even safer around Alabaster than most men, because I know he would never have the balls to hurt me."

"That's good," says Dr. Isakai, still skeptical. "But remember that if he ever does anything--"

"In fact, he doesn't have any balls at all."

"--I'm sorry?"

"He's a feckless, cowardly, sniveling little girl of a man. An idiot. A wimp."

"Rose, I think this is a bit--"

"Imagine a person - who's wrong. About everything. Not even just a few things, but LITERALLY everything. You never have a conversation with Alabaster and think, 'wow Alabaster, that's a great point.' Never. As in ever. One time he actually said..."

Dr. Isakai watches, chin on palm, as Rose stands and begins pacing around the room. Already he knows that this is going to be a long session.

An hour later, when he finally calls it off and sees her out - Rose, still seething - he can't put his finger on what's going on between those two.

At first he was worried that Alabaster's sexual fixation and aggressiveness might lead to some kind of abuse. Now, as he watches Rose stomp down the hallway, he starts to wonder if maybe he didn't have it backwards. Is Rose hurting Alabaster?

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Gacha game addict and owner of an all-seeing eye. Sort of.

The stink of the municipal sewer system is so much worse from inside of it. You walk through it with a group of thugs on loan from Tyrus, wearing lighted helmets, along with knee-high waders and a hazmat suit which hardly make you comfortable in the fetid stream of waste that flows through, ankle-deep. The sewage is coffee brown, with weird rainbow colored oil slicks on top.

You have to stoop because of the low ceiling, which begins to take its toll on your back after a while. The only sound is the splashing of many pairs of feet. You are flanked on both sides, to the front and rear, as this little caravan of criminals leads you through the labyrinth to the right spot.

The one in the lead holds up a hand, stopping you. He points up. A ladder leads to a manhole cover.

The man writes on a portable whiteboard now:

>sub basement to parking garage here
>200 feet north is direct below server room

You nod your understanding.

>can u do it

You survey the sewage tunnel ahead. The roof here is slightly higher than the rest of the tunnels you've been in - you can stand fully upright again, a blessed relief. This plan has been a long time in the making, it seems.

Camelia wants you to fill this tunnel with explosive charges and destroy Darkbloom Analytics from underneath.

You erase the man's writing and fill in your own.

>I can do it. Doesn't mean I will.

He rolls his eyes.

>tyrus needs an answer today

>Tell Tyrus I'll be in touch.

At home, you collapse into a deep but ultimately restless sleep. This sleep is interrupted after just a few hours, by a phone call from Alex.

"Ally! I'm so glad you picked up."

You rub the sand from your eyes as you sit upright on your foldaway bed in Cerise's living room.

Rose, who hasn't been sleeping at all, watches you intently from the foot of the bed. She hugs her knees with her chin resting on top. You sneer at her to warn her off staring at you, to no avail.

"Hey--" you say into the receiver, trying not to sound groggy. "What's up, bab-- what's up, Alex?"

"You must have been reee-ally sick if you're only waking up now," Alex hums. (You always sucked at trying to pretend you're fully awake). "Whitney told me all about it. She said you're pooping your guts out!"

You grimace. "Yeah. I'm totally gutless right now."

"I'm so sorry to interrupt your recovery! Make sure to drink lots of water and take a lot of vitamins, okay?"

"It's fine..." you grumble. "What do you want?"

"Well, erm--"

"Out with it."

"If you're feeling all right later on, you should totally come to work. Ms. Guiteau made a huge breakthrough over the weekend! But... don't push yourself. You should recuperate first... I know you and your sister and your cousin all have that stomach bug..."

"Once removed," you mutter.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Look, I--"

Rose's unmoving face staring back at you is more than a little off-putting. You're half tempted to go in just to get away from her creepy staring.

>[x] I'll come by in a little bit.
[ ] Sorry, I'm too sick. (Rest up with Rose and Cerise)
[ ] Sorry, I'm too sick. (Visit Camelia and Galatea)

You hang up. "Where's Cerise?" you ask Rose.

"Sleeping."

"You should be sleeping too, don't you think?"

"I was," Rose says.

"You're a liar, like usual. I can see the bags under your eyes."

"I guess we match, then. You fucking raccoon."

There's the Rose you know and-- well, she's at least able to spar a bit.

"I'm going to work. I'll be back in a few hours - hopefully. Tell Cerise if she wakes up before I'm back."

"Mm," Rose says.

"And get some sleep, Jesus. The last thing we need is you collapsing at work tomorrow, raising suspicions..."

As you stand to get dressed, Rose stretches out on your bed.

"When I said to get some sleep, I meant that you should do it on your bed."

Rose isn't listening as she cuddles up beneath the comforter. You shake your head and sigh.

This is National Public Radio. News Now. Monday, May 14th, 2018.

In a surprise turnaround, David Darkbloom, CEO of Darkbloom Analytics, has signaled openness to a congressional inquiry over the hacking incident that occurred in March. Over 400 million personal accounts, with sensitive private information, are believed to have been compromised. The perpetrators remain unidentified.

Agreeing to appear before the Senate Intelligence Committee, Darkbloom said through chief spokesman Steven Armstrong: "We anticipate that a full and transparent accounting should put the public's concerns to rest."

Senate Intelligence co-chair Mitch Warner said the decision was the right one, and that the public testimony could happen as early as the first week of June.

David Darkbloom is almost certain to appear before the committee, but other names are also widely expected to make an appearance: Mara Darkbloom, his wife and COO; Nelson Berenstoin, the CTO; and Cerise Soliloquy, the woman in charge of the company's internal investigation.

At work, the little coder's den outside Sable's office has been transformed into an ad hoc laboratory: and there's Ken walking up and down the aisles between tables, instructing people on how to assemble SMATTERS units. With every step, the spurs on his boots go jingle jangle.

"What's going on?" You ask him.

You feel something bump against your heel - turning and looking at the ground, you see a completed SMATTERS routing itself around you before continuing on its merry way. Ken intercepts it, picking it up and cradling it and petting it - just like you would with a flesh-and-blood bunny.

"We deploy tonight in select cities," Ken says. "Interesting times! Gets my dander up!"

"This is..." you begin, but aren't sure what to even say. "Deploy?"

"Bingo!"

"Where are Alex and Sable?"

Ken points towards Sable's office.

You start towards it, but a voice from one of the workstations stops you up: "Howdy, pardner."

It's Noelle, in her best jokey impression of Ken's voice. "You gonna pull your weight around here or what? I've got a kit for you to work on too."

You can hardly make eye contact with her, knowing what you know. You stare at the ceiling and wonder how everything could be going wrong all at once.

[ ] Stop and speak with Noelle.
>[x] Continue to Alex and Sable.

"I'm sorry," you tell Noelle. "Sable wanted to see me. I should, uh, get going."

She frowns.

"I'll catch up with you later - okay?" You say.

"Yeah. Sure."

You can't tell whether the tone in her voice signals faux rejection, suspicion, or something else.

You slip inside Sable's office. She busily clacks away at her keyboard, and doesn't even acknowledge your entrance. It's the same dark, uninviting lair that you're used to - but something seems different. Something in the air.
 
"Hi," you say. "Is Alex here too?"
 
Sable says nothing, but points down.
 
You walk around the right side of Sable's chair and look where she pointed. And there he is: Alex on hands and knees, underneath her desk.
 
From this angle, you see for the first time that Sable is naked from the waist down. Alex has her panties stuffed in his mouth. He has a dreamy look on his face as he nuzzles her bare cunt. His pants are down too, and his little dick pokes out, drooling on the tile floor. He already came, if the puddle between his knees is any indication. Sable did too, if the puddle she sits in is any indication either.
 
"Oh," is the only thing you can think of to say.
 
"Today is a big day," Sable explains, still intently focused on her work. "I needed Alex to help take the edge off."
 
You nod, unable to pull your eyes from the lewd scene before you. You wonder how common of an occurrence this sort of thing is.
 
"Do you need to use him too?" Sable asks in a matter-of-fact way. "I'm mostly done with him for now."
 
Even in times of crisis, you can't say no to your dick. "Sure," you say. "I'll fuck him."
 
Sable grabs a tuft of Alex's hair and pulls his face up. "Did you hear that?" She says. "Alabaster is going to fuck you now."
 
Alex pulls Sable's panties from his mouth. He turns his head, his hair still in Sable's hand, and asks you: "are you feeling better?"
 
"Much better now," you say leeringly.
 
Alex smiles, but his eyes go wide when Sable rudely shoves her panties back into his mouth. He gags just a little as she stuffs them inside, her fingers tamping them down.
 
"I need him facing this way," you tell Sable. You undo your belt buckle.
 
"Mm," Sable grunts. She nudges Alex with her foot and he crawls around with her as she spins her chair 180 degrees.
 
With Alex out in the open now, he'll be easy to get at. Sable leans back, her arms level on the chair's arm rests, and watches as you pull down your jeans.
 
"I thought you'd be too busy to join in," you tell Sable.
 
"I like the way his face feels against me," Sable says. Her voice is still flat and mostly emotionless. "I don't want him to stop just yet."
 
Sable leans forward, over Alex, and spreads his ass cheeks. "Cum inside him quickly, though. I have to keep working soon."
 
You know you won't need long. "Get me ready," you suggest as you step out of your pants and boxers. You step forward and stand in front of Sable.
 
"Disgusting man," Sable says, sudden venom in her voice as she stares at your rigid cock. Nonetheless, she takes it firmly in hand and spits on it. Then, using her dark pink tongue, she licks you up and down, getting the head and shaft slick and slimy with her drool. Her technique is perfunctory, inexpert, but it has a certain something to it that makes you feel a tingly pleasure all the way down in the soles of your feet. Maybe it's just the wonderful sight of this proud woman licking your cock. It fills your chest with warm feelings. You reach out to stroke her hair, but she swats your hand away.
 
"Is that to your liking?" Sable asks when she pulls away.
 
You honestly want to plunge your dick to the back of her throat and feel her choke on you, but you sense it's best to do this her way for now. "Yeah," you say.
 
"Fuck him quickly, then."
 
Alex, still nuzzling Sable's drooling cunt, obediently reaches behind with both hands and spreads himself for you just as Sable did a few moments ago. He says something through the cotton fabric stuffed in his mouth that sounds like "put your dick in me," so at least he's on the same page.
 
You kneel behind him and do exactly that. You take it slowly at first, enjoying the soft sensation of his pink insides clasping around you. Nonetheless, he gasps at the intrusion. Even through the gag it's a high pitched yelp that, in turn, makes you growl with enjoyment. His ass is a thing of wonder, naturally wet and searingly hot, and nicely tight, like the pussy of a woman in heat.
 
When you're all the way inside, you grab both his wrists to brace yourself and establish a steady pace. Meanwhile, Sable takes the panties from his mouth and tosses them aside. "Lick me," she commands.
 
Alex isn't one to disobey, and he immediately sets to the task at hand. He licks her like a dog, lapping her genitals and moaning sweetly to himself. His tongue washes over her puckered asshole, her little taint and her darkly colored cunt lips without hesitation. He pokes his tongue in and out of both her holes, tasting her, breathing her in. Sable is a selfish lover, especially when it comes to Alex - she leans back and enjoys it while he does all the work. Each time you thrust into him, it bucks his face against her, and she shivers a bit at the sensation of it.
 
Alex's boypussy is a hot fuck, but you find yourself staring at Sable's cunt the whole time. The way it glistens in the low light of her computer monitor, the way Alex's tongue swirls around and inside of it. The way, when Alex gets his tongue deep up Sable's tiny asshole, her pussy squirts a tiny geyser of cum all over his whorish face. The inviting texture of it, its ridges and valleys.
 
"Are you about to cum?" Sable demands.
 
"Yeah -- yeah," you pant. Alex's ass ripples around you when you say this, massaging you rhythmically, trying to milk out your sperm. But you have a different prize in mind.
 
You pull out of him with a plop. Then, like tossing aside a used tissue, you push him off of Sable.
 
"What are you doing?" Sable says, in a way that indicates she knows exactly what you're doing. She stares at your shiny dick as you square up to her chair.
 
"Inside," you moan. "I'm gonna cum inside of you."
 
"Nnn--" Sable chokes, protestingly, yet at the same time she spreads her legs a bit wider to accommodate you. The height isn't quite right, though. Roughly, you pull her off the chair, to the ground, so that you can fuck her the right way. She lands with a hard thud that makes her mad.
 
"You fucking moron!" she yells. "You stupid fucking faggot piece of--"
 
You cut her off by shoving your cock deep inside her.
 
"W-wrong hole!" She squeaks. All the fury is gone, replaced by surprise. "You're in the wrong hole!"
 
You prop yourself on both hands, looming over her as you begin to fuck her clamping pussy. "No," you snarl, "this is the right hole."
 
"Nngh--" she gulps, trying and failing to form words. "Ggh-- ohh--"
 
Alex comes crawling over now, watching transfixed as you fuck your boss. You glance over at him. "Did we tell you to stop licking?" You say.
 
"Oh!" He squeaks. "I'm sorry - I'm so sorry!" With his fists balled against his flat chest, he gets behind you and licks at the spot where you're mated with Sable. His tongue slides wetly against your dick and her pussy.
 
"Asshole! Asshole!" Sable grunts. You think she's still in the mode of insulting you, but actually it's a command for Alex. And as she hisses in pleasure, you look over your shoulder to find that he's understood. Three of his fingers corkscrew in and out of Sable's taut asshole, as he continues to lick the two of you. Sable's rear hole is stretched tight around him, so much so that the skin is blanching. It looks like it must hurt. But her spasming cunt suggest she feels anything but pain.
 
"Oh!!" Sable cries. "That's it! Get me off, you worthless fucks!"
 
With one hand, you grab her by the face and stare at her. "Have you ever had someone cum inside your pussy before?"
 
She shakes her head wildly no.
 
"You're about to now," you say. Your voice is low and firm. "You want to get off? Get me off too, then."
 
"O-okay," Sable says. She fucks back against you now, meeting your thrusts on every inward stroke. Her technique here is as inexperienced as her blowjob, but it does the trick. You curl and uncurl your toes in ecstasy as that familiar feeling approaches. Sable's eyes are clamped shut as she starts to orgasm too. And what really sets you off is this: a sudden wetness against your anus. While he fingers Sable's ass, Alex has moved his face up to lick yours at the same time.
 
Your vision goes white. You fall against Sable, hug her tight, and get as deep as you can push. Alex's searching tongue never leaves your ass. You feel Sable's inner walls spread and deform to accept your girth, the wet heat and sticky texture coaxing your semen out. Your nuts tighten - Alex fondles them with his free hand now - and the cum rockets out of your pulsing mushroom head.
 
"Unggg-- oh god!" Sable grunts, her orgasm voice not very loud but full of guttural enjoyment all the same. She rocks against you and wraps her legs around your hips, accepts your seed inside her as she climaxes hard.

GIRLS FUCKED: 3/9
BOYS FUCKED: 1/1

While Sable returns to work, Alex is on cleanup duty below her desk. You finish getting dressed again and compose yourself.

"Things are moving pretty fast around here," you say. "What happened over the weekend?"

"Everything," Sable says. "Just everything. It's all coming to an end point... we have to be ready for the next phase."

"Which is... which is what, exactly?"

She stops typing, looks at you. "What David Darkbloom wants and what I want are separate but commensurate things. This -- right here, is the culmination of what he wants. What comes next is what I want."

You have to try really hard not to snap at her - just for being such an obfuscating little shit. "What is it you two want?"

"The world we live in isn't right," Sable says. "It's sick. The people in it have all gone mad. I'm mad - you're mad. David Darkbloom wants to use this project to make people forget. I want something more... I don't want to forget, I want to fix it..."

"I really need you to be more concrete here," you say, unable to mask your frustration. "Will you please, just once, be clear--"

"David wants to see you," Sable says. "Will you come with me?"

>[x] Go.
[ ] Refuse.

Darkbloom is already waiting in the boardroom when you arrive. He has his hands behind his back, and he stares pensively out the broad double-paned windows.

Sable takes a seat at the conference table, right behind Darkbloom. The wordlessness of the proceedings thus far doesn't exactly put you at ease.

"Thank you for taking the time out of your day to come here," Darkbloom says. He doesn't turn around. "I know you are a busy person."

You sit across from Sable at the huge oak table without replying.

"Have you heard the news?" Darkbloom asks. "I depart for Capitol Hill soon. Isn't it wonderful how many people conspire to ruin me at every turn?"

You say nothing.

Darkbloom finally turns now, and sits beside Sable. "Sable, tell Alabaster your thoughts on VR."

"Virtual reality is a meme. Augmented reality is the future."

"It's important, as a leader, to be willing to countenance disagreement," Darkbloom says. "Conflict and disagreement is natural. As long as your subordinates can commit themselves to achieving the organization's priorities, it is all right if they do not themselves buy in. I hold that principle quite dear to heart. I don't want an army of lick-spittles."

You say nothing.

"Sable has done really quite tremendous work, with your help, and many others - she has her vision for possible applications and I have mine. But really, the augmented reality of the future Sand Reckoner implant is just a pump primer."

(You can't help wincing in surprise a little at Darkbloom so abruptly and frankly discussing Sand Reckoner.)

"We can sell augmented reality to interested government agencies, militaries, politicians... really, anyone who would benefit from a HUD for showing you at a glance what's what about who's who in the world. But that's not the end point of Sand Reckoner. The end point is this."

Darkbloom retrieves a small aluminum case from beside his feet and puts it on the table. Clicking two latches open, he reveals to you a sleek purple headset that is clearly meant to fit over the eyes.

"Sable calls this Gateway to Heaven, which I think may be a sly allusion." He smiles at her, but she doesn't return the gesture. "It's a working name, anyway. We don't want prospective buyers drawing mental associations between this miracle you see here and Nike shoes poking out from under white sheets."

"What does it do?" You ask - Sable, not Darkbloom.

Sable's explanation is simple, and hardly illuminating. "If Sand Reckoner knows you, the gateway makes you a special game to play."

"A game!" Darkbloom laughs. "Sable is as humble as she is ingenious. This device makes you an entire universe, Alabaster. It calculates the universe as you would best enjoy it. It's a portable paradise."

You shake your head dumbly.

"Do you understand? This is the end of suffering. The end of strife and sadness. The final repudiation of Leibniz!"

Darkbloom obviously expects you to have some reaction, positive or negative, but you deny him the pleasure. You're as passive as a cow chewing cud.

Darkbloom turns up both palms in a sort of shrug: "All right. You need a demonstration. With the understanding that this is a prototype badly in need of a more complete data set - which Sable works round the clock to provide us - I invite you to test it for yourself."

"You what?" You say.

"Put it on. Turn it on. See for yourself."

He is already standing, device in hand, circling around to fit you into it.

"Is this safe?" You ask Sable.

"It's safe. It's only just a game - a not very fun game, either."

>[x] Test it.
[ ] Refuse.

You lock eyes with Sable. "Are you telling me the truth?"

"I am," she says firmly. "I promise."

"People are filling your head with such awful lies," Darkbloom says. "When you see this - when you see what I'm really trying to achieve... you'll finally understand. You will. I have faith."

He fits the device over your head and secures a simple strap around the back.

"I swear to god, Darkbloom, if you send me to the fucking shadow realm--" you begin, but that's the last thing you remember. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and five time champion of the North High Quiz Bowl. Your manly scent is the number-one cause of cock addiction amongst nukige heroines.

As usual, you get dragged from angelic dreams of Fatalpulse doujins yet-to-be by your bitch of an older sister. She wakes you up with a hard rap of her knuckles against your forehead.

"It's almost 8:00," Cerise says. "You're gonna be late."

There's no worse way to start the morning than seeing her slutty dog choker and unkempt bedhead. You can practically taste last night's beer fumes puttering like exhaust from her every pore. Trying not to gag, you sit up and rub your forehead where she hit you. "Why don't you worry about your own business? At least I've got things to be late to. Shouldn't you be job searching right now?"

Cerise folds her arms. "It's a bad economy! There aren't any jobs out there!"

You sigh, throw your covers off, and stand. After a few seconds of groping around the clothes-strewn floor, you grab a pair of crumpled and stale-smelling jeans from the pile. You pull them on over your boxers. "I cannot wait until mom and dad kick you out," you say.

"They'll kick you out before they kick me out. They actually love me." In the silence that follows as you finish getting dressed, Cerise glances around your sty of a bedroom. "It stinks like cum in here."

"Are you sure it's not just you? I know you've been itching to graduate from your cam show to literal prostitution."

"It's that," Cerise says, pointing at the trash bin next to your computer desk overflowing with tissues. "Did you spend your *entire* summer jerking off?"

"At least I wasn't doing it in front of strangers for money."

"As if anyone would want to see you tugging on your pencil dick. Your only hope in life is if the supreme court legalizes cartoon marriage."

"They are NOT cartoo--" you stop yourself, shake your head, and massage your eyes. You don't have time to get roped into this debate again. Being late on your first day of class might make bitch-pigs swoon in the anime realm -- but it's not going to win you any points with Mr. Langley, your homeroom teacher and Quiz Bowl coach. You need to skedaddle.

You grab your backpack and push past Cerise. "Don't molest anyone today, you little creep!" she calls after you as you run downstairs.

In the kitchen, you grab a piece of toast but don't have any time to butter it. Shoving it haphazardly into your open maw, you head for the foyer. But standing in your way at the front door is your mom.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asks, staring down the bridge of her nose.

"School. Obviously."

"I can see that, you brat. But you need to take some lunch." She holds out a brown paper bag stuffed so full of food it's about to burst. You grab it from her unceremoniously.

She huffs. "Aren't you even going to thank me?"

You swallow a bite of toast and grumble. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Don't get the wrong idea, now. I don't care if you have anything to eat, but I can't let the school administration find out I'm not feeding you and decide I'm some kind of negligent parent."

"Oh, no. Of course not. You'll make mother of the year at this rate."

Just like with Cerise, you push past your mom, thinking about how the rotten apple never falls far from the tree.

"And don't buy anything out of those godawful vending machines they have on campus," she says as you go. "Not that I care if you eat healthy, I just don't want you spending any of my hard-earned money!"

Out in the drive, your childhood friend Whitney is waiting. Well-- it might be more apt to call her a "childhood hanger-on." Why she insists on following you around like a lost puppy remains beyond your comprehension. There's no way she could be attracted to you, because you're 99% certain she's a rug muncher.

"Ally!" She calls. She's decked out in her usual late-summer attire of spats and a tank. She doesn't even wear a bra, the harlot. Her darkly tanned skin glistens with morning sweat. "I was about to give up on you ever coming out of your spank-cave."

"I wish you would have," you grouse as you walk by. She spins on her heels to follow your brisk pace. "So what remedial courses are you taking this year?" you ask her over your shoulder, by way of making small talk.

"Algebra, chemistry, English... oh, and they let me into auto shop."

"That's nice. Learning a trade is important for people who can't go to college."

"I was worried they wouldn't, because of that thing last year..."

She means the time an assistant principal caught her toking up behind the bleachers of the gym. Imitating the school's shop-teacher-slash-baseball-coach, she continues in a faux baritone: "being a student in auto shop is a position of trust! Not just anyone can do it!"

"That's awful. If you keep getting away with your rampant drug use, you'll never learn."

"Oh stop being such a dweeb you dweeb. It was the first time I ever did the stuff."

"Pretty soon you'll be fellating homeless men for heroin."

"You are so gross! I don't do drugs. You can't play soccer with smoker's lung."

"You can't play soccer with a 1.3 grade point average, either."

"Actually-- that's sorta what I wanted to ask you about..."

You stop and look at her.

"Algebra this semester is gonna be super duper hard. Like, who even needs that crap? It's gay as shit. But if I can't solve for X or whatever, they're gonna kick me off the team. Can you tutor me this year?"

[ ] Ok.
[ ] Ok... if you pay me.
>[x] No way.

"Why would I waste precious mental energy on you? You're a lost cause. Focus on learning how to turn wrenches. You should be able to grasp that."

"You're such a jerk!"

Before you can make a comeback, she kicks you in the shins. You stumble backward with a howl and gawk at her. When she charges forward with hate in her eyes, you kick back out of pure instinct. The two of you end up in a spastic back-and-forth jig of below the belt kicks. Of course, Whitney is far more coordinated. Eventually she lands a hard blow to your upper thigh, flooring you. You singe your palms on the sun-baked concrete sidewalk.

She looms over you to deliver even more kicks. You clamber to your knees and hold out a hand to stop her. "You're an animal," you cry, standing again on uncertain legs. "I could press charges if I wanted to. You belong in a reformatory."

"You belong on the moon!" she screams. When Whitney gets really angry, her insults become complete nonsense. You decide to let it pass.

"I'm not going to suffer the frustration of trying to teach you. My time isn't yours to just fritter away."

"Fritter? What the hell does that even mean?" She gives you another sharp kick to the shin that nearly bowls you over again. You give her a hard shove in retaliation.

"You're such a shit," she says. "I don't even know why I hang out with you."

"Me either."

"If I fail math because you didn't help me, you're gonna fucking pay for it." She grabs you by the collar. "And I mean it."

You wrench yourself free and straighten your shirt. "I'm sure you do. But honestly, Whitney - you should be used to failure by now."

You continue the trek to school, your walk now a pained limp. Sullenly, Whitney follows a few paces behind. You try not to pay attention to her.

As you round a corner just a few blocks from school, you bump head first into a girl who looks like she came straight from the early 1900s. She wears a prim black dress with a skirt that's positively matronly, and e̳͙̩̖̳̼͜͢n̢͉͙̖̗̜̠̩͜ͅͅo̢͚͉̬̟̺̭͡r̸̨̭̭̳̻̩ͅm̡̰̘͔͈o̢̯̟͔̙̹u̘͕̟̯̦͙̦͉̕͡͝ś̴̨̫̥͖̺͇̗̺͓ ̗̱͓͙͘r͉̰̱͔̹̼̼̭͞ơ̥̦̭̭͕͖͓̕u̵͇͎ͅn̡͚̖͢d̨̫̺͖͖ ̱̦̞̥͝͡e͖͉̟̹̘͜ỳ̸̙̯͇̳͎ͅḙ̖̺̖̣̣͔͟g͙̹l̙̞̥̙̣͢a̷̻s̪͕̗̫̘̣̠͡s̛̻̗͕e͉̬̖̪̤ś͕̳͜ͅ. She looks so pale she might be anemic, and carries a parasol.

"Watch where you're walking," you snap at her.

She regards you for a few seconds, casting a glance at Whitney as well. "Are you Alabaster Soliloquy?"

"What? How do you know me?"

The girl smiles. "That's not what I thought at all. How disappointing. Oh well." She steps off the curb, turning her back to you, and begins down the crosswalk.

You look back at Whitney. She shrugs.

>[x] Follow the girl.
[ ] Forget it.

"Hey!" You call. "You can't go around saying my name and being all mysterious and then expect me to just let you--"

"Walk away?" The girl says, laughing. Her laughter sounds like an honest-to-god "ufufufu."

"How do you know me?" You demand.

"That's for later, Alabaster Soliloquy," she says. She pulls back her parasol for the first time. Her hair is as black as r͝e̵̥͖̥d̪. Her eyes are shining, dewy with some false sense of superiority despite the difference in height and her anemic frame. "I'll have time to crush you later."

"You're not gonna crush shit," Whitney warns, from behind you. When you're threatened directly like this, it seems she's willing to set aside her previous anger. "Who do you think you are? You weird little midget!"

"Aren't the lower classes so cute?" Vivian says. "Tell your lesbian friend that insults such as these will not be tolerated..." She props her parasol on her shoulder and turns to leave.

"Hold on," you say, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She turns around. Her black hair is r̦̳̘̗͇̗ẹ̸͚̗̤͚͉̺d͖̗̙. Her hair is red. She's taller than you remember her being. Is this the same girl? Who is this?

"What are you doing here?" She demands.

"That's what I'm asking you!" You say. "Why are you threatening me? Who the fuck are you?"

"Get out," the girl says. "Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT! GET OUT!"

She lunges for you, choking you, and you fall the ground, sputtering and yelling. She's on top of you, throttling you with inhuman strength. You catch a glimpse of Whitney leaping, airborne, tackling her - and then you black out.

"Guess I have a stalker," you say to Whitney.

"Fah," she says, stretching her back. "If you catch her rummaging through your trash or anything else shady, just let me know. I'll take care of her." She winks. "But-- it'll cost you a week of tutoring fees."

"Tutoring fees?" You say. "What are you talking about?"

Whitney stops, cocks her head. "...I don't know," she finally says. "Forget it. I must have had a brain fart."

Like most of your arguments, Whitney's anger over this latest one hasn't lasted long. She makes inane small talk at you the rest of the way to school. You try to be as civil as possible, but you couldn't care less about her problems.

The campus is already packed with students when you get there. Teenagers laughing, smiling, making out like depraved monkeys in public. You suppress a shudder. You suppress an even harder shudder when your friend Naruto Stackleford sidles up to you.

Whatever his first name is, you've long forgotten it, because there's only one that he'll respond to. As usual, he wears his construction-zone-orange pussy deflector.

"Sup nigger?" he lisps. "How was summer?"

That you ever tolerated this lumbering golem's presence is a travesty. You met in sixth grade, when your tastes were much the same; but he never graduated from Adult Swim and wouldn't be able to tell a Nichijou from a Meguca. You, on the other hand, have only become more refined -- like a good Bordeaux.

"Summer was fine..." you say, trying to beat a straight vector to your homeroom, and as quickly as possible. You give a short wave to Whitney and hurry off, but Stackleford follows like a bad odor.

"You gonna join anime club this year, man?"

"I already told you, those morons are beneath me. Besides, I'm preoccupied with Quiz Bowl. When was the last time you brushed your teeth?"

"We've got a new president this year! It'll be great!"

"I'm sure. Look, you're blocking my way. I'm sure you get that one a lot, but try to understand. Please let me through."

"Well, think about it at least."

"Uh huh."

You hurry into homeroom.

Inside homeroom, your heart stops. Sitting near the window, right behind your seat of choice, is none other than that girl from before. But that's not possible -- this an advanced senior course, and she looked like a middle schooler. There's no way she's a senior. She looks at you with that wry smile of hers.

"Come on, come on," Mr. Langely says over the din of students, calling the class to order. "I know you're all still in summer mode, but let's try to get back into the swing of things."

He writes his name on the board and introduces himself, and his credentials. He also gives a quick plug for the Quiz Bowl, announcing that tryouts will be in room 201 directly after school. "Alabaster is our star player," he says, indicating you. "He's been carrying us for three years. And-- we have other potential members in the room as well."

He looks in the parasol girl's direction. Your heart stops for a second time. This can't be happening.

"Now, why don't we do some introductions. We'll go around the room. Stand up, tell us who you are and what your interests are. Let's get to know each other."

>[x] Give your introduction; intimidate the girl.
[ ] Blow it off.

As the whores and mansluts that make up your fellow classmates deliver their boring monologues about "really liking music" and "being into skateboarding," you steal some glances at this mysterious newcomer. She looks so plain i̜̯̳̺̹̗n̵ ̢̳̝̠̳̩̭̜h͈̹͓̣́er͉ ̯͖̘g̞̱̪̜̟̣i̺̹͈̬̫̳͘a͈̘̮͕͙̫̬n͠t ̗s̫̭͍p͕̥̩͇͘e͚̱̱͔̼c̙̝͙̞tac͍͓͉̟l͈͈̤͕ͅḙ̶̠s, so how does she project such an icy and imposing demeanor?

If she wants on the team, it can't be helped. But you won't let her get to you. When your turn comes, you decide to show her where she really stands.

"Tell us about yourself," Mr. Langley prompts.

Without standing, you announce: "Well - my name is Alabaster soliloquy and I̦̗͢ͅ ̵̺͉̟n̢͇͓̣͙ee̪̦͇͎d̪̝̀ ̙t̡̙͇͖ọ̣ ̥̤w̫͔͔̞̠̰̘͟ak͚͙͍̮̦̥e ̴̠̙̦u̙̩̹p̫̬͠ like you said, I'm on Quiz Bowl. That makes me the smartest guy in the school. Maybe in the state. I'm gonna carry the team to the national championship this year."

The rest of the class stifles some laughter.

"People who try to edge in on my glory aren't going to go very far," you continue. "That's just a fact. So if anyone here thinks they're smarter, or more cunning, they're in for a rude a̝̘ͅw̞̕a͉͈̣͜k̮̣̘̰̩̱ͅe͎n̗̞̯͔̯i̪̯͇͎̙n͖͍̝̦g̳̣̞̮̖."

The introductions continue, moving to the next person beside you in your row. It isn't for a few moments that the introductions snake back around to the parasol girl, who's the last to speak.

The girl stands, holding her hands demurely in front of her. "My name is Vivian Darkbloom. I am 13." She waits for the confused whispers that this revelation incites to subside. "Certain people whom I will not name labor under the belief that they are the smartest ones here. They are sadly mistaken. I am the smartest. I will graduate from North High at the end of this year and matriculate at UC Berkley, where I will double major in theoretical physics and European literature. My interests include quantum chromodynamics, cryptography, and the works of Marcel Proust."

The room has fallen deathly silent now. She continues. "I would say that I look forward to the coming school year, but that would be a lie. Every second I spend amongst the assorted dross of the public school system is like a screaming eternity in the stygian void of imbecility's embrace. You hardly deserve my presence. Thank you."

She sits.

>[X] Remove headset.

"He seems to be having a negative reaction," Sable says as she watches Alabaster writhe in his seat.

"He's doing just fine," Darkbloom replies. But still, he holds Alabaster's hands firmly behind his back. "There may be some corruption in the data right now, but I think the overall experience should be an enjoyable one."

"I will kill you if anything happens to him," Sable says in her usual matter of fact tone.

"I know, Darkbloom replies.

This Vivian girl has more or less called you out in front of the entire class. Worse yet, everyone knows it. They cast expectant stares your way. But what can you do? Leap to your feet and shout down a 13 year old girl? That would just make you look worse.

Like it or not, she won this round. So you decide not to let it bother you. But you'll have your revenge.

"Well then," Mr. Langley says. He laughs nervously. "That sure was... something. It's nice to have you, Vivian. And everyone else. Now, the syllabus..."

The first half of the day passes tortuously. Every class you have, Vivian has as well. And she always makes a point of sitting near you. Not just near you -- behind you. What's her game? By fourth period calculus, you know well enough to sit in the very back. But she merely pulls a chair out of the neatly-arranged grid and sets it behind the back row.

You hate her already. Her eyes boring into the back of your skull start to make you sweat, even in the A/C. When the bell for lunch rings, you bolt from the room and down the quickly-filling hall. Even as you jog you sense Vivian slowly following behind you -- is this just paranoia? -- and in a fit of panic you take a strange route that leads you out a pair of double-doors to a parking lot near the track. On the distance, you see that Whitney is using her lunch period to run laps. As expected.

[ ] Go say hi.
>[x] Go eat your lunch.

You consider going to Whitney and asking for her help with your putative stalker. You feel like you need a second pair of friendly eyes looking out for you. And let's face it, you're not in the best of shape: you honestly doubt your prospects even against a 13 year old.

But your pride won't allow it. Asking Whitney, of all people, for help? Inconceivable!

You can watch your own six. If things get too crazy, you can always... go to the police, or something. You're not going to let a little girl cow you like that.

In the lunchroom, you eat at a table alone, playing on your phone. You quickly settle into the romantic storyline of "Suck My Dick or Die!"

"Squeee!"

You look up. Stackleford is looming over you with his usual sweaty desperation for friendship. And this time, he brought backup. She loops her arms over your neck and hops up and down.

"Is this the new recruit?" She says. "He's cute!"

You flip your phone over so these two rejects can't see what you've been playing. Then you pry yourself out of this crazy girl's grip.

"What the hell, Stackleford?" You say. "Is this one of your friends from the halfway house or what?"

"I thought I'd introduce you to the new club prez!" Stackleford explains. "You know, before you made up your mind not to join. This is--"

"I'm Rose!" She says, winking and flashing a peace sign. "It's so sugoi to meet you, Alabaster!"

>[x] Struggle

Sable is standing. "Let go of him, David. It isn't working. It wasn't ready for a demo yet."

"Just-- a little-- more--" David grunts, struggling to keep control over Alabaster as he flops like a dying fish.

"You're sick!" Sable shouts. "He's suffering. Don't you care if people suffer?"

"Of course I care!" Darkbloom shoots back. "That's why I'm doing this! That's my business! The end of suffering! Alabaster will enjoy this - he has to - there's no way he can't!"

"You cannot be serious," you say.

"Serious as stage V cancer!" Rose says. Her smile drops for a moment: "wait, was that too much?"

"No," you cut in. "It wasn't. It was perfect, actually."

"We'd be, like, totally honored if you joined anime club this year," Rose says. "We're gonna watch so many great series! Uh, Death Note, and Evangelion. Just to start with -- and--"

You stand up. "Have fun with that," you say. "I'm not gonna be there."

"Wait!" Rose says. "Were you playing Suck My Dick or Die?"

You eye her suspiciously. How could a stupid weeb like her know about that game to begin with?

"I've been getting into nukige recently and I heard it was pretty good! So what do you think? Is Suck My Dick or Die any f--"

You cast worried glances this way and that. "Will you shut the fuck up?" You hiss. "Jesus. Talk a little louder about how you love porn games, huh?"

"You were playing a porn game?" Stackleford says, as if tuning in to this conversation for the first time.

"Shut up," you and Rose say in unison.

"Uhh... sorry," he says.

"I just get excited, that's all," Rose says. "It's not often you see someone with tastes so advanced! So... what do you think?"

>[X] Yeah, it's pretty good.
[ ] (Lie) I don't know what you thought you saw, but you were wrong.

You still don't trust this weird little dork, but you can at least answer her question: "yeah. It's pretty good."

"Do you have it translated? My Japanese isn't that great. I'm terrible at reading the moon runes..."

You cringe. "Yeah. I got it--"

She pulls a pink sharpie from her bag and grabs your wrist. "Just email me the magnet link!" She says.

She writes her email on your palm: xXneopetfujoXx@hotmail.com

"Sorry about the email," she says, laughing nervously. "I've had it since I was 11... I use it for spam and stuff now."

"Gee, thanks," you say, looking at your palm. "Just what I needed. Pink highlighter on my hand all day long..."

"So what do you think? Still sour on anime club?" She says. "We're meeting for the first time today after school..."

>[X] I'll check it out.
[ ] No way in hell.

"Squeeee!" She squeals, hugging you again.

You windmill, shoving her away. "Get off of me!" You cry.

"Mou~" she pouts.

"What's wrong with you, huh? You weirdo. Y̶̩͎̦̝ọ̡͉͚̱͔̦̱u̘̥̟̭̼͍'̸͔̳͚̳r͢e̳̩̤͖̘̺̕ ̹̹͎̗̪no̩t̵ ͈̙Ṟ̮̗̗̬͠osè̫̦͖͔̖."

"What?" Rose says.

"What?" You say. "I said you're not right in the head. You're deranged. You're f͟i̴c͔͇͚t̠͖̱̀i̪̭̳̦ò̪̩͔ņ̼̯̬̺͕̦a̻̱̼̭͖l̻̘."

"What are you talking about?" R̨͎͙o̮s͔̭̦̕è̙̗̣͚͕̻ says. "Fictional? Oh goodness... you've got eighth grader syndrome."

This is too much. She's babbling like a crazy person. "You need medication or something. Look, I'll come to your stupid club, but you have to accept that Į͎̣͙͖̳͎'͖̝̩̱̺l̛͎̟̝l̴͓̻͎͚̞͈̼ ̹̰̹̳͓n͚̱͘ͅe̷̫̟̻v̷̖̼̠͖̦͖e̺̟̖̬r̨̮̯̹̰̤͖͖ ͚̞̦̰̰̜ĺ̼̜o͎̞̳̮͜v̗͍̜̟̥͙e̤ ̮̗͕̗̞y̫͈̹͇̙̻̬͢o̺̼u̙̦͘.͖̫ ̙͡I̪̫̫̻̹̱ͅ ̮̼̼̻͘l̛̘̦o̯̬̗̪ͅv̳͈͓̠͙̱̠e͓̥̻ ̻̹̱R̰o̳̙͈̥̳ͅse̶̠̘̝̬ͅ."

"Silly! I'm Rose!"

"YO̥̯͉͜U̶̞ ̻̻͕̤͖̮͢Ḁ̥̭͞R̴̙͓͈̠E̳̤̭̳͉ͅ ̯͚̰NO̤͓T̟̭̮͔̝̰̳ ̻͈̣͞R͖͚ͅO̸̜̭̖S͍E̢̩͉͎͇ͅ.̖̙͙!" You step forward in a blind rage, ready to throttle this stupid cunt to death, and then you black out.

Fifth period biology is a return to the new normal. Without thinking, you take a seat in the second to last row. Like clockwork, Vivian sits at the black-top bench just behind you.

Five minutes pass, then ten. The class is growing antsy and people start throwing out the old misnomer that class is dismissed if the teacher is more than fifteen minutes late. But at the last second in saunters Ms. Carte.

All of the boys and a few of the girls find themselves staring at her buxom form. You included. Vivian, too.

Most people don't know about the rumors -- but via Whitney you've heard... things, about this woman. You can believe it. Who stays single at 30 without a reason?

"Good afternoon, boys and girls," she says, her voice like silk. "If you're not here for AP Biology, then you're in the wrong place. Please go."

She waits, but no one leaves. If there was a person in the wrong room and they decided not to go after seeing her, you wouldn't blame them.

"All right," she says. "Obviously, we focus on biology. I hope after coming through this class you all know much, much more about the subject." She smiles a pointy smile. "I expect you all to score well on the AP exam. Please see me for out of class help if you're struggling...

"Now before we get started, I need to assign a couple roles. First, I need someone tall who can help me in the storage room on experiment days... a boy, preferably."

[ ] Me! Me!
[ ] Let some other lug do it.

>[X]ONCE REMOVED

"Once removed... once removed..." Alabaster mutters.

"What on Earth?" Sable says.

"Nevermind that. He's calming down."

"He wants you to remove it."

"That isn't it! It's just data interference, that's all!"

"Once removed... once removed..."

Alabaster jerks violently, with such force that even Darkbloom can't hold him down. He falls to the floor, seizing. He foams at the mouth, his entire body going stiff, and flops this way and that on the ground.

"I'm taking it off of him!" Sable shouts.

Darkbloom pulls a small pistol from his waistband and points it at Sable. "If you do that, it'll kill him," he growls. "If you do that... it will have all been for nothing!"

Sable glowers at him, calculating quickly whether she should take the risks and physically revolt or let this play out for a little longer.

>[X] TENDERNESS

You leap to your feet, yelling.

The entire class looks at you as if you sprouted antennae. You cough and sit down. "Uh... sorry," you say. What the hell was that?

Anyway, the things you've heard about Ms. Carte make you think twice. She'll be the top story on CNN someday, you figure. Best to Ẁ̰̪̮̬A̛̙̠̙̥̯̗͈K̗̪͙E̥̱ ̷U̹̭̠̺̕P͇̹̭ stay away from that trainwreck waiting to happen.

Besides, the competition for being her "helper" is fierce. Most of the boys volunteer, including a lot who you've never seen be proactive about anything. Ms. Carte licks her lips like a fat kid promoted to the head of the cake police. Surveying her smorgasbord, she chews on the end of her pen and finally chooses one of the school's football players.

"You'll Ẁ̰̪̮̬A̛̙̠̙̥̯̗͈K̗̪͙E̥̱ ̷U̹̭̠̺̕P͇̹̭ do," she says. "I can't wait to work with you."

Class proceeds normally; Ms. Carte assigns other roles. You end up being her "computer technician," which basically means you'll help her if her powerpoint presentations get messed up during class for some reason. Easy peasy.

The rest of the day proceeds without incident. Predictably, Vivian follows you to English as well. The only time you get away from her is in final period PE class, which is of course gender-segregated.

The sky is a grey-black blob by the time PE comes into session and a storm is obviously brewing. The coach holds class in the auditorium.

At the end of class, you dutifully head to the anime club room in what used to be Mr. McMichael's class, but no one's there. You start to feel antsy and exposed.

"Oh... hey..." you hear behind you. It's Rose. She's soaked to the bone, her hair stuck to her face, and shivering. "Let's go inside, huh? Soccer practice got canceled..."

"Soccer? Aren't you the head of the student council?"

"What? I'm head of anime club. Let's go. It's starting."

The anime clubroom is precisely what you remember of it. Formerly under the purview of Mr. McMichael the home ec teacher, anime club was -- you figured until yesterday -- disbanded when he got busted for certain felonies over the summer. His home ec class is still strewn with insipid meme-based anime posters and student-made fanart that would look more at home on Deviant Art.

There are already about a dozen other students here: Earl the guy with a bowl cut and a facial tic; Connor the dude who wears a trenchcoat and fingerless gloves no matter the forecast; Kyle the guy who you're 90% sure has downs; and Fartin' Franklin, whose nickname was not his choice but nonetheless apt. Amongst others.

Stepping into this writhing mass of human failure, you gird yourself make self-promises that this is only once.

Stackleford, blessedly, leaves you alone to talk with Rose, the only half-attractive person in attendance. This leaves you to sit in the back and hate your life in peace. But the wait becomes wearying. You ask Rose when you'll be able to to start watching anime.

"We can't start without our adviser," Rose grouses. "I think she's a drunk or something?"

You don't have time to formulate a response before the door of the clubroom opens and someone walks in.

"Oh. There she is now," she says. It's your sister.

The reaction is nearly instantaneous. You leap to your feet and begin to shout something; Cerise bounds across the room and grabs you by the collar before you can get one syllable out. She drags you away. The peanut gallery hoots and cheers, not understanding what's going on, but entertained anyway.

She tosses you like a sack of potatoes into the hallway. Rose watches with interest but doesn't intervene.

"What are you doing here?" Cerise hisses.

"What am I doing here? What are YOU doing here?" You stop and sniff at the air. "How drunk are you, anyway?"

"You're a fucking, asshole," she says with a strange pause between curses. "You're supposed to be at your stupid Darkbloom thing right now."

"You're supposed to be looking for gainful employment." You pace back and forth, disbelieving. "Why are you here? You graduated two years ago. And at the fucking anime club of all places?"

"They needed an adviser to fill the gap or they'd be disbanded. No one on faculty wanted to do it."

"Why would you?--" you pause, feeling the mental cogs spin into place. The unexplained post-school disappearances of hers when she was a student here... you always just assumed that she was out having sex with bikers or something. But...

"Anyway," Cerise huffs, "I'm Sand Reckoner."

"Yeah? How much are they paying you?"

"The amount isn't important. What's important is that I'm working again."

She has an eyepatch. Her hair is red. Her eyes are blue as lapis.

"Pocky isn't currency the last time I checked. This... is..."

"Get fucked. Why are you hanging out in a simulation?"

"Because you epitomize everything that's wrong and degenerate and evil about anime fandom. God. I knew you were the enemy, but I never... I never..." You can't remember what you wanted to say.

"I'm fixing it!" Camelia yells. "And I don't need you perving up my work in progress with your stupid moe bullshit. Wake up, Alabaster!"

"I am not going to let you corrupt the-- what's my line?"

"Morals!" Camelia says. "Big words for someone who was jerking off to Radiohead last night!"

"Who are you?"

"I'm your sister."

"No you're not."

She steps forward.

"I̹̞͕͖̥̞͖ ̪̦̭a̪̖̻͖͞m̯̜͙̫̗͖ ̴̮̞̝S͔͎̳̥̭̪̠a̪͓̕n̟̹͎̻̠̰͘d̟ͅ ̬R̬͚̀e̤̕c̬̬̞͇̬k͙͎̘̙o̢̦͓̟̦n͍͈̦̼̠̰e̵̫̦̼r͈̬̭.̩͖̺"

"You are NOT my sister." You stumble back, frightened, shielding yourself. From what?

"M͈̗̹̫̩͘y̝͈̻̠̻͈̰ ̯n̦a̛̪͕̻̖̘̘m͎̬e̞͇̳͕̘̱͠ ̧͙i͓̩̮̩̼͜ͅs̸ ͙̭̫̗̯͖͙C̤̥ͅe͍̘̘̯̼͕r̤̦i̳̗͓͙͠s̪̖̻͇e̴̠͉̟͍͎̫̬ ̝Ṣ̬̻̰ọ̭͢li̯͉͡l̳͍͍̺̣oq͚̖u̢̺̰͙y͉͚. ͇̬͈͉̥̬͘Í̺͎̱̭ ͔ͅa̞̮̟̹̝m̝͙̰̹͘ ̘͙̗̼͓S̟̦̝a͕̤̩n̛̙̣̰̥d̝̙̗̞͡ ̦͖͉͙̣R̝̜̫e̥͖͎̝c̮̻͖k͕̯̜̝͙̺͚o͓n̡̦̝̘e̤̘̙̱̱ͅr̫̖̤͎͇̠.͉͡"

Her face is a hideous amalgam, flickering back and forth - first Cerise, then this other person.

You scream -- and then you wake up.

Sable has the headset in her hand.

"Are you okay?" She says.

"I'm... I'm all right," you say. "How long was I out?"

"Just a few minutes."

"It felt like hours..." You look around. "Why am I on the floor?"

Sable helps you to your feet. When you get your bearings again, you see Darkbloom sitting at one of the conference table's tall chairs, his arms resting on his knees, his head bowed.

He has a gun in his hand.

"What the hell," you say.

"I am sorry, Alabaster," he says, not looking up. "I don't think you had a very enjoyable experience, did you?"

You look at Sable. "Why does he have a gun?"

"It doesn't matter," Sable says.

"Like hell it doesn't. Did he threaten me? Did he threaten you?"

"He's all bravado," Sable says.

Darkbloom puts the gun back in his waistband. He finally makes eye contact.

"You're familiar with Plato's allegory of the cave, right?" He says.

"Yeah. That was definitely some allegory of the cave bullshit right there."

"What if it wasn't?" Darkbloom says. "I don't know what exactly you saw, but..."

He returns to his spot at the window, basking in the sunlight. He thinks for a long moment.

"If you believe in free will," he says, "you must - you have to know that every choice creates a new reality. Every choice is a reckoning. Why is our reckoning any more real than any other possible reckoning? It's no more accurate to say our reality is the true one than it would be to say that 2+2=4 is truer than 3+2=5. And if we knew everything... if we knew it all... we could find the most optimal reckonings. That's all I want."

"You're insane," you tell him.

"If I've hurt you, I'm sorry. I have loved you like a son, Alabaster."

"You killed the people who loved me like a son," you say. You can't help it.

"That wounds me," Darkbloom says. "It wounds me that you would believe such a thing. Why would I kill your parents? What benefit would it serve?"

"To hide the truth of what you did to me and the others."

"How would you ever know the real truth? Not even your mother knew, rest her soul."

"Then why is she dead?" You say, half shouting. "Why is she dead?"

"Maybe... maybe an unfortunate accident. Such things are always possible. Or maybe -- if it's something more sinister, then step back and look at motives. Consider it dispassionately. Who else has a motive? Who might want you on their side? Are Camelia's parents dead? How do you know that?"

You seethe.

On the elevator ride down with Sable, the silence is deafening. You have no idea what to say or how to say it. It's Sable who finally breaks the silence.

"I didn't know the Gateway to Heaven would be such a terrible experience. I tried it myself and it was actually quite fun... I'm sorry, Alabaster."

"Are you still going to help Darkbloom after what you just saw up there?"

"Yes. Absolutely. It has to be like this... I may not like the man, but his money and resources make everything possible. This is my life's work."

"Do you know what Darkbloom did to me?" You demand.

"Yes. He put a device in your eye. The data it gathered was fundamental to everything we've developed."

"Do you know what happened to a girl named Camelia?"

"Her real name is Amber. Yes, I know about that. Dr. Carte told me."

"You're okay with that?"

"Working with the tools at hand is different from being okay with something. You must understand, Alabaster. This is important work."

The elevator dings and opens to the lobby. You step out, turn to face her.

"There's a lot to be done," Sable says. "Go home and get some sleep."

"No," you say. You reach out and stop the doors from closing. "Come with me and watch a video."

"I've seen that video. It won't change my mind."

The doors close again. This time, you don't stop them. You feel sick with a sense of betrayal.

>[x] Follow her.
[ ] Go home.

You take the next elevator down and find her in her office. She's her usual self -- knocks back what looks like half a pill bottle before resuming her work at her computer terminal. Just outside, her drones are still building SMATTERS units.

"What is so important about this work?" You demand.

Alex is at your side. He must have followed you in from outside - sensing your anger, perhaps.

"David Darkbloom is right about one thing in particular," Sable says, "if nothing else. What we do here has the potential to end suffering. It really does."

"Bullshit," you say. "That man killed my parents!"

"Killed your... your parents..." Alex mutters. "What?"

"I don't know," Sable says. "I don't want to know. I'm sorry for your loss."

You grab her chair and turn it around so she's facing you - an old maneuver.

"You know now," you say. "You know because I'm telling you. David Darkbloom murdered my parents."

"That can't be true," Alex says. "Mr. Darkbloom? A murderer?"

"What are you going to do about that?" You say.

"Why are your parents so fucking important?" Sable shrieks. "Are they more important than everyone else on Earth? You would end this project because you think Darkbloom did something to them? A Sand Reckoner implant could improve the lives of billions! We'd know each other better... we'd know the world better... we'd live in harmony again. No more war -- no more killing. I'm sorry about your parents, Alabaster. I'm sorry! I didn't hurt them. And I'm trying to make a world where good people like your parents never get hurt again!"

[ ] I'll help you.
>[X] I won't help you.

"Then let me work in peace," Sable says. She turns back around.

You storm out of her office, boiling with a barely contained rage. Alex follows you out, past the coder's room, and into the garishly lit hallway.

"Ally! Ally! What's going o--"

You grab him by the shoulders and push him up against the wall. He shudders with fear.

"I'll tell you what's going on. Your boss's boss is a murderer who killed my family. Your boss is working for him. And you're working for her."

You step back. Alex crumples to his butt, his legs splayed. "I don't understand..." he says, fighting tears. "I don't understand... did I do something wrong? I... I'm sorry... please..."

You stare down at him. "Pick a side, Alex."

"Are you leaving?" He says. He wipes his eyes with the back of his palm. "You won't come back?"

"Are you still going to work for Sable?"

"Ms. Guiteau needs me..." Alex says. "W-without me... s-she'd..."

You turn.

"Ally! Ally, please! I'm sorry! I love you!" He falls to the ground, in the fetal position, weeping. "Please don't go, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

You don't listen to his pitiful pleading as you walk down the hallway.

On your way out of the Darkbloom campus, you send a message to Galatea's Skype account - the only way you know how to contact Camelia.

>I'm in. Tell the others.

You hope she understands to pass it on to Camelia and Tyrus.

As you pocket the phone and move across the street, towards the parking garage, a voice calls after you from the curb.

"Alabaster! Fancy meeting you here. Wanna catch a ride with me?"

You grimace. "I'm sorry, Noelle. I'm really busy right now."

She pulls a gun. In her other hand, a badge.

"I insist," she says, her bubbly facade dropping like a rock. "You're going to have to come with me, Alabaster Soliloquy."

A panel van nearby opens its side door. A man in an FBI coat grabs you by the arm.

END OF EPISODE 11.

You are Rose Mallory, hot-shit defender of oppressed minorities and three-time champion of the North High Student Council.

May 1, 2015

Mom's been letting you drive her Volt to the temporary grounds of North High because it's so much farther away now. Since the school burned down a couple weeks ago, classes have been held at a local technical college who graciously opened their doors for the students to finish out their school year. It's hard to adjust to sharing the halls with dead-eyed university dropouts, military vets and single moms (brave as they may be).

She thinks you've been carpooling with Alabaster, but there's no way you would share your car with someone so loathsome. He's got two legs. He can walk.

This morning, however, you're surprised to find Alabaster already awake and in the driveway as you pull out of the garage. He's got a giant teddy bear and a bouquet of roses in his hands.

You roll your window down. "What are you doing now, Alabaster? What is that thing?"

"Whoa! I'm sorry, I didn't realize you got deputized into the Bear Police."

"If you think I'm going to drive you to school just because you're toting around that ridiculous--"

"Did I fucking ask you for a ride? Christ you're obnoxious."

You roll your window up and peel out of the driveway.

At school, you walk about five paces behind Alabaster as he makes his way to his elective class on East Asian Literature. Surreptitiously, you catch a snippet of his conversation with (ugh) Stackleford:

"You really think she'll say yes?" Stackleford says in his usual creepy, wheezy voice.

"Of course she will. Look, Rose may pretend she's all aloof, but when I drop the bomb on her, she won't know what hit her. She'll say yes."

"She's already gotten like... three or four promposals, and she said no to all of them--"

"Idiot. That's because she isn't into any other guys but me."

You duck into another hallway before he can turn and notice you. Your heart is beating a mile a minute. You put a palm to your lips to steady your jaw against a sudden fit of shivering. It's not cold in here, why are you shivering?

What the fuck is wrong with Alabaster? That stupid prick wants to embarrass you in front of the whole school with a promposal? Who asks their first cousin (once removed) to the prom?

It's all to humiliate you. Of course Alabaster doesn't care about his reputation because this is his last year at North High, but he plans to leave YOU with the permanent label of "girl whose first cousin (once removed) asked her to the prom." One last fuck-you before he's gone for good. That asshole.

...What's the best way to handle this?...

Blowing up at him, acting embarrassed or angry - that's exactly what he wants. It's what he gets off on. That misogynistic jerk. That fucking worm.

You're not going to give him the pleasure. You're going to flip the tables on him: you'll do the unthinkable and say yes.

Oh, how you're going to love the look on his face when you tell him that of course you'll go with him, since he just couldn't find any other willing girl, and you'd hate to see him miss out on a rite of passage like senior prom.

A weirdly incestuous public display of affection becomes your magnanimous concession to Alabaster, the infinite loser. You look like a gracious cousin (once removed) and Alabaster looks like a pathetic weirdo and a creep. It's perfect.

You're a genius.

---

Before lunch, you slip into the restroom. You check your hair in the mirror, touch up your makeup, and test your breath with a cupped hand in front of your mouth. This is all utterly apropos of nothing - you just like to look your best, that's all. Popping a mint, you step back out into the cafeteria, find your usual table, and wait. 

It isn't long. Alabaster comes in through the door you're facing, ridiculous teddy bear and bouquet in hand.

Your fellow student council members are yammering on. None of them particularly like Alabaster, and he never eats with you - prefers to eat alone, the creep. Usually they wouldn't pay him any mind, but as you try to calm your erratic breathing, one of the StuCo members - your former vice president, Brock - comments on Alabaster's entrance: "wow, what an idiot... Rose, did you ever find out the bylaws for impeaching a student council president?"

You hold up your hand without even glancing back at him: "Shush--"

He's getting close. You lock eyes with him.

The speech you practiced is suddenly disintegrating in your mind: 'Of course I'll say yes' -- no -- 'of course, Alabaster, if I need you to' -- NO -- don't lose it, Rose, this is an important moment -- 'of course, if you need someone, I'll be there' -- no, damn it, no-- that's not right--

"Rose," Alabaster says. His voice is uncharacteristically warm.

You squeak.

"Will you make me the luckiest senior at North High and go to prom with me?"

"I--" you begin.

"Oh god! I can't believe it! You're the best!"

You turn. A girl you recognize is jumping up and down.

"I was going to ask YOU! How did you-- Oh my goodness, that thing is huge!"

"What can I say," replies Alabaster, "I couldn't let you ask me without being prepared. Here, I got you these too." He hands her the bouquet of roses. "They... remind me of you..."

She squees. Literally, the noise she makes is "squee." Like a dog's fucking chew toy. Bile rises in your throat.

She throws her arms around him and kisses him, on the mouth, full-on. He kisses her back. People are clapping - they're CLAPPING for this obscene, revolting, ridiculous display.

The world throbs around you. Your vision is blurry at the edges. You try to blink it away, but it won't go away. Your face is wet. Why is your face wet?

Alabaster just asked Rose Catachresis to the prom. Is this a joke? Is he doing this to mess with you? It isn't working. Absolutely absurd. Why do you have the sniffles all of a sudden?

As the two of them walk off hand-in-hand, Brock snorts. "What a pair of shitlords. Rose C is just perfect for Alabaster... why do we even let anime club exist? It's so problema--"

"Brock," you say. Even you can hear how dull and emotionless your voice is. Somehow, you can't bring yourself to wear your usual cheerful mask.

"...Rose?" He says.

"Shut the fuck up."

He shuts up. The rest of lunch period passes in awkward silence as he and the rest of StuCo give you a wide berth.

Brock, who's been your faithful right-hand man since middle school, asks you to prom later that same day. He plays music and presents you with a handmade poster with cutesy slogans on it. You take a special sadistic pleasure in telling him - using your kindest, most gentle tone - that no, you would rather go to prom with a chimpanzee. 

---

"Daddy... daddy, it's Alabaster. H-he's in trouble..."

As you say this, tears begin to stream down your cheeks.

You slap yourself in the face.

"Too melodramatic. Stupid. No."

You let your wrists go limp and shake your hands about, as if to drain away your anxious energy. Dropping your sad expression, you sniffle back your mucus, wipe your face clean. You look yourself in the rearview mirror of your car. You try again.

"Daddy... it's Alabaster... he's in trouble again..."

You slap yourself in the face.

"Again? Stupid. Stupid. Don't say again. Don't remind him that it's again. Do you want to save the dumb bastard or not?"

You ruffle your hands through your hair and roll your shoulders. You take deep, calming breaths. You rotate your jaw as if chewing on something.

Every interaction - every single interaction - has to be managed carefully. The right words in the right order with the right inflection can get you nearly whatever you want. But you have to be precise, you have to maintain the proper image for the moment. Now more than ever. This might be the most important interaction of your life: this is the interaction that decides what happens to Alabaster.

You check your phone. The pin indicator still shows Alabaster inside an evidence locker in a San Francisco FBI field office.

Thank goodness he never found out you put that tracking app back on his phone.

You give yourself one last reassuring glance in the mirror before stepping out of the car and walking up the driveway of your family home. 

Dad is in the living room, reading a newspaper. You gently pull it down.

"Rosey, baby, what's wrong?" He says.

"Daddy... it's Alabaster. He's in trouble."

Mom comes in from the kitchen, a glass of wine in her hand and a serious expression on her face. "Alabaster?" She says. "Oh no... honey, what's happened?"

Dad's expression is much less concerned. More like angry.

"I think... I think he got arrested," you say.

Dad tosses his newspaper aside. "Again? Goddamn it." He's standing, hands on hips, shaking his head.

"Goddamn it" is right. This is already going south. You need to pull out some real waterworks here.

You fall to your knees, sobbing. "Daddy... I'm so scared... you HAVE to help him. You have to!"

"Maybe that little shit should fend for himself," dad says. "If I keep bailing him out, he'll never learn."

You cover your eyes with the crook of your arm and redouble your sobbing. Mom squats down and rubs your back to soothe you.

"Dear..." she says, to dad. "Don't you think you're being--"

"No, Charlotte. No. You're not going to talk me into it this time."

"Saul." Her voice isn't as soft now.

"Goddamn it. That ungrateful, criminal little twerp." His voice draws nearer - he must be standing over you. "What is it this time, Rose, huh? Another goddamn arson?"

"No..." you say. "It's... I don't know! I don't know what it is! They took him away to... to the FBI field office in San Francisco... oh god, Daddy, please, help him..."

You hear the sound of ruffling as dad grabs his things - coat, briefcase, car keys - and he barges out of the house without another word.

"It's okay, Rose sweetie... your father is going to help in any way he can."

"You promise?" You say.

"Promise."

You stand. Some of these tears are real, you think. "I need to lie down," you say.

"Of course. Do you want me to make some tea?"

"I'm fine," you reply as you're already on your way up the stairs.

You don't go to your room. You go to the attic. In a tool box, you find an electric drill and a fat, heavy-gauge bit.

You make a brief stop-over in your room to put on some sad music, and blare it loud enough to cover up the work at hand.

In Alabaster's room, you pull open his PC tower, plug in your drill, and destroy both of the hard drives mounted inside. His laptop and the spare flash drives on his desk get the same treatment. And then the portable hard drive stashed under the moulding near his nightstand, and then the old laptop stashed on a shelf in the back of his closet, and the flash drive he's got taped to the underide of his bed frame, and the CD-r discs he has in a book at the bottom of a box in the corner.

You sit on the floor among the destroyed electronics, giving your frayed mind just a moment to rest.

Then you stand and head for your bedroom, drill in hand, to repeat the process. 

>Choose who to follow next.
[ ] Rose
>[x] Whitney
[ ] Cerise

You are Whitney Price, hot-shit anime-nerd virgin devirginer and trap trainer.

You sit on the couch in Alex's living room, watching an episode of that old 90s sitcom, Dinosaurs. It's the one that ends with the ice age killing everyone. You demolish a bag of flamin' hot Cheetos as the grim finale draws to a close.

"What about the baby?" You mutter. "That's messed up. They're gonna kill the fucking baby and everything."

Alex comes in through the front door. He's hours early.

He breezes past, head low, straight toward his bedroom. Not a single word, not even hello.

Not on your watch! You wash your hands in the kitchen sink and dash after him. You stop him just in time, before he can close and lock his door.

"Hey," you say, pretending to punch him in the shoulder. "You're just gonna ignore your big sister like that? Why the long face?"

"Please... leave me alone," Alex says. He tries to shut the door, but you force it open and step inside.

"Don't be like that. Otherwise I'll have to spank ya."

"It's all over. It doesn't matter anymore."

"Okay, whoa. That's some suicidal-type talk right there. What the heck is going on?"

You steer him by the shoulders to his bed and sit him down.

"Ally hates me," he says.

You laugh. "Hates you? He's head over heels for you! You turned him gayer than the 1890s!"

"The... 1890s?" Alex says, confused despite his sadness.

"It's a reference. Look it up. Wow. Don't you read?"

"I know he hates me," Alex says. "He said so himself."

You nudge him. "Ally tells me he hates me all the time! Give him a few hours to get over himself and he'll be trying to get into your pants all over again. It's, like, his cycle."

Alex starts to cry again. "Whitney... do you know anything about David Darkbloom... killing Ally's parents?"

Your breathing stops. You almost puke. "What."

"Ally says David Darkbloom killed his parents."

This is the first you've heard of that. Ally sent you a text when he got back from his little trip, but all it said was that he'd talk to you later.

"And... because I work for Mr. Darkbloom... Ally hates me... he really hates me..."

You stand up and pace in worried circles. You can't believe this. That fucking billionaire asshole killed Mr. and Mrs. Soliloquy. Ally must have found proof of it last night. You need to talk to him - right now.

But then there's Alex, lying on the bed in the fetal position, weeping pathetically.

>[x] Comfort Alex first.
[ ] Try to get in touch with Ally. 

You crawl into Alex's bed and cuddle up with him - playing the big spoon to his little spoon.

"I told you to leave me alone," Alex says. His voice is muffled by his pillow.

"Nuh-uh," you say.

You nuzzle his cheek and hug him tight. "Ally doesn't hate you," you repeat, "I know he doesn't. In fact... he's in love with you!"

"How would you even know that."

Okay, he called that bluff. Time to double down. "He told me so."

Alex turns around in your arms. He looks you in the eyes. "No he didn't. He did?" His voice is hopeful.

"Yep!" This is a lie, but you'll put a gun to Ally's head to make him play along, if you have to. "He didn't want me to say anything because he's struggling with, like, all these new emotions and shit. It's hard to fall in love with a guy if you think you're straight."

"But you didn't hear what he said to me," Alex insists. "Even if he loved me before..."

"Ally is emotional right now. If he thinks Darkbloom killed his mom and dad... I mean, wouldn't you be mad if someone murdered your parents?"

Alex nods.

"Hell, I'm mad for Ally too. I feel like throttling that bastard, if you wanna know the truth."

"You think it's true? He killed them?"

You shrug. "Maybe. If Ally said so, I believe it."

Alex feels weak and tiny. He shakes his head violently and it hardly jostles you. "It can't be true... it can't! If it's true, then that means Ms. Guiteau is part of it too... and I can't believe that. Ms. Guiteau is a good person!"

There's that name again. Ms. Guiteau. Alex hardly ever shuts up about that broad.

"Why don't we take a nap--" you begin.

Alex pushes you away, palms shoving against your flat chest. He struggles out of bed and stands up. He teeters a bit before catching his balance.

"No... no, I have to go back to work... I have to talk to Ms. Guiteau about this... I need to know the truth."

This kid is headed for a walk down slit-wrist lane if he keeps going on like this.

[ ] Let him go talk to his boss on his own.
>[x] Tag along and help him. 

"Please get out of my car."

"No."

"Please get out of my car, Whitney."

"No."

Alex softly bashes his own head against his steering wheel in frustration, again and again.

"I'm not trying to be mean," he says. "We're in the middle of a mission critical product roll-out. You don't even have an employee badge. How am I supposed to get you in..."

"You're the head honcho's favorite mook's favorite coffee boy! You're like two steps down from being CEO. They'll let me in if you tell them to." You pause, thinking. "Besides, I need to meet this chick who keeps pushing you around. I mean - what kind of dumb bitch thinks it's okay to just push you around? So stop whining and let's get going already."

Alex turns the key in the ignition. He glances over at you. "Please don't mess anything up, okay?"

"Scout's honor."

He cocks his head. "You were a scout?"

You roll your eyes. "It's a figure of speech, you fag."

"Whitney..."

"No offense. I don't mean fag in the gay way. I mean it in the you're a fag way."

Alex pulls out of his parking spot and starts down the road. 


At the security checkpoint, you stay by Alex's side as he swipes his badge in the scanner and pushes past the turnstile. It all goes smoothly until a rent-a-cop grabs you by the arm and stops you on the other side.

"Miss, you need to scan your badge too."

"She's with me," Alex says. "She's a visitor... uh, a contractor, actually... here to verify the... the..."

His nervousness is getting the better of him. "I'm here to verify the flux capacitors on the proton majiggers," you say.

Nailed it. You glance at Alex, smiling proudly.

"No such thing," the wannabe mall cop says. "I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"No such thing?" You say. "How the FUCK should you know, professor? What college did you graduate from? Do you have a PhD in fluxology? Cause I do!"

"I'm giving you to the count of three, and then I'm going to call the police--"

"Let her in," comes a voice from behind. You turn. It's David Darkbloom. 

"It's nice to see you, Whitney," he says.

"The pleasure's all yours," you sneer.

"How have you been?" He lays a hand on your shoulder. You shudder, push him away.

"Hands off, old man."

He just laughs. "Have you reconsidered our job offer? It would be so nice to have you aboard."

"Go fuck yourself," you say.

"Whitney..." Alex says, nervously tugging on your shirt sleeve. "He let you in. Please don't antagonize him."

"She's fine, Mr. Best. In fact, I rather like the fire in her. You two must be here to interrogate Sable. Am I correct?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Darkbloom," Alex says. "I know she's not an employee, but she's... ah... moral support, if you will..."

"I completely understand," Darkbloom says. "Whitney is a fine young woman -- you could do a lot worse. It makes me happy to see the two of you hitting it off so well."

"Every second you spend talking to me is another second you aren't shoving your own dick up your own asshole. Mr. Darkbloom." You step past him, head for the elevators with Alex.

"When you're done," Darkbloom calls after you, "please come see me. You should have my side of the story as well, right?" 

On your way to Sable Guiteau's office, you walk past a miniature army of robo-bunnies marching down the basement hallways, followed by a miniature army of the dorks who love them.

"Wacky place you work in," you mumble.

Even Alex can agree with that. "It gets a little strange sometimes."

And then, past a few more doors, there she is: the boss from hell, stooped over her keyboard in her office, white as a fucking ghost. Frozen like time stopped. Staring at nothing.

"Ms. Guiteau?" Alex says timidly. "Are you--"

She turns around in her chair. "Alex," she says. Her personality does a complete 180, just like that. Suddenly she's bright and cheerful. "You came back. You left so suddenly - I thought I lost you... I didn't know what to do."

He shakes his head. "No! I'm here! I just--"

"You're gonna lose him if you don't tell us what you know," you say, stepping forward. "Weird-ass robot fucker."

Sable looks at you, confused. "I don't... who are you, exactly?"

Alex introduces you, but Sable's confused expression only deepens. "You're Whitney?" She says. "I don't believe it."

"Did Psycho McMoneybags upstairs kill Ally's mom and dad?" You demand.

Sable rubs her forehead. "Alex, please see this awful girl out. This isn't the time to talk about this--"

You grab her shoulders and wheel her backwards a few steps. Just to show her who's in control (you, duh). She tenses in your grip.

"This is exactly the time," you say. "What do you know?"

"We launch in two hours!" Sable says. "Unhand me! I'm not going to let myself be browbeaten by some idiot lesb--"

You slap her. Her head jerks, she clutches at her reddening cheek.

"Whitney! Stop!" Alex cries. He pulls you off of Sable. "I told you not to get carried away!"

"Try again," you say. "What do you know?"

"If I answer you," Sable says, "will you go away?"

"Maybe."

She shakes her head and seethes. But then she tells you.

Alabaster, Amber, Anna: Camelia, Catachresis, Galatea. A lot of it goes over your head, but you understand the important bits. Eyeballs getting plucked out, weird doohickeys getting shoved in. Would Darkbloom kill to keep this information from getting out? Sable claims she doesn't know, but you're still skeptical.

She also explains that she disagrees with Darkbloom's methods. Sable is a weirdo, one of those crazy genius types, but you can at least believe she's honest about this. The way she describes her desire to improve the world sounds genuine. And importantly, she didn't have anything to do with Darkbloom's fuckery insider Ally's skull. (You do some slow mental math to confirm this. If Ally was 5 at the time, and Sable is 26... that means... carry the 2... okay, she was too young to be doing surgeries at the time. You think.) 

Near the end of Sable's explanation, her PC makes a ding.

"Ping," she says.

"It was more of a ding to my ears," you say.

She uses her feet to scoot her chair up to her desk again. "Ping," she repeats. "It pinged."

"What pinged, Ms. Guiteau?" Alex asks.

Sable pulls up a browser window that shows a map of the world. She zooms in on a pin indicator: an address in Oakland. "Penelope. It pinged."

"Who is Penelope?" You say.

"Not who. What. This is it... this is what I needed. I could complete Sand Reckoner tonight--"

Sable busily writes down the address. She hands it Alex. "Go there. I'm authorizing you to spend however much money they want for it. $10 million, $100 million, it doesn't matter. You have the full faith and credit of Darkbloom Analytics backing you up. Can I trust you?"

Alex salutes her. He actually salutes her, the dork. "Yes, Ms. Guiteau! If you need this-- whatever it is--"

You grab the paper from him. "What is this shit, the army? Why do you need this Penelope thing so bad?"

"Do you want to know the truth about what happened to Alabaster's parents? About anything you ever wondered? Penelope is the biological interface needed to go alongside my work. Their union is the final step in realizing Sand Reckoner. I was going to have to find a way rebuild it from scratch... but there it is, just a few miles away..."

You look at the sheet of paper in your hands.

If nothing else, having possession of this device, whatever it is, would be -- what's the word? -- leverage.

>[x] Go.
[ ] Refuse.

And:

>[x] See Darkbloom on your way out.
[ ] Blow him off. 

You and Alex sit across from Darkbloom in a lush executive dining room. You hungrily gnaw on a lobster tail.

"It pinged," Darkbloom says.

"Seriously?" You say. "First of all, how do you know? Second of all, it was a ding. I swear you people need to get your ears checked. It was totally a ding. 'Ding'. Like that."

Darkbloom steeples his fingers. "I would go myself, or send someone, but it wouldn't do. She would know I'm coming. So you're the perfect person for this. If you--"

He stops, grimacing. "Whitney, please stop splashing butter everywhere. It's unseemly."

"Are you kidding me?" You say. "I'm eating on the run here. I gotta cram this five star shit down my mouth while I can." You cup a hand over your mouth. "Hey, waiter! More lobster! And some fucking coke, too!"

"Do you mean Coca-Cola, miss?" he says uncertainly.

"Yeah!" You look back at Darkbloom, laughing. "What did Ask Jeeves over there think I wanted, cocaine? Haha."

Alex stares at his lap, blushing.

"You're an interesting girl, Whitney," Darkbloom says.

"And you're an asshole." You point at him with the remains of your lobster tail. "You killed Ally's parents. Fucking prove you didn't."

"I cannot prove it, but I can answer your questions with full transparency. I'd like to get to know you better. I think we could make a good team."

"Enough with this dark side bullshit, Vader. Why do you need this MacGuffin?"

"MacGuffin?"

"It's a reference. Look it up--"

"It's an important part of my life's work," Darkbloom says. He launches into an explanation about ending suffering or some stupid shit, and you pretend to fall asleep.

"Fine," Darkbloom says, tossing his napkin on the table. "I see the details don't interest you. That's all right, being a big picture thinker is the mark of a gifted intelligence. So how's this. If you retrieve Penelope, deliver it to Alabaster - I'm sure you trust him, if you don't trust me. He'll understand the need to turn it over, in due time."

"Mmmff mff," you say through a mouthful of food - your attempt at "whatever."

"The woman who has it is dangerous," Darkbloom warns. "You've already overpowered her once, but try to use a softer touch this time. You can win her over through your shared connection to Alabaster."

You swallow hard. "Camelia?" You say.

"Indeed. She thinks she knows everything, but she has her blind spots. Alabaster is one. That device, in her hands, could do irreparable damage. It is imperative that, if nothing else, Alabaster has it. At least then it won't be weaponized." 

---

It may have been minutes or hours - you have no way to tell time in this featureless white box. But finally, a man in a nice fitted suit enters the interrogation room. You know him already.

He sits across from you at the metal table.

"I just won $50," Agent Cohle tells you. "Agent Cooper -- remember him? -- he made a bet on how long it would be before you ended up back in this room. Put the over-under at five years. I took the under."

"Good for you," you say.

He kicks back. "Alabaster Soliloquy," he says as he flips through a manila file folder. "I never did mention -- that is one hell of a name, young man. Whoever came up with that one deserves a medal."

"It's French, actually," you say.

"Oh really? How interesting."

"Yeah. Roughly translated, it means: 'I want a lawyer.'"

Cohle sets the file folder down, laughs. "Okay, that's a good one. You got me." He leans in, elbows on the table, and keeps his voice low as if letting you in on a secret: "we can get you a lawyer, but that isn't your best move here."

You say nothing.

He leans back again, frowning. When you still say nothing, he opens the file folder, pulls out a set of glossy color photos, and arrays them on the shiny tabletop. They make your stomach turn: gory pictures of men in biker gear with their heads split open. You look away.

"Pretty sick stuff, yeah," Cohle says. "I'm gonna cut the bullshit here. These men you helped kill are Russian mob. Very, very nasty people. When things like this happen to their footsoldiers, they repay the favor - and then some. Have you ever seen a man flayed alive?"

You close your eyes and shake your head.

The door of the room clicks open. Noelle enters.

"Hello liar," you say.

"Hello murderer," she replies. She glances down at her partner. "I'll take it from here, Cohle."

He bites his tongue, even if he doesn't seem happy about it, and leaves the room. He takes the photos with him.

"I want a lawyer," you repeat.

"You're not getting one," Noelle says simply.

"Excuse me? That isn't--"

She kicks the table, causing its legs to screech across the floor, and you to jump back in fright. "Shut up," she commands.

You obey.

"You're not getting a lawyer. This is a matter of national security, which means all those warm and fuzzy constitutional rights they taught you about in civics? Superseded. You've got one chance here, Mr. Soliloquy. I'm offering you a sweetheart deal, since I like you so much, and you've got good taste in anime. If you tell me everything I want to know before I walk out that door again, you'll have immunity. Your friends, too. The US government won't press a single charge against you - you'll walk free. It's called 'queen for a day.' So what do you say, Alabaster? Do you feel like a queen?"

You fold your arms and stare her down. She stares you right back.

You think she's serious.

And what's more, despite doing your best not to show it, you're about ready to shit yourself.

Directly refusing your request for a lawyer cannot be legal. And if she's willing to break the law, what else is she willing to do? Is coming clean your best option?

"Don't waste my fucking time," Noelle says. "Or it's only going to get worse for you. Ever hear of extraordinary rendition? Gitmo? Waterboarding?"

You bow your head, stare at the shiny chrome tabletop. This can't be happening.

"Let's start with the 421 Boyz. Was Marquis Kang with you when you killed those Russians?"

"I..." you begin. "He--"

"What the hell is going on here?" You look up. It's Mr. Mallory. 

"Did I hear your partner correctly out in the hall there?" Saul says. "You're trying to offer my client some fantasy immunity deal contingent on not speaking to a lawyer? I know you feds like botching cases, but you could at least try not to hand it to me on a silver platter. Make it at least a little hard."

Noelle only frowns at him.

Saul laughs. "If you're going to spit on the constitution like that... just put a damn burlap sack on his head and whisk him away to a black site why don't you, you wannabe fascist."

"That comes next," Noelle snaps.

Saul tilts his head just slightly, staring back at Noelle like he can't believe what he just heard.

"I'm not the local sheriff," Noelle says. "I'm the special agent in charge of the FBI's cyber crimes division. Your JD doesn't mean shit to me."

"It means a lot to the federal court system," Saul says. He shrugs. "I'm used to it not meaning much to cops, though. From the sheriff on through to special agent in charge of whatever-the-fuck. Never bothered me before, doesn't bother me now."

"Alabaster Soliloquy is suspected in a whole slew of major felonies," Noelle says, "including sabotaging Darkbloom Analytics - a major contractor with the US government on national security issues. Your adopted son is quite likely responsible for the 3/10 hack. I could, and should, throw him in a deep, dark hole where no one like you can get at him."

"Do that, and in a year's time you won't even be able to work as a mall cop," Saul growls. "I'll make sure of it."

"Or you could go in the hole with him."

Saul doesn't flinch.

"You've got 10 minutes," Noelle says.

"I'm going to record the conversation with my client," he says. "You had better not."

"Uh huh."

She steps out. 

"Thank God you're here," you say as Saul sets up a tape recorder. "I was almost--"

Saul rushes you and grabs you by the collar. "What did you do?" He demands. "What did you do? You piece of shit! You ungrateful psychopath! I never should have let you inside my home! What did you do?!"

You struggle against him - impossible, with one hand chained to the leg of the table. "I didn't-- it's not--"

"Is Rose involved? Did you get my daughter mixed up in this? Tell me! So help me God, Alabaster!"

You finally push him off. "Yes," you say.

"You're a cancer," Saul says. He straightens his coat and sneers at you. "I can't believe you. I can't believe I ever let Rose and Charlotte convince me to take you in. And to keep you after the first time we went through this. You're an absolute--"

"I'm in love with your daughter," you say.

"What."

You glance away. "Don't make me say that again. Jesus."

He shakes his head. "You're cousins."

"Once rem--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm sick of hearing that. You're also siblings -- by law. Do you think you're helping your case here by telling me you want to commit incest with my little girl?"

"I don't care what happens to me," you say. "Just make sure it doesn't get back to Rose... or Cerise... or anyone else I care about."

Saul sits down across from you. "Start from the beginning," he says. 

---

You are Cerise Soliloquy, hot-shit circuit bender and champion of... well, nothing. Your life hasn't gone the way you expected.

You lie in bed, your room darkened from the setting sun by blackout curtains. You're so paralyzed with fear and trepidation, worry and regret that you can hardly move.

Alabaster has been arrested by the FBI.

Rose is confident in her father's skills as a lawyer, but you have the pessimist's outlook. You know you may never see him again.

First mom and dad.

Now your brother.

It's all Darkbloom... it all goes back to him. It's all because of him that this domino effect of catastrophe began.

As long as your heart still beats, you're going to make sure he pays.

No matter what.

A loud knock on your door snaps you out of your morbid thoughts. You clamber to your knees, adrenaline coursing through you. You wait.

The knocking comes again.

You creep out of your bedroom, towards the front door. One of Rose's guns is sitting near her fold-out bed. You can go for it if you need to. But maybe this is worse than Camelia's thugs. Maybe it's the FBI coming for you, too.

"Who's there?" You call.

"Yo, open up. It's hotter than a motherfucker out here."

Definitely not FBI. You grab the gun and hold it at your side. You open the door.

Based on the description Alabaster gave you, this must be the man known as Tyrus Kang. 

"Get that gun out my face," Tyrus says.

You glance down, where you hold the gun at your side - not even pointing it at him.

"I'm just holding it," you say. "It's not in your face. Don't I still have my second amendment rights?"

"Hmmph. Where's Bastard Man?" Tyrus says.

"He..." you choose your words carefully. "I'm not sure, but I think he got a visit from Mr. Blue. We're waiting for him to come home. You might want to try again later."

Tyrus squints at you. "I see what you mean. Well, let's hope he doesn't spend too much time talking to Mr. Blue, then. For his sake."

"I'd be careful about what you say," you tell him. "I don't like it when people make intimations about my brother."

"You're Crackergirl's girl, right?"

"...What?"

"Orange-hair bitch. More scared of the sun than most vampires. Watches Japanese cartoons."

"I'm not her girl anymore."

Tyrus tugs on his lapels. "That's a damn shame. You lesbians are so promiscuous and shit. That's why I hate seeing the L lumped in next to the G. Totally different worlds."

"I'm not a lesb--"

"No, of course not." He winks at you. "Look. I need to talk to you in private. This pertains to you, too."

Your hand twitches against the gun.

"Jumpy," he says. "No wonder you got along with Crackergirl. I'd call you two peas in a pod, but it's more like two Mexican jumping beans in a pod."

"Go away."

"I think you missed what I just said. Come take a ride with me."

>[x] Go.
[ ] Refuse. 

Tyrus drives a car that's not nearly as ostentatious as his clothes. It's a beamer, but other than the prominent BMW insignia, it's not a car that would turn heads.

"Are we good to talk here?" You say as Tyrus drives.

"Yeah, I'm all Faradayed and shit in here."

"What do you want with my brother?"

"He's gonna blow up Darkbloom Analytics for me."

"For you? What the hell does the king of the garbagemen want to do that for? What's in it for you?"

Tyrus drums his fingers on his steering wheel. "I'm an upwardly mobile individual," he says. "Picture this. You start as a little kid, slinging dime bags on the corner in a Baltimore hood. Get in tight with the local legitimate businessmen. Make some connections, grow your territory, set up alliances. Gangster shit. Then you get outed. So you move out to the coast where people of your - proclivities - are more accepted. Make a real nice life for yourself. But you've still got that gangster cachet to fall back on. Owning a company isn't different, not really. Most CEOs are gangsters, you can look that up online, that's the truth."

"Get to the point. Good lord."

"Point is, I'm still upwardly mobile. I been picking up your trash and cleaning the literal shit out of your drinking water for 15 goddamn years now, why? Because you rich Silicon Valley idiots don't think anyone goes through the things you throw out. But we do. And so now Darkbloom Analytics blows its lid, who gets called in to clean it up? The biggest and best equipped waste management company in the bay area. Me. I get to come in and cart off whatever isn't blown to shit, then sell it to the highest bidder. Millions of dollars in singed circuits and half-ruined pieces of failed R&D. All for the taking."

"That's it? You partnered with Camelia to make a quick buck?"

"That's just the side hustle. See, I'm a smart investor." He taps his temple. "I'm what you call highly diversified. I got millions sitting in Dakbloom's third-string competitors, little guys trying to nip at his heels." He makes Pac-Man nipping motions with one of his hands. "All the Davids just waiting for Goliath to keel over. When he does, my investments mature. I get on the Forbes 500 overnight. All for the cost of a little fertilizer and the aggravation of working with you crazy motherfuckers."

So that's all this is to him. No personal motivation, no vengeance quest, no anger, just bloodless money-lust. It's all business.

Tyrus looks at you. He isn't smiling anymore. "You better hope the cops release your brother pretty fucking quick," he says. "And that he didn't squeal."

"We got him a lawyer."

"Yeah. Listen, I burned an important bridge last night. You fuck with the Russians, that means you're in open war. It's gonna suck a fat shit, and on top of that I won't have my favorite revenue streams open to me anymore. Which means the ones Bastard Man is supposed to open, had better open soon. I'm gonna miss those fucking Superdollars." 

It feels like circling a drain: no matter how much you try to get away, you always come looping back. Tyrus drives you to Camelia's apartment. Or rather - Galatea's apartment.

You dither as Tyrus steps out of his car. He comes around and taps impatiently on the passenger side window. His voice is muted from the outside. "You're not my fuckin valet. Let's go, lady."

You crack the door. "You didn't tell me you were taking me here."

"Tough shit. If Bastard Man isn't available, you're the next best thing. Period Blood wants the honor of your presence."

You grimace. "Why do you call her that?"

"Because she's always wearing red, like she's a fuckin Blood -- and she's always acting pissy, like she's on her period."

You shake your head. "I told you I'm not with Gal anymore. I don't want to see her."

"You figure that relationship shit out on your own time. You're on the fucking clock here. Don't waste my time. Or my money."

You get out and follow him upstairs. 

Across from the apartment's front door, Marquis is leaning languidly, one foot resting on the door of a different apartment.

He smiles when he sees Tyrus round the corner. "It's all done," he says, holding up his baseball bat like a proud child. The business end is red with gore.

"Jesus," Tyrus says. "Clean that shit up. We don't need a john coming by and seeing you."

He curtsies. "Sure thing, Tyty."

They kiss - with tongue - and Marquis disappears inside the other apartment. You catch a whiff of copper. You shudder.

Inside Gal's apartment, she's sitting on the floor, cross-legged, slack-jawed. The video of the operation on Camelia is playing on the TV screen, although the sound is muted. Gal watches Darkbloom's hands snipping and twisting and digging -- then rewinds, and watches again.

You feel ill.

"Gal..." you say.

She looks up at you. "oh. oh..."

She turns off the TV and tries to crawl away, but you kneel down and catch her. "What's going on?" You ask her. "Why does that awful woman want to see me?"

"it can all be over soon," Gal offers, unhelpfully.

"I don't--"

"Oh, hey." You look up, towards the sound of the voice: it's Whitney. She's with Camelia. And Alex, of all people.

"I thought it was gonna be way harder," Whitney says. "But it turns out, Camelia and sexy Velma over there are actually pretty cool. They handed Penelope right over."

"Penelope?" You say.

Whitney holds up the device you found in the desert. "Yeah. She wants me to give this to David Darkbloom. So does David Darkbloom! Crazy, huh?"

END OF EPISODE 12. 

May 7, 2015

You cradle your head in one hand. You've got this throbbing pain in your temples and it refuses to go away. It's the physical manifestation of your mental state. You already hate yourself for what you're about to do. But every time you look up, there he is: Alabaster sitting with HER, at a table directly facing yours, like he has been at every lunch period for the past week. Trying to mess with your head, as if that would even work. Pathetic. It's pathetic what he's trying to do.

Every time you see it, every time he flashes you that punchable, smug, sneering grin from across the cafeteria, it gives you renewed resolve to execute the plan.

Stackleford walks by your table on his way to sit with the weeb patrol. You stand. "Boyd."

He wheels around like he just got busted by the police. "I'm sorry!" He pleads.

"You're... sorry?"

He casts furtive glances this way and that. "Listen, if someone looked up bad stuff on my workstation in Computer Science, it wasn't me. I don't even know what hentai IS. I was as shocked as you when I saw it! In fact, I was about to report it myself! Please don't tell the rest of the student council--"

You can feel how taut your smile is. This isn't good -- this isn't going to work. You can't do this. Just standing within three feet of this tubby failure is going to leave you smelling like moist cheese for a month. Going on a DATE with him? Letting him put his hands on your shoulders, letting him dance with you? Letting him -- you fight back vomit -- kiss you?

But then you happen to catch Alabaster's gaze. He's totally ignoring HER, while she prattles on about her latest purchase from Hot Topic. He's watching the conversation between you and Stackleford. He's never been good at hiding his true emotions, not from you, and especially not when you bother to needle him. His expression is as grim as death.

You look back at Stackleford, perking up. "Wanna go to prom with me?"

The shock and joy on Stackleford's face is actually revolting. The glisten of the grease in his pores, the yellow tint to his canines, the folds and crevices of his chins. Your hatred for this boy is like a finely aged wine, with dozens of complex notes and undertones. But it's for a greater good. Because how Alabaster feels is the same as how you feel, only multiplied by 10. Seeing this is killing a little piece of his soul. It's the same logic behind why he would debase and humiliate himself by asking HER to the prom. He hates her, despises everything about her -- but he knows you hate her even more.

After Satackleford stammers through his acceptance, he turns to call after Alabaster. "Did you hear that shit, nigga? I'm going to prom with-- uh..."

He's nowhere to be found. Ladies and gentlemen, Alabaster Soliloquy has left building: stood up and stomped out without even saying goodbye to HER, leaving her to sit befuddled and sad-looking all by herself. You smile warmly. 

May 11, 2015

You freshen up in the ladies' room. Lately you've been spending a lot of time here, because it's the one place on campus that Stackleford can't follow you.

With a handheld compact, you redo the concealer around your right eye. Sometimes these shiners just refuse to buff out. You gently touch the tender skin, testing it, worried that someone might notice it even through the caked-on makeup.

You search your purse for a different shade, but the one you want is missing. Alabaster must have grabbed it for his own use. Last night was a doozy.

"I should chop off your head."

Whitney is standing at the sink beside you, pretending to check her hair.

You clack your compact lid closed and stow it in your purse. "Did you get lost on your way to the boy's room, Whitney?"

She huffs. "Get some new material, Incest McTumblr."

"It's not a joke," you say, "I'm sincerely concerned. Do you need me to help you find the right bathroom? I know you've always had trouble with directions... and signs... and basic literacy..."

"If that fat cunt from Moon Station Japanime pops Ally's cherry, I'm blaming you."

"I have nothing to do with Alabaster or Rose 2," you say. "If you have unresolved feelings for him, I suggest you bring them to his attention and discuss them honestly. That's the healthy thing to do."

You try to leave, but Whitney grabs your arm. "I'm not kidding," she says. "You've got him so fucked up that he's eating with the anime club every day. Anime club! It's like making Jesus so mad that he starts hanging out with the Jews just to get back at his dad."

"Jesus WAS --" you begin. Then: "Did you really just compare Alabaster to Jesus Christ?"

Whitney's expression darkens. "If it goes any further between those two, then start calling me the groundskeeper. Because I'll be cutting down Roses like I get paid to. You can take that to the bank." 

May 15, 2015

"It's a moral failing, as far as I'm concerned. I don't know what came over him... that girl is a degenerate."

"Cerise, I agree with you. 100%. Honestly - I do. That's why--"

Cerise points at you with the hand holding her beer. A little of it sloshes on your bed, and you suppress the curling of your upper lip. "I'm her fucking faculty adviser," she says. "You don't need to tell me." (Tell her what? She's telling you.) "I deal with her every day. Do you know how many times I've had to stick Rose 2 in the circle of shame? 50, 60 times -- at least. No exaggeration. She's incapable of learning."

"That's very--"

"I think it's some kind of medical condition. She's legitimately retarded. In a clinical sense."

"Right. Which is why--"

"She actually writes Axis Powers Hetalia fanfiction. Unironically. My hand to god."

"I don't know what that is. But what I'm getting at--"

"I should kick her in the teeth. You wanna help me kick her in the teeth? I'll wear steel-toes. You can hold her down."

You like the sound of that. But you decide to save it for Plan B.

"Cerise, I'm quite concerned that Alabaster is being manipulated."

Cerise leers at you. Her drunkenness is making her cognition a little slower than usual. "Manipulated how?" She manages. 

You fold your hands in your lap. "Alabaster didn't get to know -- this girl -- very well, until he volunteered to help clean up the grounds of North High after the fire. I was there, too. The whole student council was. I saw the two of them talking. And to my eyes, it really looked like -- this girl -- was using emotionally abusive psychological techniques on him."

"What the hell are you talking about, you dizzy slut?"

You brush that off. "It's called pickup. Usually men use it on women, but it can be done the other way too. You find someone in a fragile emotional state and then pounce -- like that." You pantomime a lion swooping in on its prey, and Cerise startles. "It's rather insidious."

Cerise is skeptical. "You think the girl who still owns an iPod nano and still listens to My Chemical Romance on the iPod nano she still owns is secretly a Hannibal-Lecter-tier brain-bender."

You sigh. "Alabaster is still shaken after the FBI came to question him about the fire. Even though they didn't arrest him - that's a very scary experience, don't you agree? You don't have to be a genius to take advantage of someone in that state."

She stares at you. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just help. That's all. I'd do it myself, but. Well. You know as well as I do that Alabaster isn't too fond of me."

"Not too fond of you?" Cerise half shouts, laughing like a hyena. "I guess Hitler wasn't too fond of Stalin, either. I'm waiting to see which one of you kills the other one first."

You purse your lips. "Despite that, he is family. I hate to see him being used. If you could talk to him -- make him see reason -- maybe he won't have to go through with this ill-conceived prom date. It can only hurt him in the long run."

"Why," Cerise says, "so you can take him? Or just so you don't have to actually take the Human Planet to prom too?"

"I don't know what you're talking about--"

"Want me to do your dirty work? Knock your rival off so you can grab Alabaster on the rebound? Cousin fucker."

"Brother fucker!" You snap. Lost your cool, there.

"You want Alabaster to cancel?" She says. "Then make him do it yourself. I'm not going to step into his personal life. I may not like who he dates, but he's free to make his own bad choices. Whether that's Rose the weeaboo or Rose the insufferable harpy."

Cerise stands and leaves your bedroom. You seethe. 

June 5, 2014

You sit propped up against the headboard of your bed. "Your" bed, rather - note the scare quotes - it's hard to think of anything in this unfamiliar room as truly yours. The mattress is a little too soft, the walls are a little too white, the carpet is a little too clean, the air is pleasant in a strangely sterile way that triggers no memories and therefore feels alien. There's nothing to complain about, it's all quite nice, and yet lodging here is like sleeping in a hotel suite; you look forward to returning to your real bedroom, even though you know you never will.

Cerise is here. She's been spending nights with you, watching anime on your new big flatscreen. See, there's another thing you shouldn't complain about: a free hi-def TV, 55 inches, strictly an upgrade from watching anime on your PC monitor. Yet that's what you'd rather be doing.

Tonight was her pick. NeeKyu, some insipid thing about vampire hunters. Cerise is gaga for it but it leaves you cold. Cerise suffered basketball lolis for your sake, though, so this is the least you can do. Not without grousing, of course:

"I hate this shit."

"Shut the fuck up," Cerise says. "I know you aren't used to real characters with real motivations, but some of us have taste."

"What is Shiro's motivation, again? Being a weak-willed asshole who fucks everyone? Wow. Such great writing."

Cerise grumbles.

The truth is, you like this. Not the show. This. Everyone is always saying sorry, these days. I'm sorry for you loss. I'm sorry to hear about your mother. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Even Whitney says sorry, even Rose occasionally takes the time to say sorry. You and Cerise never say it. The galaxies of regret and sadness you share could never be put into words. You rely on an unspoken understanding, the little things you can convey with an occasionally meaningful look or uncharacteristically brotherly hug. That goes way beyond I'm sorry.

Tonight, Cerise wants to tap out early: shifts in place and says something about needing to hit the pavement tomorrow, needing to go catch some sleep.

Whereas sometimes you give her emotional support in ways that would have been unthinkable to the Alabaster of just months ago, you also sometimes need that support in return. "Wait," you say.

You can't bring yourself to add "don't go," even now, because even now it feels like some sort of emasculation. But Cerise can pick up on what you want. She settles again beside you, and you cue up the next episode in the series. She leans her head against your shoulder, and you lean your cheek against the top of her head. Neither of you say anything else for the rest of the night, but here again is the wordless understanding of so many things you can't verbalize. You like the way Cerise smells; it isn't alien like the air in this house that will never be your home.

Tomorrow you will begin down a dark path, but tonight you have some sort of happiness to cling to, however briefly. 

October 1, 2014

"There you are!"

Yeah. There you are. Whitney's ability to sniff you out borders on supernatural - she must be part bloodhound.

The sun is already setting and the classroom is suffused in a golden glow. You read a trivia almanac at a desk near one of the windows. Whitney saunters up and sits across from you.

"The election is tomorrow and you're sitting here by yourself dorking it up with your quiz shit while I bust my ass on last minute campaigning. What the hell!"

"I trust in your skills as my spokeswoman," you say. "Do your best. I'm counting on you."

"We're gonna beat the snot out of her," Whitney says. "Everyone I talk to is super freaking peachy keen on knocking Rose Mallory down a peg. They don't even care about your campaign promises, they just wanna fuck with her. It's wild!"

"Hey," you say, still reading your almanac, "here's something weird. Did you know that Hitler was a vegetarian?"

"...Whoa. That's interesting as shit."

You roll your eyes. "Sorry for trying to teach you something."

Whitney slugs you in the shoulder. "Ass munch."

"Hey! I could have you--"

"That's your problem, Ally. You always rag on people because you think they're gonna rag on you. But I wasn't being sarcastic. I think it's cool that Hitler was a vegan. It's like, what? Get out of town."

You close the almanac, fold your arms, try to gauge her expression. She really is telling the truth: for maybe the first time ever, she has something nice to say about your trivia hounding. 

"Okay," you say. "Now it's your turn."

"Huh?"

"I taught you something. Now teach me something."

"Pfft. And maybe next you can give me some pointers on soccer. How am I supposed to teach Megamind here a fact he doesn't already know?"

"Give it a shot."

Whitney spends a couple moments in contemplation. She smiles slyly - and then before you can stop her, she swipes the trivia almanac.

"Hey! That's cheating." You try to grab it back, but she turns in place in her chair and uses her shoulders to block you.

"You used this book to teach me!" She chides. "Fair's fair."

"I knew that about Hitler already," you say, which is true. "Seeing it in the book just reminded me."

Whitney pays no attention. She leafs through the pages for some seconds, and finally plucks out a fact at random: "here you go, quiz fag. Did you know the study of eggs is called-- um, ology? No... that's not it. Oology. Two O's. Is this a misprint?"

"It's not a misprint. And it's also not interesting at all," you complain. "That's just the name of something. I give you cool a Hitler fact and you come back with nomenclature?"

"But it's a pretty freaky name! Don't you think so?" She stares hard at the page, reading. "Oology. O-o-logy. Feel like a monkey saying that shit."

She slides the almanac across the table. "I don't know when I'm ever gonna need to actually know that," Whitney says, "but it's taking up some space in the old noggin now."

"Uh huh," you say, skeptical. "You're definitely not going to forget that by tomorrow."

She sticks her tongue out. Then one of those weird, sudden conversational lulls settles. The two of you sit there in the empty classroom, just thinking, not talking.

You break the silence: "so I'm definitely going to lose the election tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, probably. Can't change the system, man. Rigged as fuck."

You shrug. "I tried. She actually started campaigning last week, so at least she's scared."

"Rose is vegan, isn't she? Maybe that's the secret to getting special Nazi powers."

"First of all, you keep saying vegan but it's actually vegetarian. Second of all, Rose eats more meat than I do. I don't think I've ever seen her eat a meal that wasn't meat."

"Pay a lot of attention to what she eats?" Whitney says, quirking an eyebrow.

You huff. "I'm just saying."

"Maybe you should spend less time getting all obsessed on every detail of what your cousin 150 times removed eats, and more on the people who really count!"

Whitney picks up her backpack and roots through it. She hands you a slip of paper. "Here's your ballot. Don't forget to vote tomorrow."

You take it. "I'm more worried that you'll forget to vote."

"I already did," Whitney says. "Ten times. But I'll slip another 20 or so in the ballot box again tomorrow."

This crazy girl is going to actually make you win the goddamn election at this rate.

You open the almanac again and smile. For the next several hours, Whitney sits with you in silence -- she's happy just to watch you. 

June 5, 2015

"All together now! Right there in front of the fireplace!"

Mrs. Mallory wrangles and corrals and harangues the four you to get you to stand where she commands.

"Mom, please," Rose says, "can we just go now?"

"Sh--" she hisses. "This is a big moment! My precious baby girl and boy are going to prom! I definitely need pictures."

You tug uncomfortably at your tie as Rose2 sidles up. This is a living nightmare of your own creation: wearing a stuffy, overpriced tux, standing sandwiched between the two Roses.

Rose2 has an absurd bubblegum-pink dress with puffy shoulders and the hip circumference of a Victorian hoop skirt. The satin fabric is crisscrossed by high detail, pitch black lacework. She looks like a walking 80s movie. It's embarrassing. You're embarrassed for her.

At least she's not Stackleford though. His rumpled and ill-fitting tux has arm cuffs that extend up to his thumbs, and it sits on his frame like a curtain draped over a hippo. You almost pity your cousin (once removed) for having to be his chaperone.

Mrs. Mallory snaps multiple photos on her phone. You throw your arm around Rose2's waist and hold her close, for effect. Stackleford, seeing this, tries to mirror it; but can only bring himself to hover-hand Original Recipe Rose.

"I was going to tell Boyd no funny business tonight," Saul says, watching on with folded arms, "but after meeting him, I think I'd better just warn him not to raid my Oreo stash."

"Saul!" Mrs. Mallory chides. "You're awful." But she can't stop herself smiling a bit.

Rose-Prime is miserable. "Are we done here?"

The answer is no. Mrs. Mallory snaps some more photos. "Rose, get a little closer to Alabaster."

Both Roses get closer. You shudder; Mrs. Mallory laughs. "I was surprised when I saw your date tonight, Alabaster," she says. "But I guess in a certain sense, you've got a type."

You stare at the ceiling and pray for this to be over as quickly as possible. 

"I-I'll go check on the limo," Stackleford offers. He breaks away and heads for the front door. Even he can start to sense that Rose 1.0 isn't glowing with excitement for the coming evening.

Rose2 offers you some Hubba Bubba from her purse, which you gruffly turn down. She goes to sit on the recliner in the living room as you wait for your ride.

Saul and Mrs. Mallory crowd around to give their last minute goodbyes and encouragements. Retro Rose still isn't happy, though. She folds her arms. "So why does my date get the 'no funny business' warning, but Alabaster's doesn't? That's a complete double stand--"

"Alabaster," Saul says. "Is there going to be any funny business tonight?"

"Definitely."

"Good man."

Rose Sr. stomps indignantly.

Mrs. Mallory adjusts the rose on Rose Alpha's pastel yellow dress. Of the four of you, she is probably the best dressed - although you would never admit it.

"Have fun tonight, you two," Mrs. Mallory says. "This is the kind of night memories are made of. Don't let it pass you by!"

She and her husband take one last moment to admire you before leaving you to your own devices. Mrs. Mallory also snaps a couple more candid photos of just you and Classic Rose (which neither of you take kindly to.)

"Try not to get any STD's from the anime club's bicycle," Rose I whispers sneeringly when her parents are out of earshot.

"Stop slut-shaming her," you whisper back. "Besides -- at least my date doesn't have a BMI bigger than her IQ."

Rose2, leaning back in the living room recliner to take a selfie, accidentally drops her own phone on her own face.

"Are you sure about that?" Rose1 asks. 

---

Someone got the idea to put "We Didn't Start the Fire" on the prom playlist.

It's thematically appropriate, you guess -- but one of the school's faculty runs up to the DJ table and makes him change the song.

The next track that comes on is that inane pop song about being happy that's been playing on the radio every day for about two years. You can't believe people can still tolerate hearing it. You can't believe you're tolerating hearing it. You can't believe you're dancing to it.

You move around the dance floor with Rose2, awkwardly - this was never your forte, and you have no idea what kind of tempo to keep with this annoyingly peppy song - but her eyes are dewy with adoration either way. She doesn't seem to notice you stealing disgusted glances in Rose The First's direction every time you circle past.

"This song is so epic," Rose2 says. "I love it!"

You set your jaw.

Meanwhile, Rose: The Beginning tenses every time Stackleford's hammy hands touch her. So at least she's suffering too.

Near the end of the song, as you draw particularly close to the pair, you decide to twist the knife. "I think I could be falling for you, Rose," you say.

Rose2 nuzzles your chest, buzzing with a joy she can't contain.

Rose's expression is more inscrutable: not hurt, but certainly not happy. She closes her eyes and seems to be lost in thought.

Stackleford says, stammeringly: "A-Alabaster isn't the only one--"

Rose opens her eyes. "Don't ruin a good moment," she says, her voice low. 

You lose track of those two as the evening drags on and you drift around the dance floor. When Rose2's enthusiasm for yaoi, and fan dubbing of said yaoi, gets on the last of your nerves, you manage to break away for a while on the pretense of using the restroom. But actually, you duck into a nearby empty classroom to be alone and browse your phone in peace. You hate parties, you hate dances, you hate people, and you hate being here. You relish the peace and quiet.

That is, until Rose finds you.

"This night gets better and better..." you mutter. You put your phone away.

"Did you get tired of Hello Slutty or what?" Rose says, leaning on a table opposite you.

You rest your cheek against your fist and regard her. "A man can only withstand so much in-depth dissection of Black Butler before he goes insane. How are things with Stacklefuck?"

"Just wonderful. He proposed to me."

"You're joking."

"I would never joke about something so morbid," Rose says. "That's when I had to get away."

"Guess I'll have to be best man, then."

Rose bows her head, laughing, and kicks at an imaginary something on the ground.

"You dance like shit," she tells you.

"Uh huh. Whereas you're a regular fucking Anna Pavlova."

Rose motions for you to stand.

"What do you want now?" You demand.

"I may not like your date," Rose says, "but it causes me honest to goodness pain to see you stumbling around with her like a dazed monkey. She deserves better than that. Someone has to teach you -- for her sake."

"You can go to hell. I am NOT going to--"

But she already has her hands on you. "Like this," she says gently. She guides you upright. You begin to twirl around the room in wide, lazy circles. "Step - step - step. See?"

Through the walls, muffled, comes the sound of "Every Breath You Take" - a classic school-dance staple, you guess, although you always thought it was creepy.

You decide to let Rose have her way on this one - just to get it over with quickly.

The two of you slow dance together. Eventually you have an easy rhythm, a smooth synchronization that doesn't feel forced or awkward. And without consciously realizing it happened, you find that you're in the lead: she lets you guide her around the classroom instead of the other way around.

It's... a lot different from the kind of thing you two usually wind up doing when you're alone in an empty classroom.

"Are you excited about Berkeley?" Rose asks as you sway together.

You shrug. "I'm not the excitable type."

"When are you moving?"

"August... 14th or 15th, I think, is move-in weekend."

"Mm."

"You must be ecstatic, huh? It's almost over. You only have two more months of me."

She's quiet for a long time, and doesn't answer. Finally, she says: "what about you? Are you happy you're getting out?"

You don't answer, either.

"We should head back soon," you say. "They're gonna wonder where we are."

"Who gives a fuck?" Rose says.

You keep dancing.

---

Your sleep, never that deep, has been on a hair trigger for the past several weeks. You wake a little after midnight to the sound of footsteps outside your bedroom.

Eyes wide open in the dark, you lie in place and listen. Softly now, there comes a knock on the door. "Who is it?" You call.

"Can I come in?"

Dad. You exhale. You grope blindly for your nightgown and throw it over your head before stumbling to the door.

"He's a free man," Dad says. "I dropped him at his sister's."

"...Alabaster?"

Of course, but you can hardly believe it - Alabaster was arrested just hours ago. Dad is some sort of legal wizard, you're sure of it. You try to close the door again, so that you can change and hurry back to Cerise's. But dad stops the door with a flattened palm.

"He told me everything."

You consider this. How much is 'everything'? You try a cautious tack: "Is he going to be okay? Legally."

Dad shrugs his broad shoulders. "I got ahold of a judge I'm friends with and convinced him to give me an emergency restraining order against the FBI. It doesn't sound like they care very much about Alabaster, anyway - they're really after David and Mara Darkbloom, maybe this Tyrus Kang person if they can swing it." He puts his hands on his hips. "Thing is... while FBI agents may or may not follow a restraining order... criminal gangs definitely don't. Neither do billionaire megalomaniacs."

You stare at your feet. "He really did tell you everything."

"I don't blame him for his choices," Dad says. "I blame him for letting you become so involved in it. He actually told me that--" he trails off. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter."

"I need to go talk to him," you say.

"Rose."

You have an idea of what's coming.

"If I let you go, it might be the last time I see you. I'll help Alabaster as much as I can, but you have to be my top priority. Don't go back to that apartment."

Your voice is flat and firm: "You can't stop me."

He sighs in frustration, rubs the bridge of his nose. It's a tic he shares with Alabaster, and it pisses you off to see either man do it. It makes you feel like a scolded child.

"I gotta ask," he says. "Are you and Alabaster..."

"Don't go there."

"I have to."

"I'm..." you gulp. This is the hardest thing you've ever had to say, and you've got to really sell it. It's paramount that dad believes it. You brace yourself against the shudder of revulsion and come out with it: "I-I'm in love with him. Okay? That's why-"

"Is that really true? You're in love with Alabaster of all people? That little twerp?"

You glance away. "Don't make me say it again. Jesus."

Dad rolls his eyes. "As long as that's the case," he says, "we need to discuss strategy."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Say you're on a safari. You've got a tiger coming for you from the front, a rhino coming at you from behind, a lion to your right and an elephant to your left. What do you do?"

"...Die?"

"Wrong. You get the hell out of the way and let them all kill each other." 

---

Galatea is taciturn at the best of times but that isn't because her mind is working slowly. Quite the opposite: her senses are always on the verge of overloading, her mind always on the cusp of frying. With every comment directed her way, she must first navigate an infinitely branching tree of hypotheticals before responding. She overthinks, that's her central problem; she cannot move until she has considered every possible outcome, and every possible outcome's contingent outcomes, in every possible detail. Paralysis by analysis. She does it to herself.
 
Few people recognize this. Only two so far, in fact. To everyone else, she is "creepy," "stupid," "stuck-up" or some combination therein.
 
Galatea considers herself creepy, too. Not because of what she does or does not say but because of what she thinks, inwardly. She has a mind warped by too much free time and 24/7 access to pornography. She thinks often about what people look like naked, what they would be like to fuck. Women especially. She doesn't think of herself as gay, but women are less threatening to her.
 
Yet she wants to be threatened, to feel fear. Despite her agoraphobia she has a recurring fantasy of someone stripping her naked in public and fucking her senseless in front of a jeering crowd. Another fantasy of stripping naked herself, writing lewd things on her body, and walking around in the open for everyone to see.
 
She thinks a lot about Cerise. She thinks about going in tears to Cerise about one thing or another, and Cerise laying a tender hand against her puffy cheeks to comfort her. Saying something like "shh, it's okay, I love you, I'm here for you." And then without warning slapping her. The sudden sting of physical pain and emotional betrayal. The despair of it. Just the thought makes her shiver. She can't understand why.
 
These are the sorts of images swirling around in her head right now, when she would normally be doing her "consider every possible outcome" thing, while a bunch of strangers congregate in her apartment and discuss their plans as if she's invisible. Only Cerise seems to pay any attention to her, which is just fine by her, but every look Cerise sends in her direction, every little reassuring glance or touch, has Galatea's mind's eye picturing Cerise on top of her. Has Galatea picturing Cerise with her hands tightening around her throat. Has Galatea imagining what it would be like with Cerise's weight pressing down on her, to have Cerise whispering awful things straight into her ear: "Whore. Slut. Useless cunt."
 
Galatea has to excuse herself. She can't take these people and all the noise they make, and she can't take her own thoughts either. She needs to bury her face in a pillow and sleep it off.
 
Unfortunately, Cerise follows her into the bedroom.
 
"Why does it smell like cheesecake in here?" Cerise asks when they're alone with the door shut.
 
Galatea is too burned out to ask Cerise to go, and wouldn't be able to bring herself to do it anyway. She shrugs lethargically and points at her cluttered desktop, where her vape pen sits. Her most recent juice was flavored like cheesecake.
 
Cerise rolls her eyes. That hurts, and not in a good way, it just feels like judgment.
 
"How did you meet Camelia?" Cerise asks. "I'm just curious." She sits in Galatea's chair and faces the bed as Galatea settles in, lies down and curls up around her own pillow.
 
"she found me."
 
Most people would be frustrated with the lack of detail here, but what Galatea loves about Cerise is the almost saintlike patience she shows. "How did she find you?" Cerise prompts, gently.
 
"i ran scams for a long time. online. spear phishing mostly. i don't know how she found out about that... but she came here... and said she wanted to be partners."
 
"You knew about all this Sand Reckoner shit?"
 
Galatea shrugs.
 
"Why would you work with someone like her? Before you knew the truth."
 
Galatea stares at her bedspread. "i liked doing it. it was like figuring out a puzzle or winning at a game. that's the only reason... it's all just for fun you know."
 
Cerise stands. Galatea expects her to leave, to storm out in anger at being told it was all just a game. But Cerise doesn't go. Instead, she crawls onto the bed with her. She walks forward on hands and knees towards Galatea, and Galatea's mind goes into a frenzied overhaul now, dreading, anticipating, waiting in frozen terror - waiting for Cerise to reel back and smack her, the way she deserves to be smacked. Galatea isn't sure whether this would make her happier or sadder.
 
There are no blows. Cerise takes Galatea's trembling face in both hands. "You were never a game to me," Cerise says. Her voice quavers. "You were just my friend. And now you've got me so messed up that I can't even hate you. Even though I want to."
 
"you can hate me. i hate me."
 
"That's not..." Cerise shakes her head. "This is your chance to redeem yourself here. Okay? I'm telling you to say something better than 'it's all just for fun.'"
 
"i don't know how."
 
"Why?"
 
"there's too much. i can't get it to come out right. i'm sorry... i'm so sorry cerise... you were my friend too."
 
There's a long pause. Even Galatea can't bear the silence. She begins again: "i miss you so mu--"
 
Cerise kisses her. It's not the peck of their first kiss, but a lingering, needy and forceful kiss that sends Galatea into a paroxysm of birdlike trembling. She opens her mouth to Cerise and lets Cerise's tongue have its way.
 
Cerise's scent is like lilac and her mouth tastes like wintergreen -- and she is so, so warm. Galatea can't believe this woman would even touch her, let alone kiss her like this. Galatea is maybe the only person on the planet who considers Cerise a role model. This is more than just being kissed by a friend, or even by a lover. It's like being kissed by a deity.
 
"Never lie to me again," Cerise commands.
 
"never." How could she?
 
Even in her fantasies, Galatea thinks about punishment. Yet Cerise is heaping love onto her instead. She's trailing long, warm kisses up and down Galatea's face. She's holding Galatea tight and hugging her. Galatea thinks of herself as the ultimate charity case, and still, after all this time, doesn't quite grasp that Cerise needs her about as badly as she needs Cerise.
 
"It's so nice to touch you," Cerise coos.
 
"i..." She's too frayed to say anything more.
 
"Is this okay?"
 
Cerise's hands are wandering. Galatea nods.
 
"I can't help it. I just want to touch you." She kisses Galatea again, deeply. Galatea can hear the reverb of Cerise's breath in her mouth and when she closes her eyes she feels like she's floating on a sea of pure warmth. She never wants this feeling to end. Her whole body tingles with it.
 
Galatea hardly notices that one of Cerise's searching hands has found its way under the hem of her baggy t-shirt and is now tracing the contours of her bare skin. And Galatea is way too frightened, her mind is clanking way too fast, to even try to respond in turn. Cerise has to do all the work here.
 
Cerise is lying fully on top of Galatea now. The weight is pleasant, not oppressive, but firm. Galatea enjoys the idea that she can't get away, even though of course a simple "please stop" would end it immediately. She wants Cerise to take her.
 
Cerise's legs writhe and shift. Her knee brushes against Galatea's pantied crotch. Galatea's breath hitches at the sudden sensation.
 
Cerise holds the back of Galatea's head and draws in close. Her voice has an almost perverted tinge to it. "You're too cute... you're way too cute... it's even better in real life..."
 
"y-you... y-you can do a-anything... it's okay... anything y-you..."
 
"Here?" Cerise's fingertips go to where her knee was moments prior. The texture and pressure of her touch translates lewdly through the rough cotton fabric covering Galatea's cunt.
 
"yes."
 
But the touch is all too brief. Galatea whimpers as Cerise pulls her fingers away.
 
Cerise takes one of Galatea's hands now. She guides it down, between their bodies, and Galatea blushes. Because now she understands. Cerise wants to be touched like that, too.
 
Cerise's ministrations begin again, with renewed energy. She cups Galatea's pussy through her underwear and rubs back and forth. She rubs and rubs, palm and thumb squeezing, pinching. "God you're soft..." she murmurs. She kisses Galatea. Every little pip and exhalation Galatea makes, Cerise drinks down like ambrosia.
 
Galatea tries to mirror the way Cerise masturbates her. But her attempt is inexpert. Her motions are both too erratic and too timid. Even still, it drives Cerise into a passionate return of wet kissing and uninhibited molestation. That's what this is, Galatea thinks with a thrum of adrenaline, Cerise is molesting her.
 
Galatea's eyes bulge. Without warning, Cerise's hand is inside her panties.
 
"y-you're..." Galatea breathes. "you're... nnn-- y-you're inside..."
 
Cerise helps maneuver Galatea so she can do the same. Galatea's wrist feels the pinch of an elastic waistband clinging to it, the back of her palm feels the cling of the fabric. And her fingers feel the slippery, smooth texture of Cerise's drooling pussy.
 
"You're inside me too..." Cerise breathes. She humps softly against Galatea's curling fingers. She runs her free hand through Galatea's long orange hair. She showers Galatea with tongue kisses that veer back and forth from romantic, to hot and dirty, to outright obscene. She's slick with sweat and her soft muscles are tensing up. Her eyes are glazed with lust.
 
"i... i... i..." Galatea stutters.
 
"Me too!" Cerise squirms and moans senselessly atop her, lost in pleasure.
 
Galatea cums. She can't help it. Her pretty little pussy contracts tight around Cerise's invading digits, and finally shudders and spasms in delight. Galatea goes dizzy, almost to the point of passing out, but she can easily feel the same thing happening to Cerise as well. Cerise cums on her. She cums so hard that the wetness of it leaks out and stains Galatea's shirt and bed. Her jaw goes slack as she gets herself off in Galatea's hand.
 
"I love you!" Cerise cries. "I love you!"
 
"i love you too!"
 
Galatea can say it easily in this state. She doesn't need to overthink or stammer. They share a final kiss as the after-quakes of their orgasms roll through their convulsing bodies.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, reader of over 177,013 different doujins and recently free man. You fought the law, and you won.

Camelia sits with you in Cerise's living room after you wake up from your first full night of sleep in a while.

She lazily twirls a spoon in a plastic cup. "Back at it, then?" She says, and then takes a sip.

"I guess. After my last conversation with Sable I'm not sure if I'm fired or what, but I should probably keep showing up to work until someone tells me."

Camelia smacks her lips. "You don't have to. You could always find out how cool it is to be an unemployed piece of shit."

"Uh huh. What the hell are you drinking?"

"Found an old tub of Tang in Cerise's cabinet. Want some? I could make you a glass."

You stand and start to get dressed. Camelia watches you with interest. "More for me, then," she says, shrugging, when you don't reply.

"Did Cerise already leave?" You ask as you tuck in your polo shirt. The rough cotton fabric makes you itchy. You hate this business casual shit.

"About half an hour ago. She's supposed to meet with her boss to talk Senate testimony."

You rub your forehead. Your sister on national television - ugh. "No one actually watches C-SPAN, right?"

"I think /csg/ does," Camelia offers.

You grimace. 

Outside the apartment, you lean with both elbows against the banister facing the sparse courtyard abutting Cerise's unit. The early morning sun and birdsong annoy the hell out of you.

Camelia joins you. "You still in?" She asks. "After everything last night."

So that's why she invited herself over. You consider the question. "There won't be anyone inside the building... when it happens, right?"

"Give me some credit. I'm not a complete maniac," Camelia offers.

"Tyrus and his manservant are, though. They murdered those people who live across from you."

"One thing at a time. First Darkbloom, then Tyrus."

"Aren't you ambitious."

Camelia smiles. "Anyway, Gal can get the building evacuated before we hit the shiny red button. There's no problem."

You sigh, watching a few people down below as they walk the small path through the apartment complex -- hurrying on their way to another boring day at work, oblivious. You wish you could remember a time when you had a normal routine like that, without all this insanity around you.

"You know I'm starting to get it," you say, looking from the courtyard over to Camelia beside you. "When my parents died, I was so angry. For years, even. But I didn't know who to be angry at. I guess I was angry at myself. Now that I know the truth... it's more than just anger. It's hatred. So much I could choke on it."

"Hatred is one of the most useful emotions there is," Camelia says. Her good eye sparkles and her fiery red hair practically glints in the sunlight.

"So I understand you now," you continue. "Why you've been so... so Camelia about all of it."

Camelia blinks.

"You're still an absolute cunt," you add. "But at least it makes sense. I'd be a cunt too if I had to live with this hatred inside of me for so long."

"You're a cunt anyway," Camelia says. She bumps your shoulder with hers, sending you tottering for just a moment.

You chuckle, but then you notice Camelia wiping tears away from her reddening face and sniffling.

"Are you--" you begin.

"No!" Camelia shouts. She quickly finishes wiping her face and sniffles back mucus. "Shut the fuck up. Idiot. Asshole. I have spring allergies."

"Camelia..."

"It's good to be understood," she says, softly. "I'm glad I was able to get through to even a dumb motherfucker like you." She puts a fist to her lips and clears her throat, stands straight. But her voice begins to quaver again as she continues: "Listen... whether you're in or out, from now on -- don't forget. Don't forget the truth. Darkbloom is the devil, you understand me? He's going to try to fill your head with lies and evil and temptation. All that shit. Don't let him. Don't let him, Alabaster." 

In or out: that's the question.

The plan has three critical parts that have to go off all at the same time - while Darkbloom is sitting in front of the Senate.

During his testimony, Kay will break the story of Darkbloom's human experimentation. That will give his questioners something to talk about, and Darkbloom no time to prepare a slick deflection.

Simultaneously, Gal will leak damaging information she gathered from the hack in March: proof of corruption running deep in Darkbloom's circles.

As the Senate is grilling him over being a hybrid between Dr. Mengele and an early 1900s robber-baron, you are supposed to put the final nail in his coffin: by blowing up his company. This is key. It's the part that ensures no enterprising investors can pick up the reins and continue Darkbloom's work after he is out of the picture.

It's a three-prong attack from which neither Darkbloom Analytics nor its CEO could hope to recover. David Darkbloom will walk into the Senate as the most powerful man on the planet and walk out completely ruined, possibly in custody.

You just have to decide whether you're going to be part of it.

>[x] I'm in.
[ ] I'm out.
[ ] Delay the decision.
[ ] Custom? 

Camelia nods. Uncharacteristically, she has nothing else to say. Maybe she can't bring herself to speak. You can hear her breath shuddering a bit on every inhalation, some mixture between excitement, trepidation - and relief. Relief to have an ally.

"By the way," you say. "I was starting to think it was some kind of chuuni thing, but I guess there really is something freaky behind that eyepatch, huh?"

This brings Camelia back to sorts. "I told you when we met, moron. It's my evil eye."

"It still works?"

Camelia takes a deep breath. "It hurts, which is why I keep it covered. But yeah. It works, all right." She reaches up with a trembling hand. Slowly, she peels back the eyepatch.

The skin around her other eye is badly scarred - and dark, like someone chronically sleep-deprived. The eye itself is milky white, like it's blind, although the hint of a brilliant blue iris is still visible. The pupil is nothing but a tiny dot of pure black in the middle. Camelia hisses in apparent agony as she bares the eye to the world. She focuses it on you.

"Your favorite breakfast cereal is Cap'n Crunch, but you haven't had a bowl of it since 10:54 AM on Saturday February 3 - which is probably why you're craving it right now. You really liked baking for everyone a few days ago even though it's embarrassing, and you'd like to find an excuse to do it again. The last time you had sex was at 3:29 PM, yesterday afternoon. Your partners were Sable Guiteau and Alex Best in a threesome. You admitted your feelings about Rose Mallory to her father last night at 10:08 PM but went right back to texting insults at her when you got released from FBI custody. You're afraid of not having control and you're self-conscious about your relatively average height. You need to brush your teeth."

She says all of this at a dizzying speed, without pausing to breathe. When she's done she puts the eyepatch back on, suddenly looking woozy. She steadies herself against the banister and rubs her eyes, still off-kilter, looking like she's in serious pain.

"You... you saw all of that through your implant?"

"Most of it," she says, her voice weak. "I didn't need the implant for the part about your teeth."

You cup a hand over your mouth and check your breath. "I'll be right back," you say. 

When you come back, with hopefully more tolerable breath, Camelia is still leaning in pain against the railing outside Cerise's apartment.

"I've never shown that to anyone," she says. "Not even Gal. I hate how ugly it is."

"You gonna be okay?" You ask.

"It takes a lot out of me. That's why..." She trails off, then starts again. "It doesn't just hurt. Every time I do it, I see him. And he sees me."

"...Darkbloom?"

"Can't get anything past you, huh."

You become suddenly fearful. "So he knows you're here?"

"He knows we're talking. But he already knows we've been talking. That's why he asked you to kill me."

You shake your head.

"I have no fingerprints," she says. "I melted them off when I was 13. No social security number. No bank account. And no name. No one knows who I am. But when I open my evil eye, he can see me all the same. There's no getting away."

You're not sure what to say to this.

"I'll be okay," Camelia says after a beat. "In a little while." She leans her forehead against the cold metal banister, making an impression on her forehead.

"Have you ever heard of the hammer method?" you ask. "For headaches."

"What?"

"So you don't know everything after all. If you've got a bad migraine, you can make it go away by hitting yourself in the hand with a hammer. Or..."

"I don't know what the f--"

You reach around her and grab the eyepatch. Before she can react, you tug it so the elastic goes taut, then let it snap back against her face. The shock and sudden smarting of it makes her squeak -- the sound is actually not far from "au" -- and she stumbles back in a combination of low-level pain and high-level anger.

"What the FUCK is wrong with you?" She hollers.

You shrug. "I can't help it. Didn't your implant tell you that I like to bully cute girls?"

"You-- I-- it--" She chokes on her own words. Your little comment has short-circuited Camelia's brain, clearly.

"You're not thinking about your headache anymore, though. Are you?"

"You are the WORST. The fucking worst. God." 

Camelia is still ranting indignantly when all of a sudden her good eye bulges, and she stops mid-sentence.

"What's wr--" you begin.

"Stasi."

"What? What does East Germany have to do with this?"

"Stasi is coming."

"Stasi ARE coming? Don't tell me Soviet-era secret police are involved now too."

She paces in a worried circle. "I have to talk to Tyrus," she says. "I... I'll see you later."

She brushes past and jogs a bit towards the stairs. But stopping herself before she gets there, she turns and comes back to you.

"Am I in danger here, or what?" You ask.

"Unfathomable danger," she says, grabbing your collar and peering into your eyes. "Horrible, mind-boggling danger."

"I guess that's normal, then."

She kisses you - quickly and without warning.

You sputter, pulling back, although she keeps her grip on you. "Warn me next time!"

"That's an appetizer," she says. She stands on tip-toes, whispers in your ear. "We're a lot alike. I like to bully cute boys."

"Camelia--"

"I have to go. See you soon, Ally."

She runs off. 

At work, you swipe your badge and pass through security, feeling more keenly than ever the watchful eyes of David Darkbloom. He isn't around, but you know he's here, somewhere. It creeps you out.

By now, Alex should have handed Penelope over to Sable.

You wonder about that. Camelia claims she wants the device inside the building when it blows up, but that excuse doesn't pass muster. Why not bash it apart with a rock or something? You don't need several tons of C4 to destroy a grain-sized piece of circuitry. She's playing at something else.

You go to the cafeteria and grab some much-needed breakfast - you haven't eaten in almost 24 hours. As you sit and nibble at bacon and toast, you consider what to do with your day. It would be kind of weird to report to Sable as if nothing unusual happened yesterday, right? You more or less quit your job the last time you spoke. But you're curious what she's going to do with that device. And if anyone can forgive an enraged outburst, it has to be Sable, right?

[ ] Report to your post as normal.
[ ] Visit with Cerise.
>[x] Custom: Look for Vivian

You pull out your phone and use the Outlook app to drop an appointment on Vivian's calendar. It's packed full of conflicting meetings from 5 AM until well past 5 PM, but you think she'll make some time for you anyway.

The title of the meeting is "Spontaneous Breakfast Date (S.B.D.)"

The attached email says:

>I have scheduled a spontaneous breakfast date with you, Vivian Darkbloom, to take place at 9:00 AM today. I hope you will accept. In the interests of increased spontaneity, feel free to push the start time of this meeting either forwards or backwards by a maximum of five minutes.

Vivian's acceptance notification comes through just a few minutes later, and at 8:55 AM sharp she's down in the cafeteria looking for you.

You wave her over to your table.

"You should come with me to the executive dining hall," she says without sitting down. "The food is much nicer there. And it isn't bustling with all of these -- people."

You glance around. The other employees are shying away, giving the two of you a wide berth. Vivian frightens them.

"I already ate," you say. "Anyway, the food is just fine here too." Using your foot, you push out the chair across from you. "Learn to commiserate with the hoi polloi once in a while."

Vivian peers skeptically at you. But finally she sits. She grabs either side of her seat with both hands and hops herself back closer to the tabletop.

"What kind of jelly do you like?" You ask.

"I rather prefer blackberry preserves," she says.

"Right. Eggs?"

"Over-easy. No bacon, please. It's too salty. Just some fruit."

"Wait here."

You get up and grab her a plate, filling it with the food she said she enjoys.

The thing about Vivian is that she eats so slowly and deliberately, you wonder how she doesn't starve to death. It's like watching a bunny rabbit all dosed on downers trying to get through a salad. Her tiny mouth nibbles tiny bites, and chews for agonizing moments before she swallows. You count: every bite she takes, she chews precisely 42 times.

"Enjoying it?" You ask.

"What is the purpose of this breakfast date?" She says, ignoring the question.

"There is no purpose," you say. "Just boredom. Don't you ever just... hang out with people?"

"No."

You nod. That makes sense.

"Your sister is preparing for her Senate testimony," Vivian says. "I worry about her fitness to act as a public-facing representative of this company."

"Don't," you say. "She can handle herself."

"Mm." Vivian nibbles some more at her toast. 

"Who else is gonna be there?" You ask.

"Father, of course. Mr. Armstrong. Mother may go, but she wishes not to. And..."

She trails off.

"And?" You prompt.

"Some people have said I may put a humanizing face on the work this company does, were I to testify. I am, apparently, a moppet."

"I wouldn't go that far," you say, frowning. "Actually, you might have the opposite effect. You might make the Senate think Darkbloom is in the business of building androids that mimic humans."

"You are intolerably cruel, Alabaster."

"See - like that." You shrug, then point at her, elbow on the tabletop. "Most girls wouldn't say 'you are intolerably cruel.' They'd just say something like, 'you jerk!' Try it."

"You are a jerk." She puts a weird emphasis on the word "jerk," like verbal scare quotes.

"No. Still too stilted. Just: 'you jerk.'"

"That phrasing is ambiguous and would therefore create potential confusion. The target may think 'jerk' is being used as an intransitive verb - as a command."

"I promise you that no one thinks about intransitive verbs but you. You little robot."

She murmurs to herself. "You-- jerk."

You act aghast. "You want me to jerk? Well, if you insist..."

"You jerk!"

"That's the spirit."

She bows her head, focuses on eating.

"Forget about what other people are saying. Do you want to testify?" You finally ask.

She shrugs, her little shoulders lolling. "I am uncomfortable in public situations. However, I want to protect my father in any way I can."

You cringe. If Camelia's plan works, this poor girl is going to find out some very dark things about her father - and she may never see him again.

[ ] Encourage her to testify.
>[x] Encourage her not to.
[ ] Provide no advice. 

"You don't think your dad can protect himself?" You ask. "He's one of the richest and most powerful people on Earth. He's fine."

"I see the doubt in his eyes," Vivian says. She sounds even gloomier than usual. "He tries not to let it show, but I can see it. It's the special connection fathers and daughters share. I can tell he's worried."

"Don't get hung up on it," you say. "If he wasn't worried, he'd hardly be human. That doesn't mean he won't..." you let that thought hang in the air, unfinished. You don't want to promise her that her father will get through this mess, because your entire plan is to make sure he doesn't. Instead you try this: "at some point, you have to do what's right for you. And worry about yourself first."

"What's right for father is also what's right for me," she says.

This girl's devotion to that bastard is going to kill you.

Vivian pushes her plate away. "It was nice to put some food on my stomach," she says, wiping her lips daintily with the corners of a napkin. "Thank you, Alabaster Soliloquy."

You glance down. "You barely ate half your food."

"I was only peckish."

You tut at her, but decide to let it pass.

"Do you mind if I accompany you to the conference room?" she says.

"...Conference room?" You stammer.

"It's nearly time for your presentation. I am in the first cohort. I thought it would be best to get it out of the way -- such meaningless, pointless dreck -- an utter waste of time. No offense intended. I know this was primarily the idea of your first cousin once removed."

Oh god. She's right. You're supposed to give your first round of sensitivity training with Rose today.

>[x] Let's go.
[ ] I'm sorry, I have other plans. 

You enter the vast, amber-lit conference hall on the fifth floor, where a full house already awaits. Public speaking doesn't frighten you or anything, and in fact you always acquit yourself well when you do it. You despise it all the same. You'd rather be anywhere but here.
 
Rose smiles warmly at you as you enter. It's the first time you've seen each other since the crazy events of yesterday. You suppose you owe her something like a thank you for sending Saul to your aid. Without that, who knows where you'd be right now. Guantanamo Bay, probably. Or worse.
 
Vivian scurries to take her place front and center in the auditorium. Despite her distaste for the concept of sensitivity training, she seems at least excited to see you speak. She trips over people's feet as she side-steps and crab walks past their seats. She's moving so swiftly that even in their panic, they cannot get out of her way quickly enough. She stubs her toe at one point, letting out a pained little "oof" -- before finally settling in an empty chair near the middle of the front row.
 
You throw your arms wide as you stride past the crowd yourself now, towards the little table where Rose sits demurely with her laptop hooked up to the giant projector screen. "I'm here, thanks for waiting," you tell Rose loudly enough for the whole room to hear. "Now we can begin, woman."
 
Rose's only outward sign of frustration a little huff and a slight shake of her head. She faces the room. "Alabaster is kicking things off with a little role-playing to show what inappropriate workplace conduct looks like."
 
"That's right," you aver, sitting down right beside her and getting yourself wired up with a mic. "Rose and I are super into roleplaying. We roleplay all the time."
 
The room snickers. Rose turns a shade of red. Still smiling, she mutes her mic and whispers out of the corner of her mouth, stealthily, with the skill of a ventriloquist: "don't fuck this up, Alabaster. I'm warning you."
 
You scribble on a piece of paper and pass it to her.
 
It says, simply: "thank you for yesterday."
 
Rose's reaction to this is like a little kid opening a present on Christmas. She blinks rapidly and stares at the paper like she can't believe it. The mood whiplash here is evident on her face.
 
You catch Steven Armstrong's eye. He's up front, near Vivian. "Steven," you say chummily, "is there any kind of sign up sheet or proof of attendance we need to pass around?"
 
He shakes his head. "That's an HR thing. You'll need to ask Spancer. I handle nothing personnel, kid."
 
"Well, we'll do it like this," you tell the room. "Send an email to Rose confirming that you attended today. That'll be your proof that you were here."
 
Rose closes her eyes and sighs in frustration. She can already picture her inbox getting cluttered up, you're sure of it.
 
But she's back to it in no time. That's Rose for you: the perfect socialite, the perfect presenter. How many student council speeches of hers did you try to ruin by getting under her skin? You hardly ever succeeded.
 
"Alabaster," she says, "Since you're so talkative, why don't you begin? You're as well acquainted with the presentation as I am."
 
She cues the introduction slide onto the projector screen. So she wants to play like that -- throw you off your game, too.
 
You look back at the giant powerpoint slide. "Right," you say. "The purpose of today's presentation... racial sensitivity... sexual harassment... inclusion... uh..." You look back at the crowd. "Basically, the purpose of today's presentation is to hammer home how awful straight white guys like me are."
 
"Straight?" Rose cuts in.
 
You stutter only a little bit as you continue: "And to make sure that we keep those people in check, because otherwise they'd go around punching black people and raping women all day long. Anything else you'd like to say, Rose?"
 
"No," she says to the crowd, folding her hands one on top of the other. "Just what Alabaster said -- only unironically."
 
She clicks forward to the next slide. "As you may have read in the news, Silicon Valley has a problem with so-called 'bro culture'. I think Alabaster has cut right to the heart of the problem, even if he doesn't realize it, so we'll begin with some headlines from other companies that we definitely don't want to see repeated here..."
 
You zone out while Rose continues her little spiel. It honestly bores you to tears, which is why you haven't bothered to even review the presentation since you put it together with her a couple weeks ago. Instead, you find your eyes wandering -- and notice that the table you're seated at has a cloth over the top of it which goes almost all the way down to the floor. A perverted synapse fires in your brain as you see this.
 
"...and of course, the less said about Google, the better," Rose is saying. "Hopefully we'll own them soon enough, so behavior like THAT can be curbed..." Uncomfortable laughter from the audience at this.
 
Rose tenses as if struck by lightning as your hand begins to wander up her thigh.
 
Your grip is feather-light, but unmistakable against the fleshy contours of her upper leg. Like a champ, though, she hardly misses a beat. "Sexual harassment," she continues, "is one of the most pervasive and problematic aspects of modern Silicon Valley culture. In workplaces around the valley-- ghh--!!"
 
You've only just flipped up her pleated skirt, but that's enough to shock her silent for a palpable moment.
 
"It's a really big problem," you add, filling in the silence for her, as your palm against her soft skin wanders north, nearly to the outer edges of her plump butt.
 
"R-right," Rose says. "And many companies have suffered.... e-extremely expensive litigation because of it..." she clicks forward to another slide.
 
Rose's ass is like putty, all give, as you swipe your hand underneath her. She jostles in place and you notice a fat pearl of sweat form on her brow. She has absolutely no idea how to handle this. You're molesting her, there's no mistaking it - openly and in public. She can't leave, because she's in the middle of presenting, and she can't bear the humiliation of letting on that you're touching her like this. You have her completely trapped.
 
"P-please..." she stammers, minimizing the powerpoint presentation and hurriedly navigating through her desktop. "Uh... please, watch this short video a-about..."
 
You grab her tightly, squeezing the globe of her ass with all your strength. She squeaks loudly before going on.
 
"S-s-s-ssexual m-misconduct... the v-video... it's quite illuminating..."
 
A bland training video fills the projector screen. Rose is too taken aback by what you're doing to even move the mouse cursor out of the way, so it hovers in place over the bad acting, and the progress bar stays in place over the bottom.
 
She has the presence of mind at least to mute her mic again. "What are you doing?" she hisses. "Take your hands off of me, you... you pig... nnn~"
 
She grimaces and grits her teeth as your finger tickles her deliciously tight, puckered anus.
 
"You... are... the worst..." she whispers.
 
"I've been getting that lately," you whisper back. "But you didn't wear panties today... so isn't this kind of your fault?"
 
"You TOLD me..."
 
"Sexual harassment," the narrator in the video intones. "It could happen to you."
 
You take your hand from her butt and move it around to the front, towards her already wettening crotch. "See?" you whisper. "You like it. You like it when I touch you... you're just a fucking slut. That's why you came here without panties, isn't it."
 
"FUCK you," she sneers, and even though she's whispering, the confused glances from the front row must mean it was loud enough for others to hear. Vivian in particular seems way more interested in the weirdness happening at the presenter's table than what's going on in the video.
 
Rose's little pussy is as soft and pliable as the rest of her, and it drools lewdly over your fingers. She tries, too late, to clamp her legs shut to deny you access. All this does is trap your hand against the searing heat emanating from her needful genitals.
 
The video isn't long, and as you rub against her creaming cunt and her flexing thighs - as she squirms and fidgets in her seat - you notice the progress bar is getting pretty close to the end. She'll have to take over again, and soon.
 
You take control of the mouse while Rose isn't looking and close the video prematurely, just to really put it to her.
 
She snaps her head up, no longer focused on the lewd sensations in her cunt. The whole room's eyes are on her.
 
"That's enough of that," you say. "Rose, let's get back to the real meat of the presentation. Take it away..."
 
You punctuate this by shoving your index finger inside of her. Her velvety smooth hole gives way instantly and accepts you, oozing girlcum all around you.
 
Rose is sweating and deeply flushed. She tries, and fails, to regain her composure. "T-the key component," she says, "fff-- the key component - of any sexual harassment policy-- fff-- is always-- is always-- FUCK..."
 
A shocked little gasp in the room at this. Rose tries to right the sinking ship.
 
"The key component is the red light... yellow light... green light... green light... green light..."
 
She humps rhythmically against your invading digits, as you slip another inside her. Her voice goes staccato and she moans in spite of herself, for the whole room to hear.
 
"Jerk me off," you whisper from the corner of your mouth.
 
She looks at you. Her eyes go wide, a silent plea -- begging you not to make her.
 
You're not going to bend. "Do it, you fucking cunt."
 
Her hand reaches down surreptitiously and finds your zipper. She undoes it and pulls out your already leaking cock. The cool air of the conference hall feels wonderful against its insistent heat and hardness. She wraps her fingers around you, softly. You can feel her shaking, and it only adds to your pleasure.
 
She tries to continue presenting her slides. "L-like a traffic signal, it's a method to... assess... the appropriateness of a situation... oh GOD..."
 
Her pussy spasms around your fingers and you feel little spurts of her cream from deep inside. She begins to tug your dick in earnest now -- whether out of fear of what you might do if she refuses, or perhaps because she's getting into it, too.
 
The pleasure of being jerked off in front of hundreds of people without their knowledge is utterly decadent. You can actually feel your cockhead pulse and dribble every time her warm, smooth palm passes over it.
 
"...yellow means d-danger, and... and... green... means... go! Go! Green means do it! Fuck! Do it! Do it for me!"
 
Utterly forgetting herself, Rose grabs your arm and leans against it, forcing your fingers deeper inside and practically using you as a living dildo. Simultaneously, she tightens her grip against your prick, too. She jerks you off so quickly and with so much force that you're sure the sound of it is picking up on the microphone. The crowd, whispering among themselves, seems unsure whether Rose is ill, crazy, or... something else entirely.
 
But you know the truth. Despite her insistence that she hates this, she loves it, and she's cumming herself fucking stupid. She's addicted to this feeling and she wants to make you cum, too.
 
You need to take this over from her, or the crowd will realize what's going on. You grab the clicker and try to read the bullet points... something about paying attention to the feelings of others and putting yourself in their shoes. You read by rote, but your vision is going all blurry and you're really paying attention to the swaying, sweating, cumming girl gripping you tightly - to her hand that's doing its best to bring you off.
 
"So..." you say, clearing your throat, "the main skill we seek to impart-- is empathy-- uhhh, emp-a-thy--"
 
You grunt slightly as Rose's long fingers, slick with your precum, unfurl to tickle your balls at the same time as she masturbates you.
 
"Empathy is the most important thing... so that we can all... we can all come..." you stutter. "So we can all come... come..." your balls tighten and you can feel the semen racing up your shaft. You're getting as blissed-out and stupid as Rose, despite yourself. You take your hand from her pussy and throw it over her shoulder, in a way that might seem friendly. She leans against you, eyes half-lidded, still masturbating you shamelessly.
 
"So we can all... come... to a common understanding..." you grunt, your voice deep and gravelly. "R-right, Rose?"
 
"Yes..." she coos. "So we can all come..."
 
Your neck muscles tense and your legs go rigid. You brush her cheek with the hand that was so recently inside of her and she takes this as a cue to suck your fingers clean. She actually latches onto your fingers with her lips, in full view of the audience, and sucks her own cum off of them. The slurping is achingly loud and definitely picks up on the mic.
 
This is finally enough to send you over the edge. You cum in thick spurts all over her fingers and she sighs in exhilaration, staring wantonly down at the sight, one hand curled to her chin. She keeps sucking your fingers clean. You buck and whinny, totally at her mercy - her tongue finding the crevices between your fingers, her palm squeezing out your pearl-white semen as she watches on with smug satisfaction - how did it end like this?
 
You lean in and soon your forehead is resting against the cloth tabletop. Rose is still resting against your shoulder. Neither of you are even pretending to present.
 
"I think we should all take a break," you hear Vivian Darkbloom's voice announce. "Let us continue in fifteen minutes."

After the break, you and Rose have both managed to find the composure necessary to get through the final hour or so of slides, although the tiredness in both your voices must be evident to the crowd. You find it hard to care any longer.

As they disperse, still somewhat confused by the wanton display (you can already picture the rumor mill beginning to churn), Rose gives you a glare that could down a bull elephant.

"You're horrible," she tells you. She shuts her laptop and packs it away in her messenger bag.

"We went over this. If you didn't want it to happen, you would have worn panties. It's your fault that you got molested."

"You're a pervert. You're WORSE than a pervert. You're a fucking rapist... a worthless, disgusting little worm! How dare you make a mockery of my presentation like that?"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," you say. "Is that all you ever do?"

"When you least expect it..." she says, simmering with raw hatred, "I'm going to get even. Fucking bank on it, you piece of shit."

"Like you could ever get the drop on me. How are you going to get even? Bore me to death with another powerpoint presentation?"

"I've gotten even before. I can do it again."

You laugh cruelly. "That's just what you think. Maybe I'm only trying to gaslight you into believing you can have some kind of control, when really, you don't..."

"I--"

"You think you've got me pegged, Rose, but you don't. And you never will." You stand. "The truth is, you're always bound to lose. And you love it."

Her gaze is one of barely contained hatred but you can see her shaking too, almost imperceptibly.

"Same time tomorrow, huh?" You say. "Make sure you don't wear panties to the next one, either. You'll regret it if you don't."

You step out.

>[x] Report to Sable.
[ ] Visit with Cerise.
[ ] Go home. 

You hear Sable way before you get to her office: the muffled sounds of her shrieking carry and echo down the halls. And also loud banging, as of things being thrown around. Coders from her team are streaming down the hallway in the opposite direction, fleeing, and you feel like a person driving down the wrong side of the highway during a mandatory hurricane evacuation.

As you pass Ken, you ask him what's going on.

"Forget about it, pardner," he says. "Come back in a few hours. It isn't worth the risk."

You thank him for his concern, but you really need to know what's going on. Especially since you don't see Alex among the fleeing masses, and you know for sure you're going to find him in the eye of the storm. 

"UNACCEPTABLE!" Is the first thing you hear as you step foot into what remains of the little coder's den outside Sable's office. Sable is marching up and down the aisles between workstations, sweeping her arms across the desktops, knocking monitors and PC towers over. Alex is following behind, just like you knew he would be, trying and failing to calm her down.

"This is UNACCEPTABLE! We cannot have a delay! Not now! NOT NOW!"

"Ms. Guiteau... Ms. Guiteau, please..." Alex begs and pleads, pausing only to jump back in fright as a PC tower clatters to the ground right in front of him and nearly lands on his toe.

"How did this happen? HOW?"

"We're working on it..." Alex says, his voice small. "We're trying to understand..."

"Working on it?!" Sable yells. She turns, grabbing Alex by the collar, and shoves him forcefully backwards. "Working on it! This is a billion dollar project dead in the water! My life's work, dead in the water! And you're working on it? That's the best you can do?"

"I--" Alex begins.

"GRAHHH!!" Sable yells, savagely, incoherently, ripping power cables from the wall. She picks up a monitor, heaving it up over her head, and tosses it against the opposite wall. It leaves a dent in the stucco. Sparks fly. 

You grab Alex and tug him away, out of the room, into the hall, while Sable rages. Out of the path of fire - for now.

"What the hell?" is all you can say.

"It's the SMATTERS units... they're dying... we don't understand why..."

You nod. You have a pretty good guess why they're dying. Alex does too: "It's that awful red-headed woman, isn't it?"

"Which one?" you say.

"Take your pick!"

"The only awful red-headed woman," you say, "is--" you stop, interrupted by a particularly loud crash from within the room. "--Is in there," you finish.

"You're responsible for this!" Alex cries. "I know you are. You're sabotaging her life's work! You're sabotaging MY work!"

"I'm helping you," you insist. "In case you forgot about yesterday. Doesn't Sable have that device she wanted so badly?"

"Yes," Alex says. You've never heard so much anger in his voice. "But Mr. Darkbloom took it. He wants to make sure your terrorist girlfriend didn't do anything to it. Another delay!"

"You need to pull your head out of your ass," you tell Alex. "Sable is crazy, and she's treating you like a personal whipping boy."

"Is that any different from how you act?" He says.

You wince.

"Leave me alone, Ally. I thought you quit anyway."

"I'm here now. And I'm worried about you."

"No you aren't. You're only worried about yourself." He steps back, shaking his head. "You go and tell this to that mute lesbian hacker-girl and that revolting one-eyed bitch you've been conspiring with... whatever virus they snuck into those SMATTERS units, I'm going to root it out, and I'm going to fix them. They'll be back up and running before the end of the day, better than ever."

"Alex-- Alex, please--"

He turns and goes back into the room where Sable's shouting is only getting louder.

[ ] Leave them to it. 
>[x] Follow.

Just as you step in again, Sable plops down in a chair, enervated.

"It's over..." she says. "It's all over."

Alex gets down on his knees and rests his palms on Sable's knees in turn. He peers into her eyes. "It's not over, Ms. Guiteau. I can fix this. I will! I promise I will!"

She covers her face and shakes her head. "What's the point." Her voice is flat and emotionless.

"We're too close now to quit..." he says.

You clear your throat. For the first time, Sable takes notice of you.

"Get out," she says simply.

"Does that mean you're firing me?" You ask.

"Yes. Absolutely. You're fired. Get out."

"I don't think you have the authority to do that," you counter. "I could be wrong. Maybe I'm wrong."

She looks at you like she can't believe you're a real person.

"You're a stupid, short-sighted little twit," Sable says. Her voice is still flat, despite the recriminations. "You don't understand what you're doing. Whatever Darkbloom wants with Sand Reckoner, that isn't the point... think of how much we could accomplish with perfect knowledge, as a species... no more climate change, no more hunger, no more war... humans would make it to the stars within a century. That's what you're standing in the way of."

"Is it worth the price of a little girl's life?" You ask. "Mine? My parents?"

"It's already been paid." This is Alex, standing tall, facing you down. "So why make it pointless?"

You feel like there's a gulf between you and these two people that can't be bridged. You can't make them understand the evil they're taking part in. The fact that Darkbloom isn't going to let them use their breakthroughs to do good things.

"I'm sorry," you finally manage. "Really."

"I'm sorry too, Ally."

Alex sits down at his workstation - like the lone house in a Midwestern town ravaged by a tornado, it still stands intact.

"As far as I'm concerned," Sable says, "you're an infiltrator and a saboteur. Why David retains you is beyond me, but you cannot be here any longer. Go away."

That sounds pretty final. You bow your head and go.

Whitney's cunt is snug and hot around the base of your pulsing dick. She rests in your lap, facing you, with her legs wrapped around your hips. Instead of humping up and down she just lazily gyrates, enjoying the feeling of being completely full. You kiss wetly, your tongues entwining, her breath hot against you.
 
When you texted Whitney about what happened earlier, and she said she'd take your mind off it, you sort of expected this. But you didn't expect it to actually work. The only thing you care about right now is the heat and tightness of Whitney's pussy, and how supple her tomboy body is in your hands.
 
Either Cerise or Rose could be home at any time - and much worse than that could be coming your way - but right now all you care about is Whitney's twat milking you off.
 
"I love you Ally... I wanna fuck you forever..." Whitney's moaning is soft and sweet, hardly more than a whisper.
 
You ruffle her hair and luxuriate in the pleasure of fucking her as deeply as you possibly can.
 
Whitney laughs, low and husky. Her flat chest heaves in delight. She looks you square in the eye, the tip of her nose touching yours. "My pussy is so much better than everyone else's... isn't it..." she coos.
 
You nod, unable to form a real reply. That's enough, though. Whitney shivers in your arms. Her gyrations get faster.
 
"Fuck..." she pants like a dog in heat. "Fuck... fuck..."
 
There's a knock on the front door.
 
"Fuck!"
 
Whitney leans in and tries to distract you with a kiss, but the knock comes a second time, and you pull away from her lips. "That could be important," you say.
 
"They can wait. I want you to cum inside me--"
 
You surprise Whitney by standing up -- still mated to her. You loop your hands under her butt and she keeps her arms over your shoulders to help support her weight. You walk like that together, to the door, the motion of your steps forcing your still rigid cock in and out of her welcoming hole. Her head droops and her tongue lolls out in enjoyment.
 
You let Whitney's back rest against the door when you get there. She turns her cheek and looks through the peephole.
 
"It's a little girl dressed like a vampire," she announces.
 
"Parasol?" You ask.
 
"What? Like a spray can?"
 
Whitney is starting to feel heavy, so you'd like to hurry it up. The erotic scenario of fucking a girl standing up is giving way to the reality that 100 pounds of muscle is awkward to hold like this. "Does she have an umbrella, I mean."
 
"Yeah. Black umbrella, black dress."
 
You clear your throat and call out: "Vivian?"
 
Faintly, you hear a reply: "Hello, Alabaster Soliloquy. May I come in?"

>[x] Open the door like this.
[ ] Get decent first.
[ ] Send her away for now and finish with Whitney.
 
"Darkbloom's kid, right?" Whitney says. "The girl who jacked you off with her panties?"
 
"Yeah..."
 
You and Whitney have an almost telepathic link, when it comes to perversion: she has the same idea as you, and takes action first. She slaps her palm against the deadbolt and wraps her fingers around the doorknob. You step back, pulling Whitney with you, and the door swings open.+-
 
"I came to give you thanks--" Vivian begins, before her eyes can process the scene in front of her.
 
"Thanks for what?" You say casually. You return to the couch and sit, settle in - thankful to not have to carry Whitney around anymore.
 
Vivian stands at the threshold of the apartment, immobile, like a thing turned to stone. She watches as Whitney's circular twisting around your cock begins again in earnest. Whitney grinds her mound against your crotch as she brings herself to a series of miniature orgasms.
 
"You can come in," you beckon. "It's okay. Just shut the door behind you."
 
Vivian shakes her head to bring herself back to reality, finds her bearings, and steps inside. She closes her parasol and sets it in the corner, then shuts the door behind her as instructed: good girl.
 
"So," you say, "thanks for what?"
 
"Our discussion earlier helped me come to a decision," she replies, her eyes transfixed on the spot where you and Whitney are connected. "I... ahem. I apologize if I came at a bad time."
 
"This-- is a perrrrfect time," Whitney slurs, her cunt making lewd squelching sounds. "You came at the EXACT right time..."
 
"I-- do not see what you mean," Vivian replies.
 
"Don't act all shy now..." Whitney says, laughing. "I know you spiked Ally's food-- tried to seduce him-- he told me all about it... since you want to fuck him too, isn't this the perfect time?"
 
Vivian glances away, clutching a handbag tightly in both of her small hands. Mortified.
 
"She TRIED to seduce me. But then she was afraid I wouldn't fit."
 
Whitney looks at Vivian with wolfish eyes. Like an animal sizing up prey. "Hmm... she is pretty small, isn't she? Hey, are you afraid of Ally's cock?"
 
Vivian nods demurely.
 
"You had fun, though -- what you did the other day?" Whitney prompts. "You want more..."
 
"I... ahem. I confess that seeing Alabaster's escapade with Rose earlier today set my mind to thinking... impure things..."
 
Whitney narrows her eyes at you. "You fucked Rose again?"
 
"She molested me!" You insist. "Under the table at some stupid meeting. It was all her fault!"
 
Whitney smacks you upside the head. "I don't believe you!" She says.
 
Even as she does this, she doesn't stop pumping her hips against you.
 
"Forget about that," you groan. "What are we gonna do with Vivian?"
 
Whitney glances back at her, smiling. "Come here..." Whitney purrs. She crooks an index finger in the air.
 
Haltingly, Vivian approaches the couch. When she gets close, Whitney braces herself against your shoulders and starts fucking you in a flashier way: bouncing up and down on the length of your turgid shaft like a crazy woman. She pulls all the way up to the plum-sized head, so that your cock is visible in all its angry red glory, before slamming back down again each time. Over and over, so forcefully that it drives your butt into the soft cushion of the couch and nearly takes the wind out of you.
 
Vivian, usually so in control of herself and her expressions, lets her jaw hang partway open in wonder as she watches Whitney work this massive piece of meat in and out of her lithe body.
 
"S-s-see?" Whitney pants. "It's easy... and... it f-feels s-s-sssoooo, soooo gooood...."
 
Vivian nods like a student in a classroom learning a new concept. In a way, that's what she is.
 
"D... nnnghh... Do you wanna t-try?" Whitney manages.
 
Vivian is emphatic. She shakes her head no, eyes full of fright.
 
Whitney isn't satisfied with that. She climbs off your cock, eliciting a frustrated groan from you as it leaves the soft confines of her insides and becomes fully exposed to the cool air of the living room. Whitney, stark naked, goes to this girl who's dressed like something from the Victorian era and lays a comforting hand on her shoulders.
 
"You wanna fuck Ally. You're just afraid he's too big for you, right? But he's not... not at all. It'll fit, I promise..."
 
"It could-- never--" Vivian stammers.
 
Whitney guides a cooperative Vivian towards you, positioning her between your legs, and then with an almost motherly touch she gets Vivian on her knees.
 
"Get to know it a little better," Whitney says. "Say hello. It won't bite."
 
Whitney is kneeling now too, nearly cheek to cheek with Vivian. But Vivian is uncertain. "You want me to say hello to Alabaster's penis."
 
"Not literally. Geez." Whitney grips you around the base of your dripping dick. The sight of these two girls on the floor before you is too beautiful to be believed. One, a perverted, athletic tomboy; the other, a high-class and haughty little girl who you're about to defile. Could this be any better?
 
"The right way to say hello to a dick," Whitney tells Vivian, her voice silk, "is to give it a kiss."
 
Whitney rubs your dick against Vivian's lips, smearing them with the combined juices of your mating and making them glossy. Still hesitating but not resisting, Vivian puckers her mouth into a little O and kisses you right over your piss slit. It makes an audible smooching sound. You throw your head back with a guttural moan, and a little dollop of precum oozes out.
 
"It likes you," Whitney says.
 
Vivian pulls her head back just a bit. Her eyes are glued to your veiny dick as she says: "of course it likes me. I'm starting to understand that Alabaster Soliloquy is a hopeless pervert."
 
"Oh, definitely," Whitney says. "And..." she snakes a hand underneath the frills of Vivian's outrageously over-stylized dress. "...so am I."
 
Vivian gasps. "W-what are you doing, Whitney?"
 
Whitney is hardly fazed. "You know my name. Did Ally tell you about me?"
 
"Father did... he said to look out for you."
 
"Are you sorry you didn't listen?" She asks.
 
Vivian doesn't say anything. But she does lift the hem of her dress, baring her conservative white panties, allowing Whitney unfettered access.
 
"Lick Ally's cock while I get you ready..." Whitney whispers in her ear.
 
Vivian is far from experienced and isn't sure how to manage this. She grips the sides of the couch cushions tightly, lets her jaw hang all the way open, and her tongue hang wetly out of her mouth. Instead of moving her head to service you, she lifts her entire body up and down, rubbing the flattened tongue back and forth across the sensitive underside of your penis. She stares into your eyes the whole time -- hers are full of focus and determination, and, you sense, the need for validation. You run an appreciative hand through her hair to appease her. The edges of her stretched mouth curl a bit as if smiling.
 
Meanwhile, Whitney has her hand down the back of Vivian's underwear and is busily violating her.
 
"Are you a virgin?" she demands.
 
Vivian nods, sending tendrils of gratifying pleasure up your spine as her tongue wags against your prick.
 
"How cute... I've got my fingers up a virgin's cunt... isn't that cute, Ally?"
 
You nod. "It's... very cute..."
 
"See if you can get him in your mouth," Whitney encourages. "If you can get it in your mouth, you can definitely make it fit down here..."
 
Using her free hand, Whitney holds Vivian by the hair on the back of her head and helps her go down on you.
 
Inch by inch, your dick nestles itself in the drooling wet hole of Vivian's face. She gets a little over halfway down before she starts to sputter and cough. Whitney eases up and lets her adjust to the invading member. Vivian's lips are stretched tight, blanching. Her tiny jaw looks like it's about to come dislodged. Hot spit slides down the part of your cock that isn't in her throat, and her eyes are saucers as she gazes up at you.
 
"Shhh..." Whitney coaxes. "You're doing good. Now let him fuck you like this."
 
Vivian is hardly in any position to refuse, and in any case she seemingly takes this as a challenge. She tightens her grip on the cushion's fabric and tries to force more of your cock down her welcoming gullet, but it isn't any use -- she's too small and tight, and she's gagging too much to accept any more cock meat. Instead, Whitney pulls her back, lets her breathe for a very short moment, and then brings her down again. For several minutes it's Whitney who controls the show, holding Vivian tightly by the hair and by the cunt, masturbating you with Vivian's mouth as if it were just an onahole. Vivian's eyes are still all determination and focus, even as your facefucking makes a mess of her beautiful face, covers it in shiny spit and precum, makes her dark makeup run in clumpy rivulets. With Whitney's help, this tiny girl, hardly older than a child, is sucking you off.
 
Finally, right before you're about to shoot off, Whitney lets up. She yanks Vivian all the way back, and your cock makes a loud 'pop' as the seal breaks between it and her lips. Vivian's breath is ragged. She falls forward, her wet face against the cushion between your legs. Your slobbery dick and nuts rest lewdly against her hair.
 
"She's so fucking wet..." Whitney says, voice full of delight. "She's ready. I wanna see it... I wanna see you pop her cherry..."
 
Vivian is still struggling to catch her breath as you and Whitney help her to her unsteady feet.
 
"We need to do this the right way," Whitney says. "On a bed..."
 
"Where--" you begin, but you quickly get the idea. Cerise's room, of course.
 
You princess-carry Vivian the short distance to the bedroom, Whitney leading the way, and toss her down on your older sister's queen sized bed.
 
"Are you ready?" You ask Vivian.
 
Vivian squirms a little, then raises herself onto both elbows and looks at you through eyes running whorishly with mascara. "Yes," she says, and coughs up a little bubble of precum with the effort of speaking.
 
"I'm gonna fuck you now," you say, a warning, giving her one last chance to turn back.
 
"Please..." Vivian mumbles. "Please... take my virginity, Alabaster Soliloquy."
 
Whitney pulls Vivian's dress up and you rub your prickhead against the darkly stained crotch of Vivian's panties. She's so fucking smooth and soft, even through the fabric of this sodden garment. Impatient and unwilling to get her properly undressed, you just pull it aside.
 
The little cleft of her pussy is so small that you can hardly believe it could have gotten this wet. It doesn't look ripe enough to fuck at all. But every signal Vivian sends, verbal and physical, says she wants it.
 
You oblige. You line yourself up with her vice-tight hole and push with all your force. And it does take all your force -- even as ready as she is, her body really is almost too little to fuck.
 
She grunts softly and worries her lower lip. Whitney, one hand busily working inside her own cunt as she watches this obscene display, uses her other hand to hold Vivian's reassuringly. It's at once perverted and weirdly heart-warming.
 
As with fucking Vivian's face, fucking her pussy is a battle of inches -- you sink in slowly, painfully slowly, her pussy lips going almost concave as you force your way in. And then you see the bulge of your cock through the little mound of her pussy - what a wonderful sight.
 
You don't feel any difference, but suddenly you notice a trickle of blood around the shaft of your cock. Vivian's mouth twitches, and then she smiles dreamily.
 
"Congratulations..." Whitney says, leaning in, kissing Vivian on the lips. "You're a woman now..."
 
"I am not-- on any form of-- birth control--" Vivian warns. Her voice is shaky.
 
"That's fine," Whitney says. She brushes the hair from Vivian's face and her masturbation quickens. "He's gonna cum inside you anyway..."
 
"Ghh--!" Vivian gasps. "I-is that so?" she asks you, staring at you as you begin to pump her in and out.
 
"Yes..." you breathe. "Yes... I-- I need to..."
 
You ass flexes and tightens as you hump this little girl right into the mattress. She's a ragdoll beneath you, unable to get away. Whitney showers her with adoring kisses. Vivian, lost to the pleasure, begins to return those kisses.
 
"Will you play with my pussy?" Whitney asks her. "Pretty please?"
 
Vivian nods. Whitney guides the little girl's hand to her sopping wet gash and lets her take over. Vivian might have been a virgin, but she's obviously an old hand at masturbation: her ministrations quickly get Whitney bucking her hips and rolling her eyes around in ecstasy.
 
"Ohhhh..." Whitney says. "You're so fucking cute... oh, that's good... yesss..."
 
Whitney pets Vivian's hair like a kitten while Vivian works her over. Vivian's thin, delicate fingers expertly tweak Whitney's clit. Whitney, needing more, straddles Vivian to give her better access. Vivian uses her other hand now to put three fingers inside of Whitney, corkscrewing them in and out as she continues to pleasure Whitney's sensitive clitoris.
 
Seeing this, one of the world's richest girls so shamelessly playing with your girlfriend's pussy, sends you over the edge.
 
"Are you cumming?" Whitney demands. Her tone is rough and needy. "Are you gonna fill her up? Make her your little bitch?"
 
Your vision goes blindingly white. You tense, slamming hard against Vivian's frail hips - once, twice, and again, bottoming out inside of her each time. You imagine you feel your cockhead pushing up past her womb, defiling even this part of her small body too.
 
"Fuck...!" Whitney screams. "I'm cumming too, Ally!"
 
Whitney and Vivian both watch as you grab Vivian's thighs and seat yourself as far as you can. You blast her deepest parts with cum, while Whitney lets out a shower of her own cum all over the girl's face and expensive dress.
 
"It's so... it's so hot..." Vivian moans, breathy and delirious, as you spunk her again and again, as you breed her out, as you knock her up. Her barely developed pussy spasms and cums as you fill her with seed.
 
You no sooner pull out of the tight hole you just came inside of, than Whitney is there, in between Vivian's legs, her mouth latched onto her pussy. Vivian writhes around on Cerise's bed with her eyes closed tightly, both hands running through Whitney's hair, as Whitney sucks your cum out. You can't believe your eyes.

GIRLS FUCKED: 4/9

Whitney slams back a Coors Light while Vivian sips demurely on a Shirley Temple. After fucking her, it was only proper to take her to dinner too, right? Let no one say you're not a gentleman.

You sit with the two girls in the corner booth of a chintzy family diner -- Whitney's choice.

"17, huh?" Whitney says. "That sounds like bullshit... but I'll believe you."

"It is the truth," Vivian avers.

Whitney nudges you. "What's the age of consent in California, Ally? Look that up. I don't wanna go on a list. Plus I'm sure you're on all those lists already."

You do a quick Google search. "18," you say.

"So we broke the law just now?" Whitney says. She pauses, her expression vacant. Then finally: "That's so hot!"

"I saw you perform with Alabaster Soliloquy at the national academic bowl championship several years ago," Vivian says. "As I recall, you scored the winning point. I didn't expect you to be so..."

She trails off, too diplomatic to say it. You finish for her. "So stupid?"

Whitney slugs you.

"I take it you and Alabaster have an open relationship?" Vivian says.

"Openish," Whitney replies. "We have rules--"

"How bohemian."

"Bo-what?"

"I've read about such arrangements on the internet. I'll have you know I've done extensive research on sexual matters. Relationships of that style seem to be more popular these days."

Whitney laughs. "Get a load of bookworm McGee over here," she says. "She read about it on the internet. No wonder she was so hot for a dork like you."

Vivian picks at her salad, but doesn't seem to be very hungry.

"Your dad isn't gonna, like, murder us or anything. Is he?" Whitney says.

"Father and I had a long discussion about sexual matters several days ago. He counseled me on the need for caution and restraint, which I promised to heed. However, I asserted my right as a growing young woman to explore my sexuality, free from his restrictions and--"

"Stop," you say. "You had the bird and the bees talk with him. Leave it at that."

Vivian catches her straw using only her lips and takes a small sip.

Thinking for a moment, she says: "I never considered myself a sapphist, however..."

"I need a fucking thesaurus if I'm gonna hang out with you two again," Whitney says.

"Today was fun," Vivian says simply.

You can at least agree with that.

The three of you get along weirdly well.

You wonder how that's all going to change in a couple weeks. 

The next couple days pass by in a blur. You have almost a semblance of normalcy, because you can spend most of your time at work preparing for and presenting the sensitivity training with Rose, and that helps the time pass. Each training session ends up about as indecently as the first, but that's to be expected.

After work each day, you travel to the sewers beneath Darkbloom Analytics and spend an hour or two assembling charges, affixing them to the walls, wiring them up. It's cramped, uncomfortable work, but you enjoy it. Even though goons sent by Tyrus watch over your work with suspicious eyes.

Each night you come home so exhausted that you just fall asleep. Increasingly, Rose sleeps beside you. You're always too tired to force her to go back to her own bed.

By Friday, however, all the cohorts have been through training and you're left with an uneasy gap in your schedule.

You hardly feel as if you can go back to your regular post after how things ended up with Alex and Sable. Alex won't respond to your texts and to hear Whitney tell it, he's giving her the cold shoulder too. But you haven't been formally fired, so you suppose you need to stay on campus during normal working hours. So what are you going to do with your time?

[ ] Visit with Rose.
>[x] Visit with Cerise.
[ ] Visit with Vivian.
[ ] Sneak away and visit with Camelia and Galatea.
[ ] Custom? 

"...which repeated, rigorous pen-testing has shown to be robust. Therefore, we firmly believe such a rootkit attack could not be replicated even were another infected device smuggled into our systems..."

You walk in on Cerise poring over a printed document in her office.

After all this time, you can still hardly believe Cerise has such a nice office all to herself, its wide-open space on the corner of the building with beautiful views to the courtyards below.

Across from her sits Fazil, reading over what you presume to be the same document, making notes with a red sharpie.

"Now, this Senator Richman person..." Fazil says, "he is likely to ask of you questions which - how is the saying? Are out of the left side field. He knows very much little about cybersecurity. Likely he will say something to the effect of, 'how could this happen' or other such suitably vague things, with no substance, so the crucial goal is to tide him over with a lot of lingo which shows you know of what you speak."

"Is this a bad time?" you ask. Cerise and Fazil finally notice you.

"Ala-bast-or! No, not at all. Please, come in!"

You sit across from your sister.

"Still preparing?" You say.

"Fazil's been a big help," Cerise says. Fazil smiles broadly at the praise. "He's been going over the records of every Senator on the committee, to figure out what kinds of questions they might ask." She looks at Fazil now: "I bet you were the kind of kid in school who reminded the teacher that homework was due. Weren't you?"

"It is important to be honest about such things."

"Right," Cerise says. "I hated kids like you... thanks, Fazil. You're the best."

"What brings you here, Ala-bast-or?" Fazil asks, too bashful to reply to that. "Are you not hard at work on the roll out of SMATTERS?"

"Oh, I'm -- cracking away at it..." you say, then deflect: "just thought I'd check up on my sister." 

"I don't know what to do," Cerise admits. "You know... I got a job in a server farm to be as far a-fucking-way as possible from the public eye. Now I'm gonna be up in front of the US Senate on live television. What the fuck."

"With all this help," you say, nodding at the thick sheaf of paper in her hands, "it won't be so bad. Right?"

"Did you see what those greasy fuckers on *Chan are saying about me? They're still talking about me like I'm some kind of fucking deity to them. I'm the meme that just won't die. And now this testimony thing is just gonna be more wank fodder."

You pull out your phone and pretend to check /csg/ for the first time since you learned of it. But the truth is you've been stewing over those threads in a low-level, sullen rage this whole time. The thought of fucking *Channers drooling over your sister makes you want to puke.

"She's beauty, she's grace, she'll never step on your face," you read in disgust. "Jesus. They don't even have a concept of meter."

Cerise groans.

This isn't helping. You put your phone away, try to soothe her: "Forget about them. They're just a bunch of losers. Focus on getting through the next few days... and then it'll all be over."

"Quite solid advice," Fazil agrees. "These things must be taken in stride. In secondary school in my home town, I was briefly a subject of much discussion when a rumor began that I had been wed in an arranged marriage to Miley Cyrus. I do not know how such wild rumors circulate. Before I knew what was happening, there I was, the subject of unending scrutiny and idle talk! But I resolved to ignore the gossip and focus even harder on my studies. Eventually, the rumors went away because Miley Cyrus revealed herself to be a dirty whore, and my opinion on whores was well-known around the school. So as you can see, all will end well if you persevere."

Cerise blinks.

"Uh... thanks, Fazil."

She doesn't seem exactly put at ease.

[ ] Offer to go to DC with her.
>[x] Offer to send [x] Rose / [ ] Whitney to be with her.
[ ] Don't make an offer, you need to be in town during the big event. 

"Maybe you could have Rose testify in your place," you offer. "Hey, /csg/ loves her almost as much as they love you... maybe even more than they love you!"

"That's a dirty lie," Cerise says. (You can't tell whether she's offended at the idea that /csg/ could ever like Rose more than her, or at the idea that you could fool her into thinking it.) "Anyway, there's no getting out of this. I have to do it myself."

You nod.

"Maybe I'm on to something, though..." you say idly.

"What's that?" asks Cerise.

"Who's better at glad-handing and schmoozing than Rose Mallory? Think about it. If she was there with you, maybe you'd feel less anxious. You'd still have to testify on your own, but everything else... before and after... dealing with all those soulless politicians... who better than a soulless bitch like her? Rose could take care of it for you."

"Rose couldn't even beat YOU for StuCo president," Cerise says. "What the fuck does she know about politics?"

"I-- I kind of cheated--" you admit.

"What? How?"

You stutter through a halting explanation: "There was-- a little collusion-- look, it doesn't matter now. That was years ago. I'm sure Rose could help you out."

Cerise sighs. "You're telling me to share a 6 hour flight on a way-too-cozy private jet with queen bitch Rose Mallory."

"Yes."

"...I hate that this might actually be a good idea."

"I'm known for them, from time to time." You pick at the lint on your knee. A silence settles. Then you add: "Listen, if you tell Rose about that cheating thing, I'll have to kill you. I'm not kidding."

Cerise flips the sheaf of paper over to the next page. "Oh, don't worry. That's definitely going in the blackmail file." 

On your way back, Vasily Kerimov steps into the elevator with you.

"Going down?" He asks.

"Uh..."

"I as well. Let's go down together."

He puts an arm over your shoulder. "Staying busy?" He asks.

"Uh huh."

"Of course you are. The boy who comes in as intern week 1, board member week 2 must be very busy. We are all so proud of you. My sister says nothing but good things. And I hear you are even fucking my niece! Isn't that wonderful?"

You clam up; ice runs through your veins. Kerimov's menthol-scented breath clings to your nostrils.

"I am taking a trip, why don't you come?" He says.

"I'd-- prefer not to," you say.

He practically forces you out of the elevator and towards the tall glass windows of the employee cafeteria. In what must be a strategically chosen spot, Mara Darkbloom sits at a table. Across from her, Alex. They're deep in conversation that you're too far away to overhear. Mara stirs a teacup.

"Have you heard the name Alexander Litvinenko?" Vasily asks.

"You--!" You try to wheel around to face him, but his grip is iron-tight and he holds you in place at his side.

"Shhh. Shh," he warns. "Don't make a scene. This hinges on you, Alabaster. This need not be anything more for Mr. Best than a pleasant lunch with his employer. As long as you comply. Will you comply?"

You steady your breathing. You nod. Vasily leads you back to the elevator. 

The desert outside the valley is already arid and hot despite the relatively early season. Dull brown sand and dull grey rocks stretch for miles in all directions -- nothing but barrenness here.

You hear it before you see it: the blaring sounds of power metal from Stackleford's orange Lamborghini. As Vasily's black sedan draws closer, you can see a badly scarred, middle aged woman sitting on the hood, surrounded by suited goons.

She plays air guitar, bouncing up and down.

When Vasily leads you from the car, you recognize the tune as "Through the Fire and Flames" - one of Stackleford's favorites, you recall.

"This fat pig has good taste!" The woman yells. "Such passion in this music!" She draws way back as if hauling her guitar up for the solo, and wails away at nothing.

The woman at last takes notice of you as Vasily nudges you closer. She gives up air-guitaring and makes a cutting motion across her throat, the signal to a man inside the Lambo to kill the music.

"Hello, Alabaster!" The woman calls. "I've heard so much about you. It is nice to finally see you." Her voice is thickly accented.

She gets up from the hood, offers you a hand to shake, but you don't return the gesture. She doesn't look particularly injured by that.

"Do you know how easy it is to break into evidence stores in small-town America?" She asks. "So much easier than back at home. Child's play. For a people so obsessed with security, you have so very little of it..."

"Who are you?" You manage.

"Stasi Lebedev. I am a friend of Vasily and Mara."

That's what you figured.

"Peter," she says, nodding at one of her men. "Go ahead."

He circles the Lambo and pops the trunk. Meanwhile, Stasi says: "Your one-eyed pal tried to scratch off the VIN, but there are other ways to track a car. Orange Lamborghinis are rare, after all." 

"Alabaster...!"

You turn. Being hauled under either arm by two men, is Stackleford. He's beet red and gleaming with sweat. He has two black eyes.

"Barely fit in the trunk," Stasi says. "But we managed."

"Alabaster, help! Please!"

"What are you doing?" You demand.

"What are YOU doing?" Stasi spits. "Hand over Sand Reckoner. Where is it?"

"I don't--"

Stasi whistles through her teeth, and her men force Stackleford to his stomach. Squealing in terror, Stackleford can do nothing else to resist, as one of the men straddles his back and holds a pair of bolt cutters to his fingers.

"I ask again. Where is Sand Reckoner?"

"Sand Reckoner isn't a thing," you insist. "It's a project! And it isn't even complete yet!"

You hear a sickening snip. Stackleford's resulting shrieks nearly burst your eardrums. His missing index finger spurts crimson blood all over the ground.

"You know more than you're saying," Stasi declares over Stackleford's wails. "Tell me."

You wrench your eyes shut and shake your head. "That's all I know! It's a project to combine an implant like the one I have... with algorithms developed by Darkbloom Analytics... that's all I know!"

Another snip, another ear-splitting cry.

"Goddammn it!" You yell. "Stop!"

"Where is it?"

"Where the fuck do you think?"

Snip -- shriek. You've never heard another human make sounds like that. They turn your stomach. You can't bring yourself to look.

Stasi holds her finger in the air and twirls it in a circle, a signal to stop, apparently. "Enough of this," she says, frowning. "Kill him."

Another man puts a gun to Stackleford's head.

"Alabaster--! Please--! PLEASE--! Don't let them do this!"

"Your friend is a snitch," Stasi tells you. "He's the reason you were picked up the other day. He told the feds that you and Camelia were the last ones in his car."

"Alabaster..." Stackleford says, sniveling. "Please... I'm sorry... I don't wanna die... I don't wanna die!"

>[x] Try to stop this somehow.
[ ] There's nothing you can do. 

"I--" you stammer.

You can't believe you're shedding tears for this repulsive person who you always hated so much.

"Stacklef-- Boyd... I'm... I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything."

"W-what about... what about Whitney... Rose... you... they'll kill you, too!"

You close your eyes and shake your head.

"Tell Sabrina I'm sorry!" Stackleford cries.

Stasi laughs cruelly. "Stupid sack of lard. Her name isn't Sabrina."

"W-what?"

Stasi's man cocks the hammer of the gun.

"Stop!" you cry.

Stasi holds up a palm, stopping her man just in time.

"Speak quickly and don't fuck with me," she commands.

You try to think on your feet, but you're panicking.

"I-I'll tell you everything you want to know! I'll give you what you want! Just don't kill him!"

"Bullshit."

She nods at her man, who readies the gun again, but you power through: "Sand Reckoner is just the side project!"

Stasi arches an eyebrow. You have her interest.

"That's right. Sand Reckoner is just a stupid VR game. It's nothing. You want the real deal? It's called Penelope. Only one person knows where it is besides David Darkbloom... and you're looking at him. So if you want it, you better keep me happy."

Stasi frowns. A dark cloud passes overhead.

You have no idea what the fuck you're saying or where it's going to lead. You're just stalling for time.

"Where is it?" Stasi demands.

"I--" You begin.

Gunfire cracks through the tranquil air.

But not from Stasi's thugs. From off in the distance. And the man on top of Stackleford is already dead by the time the gunfire's report reaches your ears.

Stasi's other men go wild, pulling guns, wheeling around this way and that, trying to see where it came from.

Stasi and Vasily are both placid, though. They couldn't care less about the calamity all around them.

Stasi walks casually past you and the rest of her goons, towards Vasily's sedan, as a gunfight breaks out between her men and the unseen assailants. You fall to your belly to get out of the path of the gunfire and see, through squinting eyes, Vasily and Stasi getting into the car together.

You crawl on your belly towards Stackleford, who's weeping and nursing the stumps of what used to be the fingers of his left hand.

"Fall back already," Stasi calls to her men. "You're embarrassing yourselves... I thought I trained you better than to lose to a bunch of negroes..."

Several of the goons have already fallen, dead, but the bulk of them who have survived make it to either the Lambo or another sedan -- Stasi's, you imagine -- and peel away.

The only sound for many long moments after they depart is Stackleford's wheezing crying.

You begin to panic.

Are they going to kill Alex next?

But-- Stasi seems to recognize that you didn't coordinate this. So she can't hold it against you, right?

Right? 

Soon, the whine of motorbike engines fills the air and you see approaching forms on the distance from the opposite direction.

Marquis Kang steps off the bike at the front of the troupe. Over his shoulders, a strap, and on his back, a sniper rifle.

He takes off his helmet and looks down at the gory mess of Stackleford's hand, the severed digits lying covered with gravel all over the ground.

"Damn. That's fucked up."

"Alabaster..." Stackleford says. "What... what did you get involved in..."

You wish you knew.

END OF EPISODE 13. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, virtual loli defiler and real loli defiler.

>Sometime in the past.

"Professor Darkbloom!"

David finishes loading the books into his little cardboard box before turning around. That's David: always living at his own pace, unhurried, unflappable.

"I'm so glad you haven't left yet," Renee says. She's out of breath, having hurried here from across campus. Her thin, well-tanned frame is sheened with sweat from the exertion and the summer heat.

"You won't be here much longer either," David says. He leans his tailbone against the edge of his now-bare desk, regarding her. "I suppose Gustav will be lonely without us. Make sure to give him hell for me before you go back to high school."

Renee smiles. "Of course."

David straightens the vest beneath his jacket. "Just between you and me? He's going to be more than a little lost without you. You've accomplished more than most of his grad students. Certainly more than anyone else in the college preview program."

Renee blushes, looks away. "I just do whatever he tells me."

"And you do it well. Not every high school sophomore can say they made breakthroughs in biomedical prostheses." He smiles warmly. "I say it a lot, but I don't say it enough - you're a brilliant young woman."

Renee is still looking away, silent.

"What's the matter?" David asks, genuine concern showing through his voice.

"Nothing," Renee lies.

"Sit down." There's no way she can disobey a command like that, from him. 

---

Mara drags Cerise by her hair across the grimy tile floor. It's streaked orange with a thin patina of blood already. Cerise struggles, kicking and crying and screaming, trying to rip away from Mara's iron grip. But it's no use. Mara is far too strong.

"I warned you," Mara says. "I warned you what would happen. This is your fault, Alabaster."

You fight against the rope securing you to the chair, but you're too tightly bound to have any hope of escape. You feel the revulsion of rage and horror and abject helplessness as the tears begin to stream down your face.

Whitney and Rose both lie dead at your feet, their throats slit, their eyes vacant and staring at nothing. You choke on the reek of their gore.

Mara forces Cerise to her knees, directly facing you, and puts the dagger to the hollow of her neck.

"Please!" You beg. "Please! I'll give you what you want! I'll give you everything! Just don't--"

"Too late," Mara says, smirking. She draws the serrated edge swiftly across Cerise's jugular and the hot blood sprays like a geyser against you.

You wake with a start.

"Whoa," Tyrus says. "Don't go fuckin' bughouse on me now. You having some PTSD flashbacks or what?"

As the contours of of reality settle around you again, you blink and struggle to rise. This sleeping bag always leaves you with a vicious kink in your neck and lower back. You wish you had a more comfortable place to lay your head, but there's just no room. Cerise and Galatea both claimed Galatea's bed, while Stackleford claimed the couch in the living room (guilting you with his missing fingers when you tried to argue the point) - thus leaving you and Rose to fight every night between a threadbare sleeping bag and an air mattress that has a tendency to slowly deflate overnight.

Last night, you got stuck with the sleeping bag.

But it can't be helped. Tyrus and his men are keeping you well protected here, with sentries posted outside the apartment building 24/7. And judging by the gunfire the other day, those sentries have been a lifesaver -- literally. 

"Do you like ham?" Stackleford is asking.

"no."

"Are you sure?"

"...yes."

"You haven't had the right kind of ham. That's all. You need to try that Black Forest honey ham from Subway."

"boyd, i do not like ham."

"Whatever, Sam-I-Am. I'll show you the true meaning of ham. I'll sneak you a ham sub and you'll dig it."

Watching Stackleford trying to socialize with Galatea is like watching a tortoise trying to fuck a sloth. It moves excruciatingly slowly and no one is having any fun.

"How many explosive charges you got down there?" Tyrus asks as you kick free of the sleeping bag and stand.

"Five, six dozen -- more?" You say. "I lost count. It's enough. Are we really going to discuss this in front of Stacklefuck?"

"You're the one who saved his fat ass," Tyrus counters. It's a fair point.

"Hey, I'm cool with the whole 'get Darkbloom' thing," Stackleford insists. "That butthole is the reason I don't have a fapping hand anymore." He holds up what remains of his left hand, which has only the pinky and the thumb. "How am I supposed to do anything with a claw like this?"

You grimace.

"Plus," Stackleford continues, "he killed Mrs. Soliloquy... I miss her. Your mom was hot."

"Goddamn it, Stackleford. I should have let that Russian whore shoot you in the head."

Stackleford simpers. 

"You see the news?" Tyrus asks.

"Yeah. The Russians kicked your shit in at that landfill."

"I didn't sign up for this," Tyrus says. "Got police crawling out my goddamn asshole now, plus a bunch of my guys whose families need their hazard pay. You know - because they're fuckin' dead. Darkbloom and that bitch wife of his need to get fucking got, yesterday."

"I couldn't agree more."

"Are you ready to go or not? We can't be having any delays here."

"Where is Camelia?" You demand.

"Don't change the fuckin' subject."

"I just did. Where is she? Is she dead?"

"I don't know where that red cunt went, and I don't want to," he says. "Far as I know, she's unkillable anyway. I'm sure she'll turn back up when she's good and goddamned ready."

You don't like it at all. Right at the most critical juncture, she goes missing.

You haven't seen her for more than a week.

"I'm ready," you finally say after a few moments of awkward silence. "This time Friday afternoon, Darkbloom Analytics won't exist anymore."

"That's what I want to hear." Tyrus grabs both lapels and straightens them. "When this is all over with, I'll make sure you get a cut. You and your little harem are gonna be millionaires."

"Thanks..." you mumble. That's not why you're doing this, but all Tyrus seems to understand is money.

"Just don't let Darkbloom send you to the motherfucking sunken place again. That's just what I need, your dumb ass getting sucked into an alternate dimension right before the festivities. Watch yourself, got it?"

You nod your understanding. Tyrus, satisfied, doesn't waste anymore time hanging around. 

Cerise comes out of her room, wearing just her black tank and a pair of panties, groggy-eyed, scratching her ass.

"Good morning sunshine," you mutter.

Cerise flips you off.

"are you packed?" Galatea asks.

"...Shit," Cerise says, blinking. "I'll be right back."

She ducks into Galatea's room again, and soon there comes the sound of things being quickly tossed into a suitcase.

You sigh. Turning to Galatea, you say: "weren't you supposed to remind her to pack her bags last night?"

"i forgot... sorry."

You're not sure what could have had her so occupied last night that she forgot to remind Cerise of something so important, but it kind of aggravates you. Cerise is due to the airfield in a little more than an hour. Her flight to DC on Darkbloom's private jet is leaving soon.

"I'll have you know that I packed 48 hours in advance," Rose says, holding up a sleek beige rolling suitcase. "At least one of us was prepared."

"Do you want a fucking medal?" You say.

Rose begins to reply, but you cut her off, handing her a nickel from your pocket. "There's your medal. The Alabaster Soliloquy Award for Packing on Time. Cherish it."

"Go to hell." She throws the nickel at you, but you deftly dodge it.

Stackleford checks his watch. The sight of his "claw" - as he calls it - sort of turns your stomach. Even worse than the rest of him. "You going to work or what, my nig?"

Even though you've been showing up to work on time every day, you haven't had anything to do. You've just sort of drifted aimlessly around the Darkbloom Analytics campus, watching TV in their rec rooms, eating in the cafeteria. You even (god help you) hung out with their anime club a few times.

It seems way more important, today, to see Rose and Cerise off at the airfield, even if it means you're late. But your thoughts are interrupted by a frightened-looking Galatea pointing at the TV. A reporter is speaking:

"...coming back to life? That seems to be the case, as thousands of formerly defunct SMATTERS robots have been seen once again roaming the streets in cities nationwide..."

You shake your head and stare at the ceiling. Of all the days for this to happen.

If Alex somehow fixed whatever Galatea did to sabotage those robots, that means Sable will be keen to complete Sand Reckoner as soon as possible.

[ ] Report to work immediately.
>[x] Travel with Rose and Cerise to see them off at the airfield before they go to DC.

When Cerise is packed and ready to go, you hurry to usher her and Rose out the door. But Cerise instead lingers for a moment with Galatea.

"will you be back soon?" Galatea asks. She sits on the couch with her knees curled up underneath her baggy tee.

"I'm heading back just as soon as the testimony is over. I promise."

"i'll watch you."

"Please don't. I really don't want anyone to watch me."

"i'll think good thoughts then."

"That's cute."

Galatea sounds a little wounded: "good thoughts help. i know you don't believe it but they do. positive energy--"

Cerise kneels down so she's at eye level with Galatea. "Thank you," she says. "Really. Think as many good thoughts as you can, because I'm coming up blank."

Galatea's face goes through a number of twitchy permutations - although she's a bit more comfortable around you and the others than she was at the start, she's still mortified in her own skin to a degree. But finally in spite of her shyness she lunges forward and pecks Cerise on the lips. Cerise returns the gesture.

"i love you."

"See you soon," Cerise replies. 

You scramble to get back to Cerise's apartment, where Darkbloom is sending his limo to pick you up. Have to keep up the fiction that you're still living there.

On the ride to the airfield, Steven Armstrong drills Cerise one last time: printouts of Senator's faces, who Cerise identifies along with party, state, and things they're likely to focus on during the testimony.

"Now this one," Armstrong says, holding up a photo of a disheveled old man.

"Senator McDonald, independent of Vermont. Wants to crack down on Darkbloom's super PACs and personal data collection--"

"Be careful with him," Armstrong warns. "He's the most popular senator on the committee by a mile. And the old lunatic has some sway with professionals here in the valley, for some reason."

"Which means..."

"Watch what you say when he's asking you questions. Don't fuck with this senator." 

At the airfield tarmac, Vivian is deep in discussion with her father near the stairs leading up to the plane's interior.

"I can still -- travel with you, for moral support," she says. "Even if I do not testify."

"Don't be ridiculous. There should always be a Darkbloom in Palo Alto to run things..." He pats her shoulder. "You're in charge for now."

You approach with Rose and Cerise in tow.

"Alabaster!" Darkbloom cries, noticing you. "So nice of you to show up. Are you ready, Cerise? Rose?"

Cerise nods glumly. The look in Rose's eyes is a bit more on-edge, angry. You imagine your expression is probably much the same.

You glance up, towards the Leer jet's oval windows. Mara Darkbloom watches you from inside with a smug grin.

You hug Rose and Cerise goodbye, each in turn.

When you hug Rose, you whisper sneeringly: "did you wear it?"

She nods.

"Good," you reply. "Keep it in. I'll be holding the remote."

Tormenting her with a remote-control vibrating egg might seem exceptionally cruel in a situation like this, but you know in a twisted way it probably makes Rose more at ease.

Next, Cerise. "Don't get yourself killed," she whispers as you embrace.

"You either."

"This can't be the last time we see each other... I won't let it."

"No."

"Promise me, Alabaster."

"I promise."

Cerise kisses you on the cheek. "I... I love you, Alabaster."

"I love you too."

"You're all I have. You and Gal. I can't lose you."

After long moments, you and Cerise finally break your hug, and she reluctantly boards the plane. Despite your promises, it feels somehow final. 

Darkbloom watches them board, then turns to you. "You're a family man, just like me."

You frown. "You could say that."

"I admire it. Family is the most important thing. Will you see Vivian back to the office?"

"Of course." You keep things terse and cold with him.

Darkbloom considers you. "I know you don't trust me, but it will all make sense -- in time. I just wonder. Will you betray me before I have the chance to explain myself?"

You don't say anything.

Vivian is the first to speak: "--betray?"

"Nevermind that," Darkbloom says, suddenly chipper. He gets down on one knee, to bring his massive height more even with his daughter, and hugs her. "I'll miss you, Viv. Be a good girl for me."

"Don't patronize me."

"I would never." He ruffles her hair.

Vivian stomps her foot. "You jerk!" (Putting your training to work, it seems.)

"Let's not end on a sour note. There's a lot we need to discuss when I'm back in town, Viv."

Vivian folds her arms. "Like why mother kicked you out of your marital bed three weeks ago?"

Darkbloom bows his head. When he looks up he says: "You know why."

"Who is she?" Vivian asks.

"I'll tell you soon. The next time we see each other... we'll talk about your sister. I promise."

He stands, stretching his spine. He's a full head taller than even you.

He seems to want to say something else to you, but he doesn't. Instead, he just boards. 

This time, you're in a different limo: Vivian's. She stares pensively out the window on one side of the lush grey interior, and you sit on the other side. It feels like miles separate you. She's even more dour and downcast than usual.

"What did father mean, when he said that?" Vivian asks, without even facing you. "How would you betray him?"

"I don't know," you lie.

"Hmm."

"How about a spontaneous--"

"No."

The rest of the ride passes in silence.

---

On campus, you take your usual spot in the cafeteria and watch the fitness freaks working out in the gym, through the glass partition separating the two facilities. You're busily trying to think of a way to get into Sable's office without her or Alex - or both of them - blowing their top. You need to know what they're going to do with Sand Reckoner.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the deep yet nasally voice of one of Sable's coder-monkeys. You forget his name - Brayden or Jayden or something similarly stupid.

"Where you been, man?"

You close your eyes and shake your head. "Busy," is all you say.

"Haven't seen you for a while. Word around the office is you and bitch-made are on the rocks."

You lock eyes with him. "Excuse me?"

"He was all lovey-dovey with you, and all of a sudden he won't even say your name. What's the problem? Wouldn't give him a reach-around?"

You look over his shoulder. A few of his equally juvenile buddies are watching from a nearby table, joking with each other about it.

"You guys are real cunts," you sneer.

"Uh huh. Listen, I'm not trying to be mean. Actually, I wanna help you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Totally. Alex is gonna be hanging out with us tonight. We thought you might want to join us."

"Why don't I believe you?"

*ayden shrugs. "It's true. Hey, we joke, but we're open minded folks here. We'd hate to see bitch-made go all depressed again like he was before you showed up."

As terrible of an idea as this sounds, it might be the perfect opportunity to get information.

>[x] I'll go.
[ ] No thank you. 

In the parking garage, a little after 5 PM, you run into a familiar face on the third level: Kay. She's busy affixing some sort of device to a concrete beam near the side facing the Darkbloom campus.

"Oh, what the hell," you say.

"Nice to see you, too," she says. She steps back, checking her handiwork. The device appears to be a GoPro, mounted with an epoxy resin. She looks back and forth between the device and the view to the campus, verifying she has a good angle.

"I expected you to be in DC already," you say.

"Everyone's going to be in DC. They'll miss the real story of Friday afternoon. But I won't."

You almost have to admire how mercenary this woman is.

"Thanks for publishing that video so early," you say sarcastically. "Did you forget that it wasn't supposed to drop until Darkbloom was in the Senate?"

"No problem," Kay shoots back. "You're welcome for tipping you off about Darkbloom's opening statement. He knew the story was going to drop, in case you missed that."

She has you there. Darkbloom already had a fabrication ready to go. Beating him to the punch was a valid strategy, although it would have been nice if Kay warned you before it was all over the national headlines.

"That man is the third or fourth richest person on the planet," Kay says, "and the best defense he can come up with is 'fake news.' It's honestly embarrassing."

"What else can you say when someone shows a video of you ripping out a little kid's eyeball?"

"'I'm sorry,' maybe? Okay, that might be a bit underwhelming."

Kay turns and checks her mounted camera again. Then she does something that surprises you: she puts a small, hollow box over it that looks like an electrical meter - and now the camera's lens looks like some sort of powered-off glass display for the meter. It's a bit crude, but someone passing by would never give it a second thought.

"Perfect," she says. "I'm on my way to a Pullitzer for sure."

"Congratulations."

She winks at you. "Have anything to say on the record, before we're both household names?"

"No."

"How about off the record?"

"Just that I can't wait for that bastard to get what's coming to him."

Kay breezes past and pecks you on the cheek. "Remember," she says, her voice low and silky, "there's no such thing as off the record."

She goes. 

A few minutes later, a Mustang roars alongside, *ayden honking the horn obnoxiously. Two of his pals sit in the car, one riding shotgun and another in the back, with Alex.

You get in on the other side of Alex. He's none too pleased to see you -- your presence was clearly a surprise to him.

"Now kith," the man on Alex's other side says through peals of laughter.

"Be niiiice," *ayden chides jokingly. "You silly goose."

"What are you doing here?" Alex whisperss. His voice drips with anger, and it kind of hurts.

"I couldn't bear the thought of these repressed homosexuals having their way with you," you grouse right back. "Why are you hanging out with assholes like this?"

He shrugs.

"Where are we going?" You demand of tonight's chauffeur.

"Golden Lotus," *ayden says. "Not far from here."

"Golden-- what?"

"Asian massage," his friend in the passenger seat explains, looking you in the mirror. "You've never been?"

"Uh, no."

The man on the other side of Alex ribs you. "$200, any-ting you want. Sucky sucky long time."

You shudder. So that's what this is.

"It's on us," *ayden says. "For both of you. You just have to give us the blow-by-blow when you two are done."

Passenger seat laughs: "not literally, though!"

This might be a long night. 

You step into a dimly lit parlor decorated with chintzy faux-Japanese silk screens and paper lanterns. A decrepit old Asian woman hobbles to the front desk, looking you and Alex over. The other guys stand back, watching.

"How many?" She says, her voice creaking.

"Just us two."

"How long?"

"Uh... not long?"

"Half hour, okay. You pay now."

You hand over the wad of money given you by the leering idiots behind you.

She counts it. "Okay, good. You come."

You and Alex follow through a curtain of beads to a similarly dim and strange-smelling hallway.

"Did you know about this?" You ask Alex through the corner of your mouth.

He shrugs. "I'm a guy too, you know. Have to blow off some steam, right?"

You're kind of disappointed in him, to be honest. Then again, you're right here with him.

"Okay, you-- room 1. You, room 2." The old woman points out the doors to your respective rooms. "You go in, get naked. Then you wait. Okay? Okay."

She leaves.

Alex turns for his room, but you stop him, grabbing his arm.

"Alex-- I'm sorry," you say.

"That's nice."

"I want to hang out with you tonight. You know, just us. I... look, I'm not good with shit like this. But I miss you."

"You want information, right?"

"I'm being honest with you here. I miss you."

"Uh huh."

He goes to his assigned room, leaving you cursing under your breath.

Your room is little more than a tiny box with a long table that looks like it belongs more in a doctor's office than a brothel. You really don't want to be here, and your plan is to tell the masseuse no funny stuff. The last thing you want is to have some random Chinese hooker suck your dick. Besides, you could do without the herpes. For maybe the first time in this hooker's career, she'll be giving her customer a real massage.

You dutifully strip, but leave your boxers on, and get onto the table. You lie on your back, waiting awkwardly.

And then she walks through the door. 

"What the f--" you say, rising to your elbows on the massage table, but she quickly closes the distance between you, shushing you with a finger to your lips.
 
"Where have you been?" You hiss. "How did you-- why are you--"
 
She's wearing a form-fitting, elaborately sequined cheongsam, her hair pinned up into twin buns. To be honest, she's stunning. Even in the low scarlet light of this seedy room, she almost glows.
 
"I'm disappointed in you," Camelia says. "I knew you were a dog, but using an Oriental sex slave? That's low, even for you."
 
"It wasn't my idea," you insist. "I was going to tell her not to do anything but give me a nice massage."
 
"Mm hmm." She narrows her eyes. "A likely story, Alabaster Soliloquy."
 
"Check me with your freaky eye if you want," you say. "I'm telling the truth."
 
"Do you want Darkbloom to see us?" She spits. "This was the only way I could get to you safely."
 
"How did you know I'd be here?"
 
"That's a silly question, don't you think?"
 
You've given up on trying to understand her. But something else bugs you: "how are you here? I know you get around, but surely you're not an Asian whore on the side."
 
"Jingfei was more than happy to take $500 to fuck off and not deal with another john tonight," Camelia says. "That was the easiest part of the whole thing."
 
You swing your legs over the edge of the table and grab for your jeans, but Camelia lays a palm against your chest and pushes you back. "Where are you going? You paid good money for a massage, right?"
 
"Camelia, you're out of your goddamn mind if you think--"
 
You stop as Camelia pulls a squirt bottle from a nightstand in the corner. You didn't notice it until now, but it looks like it was sitting in a warming bath. She squirts a few dollops of a weird transparent liquid into her palms.
 
"Take off your boxers," she commands. "And turn over onto your stomach."
 
"What is that?" You demand.
 
"Now I know you're playing dumb," she says. "You've watched enough JAVs to know. It's nuru gel." She flicks her index finger and splatters your face with a few warm, slimy droplets. Suddenly, you understand exactly what she intends to do. And despite yourself, your cock lurches a little in your boxers. She was right: you're a dog.
 
"Well?" Camelia says impatiently. "It's nothing I haven't seen before, trust me."
 
You raise your hips just enough to snake out of your boxers. You drop them carelessly to the floor, feeling abashed at your own nakedness, and thankful that your next instruction is to turn over. As many women as you've been with recently, it's more than a little strange to be so vulnerable in front of Camelia.
 
With these thoughts in your head, you suddenly shiver with the warm sensation of Camelia spreading the gel all over your back. It's slick and slippery almost to the point of being totally friction-less. And yet you can definitely feel the softness of her hands through it all.
 
"Too warm?" She asks.
 
"N-no..." you mumble.
 
"Mmm. Good~"
 
Her hands disappear from your back. In your current position, with your head facing down on a donut-shaped pillow, you can't see her. But a few moments later, you hear a tell-tale zip and then a ruffle: Camelia disrobing. Then comes a few more squirts of nuru gel and the slick noises of Camelia lathering herself with it too. You have to stop yourself from turning around to look.
 
Without warning, Camelia's full weight is upon your back.
 
She lies on top of you, her gel-covered body hot against you, her legs between yours. Her small but incredibly soft tits poke against your back. You can feel the nipples harden. You try to hold it back, but you can't: you half-gasp, half-moan.
 
She reaches up and puts her palms against the backs of your hands, interlacing her fingers with yours. And then she begins to slide back and forth.
 
"Camelia..." you say.
 
The gel is running in little rivulets down your side as Camelia's back-and-forth rubbing fills the room with lewd, wet noises. The slimy sensation and the pressure of her body, even without any attention on your genitals, drives you wild. Your cock is coming to life all on its own.
 
She leans in, her cheek running past your hair and her lips touching your earlobe. "Here's the problem with you, Alabaster," she breathes. "Tell me: who founded the Tokugawa Shogunate?"
 
"Tokugawa Ieyasu," you reply without hesitation, even despite the awkward position. "Everyone knows that."
 
"Right. And what are the main differences between Meiji Japan and Tsarist Russia that kept communism from taking root in the former?"
 
"I don't - I don't fucking know," you say, stammering.
 
"See? Your brain is like an episode of Hoarders - and not in the good way."
 
"...There's a good way to be compared to Hoarders?" You ask. Camelia's hands close around yours, gripping you tightly, and her pace quickens. Even through this strange conversation, your dick is getting uncomfortably hard against the pleather surface of the table. You try to shift your weight, but Camelia has you pinned. She's in complete control.
 
"I don't know why..." Camelia mutters, almost as if to herself. She arches her back and goes rigid as she keeps rubbing herself against you. The new position puts her pussy mound right up against the globes of your ass. Your entire being focuses on that sensation: her lubed-up pussy lips sliding back and forth against you, coating you with slime. "I don't know why I started to..."
 
She trails off.
 
"Started to what?" You ask. Is she getting off against you?
 
She leans down again, whispers into your ear, sends shivers up your spine and scalp. "Turn over."
 
She goes to her knees to allow you the room to maneuver. As you do, there's no way to hide it: your turgid dick flops against your belly, already dribbling a little precum.
 
But your eyes are more focused on the cleft of her pussy. The lips are nice and puffy, turned out just a little, and bright pink. Above her clitoral hood is a thin strip of hair just as red as the hair on her head.
 
Playfully, she brushes your cockhead with a palm as she slithers forward and settles against you, belly-to-belly, chest-to-chest.
 
"Were you looking?" She teases.
 
"Of course I was..."
 
She laces her hands through yours again. This time, as she massages the slick gel against your body using her own, her little cunt slides back and forth over your straining cock. The lips grip you with every stroke, invitingly, and you can feel a wetness there that definitely isn't the nuru gel. It's all you can do not to grab her forcefully and slam your cock into her with a single hard thrust.
 
"Things are gonna get crazy," Camelia coos. "Are you ready?"
 
You try to say something, but your voice catches and nothing comes out.
 
"Do you want to fuck me, Alabaster?"
 
"I..."
 
"I want to fuck you," she says. Her voice is husky and full of need. The tiny room is filled with the scent of her arousal, sweet but musky.
 
You nod.
 
She reaches between you, her thin arm sliding between your gel-slick torsos, and grabs your leaking dick. Staring into your eyes, she lines you up with the opening of her hole.
 
"Slow," she says. "Slooo-ooo-wwww~~"
 
She sinks back, using her haunches for leverage. You slip inside an inch at a time. Her pink pussy lips don't give way easily, and grip against you with a wet, almost rubbery resistance, as if trying to block you. But Camelia is determined, and as she bites her lip, she forces your cock inside. You just lie there enjoying the sensation as she does all the work to fuck you. Her landing strip of fiery red pubic hair tickles your crotch.
 
"Oh Jesus," she moans. "I knew you were-- but this-- unghh--"
 
She pants as she tries and tries to take your entire length. It's hard going for her. After all, no matter what kind of facade she puts up, she's a very small girl, and not very strong. You decide to help her out. You loop an arm around her back and hold her tight. Looping your calves over her ankles as well, you raise your butt off the surface of the table and push back against her hips. Camelia, going faint, closes her eyes and swoons against you. Her soft breasts mash into your chest as you plow past the last of the resistance deep inside and seat yourself fully.
 
You're balls deep up her hot cunt.
 
Camelia is still panting as she says: "Fuck me. Just fuck me already. Fuck me!"
 
You didn't need to be told twice. You bounce up and down on the table, sawing your cock in and out of her swampy insides. She replies in kind, bouncing up and down, slamming her hips against you. Holding her, as greased-up as both of you are, is hard, and the two of you slip and slide against each other as your bodies violently mate. You fuck like animals in heat.
 
Even though it's far from tender, it's weirdly romantic, in this low light.
 
Your heavy nuts slap against her ass and she grabs the back of your head with both hands to keep herself at least a little bit steady.
 
"Don't you fucking stop," she moans. "Don't you fucking stop! I'll kill you if you stop!"
 
"I'm not going to stop!" You hiss. "Jesus!"
 
"Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me, you bastard!"
 
In the distance, muffled by drywall, you hear a moan that's neither you nor Camelia: a high-pitched little whine. Alex, somewhere, is getting his rocks off too.
 
"I'm gonna cum," you tell her.
 
"Do it inside me! Cum in my fucking twat! Don't you dare fucking do it anywhere else!"
 
She tightens her grip on your scalp and humps against you so hard that you think, distantly, she might break your pelvis.
 
"Cum," she pants in a delirious fugue. "Cum.... cum, cum, cum cum cum-- fuck!"
 
The nuru gel flies from your bodies in wet, fat slurping droplets and your lower bodies are a blur as you pump her deeply. If she wants you to breed her out, that's what you'll do. You'll cum inside of her until she's totally full and then keep sperming her some more. You'll fuck her pregnant.
 
That thought sets you off. Your entire body straining, you let it go. You raise your butt totally off the table and hold it there in place in the air, forcing Camelia down on top of you at the same time, so your raging cock is all the way in. And you shoot rope after rope of your slimy cum into her. Her voice sounds almost staticky as she gasps out her orgasm, her silky pussy shuddering and milking out every drop of your fertile sperm.
 
"Fuuuuuck," she whines, her voice sing-song, "oh fuck! Oh fuck, you're doing it!"
 
You are. You filling her with raw cum, and it's the best feeling in the world.

GIRLS FUCKED: 5/9

Camelia finishes cleaning herself up with a wad of tissues before getting dressed again. "You have got to be 50% horse," she says distastefully, holding the tissue between her legs as the last of it drains out. "I know it. Your dad was Mr. fucking Ed."

You get dressed, too. "That was... oh my god..." Your legs are still shaky.

Camelia slips into the cheongsam again. Even just watching her dress is transfixing. "Is everything ready on your end?"

"Yeah... where the hell have you been?"

She shrugs. "Getting everything ready on mine."

"That's not helpful."

"I try not to be."

She steps forward, brushing a hand through your hair. "Thank you," she says. "That was my-- well, thank you."

"What are you gonna do now?"

"Hopping on a plane. I need to be in DC for the big show. But before I go... one last instruction."

"Oh boy," you grumble.

"Sable is going to need your help to finish Sand Reckoner. She doesn't know it yet, but she will. Do it. Let her load Penelope with the platform. And then steal it from her."

"Why?"

"You'll know why when the time is right."

She puts her lips to your ear. "Thank you, Alabaster... it's been so fun these past few weeks."

"You're a real pain in my ass," you say.

"You don't mean that." Her good eye sparkles. "I make things interesting."

"I have to go now," you say, "or Alex is going to get suspicious... are you planning to come back from DC or what? Am I going to see you again?"

"I'll be seeing you."

"When?"

She pauses, looking away for just a moment. Then she locks eyes with you.

"I'll see you in another life, Alabaster." 

Alex won't talk to you on the way out, but as you come back into the parlor, the leering bros who took you here are nowhere to be found. Did they plan to ditch you from the start, or did something else happen? It makes you not just a little paranoid. Alex, of course, is oblivious to this.

"I should have guessed..." Alex mumbles. "False friends... like always..."

"Come back to my place with me," you tell him. "I'll call an Uber."

"I need to go back to work," Alex says. "We're very close to finishing... in spite of everything you've done."

He starts for the exit as the old Asian pimp thanks him and tells him to come again.

>[x] Try to tag along with him.
[ ] Let him go. 

You step into the balmy evening air of the California summer.

"Is there any way I can help?" You ask him lamely.

"Ally..." he says. The frustration is evident. "Why do you keep doing this?"

"What?"

"You keep acting like you can fix it. You can't fix it. You pretended like you cared about me so you could stop me from accomplishing the ONE goal of my entire life. Do you think I'm stupid?"

His eyes are filling with tears even as he tries to make this into an angry recrimination. He wipes them away with the back of his palm.

"It's not like that," you say. "It's not... you don't understand. That isn't how it happened. How can I make you understand?"

"I do understand!" Alex insists. "David Darkbloom is an egomaniac and he ruined your childhood. But I'm not David Darkbloom, and neither is Sable! The work we're doing is going to be so much more than what David Darkbloom wants to do with it! Haven't you figured out by now... don't you know..."

He stops himself, hesitating.

"Know what?"

"It was always going to be like this." He turns to leave.

You reach out, stop him. "Like what?"

Alex searches your eyes. He's obviously not sure he should be telling you this, and yet some vestige of his trust and his affection remain, despite it all. He wants you to know. "Sable was never going to let Darkbloom keep it. Sand Reckoner, I mean."

"...what?"

"She's taking it for herself as soon as it's finished. Or rather... we are. So don't worry. He was never going to have it to begin with."

A black sedan pulls alongside the curb. A man rolls down the window, checks a phone display, and looks back up. "Alex Best?"

"Yeah," he says. "Thanks for picking me up." He opens the passenger side door and gets in.

"Both? Or just you?" the Uber driver says.

"Just me," Alex replies.

The driver pulls away, leaving you all alone once more. 

---

Whitney sits next to you on Galatea's couch, watching the dusty CRT screen. Galatea, true to her word, is sitting at the computer in the corner and doing her best not to pay attention to the TV.

"...live from the floor of the Senate as the Intelligence Committee prepares to question Mara Darkbloom, the first of today's witnesses," a reporter is saying.

Whitney pretends to snore. You jab her with an elbow.

"What?" She says. "This is boring as shit."

"We're about to commit the biggest act of terrorism since 9/11. If this is boring, I don't want know what's exciting."

"Yeah, whatever."

You settle in and watch. 

---

"...point being that maybe we'd all be more private with some kind of, I don't know, net ID card," a clueless 70-something Senator suggests. "It could keep everything in its own lane, as it were."

Mara, her hands folded neatly in front of her, smiles. She leans in so her lips are close to the mic. "Senator, I think there may be some logistical issues with such a suggestion."

"Well, think about it."

"I will."

"What I want to know," another Senator cuts in, sounding to all the world like Foghorn fucking Leghorn, "is how you make sure that no one on Facebook -- now if I have a private account, or some private information, right? How do I know my aunt -- Mrs. Darkbloom, I don't like my aunt, let's say I don't like my aunt -- how can I be plum certain that she isn't able to snoop on me? I mean forget about the companies snooping on us for a second, how do we know, if we set a switch to say private, that we can't be snooped on by other users?"

Even Mara Darkbloom is thrown a little by this word salad. "I think what you're asking," she finally says, "is how we keep malicious actors from getting into your account. We have a number of cutting-edge firewalls to prevent just such a thing from happening."

"But it happened," he says.

"Yes it did. And I can assure you it will never happen again."

"How can we know that?"

"Because I'm telling you." Her voice is icy. 

---

"...to make sure the handshake between A and B are authentic, and isn't being spoofed by C," Nelson Berenstoin explains, pointing to another part of his complex diagram with a telescoping rod. "Therefore, another man-in-the-middle attack like 3/10 would be impossible."

Silence from the committee.

Finally, one of them is brave enough to try: "But what if C pretends to be B?"

Nelson lets out a frustrated laugh. "That's what I'm telling you. This entire process is designed to prevent that."

More silence.

The same senator tries again: "But what if C pretends to be A? Is there any mechanism to prevent that?"

Nelson is stunned.

"Yes," he finally says. "It... uh, it works the same way."

Silence.

"Thank you," the chairman finally says. 

---

"The committee recognizes Cerise Soliloquy."

Steeling herself, she closes her eyes, sighs, and stands. The camera pulls back to a wide angle as she strides to the table. Someone thrusts a bible in front of her, and she puts her hand on it, holding the other up to take her oath.

As she settles in, Rose is visible in frame behind her, sitting in the galley. You smile. She'll be a nice diversion, if necessary. Or even if not necessary.

The chairman, a senator Mitch Warner, clears his throat and says in an obnoxious Atlantic accent: "now you're sworn in, and this is just like a court of law, you know, Ms. Sololioquy. So a lie would be perjury. And that's a criminal liability. You understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Then let's begin." 

---

"Your resume is... not very impressive, I have to be honest," a Senator Paul is saying, punctuating his words with a pencil held in a lobster-like grip. "How exactly is it that a high school graduate with-- no prior work experience, is qualified to head an investigation of this size?"

"I, ah, l-learned on the job," Cerise says, stammering. "I worked for this company for four years before taking on a new role--"

"Yes, we know." Another Senator now, Wyvern, of Oregon. "Maybe you can speak to the way Darkbloom Analytics is snuffing out competition, then. It's anti-competitive, the way this company is choking out the competition. Something stinks here, like bad athlete's foot."

Cerise coughs. "I-- don't know what to say," she admits. "I really don't work with competition or any of that. Only with server management, and, uh, recently... recently, the investigation."

You decide now is a good time to divert a little attention, since Cerise is really struggling. You flick the switch on your remote control. In the background, Rose's reaction is unmistakable. Her eyes widen and then she squirms just a little as she gets used to it. You only have her on the lowest setting now, and she knows it, and she looks more frightened than anything.

"Let's get to 3/10," Mitch Warner interrupts. "Were you at the facility that night?"

Cerise hesitates. Finally: "Yes."

You flick the remote a little higher. Rose's lips part. Even at this low resolution it's obvious that she's having a hard time containing herself.

"What were you doing there?"

"My job was server maintenance. At the time, we didn't know anything unusual was going on... I was running my typical diagnostics, when we got a call from, uh, Nelson Berenstoin that there had been a data breach..."

She continues to explain the frantic hours of the hack as you idly play with the remote in your hand. People in the audience are starting to notice as Rose sways and her jaw slackens stupidly.

"We're not here for your long-winded explanations, Ms. Soliloquy." Senator Wyvern, again. "We're not here to sit around, just, smelling your flatulence as if it's the best thing in the world. We need real answers here."

"...What?" Cerise is stupefied.

"Are you the hacker known as Galatea?" He demands.

"No," Cerise says, firmly and instantly.

"Do you know her?"

Cerise's "no" here is much less convincing. 

---

"...it's like a big tube," Senator Cane, of Arizona, explains in his rickety voice. This has been going on for two full minutes now. "If you put too many things in the tube, you're exposed. You have to put them in one at a time. You don't just, dump a bunch of food down the drain without a garbage disposal. Data is a lot... internet is more complex of course but you have to think of it the same way. How do we keep the internet from being clogged with all that data?"

Cerise is quiet for a long time and looks like she's about to really lose her shit. How the fuck do you respond to that?

You have Rose at the max setting, and have for a while now. She's hugging herself under her knees, her face all droopy and drooly, totally blissed out. Someone strides down the aisle, walks over to her, offers her help, but she waves them off. Half the room is paying more attention to her than to Cerise.

Cerise finally gets her bearings again. "Senator Cane," she says, "with all due respect... I think there are more important questions to consider. Can we move on?"

The galley laughs, and even this doddering old man gets that the room isn't on his side. "Yes, that will be fine," he says.

This begins a second phase of Cerise's testimony: one in which, suddenly, she seems to have realized something you knew already. That these stupid motherfuckers have no idea what they're saying, and therefore, she can reply however she likes. She becomes much more confident. 

---

"You've seen the video that recently came out?" Warner asks.

"I don't--"

"Of course you have. And surely you also know there's a rumor of another video? One in which your own brother..." he checks his notes. "Alabaster, is his name? A video in which Darkbloom does much the same to him, as he does to that poor, innocent young girl."

Cerise bites her lip. "I'm aware of the rumor, yes."

"Do you know whether such a video actually exists?"

"I can't say," Cerise replies.

"Ms. Soliloquy, I'll cut to the chase. Are you and your brother involved with this hack? Is this a revenge plot--"

"Leave my brother out of this," Cerise says. Her voice is just as cold as Mara's.

"Excuse me?" the Senator says, feigning indignation.

"You heard me. Leave my brother out of this."

"All right, fine. Are YOU involved with this hack, Ms. Soliloquy? Are you taking revenge on David Darkbloom?"

"No I am not. I had no foreknowledge or involvement. And that is all I will say."

They stare each other down.

"This is some fuckin' Mexican Telenovela shit here," Whitney says. "Holy fuck. Your sister is a badass."

Your phone buzzes. You check the display: Sable Guiteau.

"Hello?"

"Alabaster. Please come to my office at once."

"Really. Just like that. I'm not fired anymore?"

"You're still fired. But I need you."

>[x] Go.
[ ] Refuse.
[ ] Demand more information first. 

>Sometime in the past.

"This is for the best," David insists. "Once Gustav and I are established, we'll be at the very forefront of bio-engineering and artificial intelligence. We'll be the architects of the new frontier in human knowledge. And one day soon, you'll be a part of it too. We already plan to bring you aboard in five or six years - once you're done with college."

Renee is skeptical. "He told me about your business plan, though. What does credit card processing have to do with AI?"

"It's just to get the wheels greased," David says. "The world wide web is the future of finance and shopping. Not many people recognize it yet. To get in on the ground floor of that opens up an absolutely massive flow of capital -- capital I can redirect where it's really needed."

"Why does it have to be you?" Renee asks, getting to the heart of the matter. "Why not Professor Eichman? Can't he go get everything set up and let you stay here teaching?"

"Does that make any difference, as far as you're concerned?" David asks. He sincerely wants to know. "Either way, you'll be back in school again in a couple weeks."

Renee sighs uncertainly. Her fingers fidget and worry against the edge of the desk. "I'll be in college soon, though... I was looking forward to your classes, that's all..."

David rolls his massive shoulders. He's beginning to get uncomfortable with the situation, as he often does when Renee is alone with him in his office.

"I lost a coin flip, to tell you the honest truth. As silly as it is. I didn't want to leave the university, but one of us has to get the business going... and I suppose it will have to be me." 

"Is that... is that why..." Renee's lower lip trembles and she stumbles over her words. But finally she comes out with it, all at once: "Is that why you're marrying that horrible woman, too? You lost a coin flip?"

David's expression is placid. "There are marriages of love and there are marriages of convenience," he explains. "In any case, Gustav isn't exactly the marrying type..."

"What about me?" Renee demands. Her voice is catching. She's about to break down.

David sighs. He puts a firm, broad hand on her shoulder to soothe her. "Renee, this isn't the right--"

"I love you, Professor Darkbloom! Okay? I know you love me, too!" She starts to weep. "Don't leave me, please... let me come with you..."

David knew this was coming and hoped it wouldn't. At least not yet.

"I'm -- sorry," he manages. This is maybe the first time he has ever apologized to anyone. "You're an extraordinary girl, Renee. You'll grow into an even more extraordinary woman--"

"I'm not a girl!" She shouts. "Tell me you didn't mean it when you kissed me that day! Tell me it's not true! I won't believe you!"

"That was a mistake. I shouldn't have done it."

David reaches out to hold her by both shoulders now, but she wiggles away from his grip. "Why? Why was it a mistake?"

"You're only 16. It's not -- it wouldn't be --" David tries to find the right words. "This isn't goodbye forever. You understand. In a few years, depending on how things go, if you still feel the same way--"

"That's not enough," Renee sobs. "You say all these nice things about me and treat me like I'm your girlfriend and then you just leave me for something else! Why would you do that?"

"Renee... Renee, please... Renee, for god's sake..." but David can't console the young girl sitting across from him who's crying bitter tears into her own hands.

Except with this: in a voice hardly like his usual leonine roar, he admits, "I love you."

Renee's crying slows to a stop. She looks at him through rheumy, disbelieving eyes.

"I love you," he repeats. "Damn me to hell, I love you more than anything." 

---

The whole of Darkbloom Analytics' staff are gathered beneath a giant LCD screen in the lobby, watching the Senate testimony, as you pass by security. No one even notices you.

Darkbloom is just finishing reading his opening statement. The people in the lobby are whispering in shock about something else, though, something you suspect is unrelated to Darkbloom's statement. Did you miss something important with Cerise's time before the committee while you were driving here?

You take a brief second to check the first source of news you can think of: /csg/.

>WHAT WHAT WHAT

>oh my fucking god HOLY SHIT

>DID SHE SERIOUSLY JUST FUCKING SAY THAT

Your stomach sinks. It's just post after post of this.

>HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT

>NO FUCKING WAY

>This is history. We're literally watching history unfold.

You scroll through stunned reaction after stunned reaction, but no one will fucking say what it was. Stupid assholes...

Until you see it:

>Cerise just accused David Darkbloom of murdering her parents. Live on national TV. Holy FUCK.

Oh no. No, no no.

But you can't think about that now.

Galatea's spoofed evacuation order should be clearing the building in less than half an hour. You hope. Not much time to do whatever it is Sable has planned. You need to move, and quickly, or it's all going to go to hell. 

In Sable's office, her and Alex are the only people. "It needs to see your eye," Sable explains.

"Why?"

"It can download the old version of the platform from your implant. It needs that as the base to install the new one over it."

Alex watches curiously from behind Sable as she produces the Penelope implant. You're sort of wigging out, just seeing it -- knowing what you know, how a nearly identical device was put in you, it brings back unpleasant flashes, intrusive images.

Sable holds the grain shaped end in front of your face. "Focus on it," she tells you, not unlike a hypnotist.

You focus on it.

"Ally..." Alex says, but you can hardly look at him right now. "Thank you..."

"Don't mention it," you mumble.

"I just did," he replies.

The device flashes amber for a few seconds, and then the light transitions to a smooth, steady white.

"Thank you," Sable says, echoing Alex. She steps back. "You may go now."

"Certainly the fuck not," you say. "I'm involved now. I'm seeing it through to the end. So is that it? Is Sand Reckoner done?"

"No," Sable says. "One more step. It needs a direct uplink to the servers to retrieve the rest of the data-base." She pauses, regarding you. "I suppose you can come along. Nothing you can do to stop it now." 

In the server room, it turns out there is at least one other Darkbloom Analytics employee who isn't watching the testimony. Some toadlike, fat, pale hardware monkey whose job it is to maintain the servers in Cerise's absence.

"Uh, you can't do that," he warns, his voice nasally, as Sable approaches one of the server towers and hooks up a laptop.

"I'm the CTO and I do as I please," Sable says without even glancing his way. "If you have a problem, go file for unemployment."

He shrinks back.

Sable prepares to hook up the device to her laptop, through a strange adapter. Behind you, Alex tugs on your sleeve.

"Uh... you might want to step back," he warns.

"What? Why?"

And then like thunder, there's an earsplitting crack, followed by the flying of sparks, and the entire room goes dark.

"What the fuck!" You shout.

You stand there stupefied in the pitch blackness for a few seconds until backup generators kick in and the servers clack to life again, one at a time, starting from the wall opposite and cascading forward. Their strange blue light is the only illumination now.

And as the servers come to life again, there is also the wailing of klaxons. A fire alarm.

Not now...

You have control over the final detonation, but you know these two aren't going to leave until whatever Sable wants to do is over. This is the worst possible timing.

"Feel free to go," Sable tells you.

"That's a fire alarm," you try. "We all should go."

Sable wheels, grabs you by the collar. "That was YOUR fire alarm. I'm not leaving."

She lets you go.

Goddamn it. Not now. Not now.

"Ms. Guiteau... do those lights on the towers--"

"Yes," she says. "They're all down. They'll be down for about an hour." She watches a progress bar on her laptop screen.

You look at Alex. "Darkbloom's servers?"

He nods. 

You head for the stairwell leading back to the lobby. There's no use arguing with them. Alex said they intended to leave with the device in hand, right? The best you can do is wait it out, then... make sure they're out of the building... and hope by the time they're gone, you can still hit the button.

The vast lobby of Darkbloom Analytics is eerie without anyone else to populate it. The shrill whine of the fire alarm rings in your ears and echoes off the sleekly curved walls. Lights along the ceiling flash bright white over and over for the benefit of the hearing-impaired.

And then you notice it: on the big LCD screen, David Darkbloom is frozen.

At first you think the feed is just messed up, but it isn't. One of the Senators is trying to get his attention. "Mr. Darkbloom? Mr. Darkbloom?"

He just sits there with a glass of water to his lips, as still as stone.

"Mr. Darkbloom, is this a joke? Are you trying to mock us? This is outrageous!"

No response whatsoever. Someone walks in front of him and waves a hand in front of his face. Snaps. Nudges him. Nothing.

"Someone call an ambulance..." a Senator says.

A notification buzzes on your phone:

>BREAKING: massive power outage on West Coast. Entire state of California, Oregon, Washington, Nevada, Utah without power. Parts of Wyoming, Idaho, New Mexico and Arizona also affected.

The C-SPAN testimony cuts away, and that's the end. All that's left is gobsmacked pundits trying to pick apart the clusterfuck they just witnessed. You're as confused as they are.

You feel a gun to your head.

"Alabaster! We keep meeting in the strangest of places."

It's Vasily Kerimov. And now, goons push past, led at the fore by Stasi Lebedev herself -- headed for the stairs to the server room.

"Vasily..." you stammer.

"Go home now," he says. "We'll take it from here."

"I--"

"Da da da--" he tuts. "I know you've got some devices underneath the building, which is why you are not dead on the floor right now. Go and defuse them. You have until midnight."

"Why should I?" You sneer.

"I think there are some people you care about downstairs," he says. "Stasi has just gone to greet them hello." 

You spend at least an hour underneath Darkbloom Analytics trying to defuse the bombs you made, but there are too many, and you're never going to make it in time for the deadline. You need to do something else -- something drastic -- you need help. From Tyrus and his men. You need to eliminate the Russians now, while they're all in one place. It's your only chance.

---

You burst through the door of Galatea's apartment. "Whitney, we need to call--"

Whitney and Galatea are crowded around Galatea's computer screen.

"Citizens of Earth, this is it!" Camelia cries. "Here is David Darkbloom! He's here to answer for his crimes!"

Camelia is livestreaming from what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Darkbloom is tied firmly to the chair, groggily coming to. It reminds you, with a shudder, of your nightmare.

The view counter is in the tens of millions. She's got the attention of the whole nation - the whole world.

>[x] Watch it.
[ ] No time. You need to get going. 

Darkbloom is still only half-conscious, his head drooping. Camelia rouses him with a slap to the face.

"Wake up, you piece of shit."

With apparent effort, he brings his head level and looks at her.

"Deep fake, huh?" She says. "Is this a deep fake too?"

She jams a switchblade into his kneecap. He roars in agony. She lets it sit there for a moment against the patella, then rips it out with a sickening squelch.

"Look at me, motherfucker!"

Darkbloom brings his breathing back to normal and faces his torturer.

"I could do this for ten years and it wouldn't even be one percent of the pain you inflicted on me!" Camelia says. "Here!"

She pulls off her eyepatch. The reaction is instantaneous, way worse than when she stabbed him: he wails in utter agony as Camelia stares directly into his eyes.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!!!" He pleads.

Camelia is getting woozy. She stumbles back like a drunk, almost falls over. She braces herself against his knee and puts on her eyepatch again.

She turns to the camera, still unsteady. "That's what he did, everyone. He fucked with my brain. He did it for himself. To give himself power. Over me, over you. That's why..."

She turns, suddenly frenzied again: "Admit it! Admit it's the truth! Tell everyone what you did to me!"

Darkbloom finally speaks. "Yes. It's true."

"You took my childhood! You killed my parents!"

"It's true."

She stabs him again, this time in the calf. He screams. His trousers become darkly stained with his own blood.

"Amber..." he says through gritted teeth. "You must listen to me now. It doesn't need to be this way."

"You killed my parents. And not just mine. The parents of three other innocent people."

"You have immense power! More than anyone! You could--"

She stabs him in the other leg. His screams break his voice. He sits there with his mouth open like a python who has unhinged its jaw, but no sound escapes. As much as you hate the man, this is difficult to see. It's somehow like watching someone torture a deity to death.

"What do you want?" He asks miserably when he can speak again. "Say it! It's yours! I can give you anything!"

Like that, Darkbloom has been reduced to begging for his life. 

Camelia pulls a bullet from her pocket. She holds it up for him to see. "This has been waiting for ten years now. The only thing I want is for it to go inside your skull."

"I have loved you like a daughter!" Darkbloom shouts, his neck muscles straining, his forehead sweating. There it is: the same line he used on you. "You-- and Anna-- and Alabaster-- you could be the dauphins of a new world! You could shepherd humanity to something greater! You could--"

She stabs him in the stomach. He vomits. It's horrible, and more than that, it's pathetic.

Coughing, he tries again, but his voice is weak: "if you kill me-- listen to me-- you know we are linked. You froze too, when the servers were down, didn't you? It's not a coincidence." Camelia is loading her revolver now. "If you kill me, it will kill you, too! Don't be stupid! It doesn't need to be like this!"

"Who cares about that?" Camelia says. "I was dead the moment you put this implant in my eye."

She puts the gun to his forehead and pulls the trigger.

There's a flash, a splatter of gore.

Darkbloom slumps over. Dead.

Distantly, your mind goes to Vivian. You know she must have seen this, too.

Camelia turns to face the camera.

"Citizens of Earth, that was only phase one. The rest yous with lie--" she stops, blinking, confused. "Sorry. The rest lies with you. There are other men like Dark block... um, Darkbloom... there are other things to-- you have to rise up-- I'm sorry, I lost my place..."

She's swaying, but she doesn't seem to notice it.

"You must... finish..." she says. She's badly slurring her words now. "Finish the..."

A trickle of blood comes down her cheek, from underneath her eyepatch.

She reaches up, feels it with thin fingers. "Oh..." she mutters. "So soon..."

And then she falls over.

The livestream cuts out. 

---

THREE HOURS LATER.

The plane is in the air. Cerise and Rose sit at the very back, feeling very alone, although Nelson is right beside them.

"The known is finished," Nelson mutters.

"What?" Cerise says.

"Nothing. An old line from an old book."

Up front, a man in a dapper suit is talking with Mara, who wipes away crocodile tears with a tissue. Cerise listens in.

"We need to talk about his will," the man says. "I know this is difficult."

"No, please. Go on."

"It's the longest will I've ever seen - over 1,000 pages - but the real headline here is the first sentence. The rest just clarifies. 'To my eldest daughter: everything.'"

Mara nods. "I understand. Vivian is still a minor, so it will have to go into trust--"

"Mara."

She sniffles.

"I'm David's personal attorney. I've known him since before you married him. I know that Vivian is not his eldest daughter."

Mara isn't crying anymore. "This is going to be a problem for you if you say another word," she tells him.

"Then it's a problem for me." 

---

Galatea's apartment is full of some very scary looking men with some very scary looking guns. Galatea is hiding under her bed.

Whitney pushes you. "You stupid jerk! You're not going with these fucking crazy people on a suicide mission!"

"Alex is there..." you say. "I need to make sure--"

"Fuck you! And fuck that snotty little twink! You're the one I care ab--"

Her phone rings, again. She drops the call, again.

"Who IS that?" You say.

"I don't fucking know. Some blocked number."

"Answer it. It could be important."

The call comes through yet again, and this time Whitney takes it.

"Hello? ... yeah, you're speaking to her. One and only. What do you want?"

She glances around the room full of armed black thugs.

"Sure I'm alone," she lies.

She listens carefully.

She falls to the ground.

There's a look on her face that you've never seen before: utter, very real fear. 

April 20, 1996

Renee is still wired to a number of beeping monitors when David enters the hospital room.

In her arms is a newborn baby girl.

"Who knows about this?" He asks.

"Is that the first thing you want to know?" Renee says. "You bastard."

"It's important. Please."

"No one. I came with a false ID. As far as anyone knows, I'm 19 year old Renee Wellick."

He steps closer. "...May I?" He asks.

She hands him the bundle, and for the first time he gets a look at the child's face.

"She's... beautiful," he says. He sits on the edge of the bed, cradling her, bouncing her gently on his knee.

He turns. "You should have told me sooner."

"I didn't know what to do... I didn't even know until a couple months ago..."

He looks back at the baby. "Shh," he says as she fusses.

"I still don't know what to do..." Renee adds.

"Renee... the reason I ask who knows about this..." he struggles to find his words. "I've learned some things about Mara that greatly disturb me. Renee, she is a dangerous, vindictive woman... connected to horrible people... if she ever were to know about this..."

"You can't be serious," Renee says.

"We need to make sure she's safe, above all else. We need to keep her safe. And -- your schooling, too, cannot afford this disruption--"

"I hate you." Her voice is flat and dead.

"This is temporary. I will make sure she--" he looks down again, at the beautiful baby girl he made. "She doesn't need our help, anyway. With our genetics, she is certain to be the smartest girl in the universe."

Renee is crying.

"Does she have a name?" David asks.

"Whitney."

"It's perfect. I'll make sure she keeps it, wherever she ends up."

He rocks Whitney back and forth. "This is temporary," he repeats. "One day, she will claim her birthright. One day she will be Whitney Darkbloom."

END OF EPISODE 14.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, weeaboo and fuck quester.

April 21, 2015

"I'm gonna hang this on my wall! No, wait -- I'm gonna make it into a lamp and put it in my bedroom! No! I'm gonna eat Cocoa Puffs out of it every d--"

You snatch the trophy from Whitney. "It doesn't belong to you. It belongs to the team."

"Like fuck it doesn't belong to me! I won it!"

"You answered one question. ONE!"

"P'yeah," Whitney chuffs derisively. "The most important question of all. If it wasn't for me, we'd all be going home losers right now."

She hurries ahead of you and twirls around, blocking your path through the hotel's hallway. She holds her index finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead. She uses the wrong hand; the L is backwards.

"If any single one of us deserves the trophy, it's me," Rose says. "I was the most valuable team member, points-wise."

"Fuck you," you say. "I had better stats in the tournament. I answered 229 questions right and only 12 wrong. Your score was 190 right, 14 wrong. I win - again."

"You were keeping count?" Rose hums.

"I swear to--"

"Anyway, you're off. You only answered 227. And I answered 194. More importantly, my cumulative point total was higher. Ergo, I'm the MVP."

"The ONLY reason your point total was higher is because the score distribution is biased towards math questions--"

"So? If you knew how to fucking count, you wouldn't be behind on points--"

"I swear I will beat you until y--"

"Suckers!" Whitney cries. Only as she's halfway down the hall do you realize she took advantage of your bickering to steal the trophy back from you.

"Get back here, you idiot!" Rose screams. She breaks into a trot and tries to chase her, but it's an embarrassing display. She isn't even a quarter of the way down the hall before Whitney rounds the corner and disappears.

"I blame you for this," you tell Rose.

She stops and steadies herself against the wall with a forearm. "Go to hell," she says, panting lightly. "YOU let her take it from you."

"Go get packed, you dumb fat cow," you sneer as you pass her by. "...See you on the bus."

You get back to your hotel room a couple minutes later. You figure you'll find Cerise there passed out drunk. She wasn't at the championship match, so where else would she be?

But when you open the door and step inside, she's not there.

"Cerise?" You call, expecting to hear her respond from inside the bathroom, telling you to fuck off.

No response.

You feel the beginnings of a knot in your stomach. 

---

"No, no, no -- I won't! I WON'T, Alabaster!"

She's serious. Whitney never uses your full name.

You force the slip of paper into her hand. It has Saul's phone number written on it. "Please. This is our future now... if what that lawyer just told you is true, you need to act as fast as possible--"

"I need to be with YOU! You can't just, just -- go on a suicide mission and expect me to stay

---

The next thing you know, you're on your back, staring at the ceiling of Galatea's apartment. The power flickers. Her generator must be running out of juice.

"--all right?" You hear, as your vision comes back into focus from out of a blurred white thrum. You sit up, rubbing your head. Whitney is kneeling beside you.

"I'm fine..." you say, but even you can hear how groggy your voice is. "What happened?"

"You fell over."

You shake it off. "Did Tyrus's men already leave?"

Her brow furrows. "Yeah... you've been passed out for like 20 minutes, Ally."

You try to stand, but you're still woozy, and you almost fall again. Whitney grabs one of your arms with both of her hands to steady you. She rises now, and helps you the rest of the way up.

"Call Saul," you tell her. "He can help get started on whatever legal bullshit you need... to make sure you get your inheritance..." You weakly try to push past her, but she stops you. "Whitney... I gotta go..." you mumble.

"You just fainted for literally no reason. You're not still thinking of going back there, are you?"

You sit on the couch in the living room to gather your strength again. Only as you sit do you notice Galatea beside you, her knees curled up under her tee in her usual stance. She's staring blankly ahead at nothing.

You glance back up at Whitney. "Alex is in trouble. And it's because of me. I need to be there for him."

Whitney rubs her elbow and can hardly face you.

Despite what she said at first, Alex matters to her too. She understands how you feel.

It's not just Alex, either. You have Sable to worry about. And more than that: the fate of Darkbloom Analytics.

Everything is different now, after that phone call. Darkbloom Analytics isn't a beast you need to slay. It's your girlfriend's chief financial asset.

No - more than just a financial asset. According to his attorney, David Darkbloom had traps and key-man provisions baked into the legal structure of the company. It was his final twist of the knife to Mara from beyond the grave: he secretly retained the ability to name the next CEO in his will. And that CEO is Whitney.

"You're a multi-billionaire now," you say, still unable to process the meaning behind those words.

"No shit, Sherlock. I hit the lottery. Great. It doesn't mean anything if you're dead!"

"Then I won't die."

Whitney stomps her foot.

>[x] Let her come with you to rescue Alex and Sable.
[ ] Better call Saul. (Sideline Whitney to keep her safe and get her started on claiming her inheritance.) 

"Don't get carried away," you warn her.

She salutes you. "Aye aye! Operation Rescue The Bottom Bitch is a go!"

"Don't be that enthusiastic about it, either."

You click open the two latches on the aluminum case underneath Galatea's couch. Rose brought it with her from Cerise's apartment. Inside, there's two pistols: one for you and one for Whitney.

"Take this," you tell her. "Don't use it unless things go crazy."

She puts it in the waistband of her spats. You follow suit, concealing your gun in your waistband too.

Just as you're ready to go, Stackleford bursts through the front door. He's got a plastic bag from Subway in one hand, and an open bag of Cheetos in the other. He eats the Cheetos by throwing his head back and waterfalling them into his mouth.

"Power's out all over the place," he tells you as he bumps the door closed with his considerable girth. The orange stains around his lips are repulsive. "Also I heard someone say something about David Darkbloom dying, so congratulations I guess."

He approaches Galatea. "Hey Gal-Gal," he says, "I got you a ham sub. Check it!"

This finally snaps Galatea out of her seeming fugue state. She blinks a few times, then glances at you.

"there's a problem," she says. 

---

"do you want to stop the bombs?" She asks as she settles into her computer chair, folding her ankles beneath her butt. It's the right question -- one you need to decide an answer to, quickly.

Before you respond, she opens a virtual OS, and then some sort of baroque, probably proprietary statistical process control program. You can't make heads or tails of its mostly text-based output, but Galatea explains it for you: "it's what i thought. darkbloom's servers remain down as of now. the power outage is keeping them cut off from the internet."

So despite all the efforts Darkbloom made to keep her out, this whole time she still had access to their internal systems.

"What does that matter?" You say.

"it's making us sick. or i think so."

You take a step back. "You think."

The glare of the monitor against her glasses obscures Galatea's eyes. "yes. the same thing happened to me on march 10th when the servers went down. i started

She stops mid-sentence, going still as stone. You wave a hand in front of her face.

She continues as if she had been speaking the entire time: "and she froze completely. like she was paralyzed."

"You cut out, Gal."

She looks at you. "i didn't realize until now. camelia didn't either... there's something about our implants that ties our brains to darkbloom's servers... if they blow up..."

"Dang," Stackleford says. "This is some Snow Crash craziness."

"Fuck off," you half-shout.

"there's another thing." Galatea pulls up a simple browser page now, with two input fields. "dead man's switch," she says.

"Don't tell me what I think you're telling me," you say.

"camelia didn't want to leave it to chance... if we were captured... or killed... she rigged it so it would still go off if we don't input our pgp keys every 24 hours..." She bows her head. "i have my key... but not hers... and she's dead..."

Whitney grabs her by the collar and hauls her up. "Then hack it or something! That's what you do!"

"i can't," Galatea says.

Whitney scowls and shoves her to the ground. "Yes you can! Fix it!"

"it would take the computational power of the entire universe... running for billions of years... there's no way... alabaster has to physically defuse the bombs."

"What's the deadline?" You say.

"3:00 am."

That's time enough. You can do this. Rescue Alex and Sable, clear out the Russians, defuse the bombs... easy, right?

A sudden rush of blood to your head leaves you stumbling as if drunk - you catch yourself on the back of Galatea's rolling chair before you fall over. Galatea's eyes are glassy again, vacant.

Maybe not so easy. 

The sun is already setting on a darkened Palo Alto. You have to use a flashlight just to see your way down the stairwell of Galatea's ratty apartment building, to the front entrance, and out to the curb.

Outside, Tyrus is waiting. He's leaned up against your car, arms folded.

"You made me a promise," he says.

"Step off, asshole," Whitney says. "We've got errands to run."

He ignores her. "You said Darkbloom Analytics wouldn't exist by this time today. Far as I can tell, it still exists. What happened?"

"Change of plans," you tell him.

"Bull fucking shit. You have the detonator? Press the goddamn button."

In the descending gloom, you can't see anyone else on the street, but you have that certain psychic tingle on the back of your skull that tells you other eyes are watching. Tyrus is not alone.

Whitney's brash tone becomes more serious now: "I'm warning you," she says. "Get back. Let us go."

"You said no delays. Now you're ordering my own men around like you fucking own them? Who made you king shit, motherfucker? Telling them to go into a building you were supposed to blow up more than an hour ago? This shit is simply not gonna fly."

He steps forward, looms over you and Whitney. "I did my part," he snarls. "Now you do yours. Press the fucking button."

[ ] Fight.
[ ] Run.
>[x] Negotiate

Whitney reaches for her waistband - you grab her wrist and stop her, sliding between her and Tyrus at the same moment, hoping that he didn't notice her grabbing for a fucking gun just now.

"You motherfuckers are straight up retarded," Tyrus says. So he definitely saw it -- great. "I've got heat on you from 360 degrees and then some. Go ahead. Pull a gun and see what fucking happens."

"See this girl?" You say. You indicate Whitney with a wave of your palm. "She may not be the brightest. Granted. But she owns Darkbloom Analytics now."

Tyrus arches an eyebrow.

"She's David Darkbloom's biological daughter. He left a will behind giving her everything - billions and billions of dollars. And the company itself. You're looking at the new CEO right here."

"That's the stupidest goddamn thing I've ever heard," he says. "Do I look like I was born yesterday?"

You hold up both hands in a sign of nonaggression. "I'm going to reach for Whitney's cell phone now," you say. "All right?"

"Watch yourself," Tyrus says, but it seems like he's going to let you.

You reach slowly into Whitney's pocket, pull out her phone. You hold it high aloft so any unseen, would-be assailants can see it's benign. You speed dial the last number and put it on speakerphone.

"Adam Epstein," the man on the other end replies.

You nod at Whitney, holding the phone to her lips.

"Hi Adam," she says. "Uh... just wanted to get some quick math from you... I kind of zoned out the last time we talked."

"Go ahead, Ms. Price."

"About all that money I'm gonna get."

"Yes."

"How much, again? Like how many billions?"

A pause. "There's a great deal to sort out, Ms. Price," he finally replies. "But Darkbloom's wealth is estimated at around $100 billion, in various forms."

"And I get to be CEO?"

"Err... like I said, there's a great deal to sort out. I advise you find a lawyer... there will be legal battles ahead, and I must remain a neutral executor on behalf of Darkbloom himself."

"Okay. Thanks Adam."

You hang up.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Tyrus says. "That was Darkbloom's lawyer."

"Believe me now?" You say.

"What are you offering?" 

---

"Crazy ass," Tyrus says. "If the two of you need another gay little white boy, I know where to find 'em by the fuckin' dozen. I could give you five or six each. We don't need to go James Bond on these Russian assholes."

"There isn't a gay little white boy who's better," Whitney avers, leaning through the passenger side window. "Trust me."

"Marquis'll meet you up the street from the building," Tyrus says. "You'll go in the back way with him. Save the poor little white boy and the mad scientist. Then when he gives the signal that you're all safe, we'll hit the Russians from the front."

"We can't make a scene," you tell him. "The last thing we need is police."

"No shit," Tyrus says. "I don't want police to be the first thing I deal with as the company's new CPO. We'll keep this clean and stealthy like."

He taps your hood and watches as you peel away, towards the belly of the beast. 

April 21, 2015

"Where the hell are you?"

Cerise, on the other end of the line, is slow to respond. "Home."

"We have to be back on the bus in less than half an hour. Stop fucking around."

"I'm not. I went home."

"How did you get from Idaho back to California on your own?"

"Took a bus."

You heave a frustrated sigh. "Really. When?"

"Last night, not that you noticed. Or cared."

Usually, Cerise is better than this. The death of your parents turned her into an oddly caring, supportive sibling -- most of the time. But when she's badly drunk, and feeling sad, she gets like this. Petulant.

"Are you really back home already?"

"You sound happy that I'm gone."

"The only thing I'm happy about is that you're not about to end up stranded in goddamn Boise, Idaho. This is seriously the worst city on the planet."

"Uh huh. I guess I should leave you alone now. Have fun with Rose and Whitney."

You soften your voice. "Hey. By the way. We won the cham--"

She hangs up. 

---

Marquis is at the head of a retinue of armed men, in a garage down the road from Darkbloom Analytics. It's unsettling how excited he looks.

"Ready to bash some skulls?" He says.

He unfurls a map on the hood of a nearby Caddy. "We're gonna Batman this shit," he says. "I'll get up on this building here--" he points to an annex on the west wing of the facility, where HR is headquartered. It's only about 20 feet tall. "Climb in through the skylight, disarm the alarm on the emergency exit... let you in. We can swing around and go down to the server room. They won't see us until we're right on top of them. Probably."

You don't like the sound of that "probably."

"What if they do see us?" You say.

"You're strapped, right?"

You grimace.

"Ready?" He says. "Time's ticking, right? You've still got shit to do when we're done here."

[ ] Second thoughts - let Marquis handle the rescue on his own.
[ ] Go, but hold Whitney back.
[ ] Let's go.
>[x] Custom strategy. 

"I've got a different strategy," you say.

"Excuse me?" Marquis says. He clearly doesn't like being second guessed.

"We need more people with us when we first sneak in. And people hanging back to get us out of there if things go sideways." You turn to Whitney. "Can you wait in my car for me? Be ready to go as soon as I come out."

"Fuck you," Whitney spits, slugging you. "I'm not letting you hide me out here while you go get shot at by mobsters."

"Naw..." Marquis mutters, staring off into space for a moment. "That's actually a good idea. Butchy here is the next CEO. Right? If Mara knows that, her minions know it too. You'd be going in there with a big fucking target on your head."

He signals to a couple of his lieutenants. "Shawn, Freddy, you're with us. Tenacious, stay out here in the car. The rest of you, plan doesn't change. Ready to go on my mark."

They nod their understanding.

You put your hands on Whitney's shoulders. "I'll be back in a few minutes with Alex and Sable."

She glowers, but after a few moments she relents. "If you die, I'll kill you!" 

Night has fallen even more quickly than you expected, but that's for the best. You skulk through the darkness with Marquis and his two men.

The first one, Shawn - you remember him from the garbage dump, when he held you and Whitney hostage - throws off a backpack and pulls out a dremel as you get up to the gates on the west side of the building. The tool makes quick, if a little loud, work of the wrought iron bars. It's enough to slip through.

A rope with an honest to god grappling hook comes out next. Marquis wields it like a cowboy with a lasso, looping it over roof of the HR building in a single strong toss. After checking its hold with a few tugs, he gets to climbing. He's remarkably fast and limber. He's definitely done this before.

So far, so good.

He disappears into the gloom and you hear, faintly, the sounds of him on top, jimmying the skylights open.

Anxious moments pass. You keep glancing around the corner, towards the main entrance of the building, although only a vague silhouette of its main features are visible -- the fountain, the broad front windows, the trees and bike racks -- all swathed in deep and foreboding shadow. If there are men lying in wait, they're invisible to you.

And then: klaxons. Marquis accidentally tripped an alarm mechanism.

"Fuck!" Comes the far-off echo of his voice. "Get ready!"

It happens again. Your vision blurs for a moment. The sudden cacophony blends into an indistinct smear of noise. Gunfire and shouting and wailing alarms all become nothing but a shrill, insistent hum. The noise is focused on a spot that feels like it goes past your eardrum, into the space beyond - like a dentist's drill boring into your brain. Everything goes white for a second, two seconds, three.

When you gain your bearings again, you're on your hands and knees in the grass, heaving. The dark night lights up with muzzle flashes from the two men next to you.

"Go, go, go!" Marquis is yelling, presumably into his walkie-talkie.

Fast approaching are opposing muzzle flashes, and the voices of men shouting in Russian.

Damn it, damn it... you reach half-blind for your own gun and find it warm against your hip. It's awkward in your hands. You're not a crack shot like Rose is, far from it, and you may be more of a liability with this thing than not. But seconds matter now; above all else, you need to get inside the building and down to the server room where Alex and Sable are. They could be executed at any moment now that you've been found out.

You struggle to your feet as Shawn and Freddy flank you. You hold your gun aloft and try to see who the hell they're firing at, but it's hopeless; between your little pseudo fainting spell and the near total dark, plus the chaos engulfing you, you can't see anyone. It's all moving too fast. 

From several yards away, at the tall front gates, comes the squeal of rubber on asphalt: the strike team of ten or eleven men Marquis had in waiting just rolled up.

Marquis bursts through the emergency exit at the side of the HR building and loops an arm under yours. "We're falling back now. They'll grab your friends."

"No fucking way," you spit, heaving off. You step forward, past Shawn and Freddy.

But as you do, Shawn goes down. His head is just suddenly gone: it explodes in a shower of gore. You duck, shouting, and roll out of the way. His corpse lands next to you with a thud.

"Goddamn it," Marquis shouts. He steps quickly back, foxtrotting, and Freddy follows suit.

"Don't you fucking abandon me!" You holler, still lying prone. "You leave, and your husband gets nothing! You hear me?"

Marquis wheels on you. The gunfire is retreating now, turning in the direction of the front gates as the second group of men stage their assault the Russians now.

"What did you just say?" Marquis demands. "My guys are dying 'cause of you."

"They're dying because of you!" You say. "You tripped that alarm!"

An orange bloom and deafening explosion rip through the night. You turn, and in the illumination of the fireball you see Russians lobbing grenades at Marquis's men. So much for not making a scene.

You stand, kick through the emergency exit and enter the HR building. Whether Marquis comes along or not is immaterial. There's no time to waste. 

You cut through the darkened hallways and office space, the obnoxiously loud security alarms still blaring. You hold your gun in front of you, finger on the trigger, ready to fire. And as you enter into the main lobby of Darkbloom Analytics, you see your reason to: Vasily Kerimov, watching the vicious firefight from the safety of indoors.

Vasily's reaction time is unfortunately quicker. He spins: in his hands is a machine pistol, and he fires at you. You dive behind the main reception counter, the one sitting just below the massive 20-foot portrait of David Darkbloom.

You pant like a dog as your eyes adjust to the even dimmer space under the counter.

"Give it up, Alabaster!" Vasily calls. You hear the clack of his approaching footsteps. "If you cooperate, you can still save your friends downstairs. We will kill you, naturally... but they can live, at least..."

You sit on your butt, back against the wall, and wait, your breath running ragged. He could approach from any number of angles and you have no way to cover them all.

"Alabaster, please. Come out. Don't make me radio Stasi and tell her to slit Mr. Best's throat."

You set your jaw and try not to hyperventilate.

"Fine," he says. "I will treat you like a child, if I must. I am counting to three."

You've got no choice. You're going to need to stand up, and fire blindly.

"One."

You steady yourself and try to clear your mind of all other thoughts.

"Two."

You rock back and forth, preparing to spring up.

"Thr--"

A bang that echoes off the smooth wood-paneled walls. Bright light. The ruffle of something heavy hitting the tiled floor.

"Fucker!"

It's Whitney's voice.

You peek out from around the counter. Vasily is dead at her feet.

"I told you to wait for me!" You hiss. The gunfight continues apace, past the front entrance. You see the giant bronze globe that surmounts the fountain out front come loose from its pedestal and roll with a squealing crash to the ground. It barrels to the side and bowls over a screaming Russian, crushing him to death.

"It's a good thing I didn't!" Whitney says, running over and helping you to your feet. "Did you get Alex?"

"Not yet," you say. "But that's next."

"What are we waiting for? Come on!"

You kneel behind the counter again, pulling her with you. "I'll go. You need to wait behind -- for real now."

"Absolutely not. The CEO can't just sit around while a bunch of mooks shoot up her company."

"Goddamn it, Whitney. Don't you--" you sigh and shake your head.

"What?" She says.

"You can't. You have to go back, where it's safe -- wait for me. If I lost you..."

She cocks her head like a confused puppy.

"You idiot," you say. "Don't you understand what I'm telling you?"

"I understand you're wasting time. We need--"

"I love you."

Her jaw hangs slack for a moment. When she can move at all, she clasps a palm over it, eyes bulging.

"So for the last time -- please. Go wait somewhere safe. I'll be out soon."

"Ally..."

You pull her hand away and kiss her. It's a deep and forceful - if brief - kiss. She swoons against you, opening herself completely to your mouth, going almost limp.

"Okay?" You say when you pull back.

She shakes her head. "But I love you, too. You stupid... how can I let you go risk your life like this?"

"Because everything happening tonight is my fault. So it's up to me to fix it."

"Promise you'll be okay!"

"I promise."

"Double promise!"

"I double promise."

"Triple promise!"

"Whitney..."

She stands and steps back. "Back to your car?" She says.

"No. Across the street. The parking garage there. I'll meet you on the third floor."

"Why?"

"Just trust me." 

Down the stairwell, down, down, down into total darkness. The flashlight on your phone illuminates nothing but a tiny cone a few feet in diameter at its greatest extent. Anyone could be waiting to ambush you down here.

You quickly try to see if there's a setting on the phone that will let you turn the flashlight's brightness up; while fumbling around, you pull up your camera app instead.

It still has only one photo on it: Alex.

>"Take a picture of me! I want to be the first photo on your new phone!" 

Alex's happy double peace sign from just a couple months ago stares back at you. How did everything come to this in such a short amount of time?

You shake that thought off and hurry forward.

At the very bottom of the winding stairs, you push through the door to the server room. 

The servers are running, even if they're not connected to the internet, and their eerie blue light is still illuminating the vast maze down here.

You call out, bluffing:

"Come out, Stasi. We've got you surrounded."

But the response that comes back isn't her:

"She's gone."

"...Marquis?"

You stride down the aisles of the server farm, towards the sound of his voice, your gun at the ready. He's standing in front of a wheeled chair, where a bug-eyed Alex is still hogtied with duct tape. You rush over, rip the tape from Alex's mouth.

"Ally... Ally..." he weeps once he can speak again, shaking all over like a wounded bird.

"Scared her away," Marquis says darkly, from beside you. "Almost had her... but not quite..."

"Are you okay?" You ask Alex. "Where's Sable?"

"I don't know... she's gone..."

You pull a pocket knife out and cut the duct tape off his hands. As you work on his ankles, Marquis taps you on the shoulder.

He's holding Penelope.

"You said Sand Reckoner wasn't done yet. But Stasi told me everything."

"What?" You stammer.

"You're double crossing Daddy? Huh? Thought you could team up with the Russians, wipe us out, we wouldn't realize till it's too late?"

You stand on shaky legs and step back.

"Marquis... I don't know what you're talking about--"

From seemingly nowhere, he produces a baseball bat, and whacks you in the back of the knees. You fall to the ground with a howl and your gun clatters out of your hands.

"Ally! Ally!"

"Give me the detonator," Marquis says. "Right now. Or I'll bash your fuckin' brains out."

That ringing comes, again. That crossing vision, that disconnection from reality. You're losing it.

"M-Marquis..." you manage. "Please... listen to me... whatever-- whatever-- whatever Stasi t-told you, it's--"

"You lying motherfucker!" Marquis screams. As your vision clears, you see him raise his bat above his head. You cower and try to cover your face with your hands, as if that will do anything. 

"--GRAHH--!!"

You hear it before you process what you're seeing - the swift blur of motion that tackles Marquis to the ground.

Alex, even with his ankles tied, has managed to knock Marquis over. Marquis lands with a loud knock against the tile floor, his head rebounding back in a really painful looking bounce.

He lies there dazed for just a split second, his bat on the ground next to him. He and Alex both glance at it. With the concussion Marquis just sustained, Alex is quicker on the uptake. He grabs the bat and wriggles back up onto his knees. With a savage scream he brings it down - no hesitation at all. There's a sickening 'krr-ack' and blood runs darkly all over the ground.

Marquis is still alive. Groaning, he reaches for your gun and gets his hands over it.

But that's the last thing he ever does. Alex is already bringing the bat down again.

And then again. And again, and again.

"AAHHHHH!! AAAAAHHH!!!" He shouts as he beats Marquis's head into a bloody, pulpy mess of brain matter.

You haul yourself to your feet and get behind Alex and pull him away from the horrible carnage of it. Only with your hands around him does he let go of the bat.

With halting, trembling motions, Alex looks down at his own bloody hands, his gore-spattered shirt, the corpse he's responsible for -- and it seems this is the first moment he actually processes that he just took a human life.

"I-- I--" He stutters.

And then he screams. Horribly -- way worse than the savage grunts he unleashed when he was actually killing Marquis. Those were screams of adrenaline and fear. This is a wail of pure despair. You've heard it once before: when Cerise got the call that mom and dad were dead.

You embrace Alex, hug him tight and pet his head, but he keeps screaming into you. His cries are only slightly muffled by your chest, and you feel him heaving. There's nothing you can do to console him. 

Outside the front entrance, there's nothing but corpses and charred Earth. If anyone survived this mess, they're long gone.

Distantly, you hear sirens, and you know you need to hurry too.

You find Kay exactly where you expected her to be: camping out in the parking garage across the street, leaning against her shitty Subaru's hood, waiting. Whitney is next to her.

When Kay sees you, she throws up her arms in frustration. "Where's the kaboom? There was supposed to be an Earth-shattering kaboom!"

Only as Alex rounds the corner now does Kay realize that something terrible has happened. Still splattered with gore and looking even paler than usual, Alex is an awful sight.

"Good lord," Kay says. "You ruined a perfectly good little gay boy. What the hell happened?"

Whitney is at Alex's side now, petting him like he's a sick kitten who needs to be nursed back to health, cooing and hugging him.

"I need a favor," you say. "Take Alex and Whitney back to Galatea's apartment and wait there."

Alex has a thousand yard stare that seems to indicate he isn't really present for this conversation. Not even Whitney can rouse him.

Kay considers him for a few long moments, then: "All right. But I want a favor in exchange."

"Oh my god. What?"

"Whitney told me everything," she says. "I have to imagine you're not planning to blow up that building anymore. Assuming you survive the next few hours and she actually gets to serve as CEO, I want in too."

You give her a bewildered look.

Kay pokes you in the chest. "I want to be embedded. 24/7, unrestricted access to the inner workings of Darkbloom Analytics 2.0. For a year. No, two years. I'll start with a series of Time articles, then parlay that into a book deal--"

"For fuck's sake."

"Take it or leave it, Alabaster."

>[x] Deal.
[ ] No deal.

"Fine. Whatever. Just get Whitney and Alex out of here."

"You got it, chief."

She gets in the car. Whitney helps Alex into the backseat. Before getting in too, she says: "do you have enough time? You know... to do the thing with those bombs."

You check your phone. You've got five hours. You're not at all confident that's enough time.

"I've got more than enough time," you say.

Whitney kisses you goodbye and climbs in alongside Alex. Kay pulls away. 

On your way down to the manhole cover where you'll gain access to the sewers with the bombs you need to defuse, you take a quick look for Sable's van.

It's gone.

Somehow, in all the confusion, she slipped away.

You hope she's safe, wherever she is.

---

Wearing a lighted helmet, your hands work quickly, pulling charges off the garland of colored wires you have rigged beneath the building. You know every moment that passes is one moment closer to accidentally jihading yourself.

But your estimate of how long this would take, already conservative, soon proves to be an awful underestimation.

Two, three hours pass; you're hardly making a dent in the massive cache of bombs you have rigged beneath the building. Should you abandon the effort? Let Darkbloom Analytics blow up?

It doesn't matter. Either way, you're probably dead. If those servers go down permanently, you have the sinking feeling that you'll be a vegetable within a couple days.

12:00 AM comes and goes. 1:00 AM. 2:00 AM. You wipe the sweat from your brow and fight off the woozy, brain-foggy malaise gripping your every cell. Time isn't on your side. You're not going to make it.

"Alabaster!"

You turn. It's Rose. Back in town at the worst possible time, as expected. 

"Goddamn it," you say. "How the hell did you--" but you already know how. She still has a tracker on you.

"Aren't you running out of time?" She says.

"Yeah. And the longer you annoy me, the more time I waste. Go away."

You turn and set back to work.

She doesn't go away. She comes up and kneels down next to you. "Show me how," she says. "I can help."

"No, you can't. You'll fuck it up."

"I'm not stupid!" She insists. "In case you forgot, I scored more points than you at the quiz bowl championship. That makes me smarter--"

You turn, putting an index finger in her face. "I'm serious, Rose. Go away. I don't need your help. And I don't want it."

She shoves you. "You stupid ass!"

You shove her back. "Dumb bitch!"

You're both standing now, facing off. But is this really the time for one of your brawls? 

"You're going to get yourself blown up!" You say. "Get the hell out of here and let me work in peace!"

"I'm not leaving," Rose says, her voice low and level. "So show me how to help."

"Why?" You shout, seething. "Why can't you just, just fucking -- LISTEN to me for once? Why can't you just go away?"

"It's because..." Rose drawls. Her voice is full of uncharacteristic trepidation. She trails off and wrenches her eyes closed. "Because... because..."

"Out with it!"

"Because I'm in love with you!"

Her confession echoes off the dark, grimy walls.

She stands there trembling, breathing heavy, waiting for a reply.

You turn in a worried little circle, unable to formulate a response. It comes as a shock to you, those words, from that person... but another part of your brain tells you that you actually shouldn't be shocked at all, tells you that you're a fucking moron for being surprised even a little bit.

Either way, it's out now. And now you know you'll never convince her to leave. Unless -- unless.

You stop in place, your back to her, and you realize what has to happen. You kneel down, keep working on defusing the bombs -- can't waste time, even now. This gives you a moment to prepare, too.

You take a deep breath, and then you let it go. "I hate you," you say.

All the thousands of times you've said those three words over the years, you've never put that kind of venom into it, that kind of forcefulness and meaning. You say it with real hatred dripping off every syllable.

When you glance over your shoulder, you see it landed with the force you needed it to. Tears stream down Rose's face, glinting in the light of your helmet. "W-what?" She says.

You keep going: "Did you think I was joking all this time? I hate you. I've always hated you. You're an obnoxious, pretentious, fat, stupid bitch. I hate you."

Rose is stumbling backwards as if you're physically striking her. You can't bear to watch; you look back down at your nimble fingers.

"Alabaster..." she breathes, her voice hoarse and hardly more than whisper. "Please... y-you don't mean that... be serious..."

"You're an ugly, unloveable harpy." Another bomb defused. "Sure, I played with you for a little while... because I didn't have anything better to do. Because it was fun for a little bit. And just like the pathetic waste of skin you are, you thought it meant I cared about you. But to tell you the truth? I'm bored of you now. I have other girls to fuck... girls I actually care about."

You steal another glance back. She's stammering but no words are escaping her lips. Her face is a wet mess of tears. She holds her hands to her cheeks as if to try to catch them and force them back inside.

"Leave me alone," you sneer. You turn to face your work again. "Fucking cunt."

You quickly wipe the tears from your own face as Rose's pathetic weeping fills the sewer. 

Your heart flutters: once, then again. You grunt in pain.

"A-Alabaster...?"

"I told you to go away!" You manage. You wave a hand wildly behind you, the universal signal for "get the hell back."

You lurch forward, catch yourself, try to keep working. But all the colors are blending, you can't see anything. You're on the verge of blacking out.

"Alabaster! What's wrong?"

"I'm having a fucking heart attack..." you say, your voice weak.

You fight against it, but no use. Your chest feels like it's exploding, your brain feels like it's melting. You sway and finally fall over. Rose kneels down next to you.

"Tell me how!" She insists. "Tell me how to defuse the bombs!"

"I'm..." you say.

"Please! Tell me! I can do it!"

"Go..." you say. "Just go... leave me..."

"I'm not leaving! I love you! I love you, Alabaster! And no matter what you say I know you love

You pass out. 

When you wake up again, you're alone.

You stumble groggily to your butt, grope for your phone, check the time. 4:21 AM.

You glance at the bombs -- they're still there, a majority of them live and wired.

They were supposed to go off at 3 AM.

But you're not dead. And they haven't exploded yet.

You get to work again anyway, working with the urgent assumption that they'll go off at any second. It's almost 7 AM before you're done.

--

You climb out of the sewer.

On your knees trying your best to conceal yourself against the concrete barrier, you peek out from the first level of the parking garage, and catch a glimpse across the street to the cordoned-off scene of the violence at Darkbloom Analytics. Men and women in FBI coats are wandering around, taking photos and surveying the mess.

Noelle is there. As if she's goddamn psychic, she snaps her head around, looks directly across the street and locks eyes with you.

You freeze, terrified; but after a moment she turns, and doesn't seem to warn anyone else that she saw you.

Nonetheless, you beat a hasty retreat and leave out a side entrance down another road.

You walk back to Galatea's apartment. The sky is periwinkle in the immediate predawn, and streetlights are flickering back to life. People are milling around, talking excitedly about all the insanity that happened in the past 24 hours. You're anything but excited. 

April 21, 2015

Cerise isn't at home when you get back from Boise. Was she lying after all? Is she stuck in that shithole town?

If she's anywhere else, you know where to find her.

You drive to North High.

It's past 11 PM; the school is deserted and its halls are lit only by the occasional emergency light -- the ones that stay on no matter what. It gives the school a sort of weird, otherworldly quality. You navigate the halls slowly, somehow worried about being seen. As you approach the anime club room, you see the lights are on, and then you hear the opening theme of NeeKyu blaring loudly.

Of course. Cerise came here, plastered no doubt, to drown her sorrows in the Weeb Clubroom and watch anime on the big projector screen. You could throttle her for worrying you like that.

"Goddamn it, Cerise--" you mumble as you step into the clubroom.

But she isn't there, either.

You turn in a confused semicircle, searchingly, but nope -- it's just you here.

Only when you close the lid of her laptop and kill the music do you hear it: whimpering echoing off the walls. 

You step into the hall again and follow the source of the noise.

Around the corner, you find her. Cerise is sitting against a wall, hands clasped around her knees, crying.

The school janitor is lying on the ground in front of her, his eyes open and his tongue lolling from his mouth. He isn't breathing.

"Oh my god, Cerise..." you say. You kneel down, check for a pulse. His skin is already cool and his heart isn't beating. There can be no doubt: he's dead.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." she says.

"What happened?" You say.

"Damon... he... he came at me..."

She speaks slowly and her words are slurred. She's obviously drunk -- more than drunk, she's on the verge of passing out.

"He attacked you?" You say.

She nods. "He... I choked him... he was going to rape me..."

"D-did he?"

She shakes her head.

The blazing panic within you, of discovering a corpse that your older sister is responsible for, passes like a stormcloud. You quickly assess the situation with a rational mind.

These are the facts.

Cerise, a student who graduated years ago, is trespassing on campus after hours, drunk, and has no obvious sign of physical trauma.

She killed a man -- one who wasn't trespassing. More than that: she choked him, let him die, and didn't even have the presence of mind to call for help when it was over.

She says it was self-defense, and you believe her unquestioningly. Will a court?

This is manslaughter. At the very least.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..." Cerise says, over and over.

You grab her shoulders.

"You didn't kill Damon."

"Wh-what?"

"You didn't kill Damon. Damon was an arsonist. He's been burning down buildings with specially wired Roombas for a couple years now. Tonight he made a mistake. He accidentally burned down the school. And he died in the fire."

"Alabaster..."

"Say it. Tell that story to yourself again and again until you believe it."

She collapses against your shoulder, weeping. You hug her tight.

"I'll take care of everything," you tell her. "I promise... I promise." 

---

At Galatea's apartment, it's all hugs and smiles from Whitney and Rose -- Stackleford tries to get in on the action too, but you swat him away.

Gal, Alex and Cerise aren't here, though. You ask where they are.

"Asleep," Whitney says. "In there." She points towards Gal's bedroom.

You head for the room, unafraid of breaches of privacy in a moment like this. You need to see them.

You open the door.

They're not asleep.

Cerise is sitting at Galatea's desk, staring dead-eyed at a laptop screen.

Alex is sitting on Galatea's bed, his face grim; beside him, a still-bloody tarp.

Galatea is on the floor next to the computer, hugging herself and rocking back and forth.

"Cerise...?" You say as Rose and Whitney elbow into the bedroom too.

She looks at you now. Her eyes are a brilliant, gleaming sapphire blue.

"Oh no... no, no..." You say.

"Sand Reckoner..." Rose breathes.

Whitney kneels in front of Galatea. Cerise gazes down at them, but it's like she isn't fully here.

"What did you do?" Whitney demands. "What did you do?"

"she told me to... she told me... it was the only way to get the pgp key..."

"Fix it! Fucking fix it!" Whitney yells.

You catch Cerise's attention. "Hey. Hey, are you--"

When her eyes lock with yours, she starts shaking. She looks like she's seeing hell itself. "I... I..."

She clutches her face.

"Cerise?"

"My eye... my eye..."

It starts as a barely audible whisper and increases in volume until she's shrieking. She slides to the floor, her face in her hands, rocking side to side, yelling in agony.

You cradle her, unable to shake her to her senses. Whitney is punching Galatea in the face, vicious blows, bloodying her up; Rose is on her phone, calling an ambulance; Alex's shellshock has been replaced by an utterly helpless look of despair.

And in your arms, your sister's shrieks turn back to whimpers, and then she passes out. 

July 4, 2009

Of course your faggot brother had to ghost right before the fireworks. Mom, sitting on the towel and too tired to bother, sends you to go find him.

"Why me?" You complain.

"You have Alabaster-dar," she says, holding two fingers at her temples like antennae. "Bewwwww. Ala-bast-or," she says in a robotic voice.

You groan. "Fine..." you say.

You go searching along the shore. You follow the curve of the beach, passing by family after family. They all seem happier than yours, laughing and joking and having a nice time. You wonder what the difference is.

Finally you come across a little isolated cove. Maybe you do have Alabaster-dar, after all. You know he's probably here.

You climb over an outcrop of rocks and into the cove.

Yep. He's here. And he's jacking off, the pervert.

He senses your presence. He whips his neck in your direction, at the same time falling forward and tugging his swim trunks back up. Not in time. You saw it all.

"Pfff-- were you-- oh my GOD, Alabaster!"

"What are you doing here? Go away!"

"I was looking for you, you little dork. Mom was worried."

You sit in the sand beside him. He looks away, turning bright red.

"You're such a pervert," you say. "Only someone like you would do something like that in a place like this."

"I don't want to hear it," he says. He points at you. "Or maybe you think Mom would like to know about that copy of Limewire you keep hidden on the family computer in a folder labeled 'homework.'"

Your laughter turns into a choke. "Y-you-- how do you know about that?!"

At this moment, a brilliant burst of green pyrotechnics in the sky illuminates your blushing faces. As the light fades, the crackling boom reaches your eardrums.

A few quiet moments pass. Alabaster stands. "I'm going back."

"Wait--" you say, but you're not sure why. You reach out to clasp his hand. "Why don't we stay here for a second?"

A blue burst of light flashes like a strobe in the sky. You see his confused look.

"What?" he says. "Why should we?"

You don't know. You can only shrug.

"If you want me to do your summer homework for you," he says imperiously, "you can just forget it. You're not going to butter me up so easily."

"That's not it. It's just... it's so nice and quiet here. I thought we could watch the fireworks together."

He pulls his hand from yours and steps back, looking you over. The fireworks begin to come in a continuous stream now, the bubble-wrapping pop of explosions and white smoke accentuating the glittering panorama of color.

A beat passes, the kind of beat that feels like it has the whole universe hinging on it.

"Okay." He sits down. "But don't try anything weird."

As you sit there beside your annoying little brother, leaning against each other, something feels somehow different. Like a critical moment has come and gone without remark - like a choosing has changed it all.

END OF SEASON 2.

ONE WEEK LATER.

You find Saul and his wife in the lobby, on the Darkbloom Analytics side of the roped-off area where the FBI has their temporary office space set up. You have to hand it to the feds: putting their investigation hub not only on-site but right in the middle of the building's main hall, sends a clear message to everyone here: you're under the microscope.

Saul and Noelle are giving each other silent glares from across the cordon. It's sort of like a South Korean solider facing up to a North Korean soldier at the DMZ.

"Alabaster," says Mrs. Mallory as she sees you coming up. She lays a hand on your shoulder. "How's Cerise?"

"Better," you say. Mr. and Mrs. Mallory join you on the way to the elevator. "She's a fighter."

"That's good to hear," she says. "Are you holding up all right, too?"

You shrug.

In the elevator, Saul says: "Neither of us are probate attorneys. We know really very little. And this is a massive undertaking. So I've gotten a few friends involved who know more about it than I do, to help things along."

"That's fine," you say. "I trust you to do the right thing." (Of course you do. You explained quite clearly to Saul that if Whitney gets her fortune, Rose will never have to want for anything ever again.)

On the top floor, in the reception area outside the executive conference suite, is a small army of suited men. Saul shakes their eager hands each in turn and goes full A-type personality as he greets and jokes with them. 'A few friends'? Hell, this must be half the people in Silicon Valley with JDs.

Mrs. Mallory is in the sea of lawyers now, too, trading well-wishes and quick catch-ups: how are the kids, did you ever get that garage addition, still planning to buy that movie theater? -- and so on. You tune it out.

You glimpse Rose now, too. It feels fitting to bump into her here -- waiting outside the meeting room for a critical interview.

You pull her aside.

"How's Cerise?" she asks.

"You're too much like your mother. Cerise is doing a little better. I mean, she's still... anyway, she'll be fine."

Rose nods.

"There's something I wanted to tell you," you say.

She frowns, and waits for you to come out with it. This is hard to do, but you know you need to make amends.

"About what I told you in the sewer. I didn't -- I didn't mean that."

"I'm sorry, what?" Rose says.

Now you're the one frowning. "Don't make this into a big production. That's the best you're getting out of me. I didn't mean any of it."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Rose cuts in, and her confusion sounds genuine. "The sewer? What, the one where you had all those... you never said anything to me down there. I never even set foot down there."

You search her face for tells, but you think she's being honest. She doesn't remember confronting you, her confession, the awful things you said.

You step back. "Just... forget it."

"You're freaking me out. Don't lose your head too, Alabaster."

In the conference room, Whitney sits at the long mahogany table's head. She wears an outfit you don't think you'll ever get used to seeing: an executive suit and dress pants. The rest of the board, what remains of it, is in session.

Vivian is here too, with her mother: both are wearing all black, their faces veiled, in mourning.

Saul and Mrs. Mallory settle in on opposite sides of Whitney. Mara has her own personal attorneys there to advise as well.

"Thad McMichael..." Whitney looks up from the reference sheet in her hands. "Where's he?"

"He was... arrested," Dalton says.

"Child porn," Nelson adds. "Nasty stuff."

Whitney frowns. "Sable Guiteau?" She asks.

"Still looking," Armstong says. "I have top guys on it. But as of now, we have to assume she won't be back."

Whitney uses her pen to point at each of the board members in turn. "Okay. So far, the board is the Russian connection over here, an intern -- no offense, Ally -- a security guy who didn't realize there were bombs underneath the building," (Dalton chokes and sputters at this casual revelation), "an MIA mad scientist, a politician who got kicked out of office and a pedophile. Am I missing anyone?"

"Me," Nelson says.

"And Casual Friday here," Whitney finishes. "Okay. You schmucks are afraid I'm gonna run this company into the ground? It sounds like you were already six feet under before I even got here."

"I move that we oust this horrible girl and put me in charge as interim CEO until Vivian can take the reins," Mara says.

"Motion fails," Whitney says.

Saul leans in and whispers in her ear.

"Oh, well. I guess I have to let you guys vote on it."

Mara, Dalton, and Armstrong vote yea. You and Whitney of course vote nay. It all comes down to Nelson's vote. Folding his arms, smiling, and looking Mara directly in the eyes, he says: "nay."

"Nelson--" Mara begins.

"It's nay. David Darkbloom made a lot of mistakes, Mara, but he was right about one thing. You should never be allowed to control this company. I'd rather have Ms. wrong-side-of-the-bell-curve over here."

Whitney points at him. "I assume that's an insult, but thank you! Motion fails."

She fiddles idly with her pen now, before turning to Mara and saying: "Hey Mara. Ya fired!" She does that wheezing laughter thing she falls into whenever she's really amused: "heeeh heeeh. I've always wanted to do that. Ya fired!"

Saul whispers in her ear again. Her smile drops. "My lawyer informs me I can't do that at this current, present juncture."

"This is what you've just voted for," Mara tells Nelson, indicating Whitney with an exasperated wave of her palm. "Are you happy now?"

Whitney cuts through, pointing again at Mara: "still though -- ya fired! Haha. I love that. But, uh, legally speaking... you're not really fired. But... ya fired!"

"Whitney..." you say. "Maybe it's time to move on to interim replacements... I think you had suggestions for CPO and CTO?"

"Oh, yeah, that. Yeah. Let's get started." 

A couple hours later, Whitney's first board meeting as CEO adjourns. The company still exists and no one else died, so that's a win, right? And she only dozed off one time. (No one noticed except for you and Mrs. Mallory, who nudged her politely awake.)

The board assented to Tyrus and Alex coming on as permanent replacements for Thaddeus and Sable.

Whitney purposely left the CFO position vacated by Vasily Kerimov open -- so that you can back her up on board votes. The political intrigue has already begun apace.

Having Tyrus on the board is going to be... terrifying, frankly. A few days ago you heard him describe, in gory detail, all the horrible things he plans to do to Stasi in retaliation for the death of his husband. It made you shudder in barely-suppressed fear. He can never know the truth of what happened.

---

You join Whitney in what used to be David Darkbloom's office. She intends to take it for herself, it seems. You close the door to get a little privacy from Kay, who's already busily getting herself set up in a vacant corner office just a short jaunt down the hall.

"Check out this fucking chair," Whitney says. She sits in Darkbloom's tall-backed leather executive swivel chair. Holding the lifting mechanism to brace herself, she leans way back.

"Whitney--"

"It's all ergonomic and shit! Bio-dad had great taste."

Whitney's lean hits a critical point and the chair tips onto two of its wheeled legs, nearly toppling over. She has to windmill her arms wildly to stop her momentum and right herself again. When the chair lands back on all four wheels with a thud, she pauses in place, uncomprehending the workings of physics just now. And then she laughs.

You feel a presence behind you. It's Mara and Vivian entering the office.

"Oh, you're still here," Whitney says, leaning to one side to look past you. She locks eyes with Mara. "Great. Could you run down to the cafeteria and grab me a cup of coffee?"

Mara sneers. "Just because my late, dear husband scribbled out a two sentence will leaving everything to the slime that dribbled out of his condom 20 years ago, doesn't mean it's ironclad. I will fight you over every fucking dime, you stupid cunt."

Whitney considers this for a few moments. The silence is palpable.

Finally, she pulls out her handbag and fishes through it.

She takes a dime and flicks it across the room. It describes a perfect parabola and beans Mara directly in the center of her forehead. A circular red indentation is visible in her pale skin: FDR in reverse. She flutters her eyes in baffled indignation.

"First one's free," Whitney says.

Mara turns on her heels and leaves the office, slamming the door behind her.

"I take milk and sugar!" Whitney calls after her. 

Vivian is still here. This is the first time you've been alone with her since everything that happened that night.

In her exquisitely brocaded and intricately laced black dress, she looks less like a grieving daughter and more like a convention-goer, but the expression on her face -- the same one she's been wearing for a week now -- is a deep and obviously sincere sadness.

"Congratulations," she says simply.

You have no idea what the proper response is.

She turns and goes to the window overlooking the front gates. The globe that used to sit on top of the fountain is still sitting where it fell to the ground, roped off with caution tape. She stares at it. The sunlight of the mid-afternoon makes Vivian's porcelain skin look almost ghostly.

"Alabaster Soliloquy. Somehow, some way... I know you were responsible for father's death."

"I'm sorry for your loss," you say -- in a way you hope comes off as authentic rather than blithe.

"No you are not," Vivian says, curtly. "No one is. Not even mother is."

"Hey," Whitney says. "Have you ever been to Disneyland? We should go sometime. Sisterly bonding and all that."

"I am not the theme park type."

Whitney purses her lips.

Turning finally to face you, Vivian says: "I understand. In the past few days I have learned so many awful things about father. The news has become a ceaseless procession of his sins, each more horrible than the last. Every day I am subjected to some new revelation about the depths of his venality, his sadism, and his depravity. He was not the man I thought he was." 

"Things will get better," you offer. "It might be hard to see that now, but they will. I speak from experience."

"You do. My father took your parents from you." She pauses, smooths her dress. "You took mine from me."

"Vivian, I--"

"I watched it happen with my own two eyes. I know you orchestrated it."

She looks this way and that around the room as if searching for something - or maybe she just has a bittersweet nostalgia for the trappings of Darkbloom's office. "Was there no other way?" she finally asks.

"I don't know," you admit.

"Mother will want you both dead. The only reason she hasn't ordered you killed is that you hold Sand Reckoner -- that, and the cascading will."

(If Whitney should die, the Darkbloom fortune devolves to you; if you die, it devolves to Cerise; if Cerise dies, it devolves to Rose; if Rose dies, it devolves to her parents; if they die, it all goes to charity.)

"We know that," Whitney says. "She'd stab me about 20,000 times if she could."

"What do you think we should do?" You ask.

"You murdered one of my parents already. I am sure you will find some way to murder the other one, in time."

She steps forward, slowly, slinkingly, and lays a hand against your chest.

"I can understand, but I can never forget what you did." She steps back. "No matter what, Alabaster Soliloquy, you will not replace my father. Nor will I allow this slattern who calls herself my sister to bring his company to ruin."

"Whoa," Whitney says. "Cool it with the thesaurus-based insults, missy. I've still got 18 years worth of big sister noogies to pay you back with."

"I look forward to working with you both," Vivian says. "Farewell for now."

She goes, leaving you wondering what is truly going through her mind. 

Alone with Whitney now, you sit across from her.

"Things are gonna be crazy from now on," you say.

"They were always crazy, dumbass."

"Crazier, then. Whitney... we're headed for really dark times here. I don't want to scare you -- but we need to remember that. There are so many powerful people against us... people who want to take everything we have... Russian mafia... FBI... Tyrus and his men... even your own sister--"

"Holy shit," Whitney says, craning her neck to look underneath the desk on her side. "Bio-dad has a tap that dispenses diet Coke! What the fuck? This is amazing!"

She hops up and grabs a glass from a shelf on the wall. She pours herself some diet Coke. "Want some?"

"Whitney..."

She sits down, blows on the drink's foamy head to dispel the bubbles, and takes a sip. "Sorry. Go ahead. I'm listening."

"I think I'm done," you say.

She nods.

A beat passes. Then she says, apropos of nothing: "Wanna fuck?"

END OF SEASON 2
(For real) 

*********************************

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, billionaire by proxy and somehow still sort of a loser.

Somewhere in northern Alaska
April 21, 202x

It's not just cold. It's not just "freezing" or "bone-chilling" or any other hackneyed phrase people trot out when the temperature dips below 0. The cold inside this cabin is way more complex than that. It has high notes and undertones, motifs and little one-off flourishes; it does pirouettes through your body and touches every part a little differently. It makes your shin splints ring in agony, makes your chest all heavy like it will collapse under the labor of drawing breath, makes your hands feel like they've been turned into oversized foam. Worst of all it envelops your brain in an icy fog that prevents you from thinking clearly.

The little fire in the little furnace in the corner is hardly enough. Huddling close, you feel not even token warmth. It may as well not be lit at all. You shiver miserably and hug yourself.

The howl of wind through the opening front door and the unexpected blast of it against your back nearly knock you over. You reel around, frightened and angry. But it's just your wife, back from a trip into town, all insulated in layers of down puff-jackets and ski pants. She was supposed to be going for groceries but she enters the cabin empty-handed.

"Took you long enough," you grunt as she forces the door shut behind her. It took her three and a half hours, in fact -- you were keeping track. And you were beside yourself with worry, though you would never admit it. Falling into old habits even now.

She fixes you in her gaze. "They're coming," she announces, and your gut does somersaults.

"How did they--"

"We have to go. Now."

You grope at your numb face with your numb right hand. "Did you lead them to us? Figures... I send you into town one time and this is what happens."

"This is YOUR fault," she counters. "Do NOT even think of blaming me. You got sloppy, Al--"

"Fine, fine. We'll talk about it later." She's falling into old habits too, but this isn't the time to get into another of your arguments. She's right. You need to go.

You send her to keep the car warm while you pack your meager belongings. When you're done, as you haul the duffel bags over your shoulder and brace yourself to make the short journey from the front door to the car, you consider the furnace again. You should go and put it out, that's the sensible thing. But you decide it would just be a waste of time. It's not your cabin and you'll never be back again anyway. Let it burn. Everything else is already burning too.

You go out and join your wife, to start again into the unknown; to run.

---

Whitney reaches for the ornate jade bowl of Jelly Bellies on her desktop. "Watch this," she commands.

She takes one -- popcorn flavor, ugh -- and flicks it vertically into the air. Its arc is tight and steady. As it crests only inches from the high-hung ceiling, Whitney braces herself against the desk with both hands, tilts her head back and opens her jaw to a pythonesque circumference. She tries to position herself beneath the hurtling piece of candy by steering her wheeled chair around, using her grip on the desk for leverage. But her micro-adjustments aren't precise enough and the Jelly Belly strikes her in the left eye.

"MY EYE!" she shrieks as she doubles forward and clutches at it. "MY EYYYEEEE!"

"Are you okay?" You ask, shocked into an uncharacteristic show of concern.

"Get the first aid kit!" she says.

You leap to your feet, but then you realize something: "Wait -- where is the first aid kit?"

"I don't fucking know! That's not my job! Go get it!"

You look this way and that, feeling helpless, and finally turn for the door. But Whitney stops you from setting off by holding out a flattened palm. "Hold on. Hold on." She takes her other hand from her eye and straightens her posture. Her face is contorted into a caricature of a wink, her mouth curled up in a grimace, but with effort she forces the injured eye open. Tears stream down her face as she blinks her vision back to normal again. Finally: "I'm okay."

"Christ," you say.

She reaches for the bowl again. "This time for sure," she insists.

You put your hand over the top of it. "You're an idiot. We've got a lot to go over before the meeting on Monday, so how about we table your quest to go blind for now."

Whitney grumbles. 

Rose2 pokes her head in. Her cotton-candy pink bangs sway with the momentum of it. "Ohayou!"

You shudder.

Whitney leans to one side so she can see around you. "Wisconsin," she says.

Rose2 dangles an arm into the room. She's holding a heavy-looking plastic bag with Kanji characters printed on it. Grease is pooling in the corners of it, visible through the thin material. "Got your lunch!" She says.

"Bring it here," Whitney says, sweeping her things to one side to make room. Rose2 goosesteps in and dutifully sets it down before her. She finishes with a salute.

You fish your order out of the bag and sit across from Whitney again, now joined (unfortunately) by Rose2. "Itadakimasu!" She says, clapping her hands together. By your count, 40% of her speech so far has been pidgin Japanese. Par for the course.

You were hungry, but you hardly have an appetite anymore as you watch Whitney shoveling down her food. She opts for the plastic fork, rather than the chopsticks. She hunches over the bowl and horks her lunch with all the grace and elegance of a pig at a trough.

"How are you not 300 pounds?" You say, genuinely marveling at her.

Whitney makes an "I 'unno" sound through a mouthful of rice. She finishes chewing and adds: "I can't get enough of this chicken and egg bowl. It's addictive as shit."

She's not lying. This is the fifth day running she's had lunch from this restaurant. She tried it at Rose2's suggestion and now it's practically all she wants to eat anymore.

"Rosie, do you know who the chef at this restaurant is?" Whitney asks.

She shrugs. "I think his name is Jorge or Jose or something. All the people in the kitchen at Meiji's look kinda Mexican, actually. I've never seen gaijin cook like this!"

"You do know you're a gaijin, right?" You say.

Rose2 titters as if you're joking. 

Whitney points at her with her rice-flecked fork. "Tell Juan he's hired."

This must be International Horrible Mouth Sounds Through Food Day because now it's Rose2's turn: she squeaks and tries to manage "what?" despite the udon noodles hanging from her lips.

"Go back to Magi's--"

"Meiji's," Rose2 mumblingly corrects, cheeks still stuffed with noodles.

"--and tell the chef he's hired. I want him here in our kitchen."

Rose2 swallows. She puts a contemplative forefinger to her chin and stares at the ceiling. "I think the chef on day shift is actually the owner."

"It doesn't matter. I'll pay him whatever, he can name his price. Just go and hire him."

"Can we do that?" Rose2 asks. "Just... go buy someone? What if he wants, like, a million dollars?"

"That's fine."

Rose2 furrows her brow. This is taxing her meager computing power. Between Whitney and Rose2, the collective IQ might crack triple digits if you grade on a curve.

"It's noon," Whitney says. "Do you know how much money I've lost in the stock market today?"

She shakes her head. "Couple thousand?"

"Over a billion dollars."

Rose2 theatrically holds a hand to her lips with the fingers fanned out. "Oh my goodness! That's awful!"

"Literally doesn't matter. That's how rich I am." She reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a checkbook. "Start him off with $100,000 and see what he says. If he wants more, don't fight him, just tell him he can have it." She fills out the check, rips it free and hands it over.

"I understand." Rose2 folds the check and puts it in her breast pocket, protected by her absurd scarf. She finishes eating with a few giant bites, gets up, and goes. 

"She doesn't understand," Whitney says when she's out of earshot.

"Of course not," you say. "Look, I know I recommended her, but if you decide you want to fire her--"

"Don't get me wrong. I love Rosie. She's a laugh riot." You close your eyes and silently curse your decision to bring Rose2 aboard. "What was that she said before we ate? Eat a Christmas?"

"Itadakimasu," you say.

"What's the translation?"

"It means... let's not get into that. I'd rather know why you want to spend $100,000 on a chef whose food you can already eat whenever you want for... what's the cost of the lunch special, $8.50?"

"$13.50," Whitney says, "which is highway fuckin' robbery by the way. I want him working for me because then I know where he is. If I let him stay at Magical's, who knows, maybe he quits or gets deported or whatever."

"Rose2 just said he owns the restaurant. I'm at least 99% certain he's a citizen if that's the case. So no deportation."

"You trust what Rosie says?" Whitney breathes. "You're a laugh riot too. That bubblegum-smelling pussy make you go stupid or what?"

There's a mental image you'd rather move past as quickly as possible.

"Honestly, Ally." She leans way back in her chair, hands on head, somehow managing to look lithe and athletic even in executive business-wear. (Must be the tan.) "I don't know why you're so gaga for her. She's dumb as pigshit, for real. Not your type at all."

"Why I'm gaga for her?" You repeat. "When have I ever said anything nice about Rose fucking 2?"

"So floating her resume down to Spancer in HR was because..."

"Of pity. It was because of pity."

"Uh huh. Not because you wanted someone to talk about anime panties with."

"You're crazy. You're an actual crazy person if you think I have any sort of, of... kinship, with Rose2."

Whitney cackles. She wiggles her fingers in front of her. "Ohhh no. Senpai's mad!"

The worst part about having Rose2 in such close proximity is that her patois, such as it is, has a tendency to rub off on people.

"Any case," Whitney says, "Rosie is definitely gonna fuck it all up. You wanna go help her?"

[ ] Go with Rose2 to hire the chef from the restaurant.
>[x] Stay with Whitney; important work to be done today.
[ ] Go find something else to do. 

"In case you forgot, we have to brief the investors on our funding situation on Monday. Then there's Solutions Forum... we have a lot of stuff to do before the weekend begins."

Whitney groans. "Ohhhh man. What a drag..."

"Being CEO is a drag." You've lost count of how many times you've had to explain this to her in the past year. "I have to keep an eye on you. I can't go around with your pet weeaboo, rounding up Mexicans for your kitchen."

"Whatever, dork. At least make sure Rosie's got supervision, then."

You've got just the person in mind for that. 

Rose kept the office where she worked with Cerise last year, during the investigation into the 3-10 hack. Naturally she appropriated all the cubicle space from the H1-B workers who were part of the team too, although she hasn't put it to much worthwhile use. The 13th floor is mostly empty save for a couple smaller offices where her parents, now legal advisers for the company, occasionally work.

She's on the phone when you enter. "Yes. Yes of course. Yes. Uh huh..." she's in that mode of trying to yes-yes someone off the line who doesn't want to go. She locks eyes with you and pantomimes blowing out her brains. "Thanks again, George. Yes. I'll see you in Davos. Yes. Goodbye!"

She slams the receiver back on the cradle and gives a disgusted purr that sounds sort of like "eughhh."

"So? How'd it go?"

She makes a face that plainly indicates her loathing and general psychic malaise over the conversation, then fakes a smile, one that she obviously wants you to know is fake. "Swimmingly," she says.

"But really."

"He's going to float us $2 billion in capital interest-free, as long as we pay it back within five years."

You're suspicious. "What's the catch?"

She tightens her jaw. "No catch... small catch. He just wants us to increase the number of impressions for liberal candidates on Facebook by... a substantial amount."

You take a step closer. "What does substantial mean, Rose?"

"35... thousand percent."

"Oh my god. People are going to notice that. 35 THOUSAND percent? That's 350 times!"

"I know. I passed all my math classes in college on my first try, unlike you. I talked him down from the ledge! He wanted 100,000% at first!"

"100,000-- we were supposed to talk about every major decision FIRST, Rose. That's the deal."

"Do you want me to turn down $2 billion when someone offers it so I can think about it with my b-- with my first cousin once removed? But don't thank me or anything, Alabaster! Just doing my part to keep the company alive so your defective brain doesn't shut down! I don't know why I bother!"

You get close and stand over her. "You need to consult me before making decisions like this. I do the same for you. Don't step out of line."

"What are you gonna do? Hit me?"

You peer down your nose at her. A tense moment passes. "No. You'd like that too much."

She lets out a frustrated sigh. 

"Whitney wants you to go supervise the other Rose," you tell her. "She sent her to the Japanese place on University -- Meiji's. Wants her to hire some Mexican chef."

"That's just what we need. An undocumented worker scandal."

"How do you know he's undocumented?" You chide. "Tsk tsk. Anyway, it's cultural outreach. You should be happy."

"I'm NOT going anywhere with that disgusting, culturally-appopriating--"

You grab her by the collar and haul her to her feet. "Yes you are. I already decided. See what it's like to have decisions made without your input?"

She spits in your face.

"You're going to regret that," you warn her.

She wrenches herself free. Hands no longer occupied, you wipe her drool off your face and sneer at her.

"Be right back," she chirps, grinning smugly.

With that small fire extinguished, it's time to go fetch Vivian so you can prep Whitney for the coming week. Work, for you, never ends. 

Vivian's office looks more like a funeral parlor, and Vivian is about pale enough to be the body there for the wake. The gothic knick-knacks and antique furniture started piling up, seemingly on their own, from the time of David Darkbloom's death, and the tide hasn't stemmed at all.

Her black-and-maroon velvet dress, black platform shoes and, most bizarre of all, black lace apron, only accentuate her whole "dead body" chic. She's at the black-trimmed window when you enter.

"Hey," you try.

"Good afternoon," she says, and fails to make eye contact. You've tried, but haven't gotten through to her on the importance of this.

"What are you up to? Got a few minutes?"

"Yes, I have time. I was merely contemplating the Nietzschean concept of the eternal recurrence. I've been reading--"

"That's just great," you say, short on time yourself, and not wanting to let Vivian launch into one of her soliloquys. "Whitney's waiting."

"But of course. We must all abide by her schedule. Lead the way, Alabaster Soliloquy." 

---

"I've got one for you," Whitney says. This ought to be entertaining. Whitney subscribes to a number of 'daily trivia' email lists now, and likes to quiz Vivian at random. So far, Vivian hasn't missed a single question.

Vivian waits passively for the prompt.

"Who is buried in Grant's tomb?"

"No one is buried in Grant's tomb. It is a mausoleum. Above ground. Similar to the edifice readied for my father, should we ever recover his corpse."

"Whoa, okay," Whitney says. "Let's not talk about dad's corpse. Anyway, you're close -- but no cigar! Grant's tomb is actually a museum."

"The question never required that I specify--" Vivian begins, then stopping herself, she says: "Excuse me? A museum?"

Whitney swivels her monitor around so Vivian can read. "See?"

Vivian bows just a bit to bring her face level to the screen. "Whitney, that word says mausoleum. Not museum."

Whitney yanks the monitor in the other direction and peers at it, squinting. "Hmm... shit. Okay. You got me." She glances up at you. "This little brat's too good for me."

"Shall we begin?" Vivian says. She sits. "I received late word from Rose Mallory that the funding situation has improved. We may not need to ask the SEC for permission to mass liquidate family financial instruments and put them back into the company. Is that so?"

Whitney shrugs. She wouldn't know.

"Right. And yet we still have yet to devise our pivot. We are bleeding cash, in the words of Mr. Armstrong, like a stuck pig. The investors are not going to be pleased unless we can come to them with a new model that gives them confidence."

"Isn't that what the Solutions Forum is for?" Whitney says. "Geez. I mean, we'll think of something."

Vivian isn't buying it.

"Okay, fine," Whitney tries. "We'll do a lightning round again at the wrap-up meeting."

"I think it's time to use what little capital we have to go out on the market and buy a startup rather than try to conceive our own. We have been at a standstill for almost a year now."

Whitney begs this off. "Just give me some numbers to memorize. We'll talk about the rest later on."

This is where Vivian's real passion lies anyway: numbers. She briefs Whitney on the grim financial situation. Darkbloom Analytics survived its founder, but it isn't a healthy company. Scandal has weighed it down and is about to finally take it out for the count. Bad news for you. 

"Hey, wait up--" Whitney says when Vivian stands to go after a marathon briefing that left even you struggling to keep focused.

"Is there anything else?" Vivian says. "Go ahead. I would be happy to elucidate any points you struggle to grasp."

"It's Friday, you know? Are you doing anything tonight?"

Vivian says nothing. That means no.

"I thought we could, you know... have some sisterly bonding. I got these tickets for a helicopter tour over the Grand Canyon..."

Whitney is relentless with offers like these, and Vivian usually turns them down. The attempt to get to know Vivian like a sister has been excruciatingly slow going.

Surprisingly, however, this time she says yes. "I have never been... it would be an interesting experience. When do we depart?"

"If we want to be there at sunset, we gotta skedaddle, like, right after the wrap-up. The pilot's gonna come here and land on the roof! Wild, huh?" Whitney is so happy she can hardly contain herself. She's grinning widely enough that you're worried the edges of her mouth are going to bleed.

"Quite wild indeed," Vivian agrees, as if she doesn't really agree at all. She adds: "I look forward to it."

This, at least, seems genuine.

You're happy for Whitney's sake, but you also know that Vivian has a tendency to go sullen and aloof in her presence -- more than usual -- which leaves Whitney depressed in turn. You mediate the tension between them whenever you can, especially on extracurricular activities like these. It keeps both girls' spirits up.

[ ] Offer to go along.
>[x] Don't be a third wheel; let them go alone and keep your Friday night open. 

"Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! She said yes!" Whitney begins literally bouncing up and down the moment Vivian vacates the office. Her leather chair squeals beneath her.

She finally stops, and puts a hand to her chest as if to get her heart under control. "Are you gonna come too?" She asks.

"I think this is just for you two," you say. "Have fun, Whitney."

She makes that wheezy, laugh-grin "heeeh" thing she does when she's so excited that her brain goes empty.

An intercom on her desk buzzes. It startles her, and that lovely smile -- uh, that smile drops off her face. She clicks the talk button. "What?" She says. Smooth as ever.

"Front security. There's a man here who says he has an appointment?"

Whitney gives you an uncertain look. "I have no appointments," she says.

"All right, I'll-- ah--" there's a pause, and you can hear an indistinct voice on the other end talking to the guard. The guard reports: "He says he's your father."

Whitney's expression darkens. 

It's been over five years since the last time you saw Mr. Price, and he's as pathetic as ever. Worse, even. He wears a threadbare, horizontally-striped turtleneck and rumpled khakis in his best impression of something even remotely presentable. He stinks like stale Bud Light and his five o'clock shadow is patchy, his face deeply lined with wrinkles.

"It's just, so great to see you so successful like this," he offers, wringing a rolled up magazine in his hands. "I saw you in the news the other day and--"

"You didn't know?" You cut in.

"Well, ah-- you know, I been traveling, you know, for work--"

Whitney chuckles, low and reproachful. "Liar."

He coughs. "I mean, wow. My little girl. A CEO! I never would have thought..."

He rambles, but Whitney isn't biting. She says nothing to him, and regards him like a person might regard an insect. Finally she cuts to the chase: "Why did you drive out here?"

"Huh? Oh, I mean-- no reason-- I just wanted to see my little girl. Right? It's been so long."

"The last time you said word one to me was when you told me that I might as well not bother leaving for Berkley because I was gonna fail out anyway. Then you fell asleep again."

He hangs his head.

"He's here for a favor," you say. "Obviously." Your opinion of him is even lower than Whitney's, if it's possible.

Whitney arches an eyebrow. "You want money? Is that it?"

"Whitney, I'm-- not doing so great, is the thing. That's all. And Mr. Darkbloom, he promised me and your mom a little money-- for when you're done with school, if we could keep the secret, you know, about not being your real parents and all... and, uh, you know, fair's fair..." He tries again with flattery: "Gee, wouldn't she be so proud, if she could see you now--"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Hey! That's no way to talk to me. I might not have been the best, but I tried! And I'm still your father--"

She takes out that checkbook again and fills one out for him. "I don't know what that dickhole offered you, but this is what you get from me. $1 million. Have fun with it, Carl."

She hands him the check. His eyes just about fall out of his skull. "Oh man, Whitney-- you're-- this is just great... really help me get back on my feet... and I'll call more, I promise!"

"Never talk to me again."

He winces, but he doesn't even try to argue the point. "Thanks again," he says, and goes, no longer needing to mask the reason for the visit.

The reek he leaves in his wake will take a while to dissipate. Whitney sprays some cinnamon-scented air freshener to no avail.

"He'll be dead inside a week, if I had to guess," you say.

"Whatever." Her mood is much darker now. 

As if things could get any worse: in comes Chalmers.

"Well hey hey, campers!" he says. "Are you ready for some roleplay?"

Whitney looks at the clock on the wall. "Ugh. It's time already?"

"Let's turn that frown upside-down," he says, sitting down. "We'll do some mindfulness exercises first."

"Ally," Whitney says, looking past Chalmers. "Punch Rose for me."

"Whoa!" Chalmers says. "No more of that!"

But you like the sound of it. This would be Nathan P. Chalmers, the expert in corporate sensitivity training who Rose decided to bring in special just for Whitney. You loathe the man, but he serves his purpose: a news story broke a few months ago about Whitney using the N word in high school, and Rose decided that going through the motions of sensitivity training -- with a licensed professional, this time -- would patch up the bad PR.

Whitney maintains innocence. "I never said it," she insisted at the time. "That was Stackleford! I was just quoting Stackleford's words back at him! To tell him not to say it! I'm actually a hero, if you think about it!"

Unfortunately, that argument didn't hold water with a general public already set against her by default.

Unwilling to put up with this man's presence yourself, however, you decide to leave Whitney to it.

>[x] Go visit with Alex.
[ ] Go visit with Kay.
[ ] Go visit with Rose2.
[ ] Go visit with Rose. 

Alex is sequestered, but not very privately, in a glass-walled conference room on the floor just below, deep in discussions with Steven Armstrong, the HR chief, and Tyrus Kang, the security chief who makes you feel anything but secure. Still, you don't have any compunctions about walking in on the meeting; the last time Armstrong complained that you "go around like you own the place," Whitney rebuffed him with: "he definitely owns more of it than you."

Nowadays, Armstrong hardly balks at your presence. He glances you way as you enter, then returns to what he was saying: "money's tight, kid. You need fifty more people? How about 25? Can you make it work?"

"We'd have to vet the shit out of them," Tyrus adds. "If they're all gonna be working on Diogenes. Can't just let anyone off the fuckin' street come get their noses in business like that. Can't get 50 new hires ready to go on that project in a week. Goddamn."

"I'm sorry," Alex says, beaming, cocking his head to one side. "But I really need 50 people! And I need them pretty soon! Try to make it work!"

"You kill me, son. Do you realize this company is on its last legs?"

"Oh yes," Alex says, quite serious. "I understand perfectly well. I understand what Whitney will say if she finds out you told me no, too."

"Whitney can go fuck herself. Mara and Vivian will overrule here. Money's tight, and that's that. You need to agree to 25 -- max."

"I understand," Alex says. "I'll speak with Whitney."

Armstrong reaches out and grabs his shoulder. "Now, come on. Let's come to an understanding, okay? Can you make do with... 30?"

All the smile is gone from Alex's face. His voice is low and firm. "I need 50 people, Armstrong." He turns to Tyrus: "and I need them working on the project by 6 AM Monday after next. That's what I need to do my job. Now go do yours."

Armstrong regards him for any signs of bluffing, a crack in his resolve, anything -- but nothing.

"I'll see what I can do," he says, ego too big to outright admit defeat.

There's the same wounded ego in Tyrus's eyes too, but another layer to the way he looks at Alex that you don't like at all.

"Can I get a minute in private?" You ask Alex.

His smile is back like it was never gone. "Of course, Ally! What can I do for you?" He glances back at his fellow executives, two men who are both twice his size. "You're free to go!" He tells them.

You watch them gather their things and leave. As God is your witness, Alex just bossed them around. 

"Doing anything tonight?" You ask him, leaning your tailbone against the long mahogany conference table.

"Working hard!" He says, laughing.

"Like last night, and the night before--"

"Gotta keep the midnight oil burning! I'm a night owl at heart, you know."

"Yeah, and you're going to burn yourself right out," you warn him. "Look, it's Friday, and I've got nothing going on, so I thought we might--"

"I'm so sorry! But I just can't!"

You frown. "It's polite to at least listen to what someone's about to invite you to before you turn down the offer."

A couple of Alex's direct reports walk past. Seeing Alex sitting inside the conference room, they bow their heads and scurry by as fast as they can, hoping he won't see them.

"I appreciate it, Ally, I do..." (this sounds sincere to you) "...but reimplementing Nelson's blockchain concept is taking me forever and I really need to make sure the project is ready for the next phase before all these new hires come in."

You ruffle your own hair in frustration. "This kind of stuff is hard for me. I hate being social almost as much as you do, apparently. But I just don't want to see you end up..."

End up like Sable, is what you're about to say, but think better of it.

"I'll tell you what, Ally. If you don't mind hanging out in the R&D dungeon like old times, I could really use a mind like yours to bounce ideas off of. Most of my employees are so USELESS--" (There it is, the ghost of Sable rearing its head in Alex again) "--I need someone with two brain cells to rub together! Of course, I know you want to do fun things on a Friday night too... so if you can accept a raincheck, I'll go out with you next Friday for sure!"

"Go out with me--" you sputter. Merely some unfortunate phrasing on Alex's part, you decide. "I'm just suggesting... okay. I'm dragging you out of that dungeon before next Friday, though. That's already decided. But..."

[ ] Hang out with Alex tonight and help him with his work.
>[x] Keep your night open for something else. He's just placating you anyway. 

"I'll see you around," you say. "You know I'm as useless as anyone when it comes to programming. I wouldn't be any help to you at all."

Alex laughs, but doesn't dispute you.

You turn to go.

"Ally--"

You stop and glance back at him.

"We'll have fun next week," he says. "I'm looking forward to it."

There's a softness in his voice there that, for the first time in a long time, reminds you of the Alex you met a year ago. 

>[x]Hug him before we go

Alex tenses up like a frightened animal in your embrace. But his small frame is warm against you.

"Wh-- what was that for?" He demands. This is unusual behavior from you and it seems to unsettle him more than anything.

"Blame Chalmers. I'm trying to be more mindful."

He regards you suspiciously. "Of what?"

You shrug, and then change the subject. "Are you going to actually get any sleep tonight?"

"I'll try, Ally."

"Don't fucking try. Go to bed before dawn for once. And don't sleep on campus either. I'll be back to check on you."

Alex shakes his head, but there's a smile on the corners of his lips that he can't seem to bid away. "See you," he says. 

At the wrap-up meeting, Whitney is true to her word: she ends the session with a lightning round. This was her last-ditch attempt to lubricate the wheels of innovation from within Darkbloom Analytics rather than take the risk on buying another company. DA needs a new revenue stream, needs to pivot to some new service that will generate cash, fast. Problem is, no one has any ideas. So she started having executives put anything they could come up with on strips of paper, and into a fishbowl, anonymously, no harm no foul, to pitch them at random to the board.

She pulls a strip of paper from the fishbowl now and reads it: "Digimon Go."

"What, like a knockoff Pokemon?" Armstrong says, with a long "E" sound.

"Digimon was first, actually," Nelson Berenstoin, the CIO, says -- he's the kind of guy who cares about that.

Whitney tries again. "Lesbian Grindr. Scissr. Working title."

"Was that your idea?" Mara muses.

Whitney locks eyes with her. "I don't remember asking Queen Cuck for a goddamn thing."

Mara doesn't flinch at the insult. "How many other women did your boyfriend fuck today?"

"Less than me, maybe," she says, grinning.

"Fewer..." Nelson corrects, but no one pays him any mind.

"Facebook for old people," Whitney tries.

"Facebook IS for old people," Tyrus says.

"This is useless," Armstrong says. "We're not agile, Whitney, face it. It's time to go with Vivian's plan and just cast a net over the startups in the valley that have some actual fucking ideas other than 'popular service, but with a twist.'"

"No," Whitney says. She bangs a palm on the table. "We need some profit NOW. We can't keep borrowing money from old Jews. Old Jews have a bad habit of dying."

Nathan P. Chalmers, who's been sitting in on Whitney's meetings as an observer, starts to say something, but Whitney interjects: "Because they're old! It's not the Jewish thing! Old black people die, too!"

Nathan's eyes bulge but he fails to say anything. 

"The internet but for pizza," Whitney says, taking another strip from the fishbowl and ignoring him. "...I don't know what that means." She discards that one takes out yet another slip: "Uh, this one just says cocaine. Not sure what that means either..."

Armstrong stands up, strides across the room, takes the fishbowl, and tosses it against the wall. It shatters into a hundred pieces. Paper flutters in the air like confetti.

"You're fired," Whitney says.

"You can't fire me. It's literally not legal."

"Big words for a guy who's fired."

"You can't--"

In the corner, Kay Vera is furiously scribbling. Armstrong notices her, and gets a look on his face like he's seen a bear who somehow sneaked in. "Who the fuck invited you? Jesus Christ."

"I will begin putting out the feelers, as it were," Vivian says. "Maybe we will find a startup that Whitney will assent to. You need not commit to anything else, Whitney, other than consideration, for the time being..."

"Coming here was the worst decision I ever made," Armstrong whines, mostly to himself. "I should have never left politics."

"I can't hear you over the sound of how fired you are," Whitney says. That does it. He storms out. But this is the 50th time or so that tensions have flared like this; Armstrong will be back at work on Monday like it never happened.

"Thanks, sis," Whitney says, moving on. "You go looking for buyout. We'll keep trying to think of our own ideas too." 

Another week over, another disastrous weekly wrap-up meetings in the history books.

You see Whitney and Vivian off for their Grand Canyon excursion. On the rooftop, leaning through the open door of the helicopter, Whitney shouts over the whir of the rotors: "hey, check on that Juan thing for me!"

"What one thing?" You ask.

"The Juan thing! The Mexican chef! Make sure Rosie didn't fuck up like usual! Text me what you find out!" She pecks you on the lips. "Love ya, Ally!"

You're really not good at that kind of thing, so you nod in response.

Vivian kicks her feet and stares out the window in the seat opposite her sister. The earmuffs on her head look comically oversized for her. She watches the two of you with detached interest, and when it's over, she waves goodbye to you. You're still not sure what's going on inside her mind.

---

It's time to see Cerise.

In the main lobby on your way out, you bump into Rose2 on her way back in.

Original Formula Rose, who was supposed to keep an eye on her, is nowhere to be found. But no matter. Rose2 has a short, hirsute man in chef's whites following close behind. She must have succeeded at her task.

"This is Pablo!" Rose2 says.

"I thought his name was..." you begin, but you're not sure, actually. It was some sort of J name.

"Well it's Pablo," Rose2 insists. "And he's super psyched to have some tanoshii as the newest employee at Darkbloom Analytics!"

"Ah..." Pablo begins. "I have not, what you could call, gotten citizenship. So... for the tax forms... ah..."

You stare at the ceiling and mutter curses. Of course. You look down again at Rose2. "I thought you said he was the owner."

"I am," Pablo affirms.

You huff. "Good lord. So you want to get paid under the table, then?"

Pablo nods.

"Whatever. Just... I've got a friend who might be able to make you look legit. There's a lot of FBI agents here, so..."

Pablo blanches.

"Hey Alabaster!" Rose2 says, ignoring the tension there. "I'm supposed to go home for the weekend but my car's broke down..." She purses her lips into a pout traces a forefinger down her cheek as if showing the path of a teardrop. "Could you help a kouhai out and give me a lift?" She grabs your arm. "I'll make it worth your while..."

"I've got somewhere to be," you tell her, backing off.

"That's fine," Rose2 says. "I'm gonna show Pablo the kitchen and then I've got emails and stuff... snore, am I right? But if you've got some time after 5 PM, you know, when you're done with whatever... like I said, I'll make it up to you!"

>[x] I'll give you a ride.
[ ] Sorry, no. 

Rose2 squeals, takes your hands, and tries to twirl around with you. But you're not having any of that shit. You refuse to budge.

This rolls off of her like water and she laughs: "See you soon, Alabaster! Byeee~~"

As she walks off with the new chef, you watch her go. The way her plaid skirt ruffles with every step she takes almost hypnotizes you. There's one thing her weeabooism has actually given her the benefit of: the length of the skirt from above, and the length of her stockings from below, give her the Platonic ideal of an absolute zone. And her fleshy thighs are way easier on the eyes than you'd ever want to admit aloud.

You don't notice Noelle coming up alongside you. "If you fuck her, I'm arresting you."

You shake your head, snapping back from the reverie. "For what?"

"Crimes against humanity."

You turn to face her. "I'm ready to go."

"Right." She motions for you to lead the way back to her car. She will personally chaperone you to see Cerise. 

The air in the nondescript black Sedan is sterile and somehow still makes you queasy. This car is too clean, too utilitarian... too FBI.

As usual, the ride passes in awkward silence. But this time, Noelle finally tries to punctuate it:

"Watching anything this season?"

You don't reply.

"I've been watching the new NeeKyu," she offers. "I can't believe they renewed it after all these years... of course, it's just the same old haremshit, so it's like, whatever. But this season sucks... nothing good at all."

"You've got to be kidding me," you finally say. You shoot her a sour look. "Do they give you cue cards to read off of, or what?"

She frowns.

"You almost had me," you say. "Once. A year ago. But give it up, Noelle. I'm not buying it now."

The silence that descends is much heavier than before.

"You like trivia, right?" Noelle says after a seeming eternity. "I've got one you might not know. Did you ever hear that the majority of climbers who die on Everest, die on their way back down?"

"No," you say, truthfully.

"It's true. They keep pushing for the summit despite inclement conditions, and they actually make it... they get to the top... but they run low on supplies doing it, and can't make it back."

"Right. How do I fit into this metaphor? How am I supposed to turn back?"

"The FBI has the world's best witness protection program. I'll make sure you're safe... you, and Cerise, and Whitney..."

"I'll take it into consideration," you say tersely, and this terminates the conversation for the rest of the trip. 

The steady beep of monitors is the only sound in the room. Cerise is where you left her last time, and the time before that, and the time before that... in a hospital gurney, wearing a hospital gown, wired up like only a hospital can wire someone up. Her eyes are open, but no one is home: she stares straight ahead, lips slightly parted, as emotive as a guppy out of water.

You sit down next to her.

"Hey," you say. "Sorry I'm a bit late. You're looking better, though..."

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Now the old ritual. You relate the trials of the past week, and you have to assume she's listening, even if she can give no indication.

"And Mara... Mara's starting to really scare me. She keeps talking about what she'll do when she gets her hands on what's in your head... and I don't know what--" You sigh. "I just wish you'd wake up, Cerise. I mean really wake up. Could you try that, for me, to wake up? Cerise?"

You nudge her shoulder, and it jostles her, but there is no response. "Wake up," you insist, shaking her a bit harder now. Something like a mix of anger and desperation grip at you the more you try. "Cerise. Wake up. Are you listening to me? Goddamn it. Are you gonna wake up already? It's almost your birthday now. Are you gonna be here forever or what? Wake up! Cerise!" You're really shaking her now, the whole bed is swaying back and forth on its wheels. But she isn't responding at all.

"I need you! Is that what you wanted to hear? Then fine -- there it is! I need you, Cerise! So wake up!"

The force of your efforts shakes loose the covers around her, and her gown falls open to reveal the mess of wires adhered to her chest, the IV's in her arms. And all the while she stares catatonically ahead, as good as dead. You catch yourself on the brink, stop, step back, your breathing ragged. She's not ready yet to wake up. 

You're washing your hands in the sink when she comes in. "Dr. Carte," you say, surprised.

"Call me Renee."

You lean in and whisper, as if Cerise will overhear: "how's she doing?"

"I'm close," Renee says, and whether it's just for your sake or not, she's whispering too. "I do think it's reversible."

Close is good. Reversible is better.

"How much longer?"

"I'm talking days here, Alabaster. But I do need a little help... and the fucking feds have their eyes on this place... on me..."

You know what she's driving at. "Gal is smart. If you need her here, I'm sure she can find her way in. Technologically, I mean. The courage to leave her apartment, though..."

"I'm counting on you," Dr. Carte says. "So's your sister. Can you have her here on Monday?"

Short notice. But you need to try. If Cerise could wake up... you'd do anything for that.

---

Outside, Dr. Carte lights up a cigarette and shares a reproachful gaze with Noelle, who's waiting a short walk across the parking lot beside the car.

You're about to go, but something holds you back.

"Spare one?" You ask her.

"One what?" Dr. Carte replies.

"A cigarette."

"Cigarettes are bad for your health."

"Thanks, doctor. It doesn't seem to be stopping you."

"I'm an adult," she says.

"Yeah? So am I."

"I'm an older adult!" She insists.

But she relents at your unimpressed look. She hands you a cigarette and directs you to put it to your lips. Then something you didn't expect: she leans in, lighting yours with the glowing cherry of hers.

You begin to cough immediately.

"That's what I thought," she says.

"Don't bitch at me. I'm not interested."

You struggle through the cigarette, hacking and coughing the whole time. From the distance, Noelle watches with a bemused expression.

"Where's Whitney?" Dr. Carte asks after a few minutes.

"Grand Canyon."

"Could you, for once, not be a sarcastic little shit?"

You shake your head. "I'm for real. She went on a helicopter tour with Vivian."

"...Really?"

"Scout's honor."

"You're no scout." She throws her butt down, stomps on it. "Vivian went along willingly, then?"

You nod.

The smile on Dr. Carte's lips is warm and broad. "I'm glad to hear it. I want them to get along..."

You try to take an appreciative drag to that, but it just makes you double over and threaten to lose a lung. Dr. Carte saves you by snatching the cigarette from your fingers and finishing it for you.

"Call that a failed experiment," she says. "If I see you smoking again, I'll kick your ass."

"Whatever, mom."

"Such a rude little brat." She squeezes your shoulder. "Go talk with Gal. We're waking Cerise up on Monday." 

Noelle drops you at the parking garage across from work. you pick up your car and swing it around to where Rose2 texted you she'd be waiting.

She's there, but she seems a little surprised to see you as you step out onto the curb.

"Are you ready or not?" You demand.

"Ready?"

"To go home. Fuck..."

"Oh gosh..." she mutters. "Yeah, you were gonna take me, huh?"

"Is this a joke?" You say. "You're joking, right?"

"I totally forgot!" She slaps her forehead with the heel of her palm. "A-durr! I'm such an airhead."

"Okay, so if you forgot I was taking you -- why were you waiting here?"

"I got my imouto to pick me up! She just got her license, so she's been super psyched to drive, you know? She drove all the way up to get me. Just like that!" She snaps her fingers.

"You never told me you had a little sister," you say.

"Uh, a-yes I have," she says. "Geez, Alabaster, you could at least pay attention when I tell you stuff. Come on!"

"Well anyway, thanks for wasting my time." You make for the door to your car, but stop when you see another car slowly pulling up. 

"There she is now!" Rose2 says. "Amber! Over here!"

Your heart does backflips in your chest and you actually begin to shake. This can't be real. But it's real. Camelia is in the driver's seat of an old Toyota Camry.

She rolls down the window and sits her butt on the frame, waving to Rose2. "Toot toot, bitches! Hop the fuck in!"

Rose2 turns to you, but your sights are fixed on this fucking zombie sitting before you. Her hair is red. Her eyes are blue as lapis. She's not wearing an eyepatch.

"Thanks anyway, Alabaster," Rose2 is saying, but she may as well be droning like a desk fan because you're not paying attention.

"Who's the creep?" Camelia says.

"This is Alabaster! Alabaster, this is Amber!"

You can only gawp.

"This is the guy you're so crazy about?" Camelia says, snorting.

"Amber!!!" Rose2 squeaks, indignant and shocked. "What the heck!"

"Figures this is the kind of guy you're into. What a weirdo. Did he decide to pretend he's one of those deaf-mutes, or what?" She waves a flattened palm up and down like wiping off a windshield. "Hellloooo? Anyone home?"

You stammer, but nothing intelligible comes out.

"It's like he saw a ghost or something..." Camelia says.

Rose2 tugs on your arm. "I'm sorry about my beloved imouto. Don't take it personal. She's like this with everyone."

"Your sister..." is the only thing you finally manage.

"I'll see you Monday, Alabaster! Thanks again!"

She hugs you and gets in the car. Camelia slinks back into the driver's seat.

As Camelia pulls away, she flips you off, laughing.

Her tires screech on the asphalt, leaving behind burnt black rubber in their wake, and you blink in shock at the receding car.

END OF EPISODE 1. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, corporate glad-hander and oblivious MC.

"Citizens of Earth, this is it!"

You're in Rose's bedroom, peering over her shoulder at the grainy LiveLeak video, the one you haven't seen since it was happening in real time -- the one you've been trying to forget for a year.

"Here is David Darkbloom! He's here to answer for his crimes!"

You close the laptop's lid before the carnage begins.

"That isn't Camelia," you say. And it's true. The girl in the video has blue-dyed hair, and her good eye is red. The exact opposite of the terrorist who put you through such hell last year.

"What do you mean it isn't Camelia?" Rose demands.

"What do you mean what do I mean? I mean it's not her. The girl in that video is someone else."

"It's definitely Camelia," Rose says. She swivels around in her chair. "I remember her quite well. Do I need to remind you that she almost choked me to death in her hallway? Which, thanks again for stepping up when I needed it, Alabaster. I can't even wear a necklace anymore without having flashbacks!"

"I did step up for you," you say. "And you're still alive. So, you're welcome."

"Oh, bravo, Alabaster, bravo." She claps mockingly. "Every girl should be lucky enough to have a man like you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Calling attention to Rose's slip-ups like this is always a good way to cow her into silence. "Point is, there's something weird going on. The girl in that video isn't the Camelia I remember. The Camelia I remember is going around pretending to be Other Rose's sister."

"Have you finally lost it for real?" Rose says. She stands, folds her arms. Even in shoes she barely comes up to your chin. "You mean Amber Catachresis? Fake-Rose's little sister?"

"That's the thing. Other Rose never had a sister! I know that for a fact!"

"Yes she does," Rose says. "I've personally known Amber since high school. She wanted to join the student council when she was a freshman, during my senior year. I said no."

"She is NOT--"

"You're scaring me," she interrupts. "Amber Catachresis is Fake-Rose's little sister. She's a junior at North High. Still living at Fake-Rose's home address, 124 Tom Knudsen Lane, with her parents, same as always. She's not a terrorist. Whatever you think you remember, you've got it wrong."

"I don't--" you begin. "Wait. How the fuck do you know Other Rose's home address off the top of your head?"

"That's not important right now!" Rose shouts, stomping.

"I'm not crazy," you say. "Are you -- are you trying to gaslight me?"

"I'm--"

"Gaslighter! You're a gaslighter! That's what you are. You're gaslighting me! Don't deny it."

"For fuck's sake, Alabaster. Get ahold of yourself."

You ball your fists and draw several deep breaths. Calming yourself down, you manage: "Rose. Trust me on this. I need you to trust me on this, we agreed to that, didn't we? To trust each other." 

When you open your eyes again, Rose is staring intently into them.

"You're serious," she says.

"Of course I-- you know what? Forget it. I shouldn't have come to you of all people--"

She stops you turning away. "Think about what you're asking me to trust you on. This isn't a business decision. You want me to believe that -- what -- reality is warping around you?"

"I don't know," you admit. "Something is wrong. That's all I know." You pace around Rose's spacious room, but her hopelessly beige taste in decor leaves very little to settle your eyes upon, and your mind is filled with too much noise to let yourself be distracted for even a moment -- even if you want to be.

"I trust you," Rose says. Her voice is firm and oddly reassuring. "But why are you coming to me with this?"

"Who the fuck else can I tell about this?" You snap.

She shrugs.

"Right."

You sit on her queen-sized bed and cradle your head in your hands. Secretly, you were hoping she would find a way to talk you out of this notion that Camelia is posing as Ro2e's little sister. But it's no use. You know what you saw, and your memory of Camelia is crystal clear. You'll never forget that face as long as you live.

Rose sits down beside you.

"What should I do?" You're desperate enough to leave your pride behind and ask Rose for advice. That question was genuine.

Rose stares at the ground, eyes darting, thinking. And then, for a beat, she goes still. "I don't know," she finally says.

"Bullshit. You have an idea."

"No..." she drawls. "I'm coming up blank, sorry."

"Give me a break. I'm not in the mood for the song and dance. Just tell me your goddamn idea."

She gulps and exhales hard through her nose. She begins a halting explanation: "I was just thinking... that you could ask Fake-Rose out on a... on a date... and if you manage not to act like a pig for a couple hours... she would probably invite you back home... and you could meet Amber for yourself..."

"Oh my god," you mutter.

"You're right. Terrible idea. I don't know what came over me. We should try something more realistic--"

"No, that might work."

Rose looks ready to melt into a puddle of goo.

You stand and face her. "I guess you're still dependable for at least one good idea a year," you allow.

"Oh, FUCK you," she says, groaning. "I don't know why I even--"

Thwack comes a far-off, echoing sound from the other side of the house. You and Rose lock eyes, uneasy: that would most likely be Whitney, playing golf indoors again.

>[x] Investigate.
[ ] Stay with Rose. 

"If she breaks anything, I'm not bringing contractors out here to fix it this time," Rose warns you. "You can deal with the mess for once."

She says that, but she's right on your heels as you walk out the door and to the banister overlooking the humongous, chandelier-lined living area. You no sooner peer over the side of the wrought iron railing than you see a dimpled golf ball sail past and collide with one of the chandelier's ornate hanging prisms, popping it in a burst of glass and sparks.

"Whitney!" You shout.

Far below, iron in hand, she visors her eyes with a flattened palm and cranes her neck to see you. "Whatsamatter?" She slurs. Drunk.

"What did I tell you about this?" You say. "If you want to golf, I'll take you to the links tomorrow."

You startle at another pop and burst of shattering glass. Turning, you see Alex on the other end of the living room, also holding an iron. "Sorry!" He squeaks.

Whitney cues another ball in front of her, ignoring you, squares up and hits it. Her swing is less forceful this time, and the ball lands softly in a laundry hamper in front of Alex, breaking nothing.

"Even sloshed I kick your butt," Whitney crows. "Heh heh."

You hurry downstairs and grab the iron from her before she can do any more damage. Alex saunters up, having produced a broom and dustpan from who knows where. "Sorry about the lights," he says, and begins to sweep up. "I'll pay for them."

"The fuck are you two doing? It's almost midnight."

Whitney spins on her heels, walks off and plops down on the leather sofa. She turns on the theater-sized flatscreen and doesn't respond.

"She called me," Alex offers. "Asked if I wanted to play beer golf."

"What is beer golf?" Rose asks, finally arriving in the living room herself.

"Beer pong but better," Whitney says. She flips the channels casually. The volume is way too loud and makes for a warbling echo in the tiled, cave-like space.

"I don't think things went very well with her sister," Alex says, leaning in and whispering.

That would explain it. Whitney's in one of her moods.

>[ ] How will you cheer her up?

You walk over and haul Whitney to her feet. She tries to be obstinate by making herself dead weight, but only for a moment; eventually she takes your hands and lets you slow walk her in lazy circles around the living room. David Darkbloom was a horrible man who did horrible things, but this is a move you copped straight from him without any shame.  
 
"Errgh," Rose groans. Alex is more positive; his enthusiasm is almost childlike as he breathes, "dancing?"
 
"You're a shitty dancer when you're drunk," you tell Whitney.
 
"I'm a shitty dancer period. Dancing's for fags." She glances over her shoulder. "No offense, Alex."
 
"Ah..." he stammers.
 
"How was the Grand Canyon?" You ask.
 
"Vivian's a cunt," Whitney says.
 
"Sure," you say. "That's part of why you like her."
 
"I hate her."
 
You kiss Whitney tenderly, in full view of Alex and Rose. It's a lingering and forceful kiss -- your tongues entwine wetly, and Whitney's cheeks, blushing already from drunkenness, blush deeper still.
 
This is all Rose cares to see. She starts to go.
 
"Hold on," you call after her.
 
"What?" She barks.
 
You whisper something to Whitney so only she can hear.
 
"Heeeeh," Whitney wheezes.
 
---
 
Whitney peers down her nose at Alex and Rose.
 
Alex is sitting on his knees willingly, but Rose has to be restrained -- you're on bended knee yourself, holding her arms behind her back as she struggles.
 
"You two are DEMENTED," Rose hollers.
 
"I told you that you'd regret spitting on me," you say with a sneer.
 
"She spit on you?" Whitney says, feigning outrage.
 
Before Rose can say anything to defend herself, Whitney doles out a revenge of her own: by spitting forcefully on Rose's face. Rose winces and recoils, but she doesn't have anywhere to go with you holding her. The spit runs in a sloppy, bubbly rivulet down her forehead.
 
Rose shakes her head violently, as if to get it off of her. Whitney shows a merciful side now: "Alex -- take care of that."
 
He crawls over on all fours and, eyes half-lidded, he licks Rose's face clean. Rose plays at being disgusted, but holding her, you feel her resistance beginning to weaken. And you can hear a barely audible murmur escape her lips, one that definitely isn't displeased with the attention. When Alex has done his duty, he sits back on his haunches and looks up at Whitney for approval. She rewards him with a smile.
 
"How does it feel?" Whitney demands of Rose. "Not so nice getting spit on, huh?"
 
Rose doesn't reply and refuses to meet Whitney's gaze. Whitney nudges her with a toe, between her legs, rubbing against her mound without anything even approaching consent. "What's the matter, cunt? Say something."
 
"She didn't like seeing us kiss," you say.
 
"Ohhhh," Whitney says, as if having an epiphany. "The stupid bitch is jealous. I get it."
 
She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her pants and shimmies out of them. You shouldn't have been surprised: she's not wearing underwear, and her pussy is already puffy with arousal. She steps closer, reaches down, and grabs a tuft of Rose's hair. Rose's face is inches from Whitney's bare genitals now, she can surely smell its honey-sweet scent and see the little streams of wetness dripping down her toned thighs. The look on Rose's face is a strange mix of loathing and allurement -- she likes what she sees and simultaneously hates that she likes it.
 
"If you wanted a kiss, all you had to do was ask," Whitney says. "Go ahead -- kiss me."
 
"No," Rose says, defiant to the last.
 
She's gonna make you force her. That's fine too.
 
You give Whitney a helping hand. Together, you push Rose's face into Whitney's crotch. She tries to wrench herself free, but she has no leverage, it's 2-against-1 and no use fighting against the oncoming rape. You'll hold her there as long as you need to, until she passes out if need be -- until she does as ordered. And finally, after agonizing seconds of cutting off her air supply with Whitney's cunt, she complies. You hear the wet noise of Rose's lips pursing and kissing Whitney on her pussy. Whitney, hissing with an almost pained delight, throws her head back. "Therrrre you go," she says.
 
She steps off, giving Rose only a second or two of fresh air. Rose is flushed deep red and strands of her own hair are matted to her face -- a mess already. She gasps like a victim of drowning. And then it's right back to work: Whitney squats now, rests part of her weight on Rose's head and neck, forcing the poor girl to lap at her like a bitch. You let go so that Rose can brace herself with a hand against either of Whitney's legs.
 
Whitney rubs herself back and forth on Rose, wagging her hips in debauched pleasure. Several times you see Rose's cute button nose disappear into Whitney's twat. But mostly Whitney is enjoying the sharp pink little tongue that Rose has learned over time to put to such excellent use.
 
You no longer have to hold Rose down, so you stand and relieve the pressure in your jeans, unzipping your fly and letting your cock loose. Whitney snaps her fingers, directing Alex to the other side of her, and she doesn't even need to voice the command; Alex knows his job. He spreads Whitney's ass and starts rimming her out, without hesitation. You can see his cock straining against the material of his spats as he works.
 
"Fuck, this is nice," Whitney sighs, looking up at you. "Good little fuckpigs..."
 
Rose seems to try to protest this, but whatever stupid fucking thought she wanted to voice is lost as Whitney presses down even harder and smothers it.
 
"I'll let you decide," you tell Whitney, feeling gracious. "Which one do you want to see me cum inside tonight?"
 
She flashes a Cheshire grin and shrugs. "How about some incest, Ally? That really gets me off~"
 
You can't argue. You get down and press the small of your hand against Rose's tummy, forcing her to waddle backwards on her knees while she eats Whitney out. From this angle you can see that Rose's face is an even worse mess than before, her makeup smeared obscenely and her features covered in Whitney's cum. She looks hardly human.
 
Finally you have her pushed far enough back that you can get free access to her ass. Whitney watches, eyes filled with adoration, as you hike up your cousin's skirt and rip her satin panties to shreds. Rose's pussy is as soft and pliable as the rest of her, and she might fight you, but getting raped makes her wet. You shove two fingers into her without any foreplay and enjoy the way it makes her jolt. As deep as you can go, her insides are hot and tight and practically begging for dick. She can say no as many times as she wants; you know she wants you to fuck her.
 
"Is she wet?" Whitney asks.
 
"Of course she is," you grunt. "Fucking cunt." You spank her for impact, once, twice. She squeaks. Whitney coos.
 
Alex, not to be outdone, is licking Whitney's asshole so eagerly that the sound of it echoes off the walls. He evidently enjoys being Whitney's "fuckpig," unlike Rose, and moans to himself as he helps her ride out a series of miniature orgasms.
 
You grab your cock by the root and position yourself directly behind Rose now. "Get ready, slut," is the only warning you're generous enough to give her, immediately before shoving yourself as deep as you can inside her. Her elastic cunt is so tight that you can't get cleanly in to the hilt with one thrust. You have to pull back and try again, a short stabbing buck of the hips that breaks the last resistance of Rose's deepest parts and lets you settle balls-deep against the familiar walls of her womb.
 
"Ohhh," you can't help sighing. Rose might be obnoxious sometimes, but her hole is a wonderful cumdump.
 
Whitney has one hand on each of Rose's and Alex's heads, using them as living sex toys for her own amusement. You establish a steady pace of slow, short, deep strokes up Rose's cunt as you watch. Stirring her up inside, enjoying the way she begins to rotate her hips back against you despite herself. Alex, desperate for relief too, reaches down and starts tugging himself off.
 
"They're gonna-- make me-- cum--" Whitney chokes out. "Oh god... cum inside her! I want to cum with you, Ally!"
 
You grunt and pick up the pace, beating Rose's abused pussy to a pulp as you brutally slam-fuck her. You can practically feel the soft interior walls begin to bruise and tear. Her gasps -- of pain, pleasure, or probably both -- are almost impossible to hear over the squelching noise of Whitney's gushing cunt against her face. As you see Whitney begin to squirt, you go over the edge yourself, and blow a hot load of cum into Rose. No warning for that, no gentleness, just a loud bellow and your pulsating cockhead spewing its sperm as deep as you can get it.
 
You almost collapse with the exertion of it, but you know better, because what comes next is the best part. Stepping away, your cock slipping out with an audible plop and a little dribble of cum, you stand. Whitney lets go of Rose too. Without the support, Rose falls to her back, eyes glazed and distant, face coated in slime, choking on Whitney's girl-cum as she struggles to breathe again.
 
Whitney's turn to go to her knees: in front of Rose as Rose writhes, incoherent; to suck your jizz directly out of the dumb cow. Alex, leaning against the sofa, eyes as glazed as Rose's, face as wet and red and slimy too, finishes himself off. He sprays the tile floor in front of him as he watches the depraved scene, gasping in a girly staccato. He can appreciate watching a girl eat cunt as well as you can. It's a lovely sight.

---

You carry Rose to her bedroom. This is more trouble than it should be. Holding her under knees and back, you have to support her entire weight, all the way up the long stairs to the second floor. She's so dazed and cum-drunk and beaten that she's already fading in and out of consciousness. With Rose therefore nothing but so much dead weight, it's more like trying to lug a heavy, awkwardly shaped box than princess-carrying a girl blushing in the afterglow of lovemaking. You, who were never in great shape to begin with, groan under the exertion of it, and have to take it one difficult stair at a time, with several moments' pause between. You're not even sure why you bother -- you could easily have left her passed out on the cold tile floor of the living room. It's not as if you care either way.

Trying to get her cleaned up is out of the question in her state. She'll just have to sleep dirty: naked, sweat-slick, still leaking, and stinking of sex. Not that you're in any better shape yourself -- things got messy back there. With Whitney involved it can rarely end any other way.

Finally pushing past Rose's door with your shoulder, and settling her softly on top of her comforter, you take a moment to straighten your spine, adjust your posture, roll your neck -- generally enjoy the sensation of not toting around 100+ pounds of additional weight. You intend to hurry back downstairs and take a shower with Whitney and Alex -- maybe have some overtime with them, which is probably inevitable. But while you're standing here collecting yourself again, you notice Rose, curled up, quietly heaving and trembling.

She's crying. 

What a pain. Even worse, she has the temerity to think she can hide it from you, because now she pulls her covers up around herself like a turtle retreating into its shell, and curls into an even tighter ball. That weird sixth sense she has about you must have told her that you were looking at her and noticed her crying, even though she's 90% of the way to passed-out, and not even facing you.

"Rose," you say.

There's a lengthy silence and then finally "go away," comes the muffled response.

Rose, of all fucking people, isn't about to order you around. You climb into her bed with her, forcing her to make room. You pull the covers away from her and get under them with her. Your combined body heat trapped by the thick Egyptian cotton makes it quickly too-warm and just this side of unpleasant.

You wrench her out of her fetal position now and wrap yourself around her so there can be no mistaking that you're in control here; your sticky body and her sticky body are glued together. Big spoon and little spoon. She wiggles a little, a token attempt to break free, but there's no force behind it and you don't let go.

She gamely keeps herself composed for all of about 30 or 40 seconds before you can feel her trembling against you and you can tell that she's crying again.

"Stop that," you say.

"Fuck you. Go away."

Instead of going away, you reach up and swipe a few errant strands of wet hair behind her ear and out of her face.

"You got what you want," she says. "I'm just a hole for you so what do you care anymore. Leave me alone... you'll just leave me anyway."

She gets weird like this, occasionally. You defuse in the only way you know how: "I'm definitely going to leave if you don't stop jamming your elbow into my ribs like that. Did you take elbow-sharpening classes or what?"

She's still crying but to her credit she does shift her weight around and pull her elbow forward to relieve the pressure against your ribs. The feeling of your flesh unsticking and resticking to hers is sort of strange, but nice.

"I fucking hate you," Rose says. "I hate everything about you."

You play idly with her hair some more. "Yeah," you say. "I know."

"So why don't you just go away?"

"This is your punishment."

"...What?"

Your idle playing in her hair has become more like petting, with intermittent scritches. "You want me to go away, so this is your punishment. You have to sleep with me tonight. So accept your punishment and be a good girl from now on."

There's a longer, more looming silence now as you continue to pet Rose, and her breathing comes back under control, her tears stop flowing. Softly then, she mutters: "I won't be good."

You nuzzle your face against the crown of her head and hold her a little tighter. 

---

Whitney is up early, as good as new, and goes to the country club with Alex -- as well as a couple other members of the Darkbloom Analytics board -- for some real golfing with a couple generals. They're working out the details of the renewal of DA's contract with the US military. You should really be there too, but there's somewhere else you have to be.

And there's also Rose. She dozes until past noon. Since she pinned your right arm in her sleep, you're kind of trapped. You could push her off you and get up, which you'd like to since the body heat is starting to make you sweat, but... well, anyway, you let her rest. When she finally does stir, you have to help her guide into the shower as she stumbles and trips, still woozy from the hard use. She complains of being sore, so with no small amount of complaining on your own end, you soap her down and clean her too. And you're absolutely sure she isn't so sore that she actually can't manage the next part, but she nags you into it anyway: you brush her teeth for her. It's weird, with her sitting in your lap in front of the bathroom mirror, your hand swishing back and forth as the dainty toothbrush saws between her pointy little teeth. The look in her eyes in the mirror's reflection is hard to guage; she still seems a bit out of it.

As the two of you sit at a marble island in the kitchen and wake up over bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Rose is coming back from fucking-induced stupidity. She begins laying out the plan for -- as she calls it -- catfishing Rose2. Since Rose2 goes back home to her parents' house every weekend, you'll have plenty of opportunities to woo her on home turf, so to speak. And there's something back in your hometown that's just perfect for the occasion: a karaoke bar. How Rose knows these things off the top of your head is mystifying.

You finish the last of your cereal and dump the leftover milk down the drain of the kitchen sink. Behind you, Rose says: "Seriously?"

You grip the countertop in front of the sink and try not to explode. "Jesus Christ. What now?"

"You don't drink the milk?"

You turn. "You've bitched at me about a lot of stupid things, but this has got to be the stupidest. You're seriously going to come at me over the milk from my cereal?"

"There are starving people in the world, Alabaster--"

"Oh my God--"

"--And the milk is the best part! You can't have Cinnamon Toast Crunch and just dump the milk! Are you a moron?"

"I should have kept going until you were in a coma," you say. "Holy shit." 

You rinse out the bowl now and set it in the dishwasher. Grabbing your keys from the peg on the wall, you say: "I'll be back later on. I have an errand to run."

Not even Rose knows about your continued visits with Galatea. At least not openly. You assume she probably stalked you back to Galatea's apartment at least a few times.

"Wait," Rose calls.

You sigh.

"There's something you should know about. I wasn't sure whether to tell you, but... here."

She hands you her phone, and on the screen is a scanned document, a coroner's report. The man in the report: Carl Price, 52. Cause of death: acute alcohol poisoning.

You hand her phone back to her. "I figured... how the fuck did you get that information? How did you even know to be looking for it?"

"I make it my business to know things," Rose says. "That's what I do for this company. Someone has to."

"You creep me out. No joke."

She ignores that. "Now the ball is in your court. You're the Whitney-whisperer, after all. I'll leave it up to you whether or not she needs to know."

[ ] You will tell Whitney at the right time.
[ ] You will keep it to yourself. 

Galatea's apartment is a lot nicer than the one she used to have.

It's a third-floor loft, with a view of the bay -- or at least it would have such a view, if blackout curtains didn't perpetually obscure any trace of it. It's spacious, with a high ceiling and rustic raw brick walls, knotted oak flooring -- the kind of place hipsters go nuts for, with a monthly rent that only a person making well into six figures could even contemplate paying.

Galatea affords it quite well with the illicit revenue made from spear-phishing the elderly. What little you've been able to wheedle out of her is that she only robs the accounts she gains access to after the account owners die -- as if leaving the inheritors in the lurch is any nobler. But of course, Galatea is a piece of shit. You wouldn't expect anything better.

You enter using your spare key. She's at her computer -- where else? -- and as you step inside, she recoils like a Gollum from the intrusion of daylight. You close the door behind you, but she isn't any less unsettled.

She watches you with frightened eyes. These encounters are always wordless unless she has something to say, and she rarely ever does. You walk across the messy loft, deliberate and slow, your shadow deep in the pale blue light of Galatea's monitor, the only source of illumination in the room. You set your keys on the desk next to her. She jumps in her seat, just a little.

You kneel in front of her and put your hands on her knees. Tremblingly, she reaches up and takes off her glasses.

Your faces are level but slightly misaligned -- left eye to left eye. You're so close that the ridges of your brows are touching.

As her pupil draws into your focus, and locks with yours, it dilates to a circumference that nearly blots out the iris completely. Her eyeball begins to vibrate, the roundness of it deforming as if it will burst; and this is really all you see before your eye begins to do the same. You feel a looseness all over, like being in freefall, and then all at once you splash down, and become suspended in an ocean of warmth. As if bodily transposed to a different realm, you feel the walls and floor of Galatea's loft melt to nothing around you, replaced by only this warm ocean below, and a swirling vortex above, a cyclone whose tail extends infinitely through time and space. You gain now, as always, a total awareness of all things -- Nirvana, if you had to name it -- as if you can simultaneously gauge the speed and position of every particle in every person on the planet. It's blissful, almost orgasmic, but every time you chase this dragon, there's one gaping void in your awareness, a place you cannot get to, a thing you cannot see. 

As usual, it's Galatea who relents first, ripping away from you, plunging you back to reality. It's a rude awakening, like stepping into a cold shower. When you look, she's half seizing, and sweating, and even drooling a little. You can smell her arousal in the air too -- this experience has much the same effect on her as you. You wonder whether you're becoming addicted; you wonder whether she's becoming addicted. Not that it matters. You do this for a purpose, and it's not the high that comes with it.

She begins to gain her awareness back as well, smacking her lips and blinking dazedly as she turns her head this way and that.

"Did you see her?" You ask, breath still running ragged.

Galatea gulps and nods.

"Did she say anything?"

Galatea shakes her head.

"You're so fucking useless." You stand, head swimming. Why does Galatea get to see her every time, and you don't? And if she sees her, why can't she get her to say anything?

Galatea stares at the floor. You take her chin in hand. "Dr. Carte is going to wake her up on Monday," you tell her.

For the first time, her eyes have some kind of human glimmer to them.

"really?"

"That's right. And she needs you to help her."

"anything. i'll get on my webcam--"

"No. You need to be there. In person."

Galatea says nothing.

"You don't have a choice in this," you tell her. "You're going to be there, even if I have to carry you in myself. I don't give a shit if going outside makes you scared. Are you listening to me?"

You tap the desk. She flinches.

"Figure out a way to fool the system at that hospital into thinking you're an RN. That place is swarming with FBI agents. You need to look legit. If you can forge credentials, I'll get you some scrubs to wear."

She nods her understanding. "i'll do it. anything. anything... i'll do whatever she needs..."

You fold your arms. "That's good. And hey -- you'll get to see Cerise again. We both will."

Despite herself, Galatea smiles.

You lean in, put your cheek to hers. Breath hot against her ear, you whisper: "If you fuck this up... if you don't go, or if you hurt my sister again... I'll make sure you regret it."

Her reaction is muted, taciturn as always.

"I'll be here after work on Monday. Be ready for me."

"alabaster..."

"What?"

"will you please hurt me today"

You unbuckle your belt. 

At work on Monday, the congressman whose district covers Darkbloom Analytics -- Devin Isstein, that little twerp who somehow clung to his reelection last year -- takes the generals on a tour of the DA campus. But the divide and conquer strategy works: Armstrong leads the generals away, being by far the best at dealing with these merit-badge-wearing machismo machines, while Whitney and Vivian hang out with the congressman in Whitney's office.

Whitney offers him a Jelly Belly, and he actually fucking takes it -- now here's a guy who's constitutionally incapable of refusing a handout.

"You gotta, like, pass a law that lets us sell Sand Reckoner to people other than the government," Whitney says. "We're bleeding money, big league."

"That's a non-starter," Congressman Isstein says. "No one would get within 100 miles of a bill like that. I'm sorry, but public opinion just isn't on your side here."

This goes over like a swastika at a Holocaust memorial. "What the fuck do I pay you for if it's not to pass the laws I want?" Whitney shouts.

Congressman Isstein is so taken aback that he actually, literally, takes a step back. "You-- Ms. Darkbloom, you make generous contributions to my campaign, and I appreciate that. But those are merely donations. They don't obligate me to pass laws that favor your business. In fact, doing such in exchange for your contributions would be... astonishingly illegal."

"Well if you're not obligated to do shit for me, I won't feel so obligated to keep giving you my money! Or my Jelly Bellies!"

Vivian finally steps in, thank god. "My sister and I appreciate your visit. We will continue to donate to your campaign because our political viewpoints are aligned. We trust you to legislate as a stalwart conservative who encourages innovation in the technology sector."

Whitney fumes. Vivian takes the congressman's hand and the world's most awkward handshake ensues. Both their grips are limp and listless and floppy. "I will see you out," she tells him.

"Thank you," he says. "And please teach your sister some damn tact."

"It is a work in progress."

"Waste of my fucking time," Whitney grumbles as she watches them depart. "I hate politicians."

"Whitney, you need to understand that you are a politician now."

"Fuck no I'm not," Whitney says. "Unless daddy Darkbloom said in his will that I also get to be President. Which I don't think he did, so."

"When you say things," you explain with a firm but patient tone, "the world pays attention. You need to convince them you're not a dumbass or a crazy person. Get it?"

She doesn't get it. She's busy unwrapping a Slim Jim, wherever the fuck she got that from. 

Whitney is in the boardroom, staring at the portrait of David Darkbloom still hanging there. The word "ASSHOLE" is scrawled over his face with a black sharpie.

"Solutions Forum is coming up," you say.

"Joy."

"Hanging in there?" You ask. Sometimes she needs the pep talk. "We've still got time to get ready for it, so if you need anything--"

She's still focused on the painting. "He made me CEO for a reason. He wanted me to do something... something other than get on his cunt wife's nerves. I need to figure out what it is, so I can do the opposite."

"You two are a lot more alike than you think," you say.

She finally looks at you. "What? Fuck you. How?"

"He had the same habit of staring at paintings and making dramatic speeches."

"Well aren't you just the Darkbloom expert now. I hope you weren't fucking him, too."

"Of course not. I'm not g--" you begin, but you know exactly what Whitney will say about this, and you don't want to throw her a pitch right over the plate like that. You decide to change the subject.

"Whitney... I don't know if this is the right time, but I've got some bad news... err, some news..."

"I'm turning into fucking Garfield here. I hate Mondays."

"It's Carl. Over the weekend -- he had an accident--"

"I know," Whitney says, nonchalant as can be. "The police called me on Saturday."

You blink, surprised.

"Thanks for telling me, though," she says. "How did you even know?"

"I, uh... I make it my business to know things..."

"Dork."

You're not sure how to reply.

"You're the only person in the world I can trust," Whitney says. She hugs you, puts her head to your chest, and you hug her back. You stand there like that for a long time. 

Back in the C-suite, in the hallway, you're startled by a low, resonant woof and you jump back as a Rottweiler lunges from the corner office.

"Lady!" Kay calls, unseen, from within. "Get back here!"

Lady, who's a boy, returns to his master, slinking through the open door and out of sight again.

You hardly regain your bearings before Armstrong, walking by, gets accosted by Lady in exactly the same way.

He jumps back in fright. "Jesus tittyfucking H. Christ!"

"Lady! Get back here!"

When he gets over that adrenaline rush, Armstrong marches to the door of Kay's office and calls in: "You get that mutt out of here or I will punt it to the fucking moon--"

Woof

"Fuck!" He backs off, straightening his lapels. He turns and puts his finger to your chest. "Alabaster. You see to it that she gets rid of the dog."

Mara comes by now, interrupting. "Alabaster," she says. "My office -- please..."

Woof

Mara falls the ground, shielding her face with one hand "Oh God--!"

"Lady! Get back here!"

As Mara stands again and brushes off her dress, you follow Lady and peek into Kay's office.

"You're bringing your dog to work now?" You say.

"Hell yes I'm bringing my dog to work. I'm feeding him milkbones too." Kay does exactly that now, to demonstrate: pulls open a drawer, produces a plastic jug full of multicolored bone-shaped biscuits, and lets Lady eat one slobberingly from the palm of her hand. "Who's a good boy?" She croons. "You are! Yes you are."

"You're pissing everyone off even worse than usual. I can't keep them from evicting you if they ever realize that they're legally allowed to do that... honestly, I'm not sure why anyone is letting you live here. Do you even pay rent on this office?"

"Nope." Of course not. You don't know why you asked.

Mara enters now. Lady growls, but Kay keeps him at bay.

Kay reaches out for a handshake, and Mara returns the gesture. They shake for a moment. Mara's left eye twitches as she feels the warm wetness in Kay's hand and realizes what it is. She pulls away, lip curled in disgust, and wipes her hand on her dress.

"Ms. Vera," she says. "This is not an animal-friendly campus. Remove your dog at once."

"Lady is a service animal," Kay says. "See the vest?"

Indeed, Lady is wearing a vest that indicates he is a companion dog.

"Does that vest block needles?" Mara intones, summoning as much menace as she can.

As if he can comprehend human speech, Lady barks again. Mara jumps.

"Does that dress block fangs?" Kay asks.

Mara leaves. Thanks, Kay, for making her even angrier right before she wants to see you.

>[x] See Mara as requested.
[ ] Blow it off. 

Mara's office has that same old Lovecraft quality of feeling somehow non-Euclidean -- as if it's bigger on the inside than the dimensions of the building would seem to allow.

You stand in front of her bare desk and she peers at you from behind tented fingers.

"Waking Cerise up today?" She asks.

You don't say anything to that.

"Spare me the coyness," Mara says. "I spoke with Renee about it. She seems somehow convinced that even if Cerise is awake, she can't take that device out of her skull without destroying it."

"It's unfortunate," you say. "Guess it'll be stuck inside of her forever."

Mara shakes her head. "I know you're trying to ratfuck me. You and Renee and her idiot daughter. But I'll get ahold of Sand Reckoner one way or another. Stall as much as you like. It makes no difference. In the long run, there's nothing you can do."

"Sounds good, Mara," you say. You always do your best to deny her the pleasure of getting under your skin.

"When I get it," she says, leaning forward, her pale hands gripping the edges of the white steel desk, "there will be no more reason for any of you to exist."

"Sure."

"I'll kill Whitney first. Rose, and Alex, and Renee -- and then Cerise. I'll make you watch. I'll torture you for a little while, too, until I get bored. And then, only then, I'll let you die."

In truth, Mara inspires a black terror within you that you have never felt about anything, ever. Somehow, though, you manage to appear unimpressed. You point at her. "You think you're going to kill me?"

Mara laughs cruelly.

"Wrong. You're already dead."

She isn't fazed. "Tell your sister hello for me. I hope to see her back at work quite soon."

Cerise returning to employment at Darkbloom Analytics... you haven't considered what comes next if she ever wakes up. You're not sure if it's better to have her close or keep her far away from this place. Assuming she wakes up... assuming that. Which you have to.

You leave with a persistent nausea gripping you. 

You arrive at Galatea's apartment after work. She's curled up on her mattress, lost in whatever thoughts occupy her head.

"It's time to go." You hand her the scrubs that you got from Dr. Carte.

To her small credit, she doesn't try to bargain or delay. As far as you're aware, Galatea hasn't stepped foot outdoors since moving into this apartment well over a year ago, but she's willing to do it for the sake of Cerise.

Standing now, she does wait just a moment for you to give her some privacy, to leave or turn around, anything -- but when you don't budge, she drops her dignity and strips in front of you. Not that she was wearing much to begin with. Her tee, well-worn as it is (she had it on when you were here Saturday), comes up over her head, revealing that she isn't even wearing a bra. Or bottoms.

She changes into the scrubs. The frumpy, rumpled look somehow suits her.

"Did you do your part, then?" You ask.

"yes. i forged an employee badge that should work in their scanners..."

The "badge" is just a printed piece of paper, with her picture, a false name, and a barcode. But, slipping it into the laminated cover that used to house your Darkbloom Analytics employee ID, it looks official enough.

---


It would be too suspicious to go in with Galatea at your side, so you let her go on ahead, and watch from your car as she enters the hospital. She isn't used to being in the world at large, and she manages to look shady enough that the worst happens: a man who's surely a plainclothes fed stops her just past the sliding glass doors of the lobby, and enters into a conversation with her.

From this distance, there's no way you can hear the exchange, but you can clearly see the deer-in-headlights expression on Galatea's face. He says something, and is waiting for a response, but she isn't talking. She's just standing there, the stupid bitch, silent.

Your blood boils and your heart quickens. "Come on..." you mutter. "Jesus... say something."

After an agonizing period that feels like it stretches to infinity, Galatea finally manages to mumble a few words to the man, and show him her badge, and even force what looks like laughter. It placates him just enough. He leaves her alone. Galatea continues on, towards a hallway housing elevators, and out of sight. Only now can you breathe again.

After a few minutes, you get out of the car and follow. 

You see a face you didn't expect in Cerise's room. Kay Vera.

"How the hell--" you begin.

"She might be a two-bit MSM whore," Dr. Carte says, covering Cerise's face with a tarp -- hole over the left eye that makes your stomach turn at the implication. "But she knows how to check for bugs. So she has a use."

Galatea is at the other side of the bed, gripping Cerise's arm as if she can't believe in Cerise's physical tangibility, caught between the fear of what comes next and the happiness of seeing her for the first time since that night.

"Are we good, then?" You ask Kay.

"Good as good. The room is clean. No one watching but us."

"Thanks," you say. "You can go now."

"Oh hell, no," Kay says. "I'm fine right here." She sits in a chair in the corner and folds her arms. "Proceed!"

"We have permission from Kay Vera now!" You say. "That's just great. Hear that, Dr. Carte? We can proceed."

"You're snippy when it comes to your sister," Kay says. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

Dr. Carte tries and fails to look Galatea in the eye. "You're certain you remember the procedure?"

Galatea nods.

"What we're doing here is just the same thing but in reverse. We'll pull Penelope out of her eye and destroy it. Understand?"

Galatea's nod is more halting this time.

Dr. Carte takes her hand. "You can do this," she says. "I have faith in you. You managed to successfully do the operation on your own, just from watching a video of it. With both of us working together, it's sure to go off without a hitch."

They scrub down and glove up. You sit beside Kay and watch, a helpless spectator. Your part in this is finished now; the rest is up to them.

Kay reaches into her handbag and produces a tiny, travel-size bottle of tequila. "For your nerves," she says, offering it to you.

You turn it down. Kay shrugs. "Don't say I was never nice to you," she replies. 

It's an actual scoop -- like a melon baller, the thing Dr. Carte uses to pull Cerise's eye from its socket. You watch as long as you can bear, and turn away when the blue tarp runs red with her blood.

The wire wrapped around her ocular nerve is almost as horrible a sight as the blood. But now you can only hear the conversation, muffled by surgical masks, as dry and utilitarian as any surgeon performing any routine surgery -- Dr. Carte directing Galatea on what to do. "Make the incision here. Find where the terminal node connects to her frontal lobe -- here. Hold on -- and now, we switch it to low-power mode..."

Eyes wrenched shut, you jostle your leg madly up and down, until Kay rests a palm on your knee to still it. She doesn't say anything, and you're thankful for that.

"And now we pull it--"

You hear a squeal -- the sound of the hospital gurney's wheels trying to move but being halted by the brakes -- and the sudden metallic crash of Dr. Carte's tray of implements falling to the ground. You look up: Cerise is locked in a sort of muscle spasm, her back arched so severely that the crown of her head is flat against the bed. Galatea steps back, terrified, and Dr. Carte is the one to take action: she reaches down and grabs the loose wire hanging from Cerise's gaping eye socket, and reconnects it to whatever part of her brain it was wired to.

Cerise collapses supine again, spine no longer contorted, but the worst is hardly over. She makes the first sound you've heard her make in a year: a senseless wail of agony.

You're on your feet, but Dr. Carte waves you back. "She's okay! Let it pass!"

Cerise's head shakes side to side. She seems conscious, but not lucid. Her eyeball flops around on her cheek as she convulses, the tarp partially fallen away but still held in place by the fact that it's looped around her ocular nerve.

"Cerise!" You cry.

She turns her head in your direction, her other eye meeting yours. There is recognition there: she sees you. She knows who you are.

"Cerise--"

Her mouth gapes. Her lips purse and struggle to form words. Dryly, she croaks: "Alabaster-- he's"

"He's what?" You step forward, but that's all she says. The glimmer in her eye fades. She goes stone-still. That same old dead guppy catatonia she's had for so long now. There is only silence.

Dr. Carte bows her head. "Let's get her put back together," she says, unable to mask the despair.

"What happened?" You demand.

"I thought I figured out a way to --" she stammers. "It's a low-power mode -- nevermind. Stupid, stupid... I'm so sorry, Alabaster..."

She works quickly with Galatea to put Cerise's left eye back in its socket and get her cleaned up. 

"We'll figure it out," Dr. Carte insists when it's all over. "There wasn't any damage -- if you're worried about that."

"Square one," you say. "After a year, it's square one. Isn't it?"

"No," she says. "It just means we need a new approach--"

"Whatever." You don't feel like debating semantics. "Gal, let's go."

Galatea is at Cerise's side, still watching her intently, like a worshiper meeting God. She doesn't respond.

"Gal."

"please can i stay with her a bit. it's been so long."

"And how the hell are you going to get home?"

"I'll take her," Kay says, still a little green from watching the awfulness earlier.

"And you're okay with that?" You ask Gal. "Riding in a car with a stranger?"

No response. She's just... staring, at Cerise. And she's equally as catatonic as Cerise is.

"Fuck all of you. Useless shits." You go for the door.

"Alabaster--" Dr. Carte says.

You ignore her. Anything you say right now is bound to be of the burning bridges variety. You leave on your own. 

The week passes as a vague blur. You can't focus on anything -- not on meetings, not on meals, not on the people around you -- not even on the sex you have, as if by obligation, with Whitney. You're thinking only of Cerise the entire time.

At the wrap-up meeting Wednesday, Alex shows his face -- rare sight to these things, preferring most days instead to stay cooped up in his little dungeon like his predecessor did. And that's exactly why he's here now: to inquire about his predecessor.

"What's the status of looking for Sable Guiteau?" He asks.

"My guys are on it," Armstrong says, like brushing away a stray piece of lint, and tries to move on to the next thing. But Alex won't let him.

"What have they found?"

"Kid, if they find anything useful, you'll be the first to know."

"Nothing. After all this time, nothing." Alex isn't even pretending to be chipper and enthusiastic.

"He's got a point," Whitney says. "Weren't they supposed to be top guys?"

Armstrong scratches his ear, sighs. "I don't know what you want me to say. The woman is a ghost. She hasn't--"

"You need better people on this," Alex says. "And more people. And more resources."

Armstrong groans. This is a breaking point. He drops any hint of playing along and levels with Alex -- obviously relishing the chance to do it. "Sable Guiteau is dead," he says.

"No she isn't," Alex replies without hesitation.

"She's dead. If she was alive, there would have been some trace of her by now. She's dead somewhere in the desert, and if you want to know exactly where to go digging, then hell -- ask her, I guess." He nods at Mara. "We can't spend any more money on a manhunt for a woman not even the fucking FBI can find."

"If you were going to waste time like this, you should have told me," Alex says. You've never seen him this angry. It's actually a little scary.

"What? You want to waste your own money on it instead?"

"I will if I have to." He stands. "You're wrong about Sable. She's alive."

He storms out. When he's gone, Armstrong glances back at Mara. "You did kill her, right? I mean, I'm not wrong about that."

"I did no such thing," Mara says.

"Okay, sure, of course. But she's dead."

"The boy is perfectly correct," Mara says. "As far as I know, Sable is alive, and you should still be looking for her. You stupid sack of shit. Fuck you."

Armstrong stares at the ceiling and curses under his breath. 

The Solutions Forum is that evening. It's as despicable a group of wannabe titans of industry as you've ever seen, a motley gathering of dweeby billionaires, all joined under the roof of a ritzy conference hall downtown to hear from Whitney, of all people, on how to save the world.

"Check it," Whitney says, nodding at the bald head of a man on the other side of the hall. He has his back to you. "Ten points if I can nail Lex Luthor over there."

"Do you know who that is?" You demand. "That's J--"

She's already got a straw in her mouth. And then the little spittle-coated wad of paper is flying across the room. She barely gets the incriminating straw behind her back before it hits him square in one of his revolting neck folds, and he clutches at it, and looks disgustedly down at his hand, and then back behind him to see where the fuck that spitball came from.

"Ten points," she whispers, triumphant.

You're a man of principle; you have to speak out. "It didn't hit his head. It hit his neck. That's five points, max."

He locks eyes with Whitney and you're briefly alarmed that maybe he knows she's the culprit after all, but instead his beady little eyes light up and he waves happily at her. You and Whitney walk over.

"How are you this evening?" He asks. "So looking forward to hearing the presentation. It's nice to get to the Valley sometimes."

"Yo," Whitney says. (The utter lact of tact to greet one of the richest men on Earth with "yo" is sort of admirable, in a perverse way.) "I heard that instead of putting air conditioning in your warehouses, you just hire ambulances to wait outside for whenever your workers get heat stroke. Is that true?"

His head glistens complexly in the overhead lighting as he shakes it. "That story was really overblown--"

"Oh my god, it's true," Whitney breathes. "You're one sick fuck, Jeffy. Wow."

He laughs cruelly. "Maybe you should be less concerned about my employees and more concerned about your boyfriend. I hear he gets around."

"What is it with these rich fuckers and their infidelity digs?" She asks you, frustrated. She looks back at Jeff. "We have an open relationship, dumbass. It's 2019. Maybe you should have tried it." She grabs a piece of cheese on a toothpick from a passing waiter and chomps down on it. Speaking through the food in her mouth she adds: "Maybe you wouldn't be losing half your shit then, huh?"

He sets his jaw -- coming up blank. Instead he simply turns and goes. You have to hand it to Whitney: she's basically undefeated in squaring off against these people. 

After an interminable hour of milling around with Whitney and saying hello to the likes of Bill Gates, Larry Page, and Michael Dell ("Do the thing!" Whitney said to Dell. When he didn't understand what "the thing" was, Whitney did it for him, making finger guns and exclaiming "dude, you're gettin a Dell!") -- the conversation slows to a trickle as, at last, people begin to find their seats. Whitney takes the podium and scans her eyes around the room. While the conference hall is richly lit and lushly carpeted, it's cozy too, and she needs no microphone to be heard.

"We're missing someone," she says. "Who are we missing?"

"Elon is yet to arrive," Vivian says from the front row. She's a couple seats away from you, separated by Tyrus, Dalton, and Alex.

"Probably out on a vision quest smoking mescaline," someone says, to laughter.

"Please, let us begin," Vivian says. "We do not need to delay things for one participant."

"Right," Whitney says. She clears her throat and looks uncertainly back over her shoulder at the projector screen with the Powerpoint slide reading simply "Solutions Forum." She signals for Nelson to click the "next" button.

The intro slide has a lot of text on it, in an untidy bullet-pointed list, but Whitney isn't one to stick to the script. Instead of reading the summary of what Sand Reckoner is, and why it has the potential to destabilize the western world with a flood of false information indistinguishable from reality, she says simply: "Yeah, so. We fucked up."

The only sound from the audience is an awkward cough. After a pause, Whitney adds: "By 'we', I mean my dad. I didn't fuck up. Just so everyone's clear. I'm here to fix the fuck-up. So yeah..."

She signals for Nelson to click "next."

The first topic is the Sand Reckoner platform's ability to generate convincing forged videos. For impact, the presentation includes a short clip of Whitney supposedly dunking on an NBA player, which of course never happened. "These are called deep fakes," she explains. "You can't tell them apart from real life, so that's pretty bad."

"We're already developing digital signatures at the source," someone in the audience says. "That's the future. Why do we need DA's help?"

Whitney stammers, and Nelson is the one to save her. He stands. "Implementing digital signatures with blockchain-assisted fingerprinting doesn't get us there. We could roll out the technology en masse but most devices today aren't capable... and those devices will exist in working condition for decades, no matter what new devices come out. Deep fakes will continue to circulate... and that's just one problem a malicious actor with Sand Reckoner could cause..."

Whitney is a master of delegation if nothing else. She beckons Nelson to the podium. "Tell them about the thing," she instructs him. She stands off to the side and lets him speak. He momentarily looks overcome by stage fright, having not prepared for presenting, but he shakes it off and continues. 

"Enter Diogenes," he says. He clicks the clicker and the next slide comes into focus. "A countermeasure against forgery that attacks the problem at the source."

The doors of the hall burst open and in swaggers tonight's missing participant.

"Brilliant," Elon says, his voice dripping with unmasked frustration. He steps down the center aisle between chairs. "Burn the world down, then start selling fire extinguishers. I love it."

"Sit the fuck down, Iron Man," Whitney says. "If we want your opinion, we'll ask you."

"You want to charge rent on access to the Diogenes platform, don't you?" He demands, not sitting.

There's an awkward silence. Nelson finally fields the question: "Well -- we will work alongside your companies to develop applications for the platform that suit your needs... we're not looking to profit here, but it does take dedicated resources -- and we need to recoup costs --"

There's a general, uneasy murmur at this: these folks are now wise to the grift.

"These details are months away from consideration," Vivian says. She will brook no tangents here: "The purpose tonight is not to discuss financing. The purpose is to discuss how we prevent guillotines from coming back into style. Now if you have any questions, I ask that you please hold them for the end. Thank you."

You look to your side, where Alex is busy on his phone. He hasn't said word one all night, even though he's the lead developer on Diogenes. "Don't you have an opinion on this?" You whisper to him.

He doesn't say anything -- still staring at his phone like it's the most intensely interesting thing on the planet.

"Alex."

"I don't care about these people," he finally tells you. And you realize that he's right. You don't either. You'd rather be anywhere but here. Judging by Whitney's expression as she stands at the head of the room, she agrees too.

You want your old life back. The one in which you didn't have to deal with the demands of unruly billionaires and egotistical CEOs. 

The Forum was a disaster. After that stupid Afrikaner asshole's little outburst, the assembled group of businessmen (business people-- mea culpa, Rose) became restless and started demanding to know why they should even consider any sort of partnership with Darkbloom Analytics. Instead of pledging to help develop Diogenes -- or even to make use of it when it's completed -- Whitney got the cold shoulder. Most of them stated an intention to develop their own versions of technology to defeat whatever nasty tricks Sand Reckoner could be capable of.

Another potential revenue stream up in smoke.

As you step into the balmy air outside the hotel, waiting for the valet to return your car to you, you catch Alex breezing past. "Are you going home?" You ask him.

"Work," he says. "It's more critical now than ever... if we'll have competition, to beat our competitors to market. No rest!"

He doesn't even give you the time to argue before he scurries away, hands his tag to the valet, and hops back into his car. He's about as rich as you and he still drives a dinky little hybrid from 2016 or so.

"Does Alex seem off to you?" You ask Whitney, watching him drive off.

"What, more than usual?"

You shake your head. "Never mind. Anything left on your agenda today?"

"Just babysitting kimochi."

She means Kikuchi -- as in Makoto Kikuchi, the Japanese singer and actress who's slated to play the role of Whitney in an upcoming Japanese biopic based on the Dakrbloom family. She flew to America recently to observe Whitney firsthand and get deeper into the role. No matter how many times you correct Whitney over the name, she keeps calling her Kimochi rather than Kikuchi.

You're not in such a great mood after everything with Cerise, and now this Forum -- and you're really not looking forward to the end of the week, when you're supposed to arrange a date with Rose2. You need something to get your mind off all your troubles.

>[x] Hang out with Whitney and Makoto.
[ ] Hang out with Alex and cash the rain check he made to do something fun with you.
[ ] Find something interesting to do with Vivian.
[ ] Visit Galatea.
[ ] Visit Kay. 

Makoto is on her back, floating in the pool, when you and Whitney arrive home. Although the sun has long since set, she wears sunglasses. Strange girl.

You squat at the edge of the pool and wave to catch her attention.

With bizarre grace, she swings her body through a 90 degree arc so that she stands vertically in the shallow end. She flips up her glasses and says cordially, "Alabaster" -- although her almost impenetrable accent renders it as "Arabasta."

"Did I tell you that you could swim in my pool?" You ask her.

"It is not your pool," she reports. "It is belonging to Whitney."

She nearly topples over now as Whitney plunges in, yelling "cannonball!" and the wave Whitney makes engulfs her. The splash douses you, as well. You step back, looking down at your ruined clothes -- this suit cost a lot of money. Whitney's business clothes are ruined too, not that she has the capacity to care -- and before you can complain, it's Whitney who's complaining first:

"Jeee-sus it's cold in here!" Her teeth chatter as she surfaces and swipes her short bobbed hair back. She nudges Makoto's shoulder. "A-a-are you part reptile? How are you not freezing to death?"

"Acclimation," Makoto says sagely. At least you think that's what she means by "acru-imini-ashi-on."

"What?" Whitney says. She looks up at you. "Did she call me a criminal?"

"She means she got used to it be being in the pool for long enough. Look, if you're cold--"

You can't finish the thought. Whitney is at the pool's edge. She grabs your ankle and tugs, and then you're falling ass-over-teakettle into the frigid water. It's August -- why the hell is the pool so cold? You moan in shock as you claw your way up and get your head above water. "What the fuck? Warn me!"

You shake the water off your head and wipe it from your face and eyes. The wry smile on Makoto's lips is the closest you've ever seen her get to laughter.

"S-s-see how cold it is?" Whitney shivers.

You wade to the edge and haul yourself out -- with an embarrassing amount of effort. "Hang out in the hot tub if the pool is too cold for you. Idiot."

Makoto claps. "Oh yes! I agree with your boyfriend." 

Whitney removes her dripping outer layers and unceremoniously discards them like wet towels at the side of the pool. Her plain white bra and panties aren't exactly a bikini, but she's too lazy -- or too cold -- to go change. She just hops into the jacuzzi. Makoto follows.

Figuring that you may as well follow Whitney's lead, you strip down to your boxers and join them. Opposite problem now: the water is almost too hot, and you have to ease your way in with halting, jerky motions. Whitney calls you a pussy.

"Pussy," Makoto parrots, although not to you. Rather, she seems to be reinforcing the word into her memory. "Pussy."

As you settle down, your boxers balloon out -- an air pocket is trapped in them. Whitney cackles. She pokes it with an index finger, and it deflates with a series of bubbles. Makoto demurely averts her gaze.

"So what did you want?" Whitney asks, leaning back and looping either arm over the marble rim of the hot tub. "Usually you're bugging me at work, not home..."

"Just to observer," Makoto says, in her typically ungrammatical way. "I want to know the Whitney of her home, too."

"I dunno, there's not much to observer," Whitney says -- mirroring Makoto's lack of basic English proficiency. "Mostly at home I'm just hanging out in my undies. Kind of like this, actually."

"Undies?" Makoto asks, enunciating each syllable, confused.

"Underwear," Whitney explains. "This." She tugs at the strap of her bra. "These." She points down, towards her crotch, although the raging bubble jets obscure any possible view.

"Ah," Makoto says. She tugs at the strap of her own bikini top. "Bra -- panties -- undies. Mostly you are a naked person, then?"

"Is that fair?" Whitney asks. "I'm not NAKED. Not any nakeder than you! Just being casual and shit."

"What do you do at home?" You ask Makoto, turning the question back on her.

"I practice -- for singing -- always. I enjoy to read, also."

You've learned in the past month or so of being acquainted with this girl that anime has lied to you. The life of an idol singer isn't full of cute hijinks, not in the slightest. You know that Makoto is telling the truth: you almost never see her without a songbook in her hand, in the times she isn't quizzing Whitney over the minutiae of her daily activities. It's almost inhuman, the drive she has. If she even has a concept of fun, she doesn't show it. 

"Blah, I'm too lazy," Whitney says. She lets her head fall back and rest against the edge. Then she's staring at the stars. "Don't you ever get bored with practice?"

"It is enjoyable too," Makoto protests. "My passion is to sing."

"Okay, totally fair," Whitney says. "MY passion is to sleep and eat junk food." She suddenly brings her head level again: "Hey. Wanna order pizza?"

Makoto politely declines.

"I don't think she eats," you offer. "It's against her contract, probably."

"I am restricted to 1,000 kilocalories per day," she says.

You're almost afraid to ask whether that's a self-imposed restriction or actually a part of her contract.

"What's a kilocalorie?" Whitney asks. "Is that how Japanese people measure calories? Like feet and kilometers?"

Makoto smiles but doesn't seem sure how to answer. You let it pass. Whitney usually moves on if you ignore a dumb question.

And she does. "Anyway, the other thing I do for fun is drive around. Or sports -- playing or watching, whatever, you know... what else..."

"Sex," you joke.

"Tons of sex. Fuckin' up a storm."

Makoto is just mildly scandalized by this. She covers her mouth with a palm, to signal that this is too much information.

"Hey, you're the one who wants to do the methy acting," Whitney says. "You wanted to know about me. That's the truth."

You startle. Underneath the bubbles, Whitney's foot has snaked its way over. Now she's rubbing your crotch.

"Gotta fill the time with something, you know?" She continues. "It's like a hobby."

"Whitney..." you mutter. She winks at you, grins, but doesn't relent.

"Is it so frequent?" Makoto asks. "To make a hobby?"

"Sure. Well it's mostly because Ally is so horny that he can't keep it in his pants for ten minutes. So you can blame him. He's a real fuckin' pervert."

Here's some method acting now: with a smile of her own, Makoto glances at you. "Pervert," she chides.

Maybe they're right. Whitney's ministrations are having exactly the effect she intended, and you're more lost in the feeling of her surprisingly precise toes than anything the two girls are actually saying. You gulp, and nod, and hope Makoto doesn't notice you're being weird.

She notices. "You are being weird," she says.

"That's because we're having sex right now," Whitney says.

Makoto can only blink, confused. "You are --"

Whitney's efforts redouble, and she must have planned this: the dial for the bubbler jets is within her reach, and right at the critical moment, she sets it to zero. As she brings you over that delirious edge, the white wake of the bubbles dies, and Makoto's eyes are drawn instantly to the movement below the surface. You clutch the edge of the tub and something else white floats in fat pearls through the water.

"Fuck," you groan involuntarily, bowing your head. When you glance up again, Makoto is marveling.

"So that's what we do for fun," Whitney says.

"I see..." For the first time you see Makoto blushing. She isn't taking her eyes away. 

---

Rose The First said the best way to avoid arousing Rose The Second's suspicions, as far as your true intentions with the date go, would be to make the proposition appear spontaneous. So you don't reach out until Saturday evening.

"Call or text?" Rose asks, sitting on the hood of your car, inside in the three-car garage at home. (She intercepted and sidelined you right after you returned with Whitney, like she usually does when you and Whitney get back from somewhere.)

"I'm not suffering any conversation with her I don't need to. Anyway, texting is more casual. Right?"

"I would call someone I wanted to set up a date with. That's only polite."

"That's because you're a psycho. Normal people text."

"Tch -- why am I even--"

"Forget it. I'm texting her." (https://i.imgur.com/Lm7HfM2.jpg)

It doesn't take any time. Her responses are almost instantaneous -- and horribly typical. Rose reads the exchange, and you can tell she's not having a good time at all. She fiddles with her skirt and her face twitches a little when Rose2 accepts the date offer.

"You know, I almost kind of pity her," she says, eyes fixed on the screen.

"I'm sure you do," you muse. "Somewhere beneath all the envy."

"Don't make me laugh--"

You smack your lips. "Is it just me, or is it getting salty in here all of a sudden?"

She shoves you: "prick!" You shove her back: "bitch!" It's gonna be one of those nights. 

---

Rose talks you up in the car outside the restaurant. You wanted to tell her to fuck off and let you do this one your own, but you knew she was just going to tag along in secret if you did. At least this way you can get her input, for whatever very little it might be worth. She occasionally touches her face as she speaks, her right eye specifically -- the shiner there from last night now concealed by a thick layer of makeup.

"Okay, Alabaster, now remember: this date is about charm. You're trying to charm her."

"Yeah, yeah. Of course."

"You need to pretend you're interested in what she says - no matter how banal!"

"I have plenty of experience from hanging out with you."

"If that's what you call pretending," she says, "you need to do a much better job. And if you're lucky, when it's over, she'll invite you back into her house for a cup of tea, or... whatever it is people like her drink."

"I get the sense you're not a big fan of this Rose person," you say.

"Are you?"

You let that question hang in the air, much to Rose's obvious consternation.

"Just try to act like a real human being with real human emotional intelligence for once in your life," she finally says. "This is a first date. It's about conversation and chemistry. Not what you're usually thinking about."

"Which is what?"

"Trying to have sex -- don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you."

"That doesn't make any sense," you protest. "Why would you ever go on a date with someone if you're not trying to have sex?"

"You're a dog. You're worse than a dog--"

"I'm telling you, Other Rose wants to fuck. That's a fact. You can take that to the bank and cash it. If she invites me back inside, it'll be because she's ready to hop aboard the Alabaster Express."

"Don't make me puke," she cuts in. "Anyway, you CAN'T have sex with her."

"Who the fuck made you queen of my dick? Why can't I?"

"Other than gonorrhea--"

"Don't slut shame--"

She swats your shoulder. "--you're not doing this to get your dick wet, Alabaster! You're trying to meet Amber. It's Sunday, so she's likely to be in Fake-Rose's house if you get invited back inside. Be platonic. Good lord."

You get out of the car and head for whatever fate awaits. 

Rose2 is already waiting in the little receiving area, her face cast in pale relief by the dim paper lanterns used for mood lighting. After showing you to your booth, the host asks if you'd like something to drink: you, who are old enough, get a shot of sake; and Rose2, who isn't, gets a Shirley Temple.

"Thanks so much for taking me out!" Rose2 says. She plays with her hair, twirling an index finger through it. "But I'm such an airhead... I let you take me to this nice restaurant even though I can't eat anything!"

You squint at her. "Why not?"

"I've gotta save room. I've got a big dinner later on. But! I can still have a couple drinks, anyway! And we can still do karaoke..."

As if on cue, a waiter returns with your drinks. You knock back the shot of sake with a single hard gulp, knowing you'll need it, and ask him to bring you another one immediately.

You try a sly tack, to see where it gets you: "I guess I should stick to drinks then, too. If you've got a big dinner later on, that means I've also got a big dinner later on."

"You too? Wowie zowie. What a coincidence."

This fucking girl is impossible. You watch as she takes her shitty paper straw out of its paper wrapper, jabs it into the cup, puts the cup to her lips, and then drinks directly from the rim instead of using the straw she just inserted. Literally like watching an alien pretend to be human, with Rose2, sometimes.

"What's the matter?" She asks, noticing how you're staring. Then: "Oh -- yeah. Straw. A-durr."

With way more effort than it should take, she crosses her eyes to look down the bridge of her nose and catches the straw in her lips -- only after pursing them several times around nothing at all as the straw rolls around the rim of the cup and away from her reach.

"Sometimes I think you pretend to be dumber than you really are," you say.

She sucks on her straw and gazes back with big, wide, innocent eyes. If what you just said spun any of the rusty cogs inside her skull, it doesn't show. 

This is off to a truly horrible start, so you try to bring it back from disaster. What better thing to talk to a weeaboo about: "are you watching any good anime this season?"

Rose2 laughs. "What's the season got to do with it?" She asks.

"I mean--" you begin, but decide to forget elaborating. "Never mind. Are you watching any good anime?"

"Oh! Yes!" She sets her cup down, to talk excitedly with her hands. "I'm watching this show called Madoka Magica! Well, it's kinda the third or fourth time I've seen it. Have you ever heard of it?"

Classic Rose's words from earlier ring in your ears -- to pretend to be interested, no matter how banal this girl can be -- so you nod politely and ask: "what's it about?"

She leans halfway across the table, her button-down shirt straining against her tits. "Magical girls," she says. "But -- so much more! It's super dark and sad and stuff. You should watch it. You'd definitely be into it."

"Maybe you can show me an episode."

"Mmm hmm!" She hums. "But you can't just watch the first one! You need to give it at least THREE episodes!" She holds out three fingers, for effect. "The third episode is where it gets REALLY good. It's the best!"

You catch movement on the periphery. Glancing around the column on the right side of the little table's booth, you spy an unexpected patron: Dr. Carte. The host seats her nearby, but her back is to you, and she doesn't seem to notice that you're here as well.

[ ] Say hello.
>[x] Let her be; focus on Rose2.

Not that the conversation is exactly riveting. "I have it on Blu-Ray... I can lend it to you!" She says.

You glance back at her, taking your attention off Dr. Carte's booth. "Huh?"

"Madoka. I've got it on Blu-ray, so I'll bring it with me to work tomorrow."

This is your in. You scratch the back of your head and lie: "I don't like to borrow things... I'm always worried I'll break them, or lose them... maybe I could just come by and watch it at your place?"

"Oh!" She says, fluttering her eyelids. "That would be..."

You wait on tenterhooks for her to finish the thought.

"...totally sugoi!"

You give her your best impression of a charming smile.

She smiles back -- but then she puts a finger to her lips, thinking. She adds, after an exorbitantly long pause: "You need to be okay with Japanese, though, if you're watching it with me."

"I'm sorry?" You say.

"I only watch anime subbed. I can't STAND English voice acting! It's so bad!"

You're at a loss for words. Clear out of left field, Rose2 smacked you with a correct opinion.

"I agree," you manage, in total truth. "I totally agree. Wow."

Of course, then, she has to push her luck. When the waiter comes by again to ask if you've decided on your dinner orders, Rose2 tries -- and fails -- to explain to him in Japanese that you won't be having anything to eat.

You're pretty sure the waiter is Vietnamese, not Japanese, so you fumblingly speak over Rose2 -- in English this time -- to say simply: "thanks, but we're only having drinks."

He continues on to Dr. Carte's booth, bringing with him what is by your count the fifth shot of alcohol in as many minutes. And she hasn't even had any food yet. She told you she knew how to drink, but you never realized how much she meant it.

Rose2 puffs out her cheeks, then uses the excess air to motorboat her lips. You shudder.

"Wanna do karaoke?" She asks.

>[x] Let's do it.
[ ] Let's just go back to your place and watch that show. 
 
"Turning Japanese I think I'm turning Japanese I really think soooo! Dun dun dun dun dun dun!"
 
Rose2 shimmies and sashays around the tiny karaoke booth, dancing totally out sync and singing totally out of tune with the music. Her pleated plaid skirt follows the momentum of her hips at a seeming lag, making you almost dizzy. You pour yourself another glass, and you're glad you opted for the largest bottle of sake they had.
 
"Come on, Ally! Dance!"
 
"That won't be happening," you say gruffly.  
 
"I got your picture! Of me and you! You wrote I love you -- I wrote me too!"
 
Like a screeching monkey, you think -- or maybe an industrial grinder set to high. She ducks and twirls on one foot, propelling herself across the room in some sort of mad caricature of a pirouette. It sends her sailing, and she lands on her back in your lap. She gazes into your eyes, holds the mic to her lips and croons: "I often kiss you when there's no one else around~"
 
You put your hand beneath her back and help her to an upright position. She scoots over on the couch, settling beside you. She grabs your shot glass from the small table.
 
"That's illegal," you warn her, not that you really care.
 
"Pfft. I drink all the time." She takes a swig, and the pucker she makes indicates that maybe she was fibbing about being a big drinker.
 
She is a trooper, though. She holds the shot glass out and motions for you to fill her up again. You comply.
 
Without the incoherent wailing that she thinks of as singing, you can hear another sound, from far away, penetrating the supposedly soundproof walls of the karaoke booth.
 
It's Dr. Carte. "FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE! EARTH BEEEEELOOOOWWWW USSSS -- DRIFTINNNNNG, FAAAAAALLING --"
 
It's somehow even worse than Rose2. Even muted and muffled by the walls, you have the urge to plug your ears against the aural assault.
 
Rose2 titters. "Is that Dr. Carte?"
 
"I think so," you say. "I saw her coming in a little earlier."
 
"Whoaaa... what are the odds, huh? Should we go say hi?"
 
The hook is baited; the fish is biting. Time to reel it in. "Nah. I'd rather just hang out with you."
 
Maybe the fishing analogy was wrong. She stares back at you like a timid fawn, petrified in place before the hunter's muzzle. You top her off again but she's so stunned that it takes her several long moments for her to realize it and draw the glass to her mouth.
 
"You don't mind, right?" You prompt. "Sticking to just the two of us."
 
"N-no -- of course not."
 
You take the glass from her and have another shot yourself. It only just now occurs to you that this is the classic indirect kiss scenario. But you're a westerner, and you prefer to be direct rather than indirect. You lean in, clasp Rose2's chin, and plant a kiss square on her lips.
 
"K... k..." she stutters.
 
"You okay?"
 
She nods.
 
"Dance some more."
 
On much shakier legs now, she dances and tries to sing along with a classic you can instantly identify despite her butchery: "Plastic Love." You pretend to be rapt, nodding along and tapping your feet to the smooth synthesizer. And then something weird happens: you actually begin to get into it. You sort of enjoy watching her clumsily attempt to sing this Jpop hit. You enjoy it because -- because, well, she's doing it to impress you. She's doing it for you, and only you, and because of that, it somehow elevates the performance.
 
The sake must be getting to you.
 
"Come here," you finally say during an extended musical bridge.
 
"Huhhh?"
 
The sake is definitely taking its effect -- not just on you, but her as well. Her cheeks are a fittingly rosy shade of pink. She's even slower on the uptake than usual.
 
You wave her over. It takes a little prodding, but she approaches, and when she's standing in front of you again, you grab her by her tummy, swing her around, and get her in your lap.
 
You rest your chin on her shoulder. "Keep singing," you instruct her. Her hair really does smell like bubblegum. She's incredibly warm.
 
"I-I'm just playing games--"  she drawls, trying to sing. "I kn-know it's plastic love--"
 
"You're pretty good at this," you lie. "Do you do karaoke a lot?"
 
"Uh-- a little..."
 
You grip her tighter, your arm around her midsection - it's got a nice give to it. "Geez, you're shaking a lot. You're like a little bird, you know that?"
 
"Ah-- s-sorry--"
 
"Why is that? Are you all right?"
 
"It's just..." she begins, but then she trails off, worrying her lip. The next music track begins, another soft 80s pop song of some kind. But no one's going to be providing the vocals this time. You take the mic from her and set it aside.
 
"It's just what?" You ask.
 
"It's just... oh, I can't say..."
 
She wriggles in your grasp, but you hold her fast, and try again. You whisper, pushing the hair away from her ear: "You can say. It's fine. We're all alone."
 
"A-Alabas-- Ally.... it's just... somehow or another, you make me feel kinda... kinda tingly..."
 
"Here?" You ask, pushing your forearm against her belly button. She nods uncertainly.
 
"Where else?" You ask, nuzzling her. You plant a tender kiss on her neck.
 
"L-lower--"
 
"Your feet?"
 
"Uh..."
 
"Show me, then."
 
She wraps her tiny fingers around your hand, and you let her pull your arm away from her torso. She guides your hand now, directing it downwards, across the soft fabric of her gaudy skirt -- finally allowing you to cup her crotch. She seems almost reluctant to let go of you, to allow you full control with your grip on her like this.
 
"Th-there," she says.
 
"I see," you whisper. "I make your cunt tingle."
 
She gasps through gritted teeth. You take the hem of the skirt and flip it up, bearing her pantied crotch, the striped white-and-strabwerry-pink fabric darkly stained already with a quickly growing wetness.
 
"It's all right," you say soothingly. "I'll fuck you, if you want."
 
"Alabasterrrr--" she whines, bucking her hips against the air. You rub her through her panties a little, just a little, to tease her.
 
"Nnn..." she coos.
 
You spin her around, get her on the couch, planting at the point where the seat meets the armrest. She doesn't fight you. In fact, she raises her butt a little as you slide her skirt down, to help you get it off. You toss it aside and it lands over the TV screen, where lyrics are still scrolling past unheeded.
 
"Can we do this here?" She asks, suddenly aware of being exposed, and growing doubtful.
 
"I can't wait. I wanna fuck you right here."
 
She draws her arms to her chest, her little hands balling up, and nods tremblingly.
 
You pull down her panties next. Now the first-ever look at her cunt, and it's prettier than you expected. Symmetrical, pale pink lips, just slightly turned-out and engorged, and a sweet little slit in between that looks really inviting. And somehow, like the hair on her head, her shaved little pussy is weirdly redolent of bubblegum. Maybe that's just your brain drawing an errant connection. But the scent of her cunt is sweeter than any girl you've ever been with.
 
You glance up. She's got her face covered with both hands -- embarrassed to be on display.
 
"Look at me."
 
You have to force her hands away. Then reaching down, you unbuckle your belt, unzip your jeans, step out of your pants. "Take it out," you tell her, nodding at the bulge in your boxers.
 
She reaches up and does it. The hesitation of her motions only makes your dick even harder. She's more than a little scared: of the potential to be caught, of her first time with you -- of your size, too.
 
But she knows what you want -- and she knows what SHE wants, too. She hooks her hands beneath her knees and spreads her legs for you. The lips of her pussy part, just barely. "Fuck me..." she says, her voice small and pinched.
 
You get directly over her and root around, finding her opening with the tip of your prick. She chews her lower lip again, a nervous tic, it seems, and you try to force yourself in. But there's a problem. Her pussy is so tight that you almost can't get into it. It might be -- no, it is -- the smallest hole you've ever fucked. You never would have expected it, but this girl has a cunt so little that it almost hurts you as it squeezes and clings against your invading shaft.
 
You grit your teeth and feel the sweat pearling on your forehead. Rose2 is in hardly any better shape. Though her juicing cunt is sucking and spasming around your cock, and obviously giving her the same electric jolts of pleasure that you feel, there's discomfort on her part as well. Tiny little pips and moans and gasps escape her lips, and her eyes are wide as she watches the spot where you're mated. You're barely halfway sunk into her before she's making so much noise that a distant, rational part of your mind sends out alarm bells. Thinking quick, you reach down and cover her mouth with the palm of your hand. She shivers at the somewhat humiliating gesture, but you don't care -- you need to get all the way inside her, and she's gonna be loud about it, so you need to shut her up while you do it.
 
Unable to get any purchase from this angle, you decide to call on gravity's assistance. You push her back, way back, so that her thighs are practically touching her cheeks. You crawl atop her, forcing your entire weight onto her defenseless body. She screams, muffled by your hand, and then the air is knocked out of her completely as you settle in with a satisfied grunt. Your raging dick plunges deeper than you thought possible. Like this, you have total access -- you can get into her completely, and enjoy the silky soft feeling of her pussy, the pressure of it, the hot wetness inside.
 
Since she's winded now, you can take your hand away, and hook your arms underneath hers to give you even better leverage. You fuck her like this, pressing and forcing her ever deeper into the plush couch cushions, bouncing her back and forth like a ragdoll -- using her. It's quick and brutal and her eyes begin to roll into the back of her skull. You don't know whether it's a put-on or a learned behavior or simply instinctual -- but her mouth droops open, her tongue lolls out, and she begins to drool stupidly. It's an expression you know quite well.
 
"D... d..." she gasps like a person drowned, hardly able to gather the air to vocalize anything at all. "D-dick... d-dick..."
 
For the purely perverted fun of it, you snake a hand around the opposite side of her face from below, so that you can fish-hook her. She doesn't try to stop you. Not that she could if she wanted to. Instead, her dreamy, unfocused eyes meet yours and she gazes lovingly back at you as you degrade her even further.
 
"I'm gonna cum in you," you tell her.
 
"N... nnnn..." she tries around your finger.
 
"Fuck... I'm gonna fucking cum in you--"
 
"N-not-- n-nnot insideee... not saaaafe... c-cum on my face-- pleasshe--!!"
 
"Too late!" You shout, and feel the lovely release of those valves deep inside your belly, the race of cum down your urethra and through your piss slit, the gooey blast of your sperm into her body. You hump her wildly, burying your face in her neck, pushing into her, pressing her even harder, mating her out.
 
Her tongue wags as you fill her and she nearly passes out. Her droopy face going even droopier as she accepts your seed. You've never seen an ahegao so perfect. She must have been practicing.

GIRLS FUCKED: 6/12

"I should get you home," you say. Rose2 is reclining on the couch, still naked from the waist down, the back of her palm over her forehead. The karaoke booth stinks of sex.

"I so can't drive..." she says, slurring.

You probably shouldn't drive either, now that you think about it. "I'll get an Uber--"

"Nooo-- hold on. I'll get us a ride." She stumbles over to the corner, reaches for her purse and pulls out her phone. She fires off a text. "Imouto to the rescue!"

Your heart skips a beat and you freeze with one leg inside your jeans. "You called your sister-- Amber?"

"Uh-huh. She wants to practice driving whenever possible, so..." She glances down, at where your genetic material is running out of her and pooling on the carpeted floor of the karaoke booth. "Aw man," she says. "That doesn't stain, does it?"

"I think it does."

"Hum. Oh well." 

You don't pay attention to a word Rose2 chatters as you wait at the curb for the girl who is supposedly her sister. You give perfunctory nods and "wow"s and "tell me more"s and let her go on and on, but you're suddenly terrified of your imminent rendezvous with Camelia.

The Camry appears at the end of the road and slowly pulls up, like a shark coming closer to the beach. You gulp. No turning back.

And then she's upon you. Reaching across to the passenger side, opening the door, she barks: "hop in."

Rose2 takes shotgun. Seems like you're stuck riding bitch, then. With shaky hands, you open the back door and enter.

Camelia -- Amber -- gives her sister a suspicious look. She plugs her nose theatrically. "Jesus Christ," she moans. "You let him do you raw?"

"Amber!! Stop it!"

"Gross. So gross. Don't you dare leak on anything."

"Mind your business! Don't embarrass me, Amber!"

"You're embarrassing you," she says. She pulls away from the curb and begins to drive. "Getting drunk and fucked in public on the first date. Come on, Rose. Even you're better than that."

But Rose2 isn't paying attention. In fact, she's already beginning to doze off. Within a few minutes, she's leaned up against the side door, snoozing, her face lit by the setting sun.

You look at Amber in the rearview. "Uh -- thanks for picking us up," you say. How do you make conversation with a dead girl?

"Was that the easiest lay of your life or what?" She asks.

You shrug.

"You like music, Alabaster?"

"I guess so."

She presses her finger against a CD sticking halfway out of the player in the dash. It sinks into place and immediately you're blasted by waves of droning guitar. You wince. Rose2, plastered and fucked-out, doesn't stir.

"What IS this?" You demand. "Oh my god..."

"It's true black metal," Amber says. "Sick, huh?"

You notice then the CD jewel case sitting in the center console. You pick it up and inspect it. "Burzum?" You say. You have to shout to be heard over the sonic wail of the music.

"It's great!" Amber says. "Varg Vikernes is a visionary."

You reach for the volume knob. Amber slaps your hand away. "What the fuck?" She says. "Leave it. You gotta blast this shit. Trying to listen to true black metal at a reasonable volume, what is wrong with you?"

Curious, you pop open the hinged lid of the console and look inside. It's stuffed full of CDs. Most of them have the telltale faux-gothic fonts and complexly horrible cover art of black metal albums. You see a few vaguely fascist symbols in there.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you that music is online now?" You say, closing the lid. "Why the CD collection?"

"I prefer physical media," Amber says. "I don't trust digital. People like you are watching."

This is definitely Camelia. Whether she'd admit it or not is a different question.

[ ] Press her directly.
>[X] Be circumspect.

"You look familiar," you try, still needing to shout over this stuff masquerading as music. "Did we meet before?"

"Oh yeah, for sure. We killed some people together!"

You gape at her.

"Pffft. Haha. No, Ash Blaster. I never met you. All I know is you ditched my sister at prom a couple years back and now you're making booty calls on her. Say, what's it like having billion-with-a-B dollars?"

"It's fun," you say, trying to gain back the initiative. If there's one thing you've learned about dealing with Camelia, it's that you need to know when to follow her jukes and when to make a few of your own. "I'd show you my mansion sometime, but... I guess you don't like me."

"What makes you say that, Anapaster?"

"Nothing. It just seems like you're mad that I'm having sex with your sister."

"Okay, whoa, hold your fuckin' horses. I think it's gross that you're having sex with her. Because A, she's my sister, and B, you're a gross looking guy. No offense. That doesn't mean I don't like you. Although I don't. I mean, you're a billionaire so I don't like you by default. But that isn't your fault. Hey, are you following me here? Should I slow it down?"

"You're sure we haven't met?"

"Sure as can be. I have a pretty good memory. Aren't you supposed to have a good memory, too?"

You frown. "And why do you think I should have such a good memory?"

"Haha! You're the fucking quizmaster. National Champions, 2015. God. What a pitiful fucking varsity program North High has got -- that it has to make a big fuss about the quiz team winning a championship. People are still talking about that shit. It drives me up a wall, seriously. It's like wow, you know what Gondwanaland was. You definitely deserve a medal for that."

Your answer about Gondwanaland at the national championship won a clutch victory in the pools stage that kept you from an early elimination. As far as you know, that match wasn't televised. Rose2 wasn't in attendance either. You lock eyes with Amber in the mirror, but she's got the poker face of a pro.

"What do you want from me, Abadabster? That I should be ecstatic you're schtupping Rose? That I should be all, come over to my house and sleep with my sister! Get real. I'm sure you're nice enough. But come on."

"What's North High like these days?" You ask, trying to pivot.

"Same as ever. They rebuilt it basically the same after you burned it down."

"Excuse me?"

"Pfft. Everyone knows you burned it down. Get over yourself, Ally. You're not the mastermind you think you are. Just some petty criminal who failed upwards... congratulations!"

She takes her hands off the wheel to clap for you, and the car veers dangerously close to the median, where oncoming traffic honks. "Camelia--!" You shout.

She swerves back at the last second. Rose2 jostles, mumbles, but doesn't wake.

"Call me Amber, please," Camelia says.

Her mouth is smiling but her eyes are telling you a different story. 

At Rose2's house, you unbuckle her from the passenger side seat and princess carry her up the drive.

"Thanks for lugging her around," Amber says. "I'd never be able to lift her. That ass is too fat."

"No problem. It's the least I can do. Where am I taking her?"

"Upstairs. First door on the left. You got off once today, so I trust you to be a gentleman about it... no hentai shit, capiche?"

You nod.

Rose2's home is as typical as can be, a little suburban tract house in a cookie cutter neighborhood, and the interior is no different. It's got a lot of the same trappings your old home used to have. The dingy cream carpet from the 1980s, the sticky linoleum tile in the foyer, the pebble stucco ceiling. It's sort of nostalgic.

Groaning with the weight, you carry Rose2 upstairs and to the short hallway where the bedrooms are. Her room is about what you expected: everything pink and pastel, littered with plushies, walls decorated variously with anime posters and her own horrific attempts at drawing anime of her own.

A wallscroll over the bed is a giant picture of Mami Tomoe, from what is apparently Rose2's favorite show; and in a perverse but sort of cliche joke, the scroll is actually two -- a long bottom and short top, the point of separation being exactly where you'd expect.

You lay Rose2 down on her pillows, and she snuggles up as if by instinct. She stirs, but only briefly, and through heavily lidded eyes she looks at you.

"I love you..." she murmurs.

Thankfully she falls asleep again before you have to answer that.

Stepping out again, you look down the hall. Directly next to Rose2's room is a closed door with a number of bumper stickers on it. "Eat the Rich," "Posadas was Right" -- and so forth. You spy an anarchy symbol, a swastika, a hammer-and-sickle, a GOP elephant being gored by a -- walrus? What does a walrus symbolize? -- among others. You sort of feel like a crook being lured into a trap car, but you can't help being curious. Amber is downstairs -- do you dare?

>[x] Look in her room.
[ ] Go back downstairs. 

You try the handle -- it's unlocked. When you step inside, the very first thing you see is a blur of yellow ducking behind the bed near the corner.

"Rose?"

She peeks her head up like a frightened prairie dog. "Shh!" She hisses.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" You hiss back.

"Climbed," she whispers.

Jesus Christ. You notice now the open window -- Rose has upgraded her stalker skills to being Spiderwoman, too. You don't even bother trying to respond to that. Instead, you take stock of the room.

It's surprisingly bare. The mattress has nothing but a comforter and a single pillow. The dresser is missing a couple drawers, the paint is chipped. There is no computer, but there is a desk, littered with papers and handwritten school notes; a bookshelf full of YA lit, nothing radical; a small CRT TV with a couple video game consoles hooked up. Amber is apparently a big fan of Wii Sports Resort. The walls are also barren, save for this: a small, framed picture of George W. Bush, the 43rd President. Hanging prominently above the TV. And surprisingly un-vandalized.

"I don't get it," you breathe.

Rose stands, walks across the room, and steps into the closet. She rifles through Amber's clothes, but doesn't seem to find anything of note either.

"So what do you think?" Rose asks.

"She's definitely Camelia. I'm sure of it. I don't know how, but I know she is."

Rose studies your face. She nods. "Okay. Okay... now what?"

You shrug as Rose pulls open a plastic bin on the floor of the closet and roots through it, but it only seems to be full of old shoes. "I can't believe you fucked Fake-Rose," she mutters.

"What?"

"Don't deny it. I know you fucked her. Sick, you're a sick person, Alabaster."

"It worked, didn't it?" You say. "Anyway, what business of it is yours--"

You stop, hearing footsteps approach. You spin on your heels, but it's too late, you're caught: Amber is standing at the threshold. 

Rose goes as still as a statue. She knows Amber is here, but cannot see her; nor can Amber see her from her position at the door. You're the pivot point, the only thing preventing Amber from stepping in and learning that there's a second trespasser here.

"I thought for sure you were raping my sister. I'm almost a little disappointed that you're more of a garden-variety peeping tom. Trying to steal my underwear?"

"No-- uh-- I'm sorry... I was just curious when I saw all those bumper stickers and stuff on your door. It's kind of wild."

"What's wild about it?"

You're not sure how to put it.

"If you want a pair of my underwear, it's fine. I'll even get you one--" She tries to step into the bedroom, so you step forward. You can see, to the side, Rose's neck muscles twitch.

"I'm good, really," you say. "I'm not the pervert you think I am. I was really just curious about what was in your room. I shouldn't have come in. My bad."

"Uh huh. Wanna play Wii Sports?"

"No... uh, no, thank you--"

"You're such a dork. Wow. Don't even want to play Wii. Okay then -- are you hungry?"

You try not to appear desperate as you say: "Yeah -- are you offering?"

"Mom's cooking dinner. I told her you'd be sticking around, so you've already got an invitation."

"That sounds great, Amber -- really. Uh -- lead the way?"

She laughs. "'Lead the way'. Wow. Aren't you the gentleman. Okay. Right this way, sirrah."

She turns and goes down the hall.

You cast a quick glance to Rose. She nods. You follow Amber out and shut the door behind you. 

In the dining room, Amber sets the table. There's four spots: four plates, four sets of forks, and four pointy knives.

Your phone dings, and you check the text notification: it's Rose.

>I got out. I found something... I'll show you back home.

You can breathe a little easier now.

"Making more booty calls?" Amber asks.

You quickly slip the phone back into your pocket. "No. Work stuff."

"Of course." She pulls a chair out and sits at the spot across from you. "What kind of dessert do you like?"

"Isn't it a little early to be talking about--" you begin, but you get cut off by a voice from the door to the kitchen, a woman stepping out. 

"There you are! The boy who randomly decided to crash my family dinner at the last possible moment. Don't you know it's polite to give your host a little warning before you decide to come to dinner? What if I didn't make enough for you?"

Your jaw drops.

"Well?" She says.

"I... I..."

Amber pops open a can of Diet Coke and watches with amusement.

"Hmmph. Typical. I knew from the moment Rose told me about you what kind of boy you would be. You're lucky that there's enough to go around -- I wouldn't be feeding you otherwise!"

She goes back into the kitchen. 

You step into the kitchen now yourself on slow, uncertain legs that seem to propel you of their own volition.

She's standing at the counter, hands upon a fat butcher knife, chopping baker's chocolate into cubes.

You stare for a few moments without her noticing you. Before you can stop yourself, you say: "M... mom...?"

She turns. She eyes you like you're an escapee from the asylum.

"Mom?" You repeat, half breathless.

"I'm not your mother," she sneers. "Are you on drugs, young man?"

You rub your face, still shellshocked, but find the presence of mind to backpedal. "It's just... you look a lot like my mom. It's -- it's uncanny. I was surprised, is all..."

She folds her arms. "If you want to continue dating my daughter, I'm going to need a urine test. I don't like the looks of you." She goes back to her work and mutters: "Tch... why does Rose have to always pick such weird guys..."

You want to leave the kitchen but you can't force yourself to turn around. Instead you watch her work, agog and motionless, acutely aware of how creepy you're being.

"Is there anything else?" She demands, not looking back. 

"What are you making?"

"Some meringue pies. Banana cream and white chocolate." She picks the cubes of chocolate up with her bare hands and dumps them into a chrome mixing bowl. She puts the mixing bowl under an electric whisking machine and turns it on low. The whir of it fills the space between your ears like the insistent drone of TV static.

"No dinner?" You ask after a turn.

That cinches it. She stops again, turns off the machine, hollers: "Excuse me, is the menu not to your liking? Any requests you'd like to make? I'm your mother now, I guess, so I'd better get you exactly what you want!"

"I was just-- curious--" you stammer.

"It's a tradition in our family," she says. "On Sundays we just have dessert."

"I... see," you say. You gulp, but the swallow is dry; your whole mouth has gone dry.

A droopy sort of synthesizer beat plays, as if from nowhere:

"It's poetry in motion! She turned her tender eyes to me..."

"Your phone is ringing," the woman, who is definitely your mother, says.

You try to bring yourself back to your senses. She's right. It's the custom ringtone Whitney set on your phone for when Dr. Carte calls.

"She blinded me with science! And failed me in biology!

It's the first time Dr. Carte has ever actually called you. She said she would only do it in an emergency. Heart fluttering, still staring in disbelief at your mother, you pull the phone from your pocket and answer it.

"Alabaster! You have to come quick!"

"What is it," you say, voice flat.

"Your sister... she's -- she's waking up! I don't know how, but she's actually waking up! I just got word -- I'm on my way to the hospital right now--!!"

You nod, as if Dr. Carte can see.

"Alabaster?"

"I understand. I'll be right there."

You hang up.

"Leaving so soon?" The woman says. "I suppose you billionaire types don't know how to keep your manners. Tch. I let you into my home, cook for you on such short notice -- and this is the thanks I get."

"I wish I could stay," you say, your voice hoarse and hardly more than whisper, but robotic and affectless too. You haven't blinked in more than two minutes. Your whole body feels numb. "Something came up. I... have to go... thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Catachresis."

"Ms," she corrects. "My husband is dead."

"I'm sorry to hear that." You back away slowly. "I'll see you around."

"I certainly hope not."

You go. 

MEANWHILE...

Alex steps into the Rutabaga Cafe, unsure of himself as always and far from convinced that this isn't some sort of trap, or cruel joke, or maybe a figment of his tortured imagination. He looks around, conspicuously, but sees nothing other than normal patrons, bland decor -- corrugated iron rafters strung with twee old-timey incandescents, framed sepia-tone pictures of the Bay Area from the early 20th century, a hand-painted logo on the wall glistening in the dim light. It doesn't feel like the place where you find closure for what's been eating away at you.

He goes to the appointed spot anyway, a table at the back, near a corner. He faces the east wall as instructed in the text messages he received the other day. He orders a coffee, black, although he doesn't drink coffee and he certainly doesn't take it black. He just couldn't think of anything else to say when the waitress came by.

Hardly five seconds pass from getting his order before he senses swift motion, a jacketed blur in his peripheral vision swooping in and sitting at a table directly behind him. Although she has a hood and sunglasses on, Unabomber style, he recognizes her immediately when he glances over his shoulder.

"Ms. Guiteau...!"

"Shh. Turn around."

He does, always obsequious, but he's trembling and on the verge of tears as he whispers: "Ms. Guiteau... it's been so long... I thought I might never..."

"We need to be quick." All business, same as always.

"Please let me see you. Please!" He begs her like a dog, still whispering.

"You're CTO now," Sable says.

Alex takes this as some kind of accusation, since after all he replaced her at Darkbloom Analytics. He apologizes for it.

She rebuffs the apology. "No, that's excellent. I'm glad."

"We've been looking for you..." Alex says. "If you came back... you could take the CTO position again... I even kept your office--"

"That's quite impossible," Sable says. "Mara has nothing good planned for me. Or the FBI. Or the public, for that matter. That's why I need your help."

"What do you want?" Alex says, "I'll do it. Anything."

"It's not what I want - it's what I need."

"What is it?"

"You're going to help me destroy Darkbloom Analytics."

END OF EPISODE 2.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, weeaboo inseminator and inseminator of weeaboos. 

Alex sits on a hilltop overlooking pastureland in wine country. The verdure is marred by an enormous white box, several stories tall and probably half a mile to a side. It's like a square tumor on the land.

Sable sits beside him. From her satchel, she hands him a sandwich covered in saran wrap. "You should have this. When was the last time you ate?"

He shrugs. "I'm not sure. A day or two ago, maybe... does that matter?"

"It does matter. You need to keep your strength up."

Sable pulls a sandwich out of the satchel for herself as well, unwraps it and begins to eat. For the first time, she says: "it's nice to see you again."

He warms to this, smiling, even blushing a little. He unwraps his sandwich, replying in kind: "I've missed you, too." But when he takes a bite, he makes a sour face and says: "What is this?"

"Pimento loaf with swiss" she says, mouth full and going for more anyway.

He swallows hard, with some difficulty. "It's... kind of gross," he says.

She is momentarily at a loss. What she finally comes up with is a defense of her choice for lunch on its merits: "Pimento loaf has many essential nutrients, and a unique flavor profile--"

"I can't say I'm a fan, sorry."

Now she tries an appeal to logical consistency. "You've -- eaten pimento loaf sandwiches with me in the past. You have never complained before..."

He stares into the middle distance, trying to recall. "I guess I have, huh... the truth is, I've always kind of thought it was gross."

Sable is not used to back-talk like this from the typically subordinate Alex. But she moves past it: "You should have said so. I wouldn't have made you suffer it if I knew you didn't like it."

He sets the sandwich down on the ground, atop the saran wrap as if he will come back for it, but both of them know he won't. 

"What's the plan?" He asks.

She points at the giant building below them. "There are over 10,000 servers in that facility. It's a data center owned in whole by Darkbloom Analytics. Do you know how many facilities just like this one they operate?"

Alex nods. "40 or so."

"42. Plus the central nervous system underneath the campus."

"Don't tell me. You want to destroy them?"

"Precisely so. Camelia was a short-sighted, stupid little girl. She thought she could slay the beast by taking out the central hub. That's not how it works. You need to dismantle the entire thing, all at once. Incinerate it -- atomize it. Not a bit can remain."

"Why?" Alex breathes. "The data on Darkbloom's servers is the backbone of the Sand Reckoner platform -- this is your life's work."

"No, no, no -- no!" Sable shouts. "Sand Reckoner does not belong to the Darkbloom family! My life's work is not to make the Darkblooms into monarchs!"

"Then what?" He demands.

"It hinges on you," Sable says. "Everything. You'll finish Diogenes -- we'll make a new implant, one that merges the two platforms. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis."

Alex frowns in frustration. "You make absolutely no sense when you get like this, Ms. Guiteau."

"Sand Reckoner belongs to the people. When it's finished, it won't need servers to work -- it won't need the Darkblooms, it won't need gatekeepers. It will become an interconnected network of humans, that's how it will work. With no one controlling it."

"Okay. And when we blow up all these servers, what happens to Alabaster Soliloquy? Or his sister-- and Whitney..."

Sable rolls her eyes. "Who cares?"

Alex stands. "I care."

There is anger in his voice.

Sable is really not used to this. She studies his face. "Alex... what happened to you?"

"You left," he says. "You left for over a year. I killed a man... I had to fend for myself... that's what happened to me."

His phone buzzes. When he checks it, it's a text from Whitney: good news about Cerise. He puts the phone away again.

"I need to go for now," he says.

"Will you -- be in touch?" Sable says. For the first time, she feels uncertain of her command over him.

"Of course," he says. "I told you -- I missed you so much -- of course I'll be in touch--"

"Must you go so soon?"

The edge in Alex's voice is dissipated but he doesn't yield: "Yeah, I do... sorry, Ms. Gutieau."

"What is it that's so important?"

"It's..." he pauses. "It's nothing that concerns you. I'll see you again soon. We have a lot to catch up on, don't we..."

He goes. Sable, not sure what to think, picks up his abandoned sandwich and bites into it.

---

Dr. Carte is the only other person there when you enter the hospital room where Cerise is. Cerise is groaning, incoherent, her head flopping slowly back and forth. But groaning and flopping around is a hell of a lot better than staring blankly at nothing. Dr. Carte, with all the care and gentleness of a mother, soothes Cerise with a damp washcloth to her forehead, shushing and cooing at her.

And like some kind of miracle, lucidity begins to return to Cerise. She flaps her tongue, blinks her eyes, tries and fails a few times to form words. She stops the groaning and head-turning and focuses instead on Dr. Carte, with seeming difficulty. Dr. Carte forces a few ice chips into Cerise's mouth, swabs them around for her. Cerise, still staring at Dr. Carte as if coming down from shock, finally manages: "you were here for me..."

"Yes... yes," she says.

You step forward, wanting to say something. But you're in shock too. The movement, though, catches her attention. She looks at you as Dr. Carte props her up, wedging pillows beneath her back.

"Alabaster," she says. Her voice is still weak. "What a... pleasant surprise... I didn't expect you to be the first person here when I awoke."

"Cerise?" You breathe. "Is it really you?"

Cerise bows her head as if overcome with a flash of pain. She looks herself over, tests the IVs and wires connected to her, the give of her own pale, somewhat emaciated flesh. She looks to her right, at the wheeled little wall of screens with all her vitals on display and steadily beeping away, but she hardly seems to comprehend what the monitors really say. Rather, she stares past them, trying to get her head straight, before looking back and saying: "It's me... I've missed you so much, Alabaster... how long was I asleep?"

"Over a-- a year," you say.

"You went into coma on June 1st, 2018," Dr. Carte says. "Today's date is August 18th... 2019..."

"I understand," Cerise says. She reaches for the cup of ice chips on the bedside table, under control of her body enough now to dispense some for herself. "No wonder I'm so thirsty. And no wonder my head is in such terrific pain..." The ice seems to help, but it sets her to shivering. She looks almost pitiful, in her green and white gown, teeth chattering.

For maybe the first time ever in your relationship with your sister, you are solicitous. You recall that there's a coffee machine just out in the hallway. You offer to get her a cup.

"Yes, please," she says. "As strong as you can make it. Thank you." 

When you come back just a moment later with a tall cup of steaming black coffee, Cerise reacts as if she is seeing you for the first time. "Alabaster--!!" She cries. "Jesus Christ. I can't believe it. Did you break this bitch out of prison? This is crazy -- wait -- is that coffee?" She reaches out. "Here. My head hurts like a motherfucker. It's like the worst hangover I've ever had... I need that..."

You hand the coffee off to her, a little uneasy now. The expression on Dr. Carte's face is uneasy too, severe, bewildered. "Are you all right?" She asks.

"How long was I asleep?" Cerise asks.

That's when you notice that Cerise's eyes are... normal. Their same old color. Not the brilliant blue they were even moments before.

"You may have had a bit of a memory lapse," Dr. Carte says. "From Penelope going back into its low power mode. Besides that headache -- are you feeling anything else unusual? Pain, discomfort? Anything else?"

She shakes her head. "How long was I asleep?"

Dr. Carte explains, again.

"Oh..." she says.

"It doesn't matter," you say. "You're awake now."

Cerise nods. Roughly, she throws aside her covers, tugs at all the things connected to her. Dr. Carte helps get them pulled away now without blowing any veins or hurting her, although she still winces as the adhesive ends of the monitoring devices come off.

"How did the eyeball-fucker end up being my doctor?" Cerise asks you while Dr. Carte works.

"We got her out of prison. She's -- uh, she's Whitney's mother."

"Get out," Cerise says. "You're shitting me."

"No, he isn't," Dr. Carte mutters.

"Whitney had a meeting with the president and, uh, arranged for a pardon..." you explain.

Cerise just gapes at you. When she finds her words again, she simply moves on to a different subject. She asks Dr. Carte: "were you taking care of me for the whole year?"

"More or less."

"Like... everything?"

"Most things. Whenever I could be here, at least."

Cerise makes a mortified moan. "That's great. My future mother in law's been changing my bedpan."

Dr. Carte forces down the side railing of Cerise's hospital bed with a hard clack. "Let's get you on your feet," she announces. 

You and Dr. Carte hold Cerise under her armpits and help her swing her legs over the edge of the bed. She winces when her bare feet touch the cold tile ground. When you get her weight settled fully on the floor, her knees wobble, before finally giving out completely. She stumbles, topples forward -- you and Dr. Carte barely manage to keep her from collapsing to the ground.

"Easy now," Dr. Carte says. "One step at a time. Focus on your extremities. Try to feel where your feet are. You haven't walked in a long time, it takes getting used to..."

"I can't feel my legs," Cerise says, in a panic of despair.

"It's okay. Just focus. Wiggle your big toe."

"I can't feel my legs--"

"Wiggle your big toe."

With monumental effort, so much that sweat starts to pearl on the ridge of her brow, Cerise wiggles her toe.

"Hard part's over," Dr. Carte says. "Now walk."

Over the course of 15 minutes, you teach Cerise again how to walk on her own two feet. 

---

Cerise is wearing the outfit she came to the hospital in, a tee and shorts, the kind of thing she would always wear when slumming it at home. It's almost hard to believe she's in normal clothes again, after a year of seeing her in nothing but that gown.

She's sitting in a pleather recliner beside her old hospital bed. She's still a little shaken from it all as she sips her coffee.

"Whitney just texted," you say. "She'll be here soon. Rose and Vivian, too."

"Oh god..." Cerise says. "I don't know if I can deal with Whitney just yet. Nevermind Queen Bitch 1 and Queen Bitch 2."

You can understand that. She's still getting used to being back in reality again.

"Wanna get away for a few minutes?" You ask. "Just us. The others can wait a bit."

"Sure. It'll get me used to walking some more..."

[ ] Cafeteria.
>[x] Rooftop.
[ ] Somewhere else? 

"Are we allowed to be up here?" Cerise asks, stepping on still-unsteady legs through the heavy steel access door that leads to the roof.

"What are they gonna do?" You say. "We've got what's colloquially known as fuck-you money now."

The gravel rooftop has a view to downtown Palo Alto, still bustling with traffic as the sun begins to droop low in the sky. The golden glow of sunset is giving way to the periwinkle of early evening. A gentle breeze from the bay feels refreshing against your back.

Cerise grips the steel guard rail at the edge, staring out. Pensive.

"I lost a year of my life... just like that. I can't believe it." She pauses, then: "Oh god. I'm gonna be 26 in a few weeks."

"We've still got time, we'll marry you off," you say. "What about Stackleford? He's an eligible bachelor..."

"How about you go fuck yourself," Cerise says.

You laugh.

Her voice goes serious again. "I don't remember anything. I was in Gal's bedroom, then... waking up, just now."

You're silent for a few moments as you let that settle.

"What you did," you begin. You gulp and start over. "The implant... you didn't have to--"

"Of course I did. It was the only way."

"I would have been okay."

"You would have been a million little bloody giblets in a sewer," Cerise cuts in. "I had to do it... after everything... I mean, you saved me once, so..." She glances sidelong at you. "Consider us even, I guess."

"Even," you agree.

A flash of light in the sky catches your attention. You look back: a brilliant blue burst of pyrotechnics glows on the distance. After a delay, the glittery crackle of it hits your ears. Then comes another, and another. Fireworks.

"Is today a holiday?" Cerise asks.

"I don't think so," you say.

You stare at the fireworks for a long time, quiet. Just you and Cerise. Whatever the occasion for the show, you're happy to have it. You're happy to be here with her. You're... happy.

For the first time in as long as you can remember.

You almost don't know what to do with yourself.

"Alabaster, I l--"

"There! You! Are! Al-a-bas-ter!"

You turn, grimacing: it's Rose2. 

"We are going to have some tan-o-shii today, believe-you-me! The whole gang's back together!"

Cerise's face is a mask of sheer revulsion and secondhand mortification.

"Why the fuck--" you begin.

"When you ghosted me again, I was just about ready to go super saiyan on your butt! But then Whitney texted, and she said that Cerise was wakey-wakey again! Oh my gosh! I came right away..."

Cerise frowns. "Alabaster, are you responsible for this?"

"I--" you say.

"Of course you are. I'm holding you personally responsible for the fact that Rose2 is the third human being I ever saw after waking up from a yearlong coma. You went from being even with me to being in infinite debt just now."

Rose2 hardly seems to notice this back-and-forth. She blathers on, unfazed. "When we got here, we couldn't find you! Dr. Carte said you wandered off, and Whitney was getting all anxious, but then I said to myself: now where does an otouto take his onee-chan when she wakes up from a coma and they finally reunite? The rooftop, of course! A-durr."

She strikes a pose.

"Well played," you admit. "You figured it out. But we'd really like a little alone time, you know..."

"Uh, for sure, of course!" Rose2 says. "But Whitney is getting mega-super antsy because she has a RESERVATION at only the best, most exclusive restaurant in town! And we're all invited!" She makes finger guns at you. "It'll be a party!"

"Why do you even exist?" Cerise says. "I can't even begin to describe the level of disgust--"

"You're silly!" Rose2 laughs. "Just like back in anime club at North High. If I didn't know better I'd say you're just being tsuntsun!"

"Say some weeb shit out loud again," Cerise growls. "I will put you back in the circle of shame so fucking fast your head will spin. Try me."

"We made the mistake of bringing her aboard as an intern," you explain. "It's been..."

"It's been awesome!" Rose2 says. "Especially now that Alabaster and me are boyfriend and girlfriend!" 

"Now hold on," you begin, trying to think of a way to diplomatically correct the record before Cerise can explode.

Cerise takes your arm, and turns with you so your backs are to Rose2. "You fucked her," Cerise whispers. "Didn't you."

"Kind of."

"You don't kind of fuck someone. You fucked her. Now she's imprinted on you like a lost puppy."

"I think that's about the size of it."

"I knew you had shitty taste, Alabaster, but... Jesus fucking Christ."

"It's a long story... there was a legitimate reason, I swear."

She rolls her eyes.

"And some things we need to talk about..." you say. "Things are-- crazy."

"I hope you know that your dick is going to smell like pocky and fanfiction for the rest of your life now. It's a disease. She's the carrier of a disease--"

"Uh...?" Rose2 says, standing on her tiptoes as if this will allow her to see over your shoulders, or overhear the low conversation.

"Just a minute!" You call over your shoulder. Then, to Cerise: "Are you hungry?"

"Hungrier than I've ever been in my entire life."

"Are you up to being social?"

"Depends. If we go out, are you going to trip and land with your dick inside another weeaboo for totally legitimate reasons?"

You sigh.

"Your call, Alabaster. I haven't seen these people in a long time, so I'm sure it's the right thing to do to hang out with them."

"But you'd rather go home."

"Do I still have one?" She asks, seeming genuinely curious about the answer.

"A mansion."

"Whoa."

>[x] Go to dinner with everyone.
[ ] Skip out on social obligations, go home with Cerise. 


Downstairs, in the hall on the way back, the first person you bump into is Makoto. She's sitting in a chair by herself, scrutinizing a songbook -- what else?

"Is everyone in Cerise's room?" You ask her.

"Yes!" She says, not looking up.

Cerise is gobsmacked. "Is that..." she breathes. "Is that Makoto fucking Kik--"

"No! I am Whitney Darkbloom!" Makoto says, finally glancing up. "Hello to Cerise, my favorite sister!"

Great. Method acting. Cerise has no clue what to say to being confronted with a pop idol who claims to be your childhood friend.

"She's playing Whitney in a movie..." you explain.

Cerise has hardly any time to process this before your conversation draws people out of what was once Cerise's room.

Whitney is first. When she sees Cerise standing there, she simply bounds the short distance between her and Cerise in an uncharacteristically wordless gesture, and embraces her in great big a bear-hug. Cerise awkwardly hugs her back. When Whitney pulls away, her eyes are dewy, and a single tear runs down her cheek.

"I knew you'd wake up!" Whitney says. "You kicked that coma's ass!"

The reunion between Cerise and Rose is less emotional, but still heartfelt. They nod at each other, and that's that. Charlotte Mallory wears her heart on her sleeve though. She's a blubbering mess, and begs off hugging Cerise because she doesn't want to get snot on the poor girl. Saul is also clearly moved to see Cerise awake again, but stoically so.

The only thing he says is directed at you: "Word gets around. That bitch Keki wants to talk to her. I said she'd have to wait until we've had a chance to reunite and get Cerise some rest."

"Keki..." Cerise says. "The FBI?"

"I'll be there," Saul says. He puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "You won't have to say a word."

Vivian is walking out with Dr. Carte now. Cerise is clearly not used to having to spend time with Vivian as a relative peer -- nor is Vivian. But Vivian puts on a polite (if wan) smile and says: "Hospitals are dreary places. Perhaps we should begin for the restaurant."

Baumé is the kind of chic, ostentatious setting you've had a year to get used to now, but Cerise is in awe. "I bet the food here costs more than the GDP of an African nation," she says as you step with her through the door.

"That's the wine," you say. "The food is more than the GDP of a southeast Asian nation."

"Baumé is typically closed on Sundays, isn't it?" Vivian asks Whitney.

"It's not closed for billionaires," she says. "I told the chef here that I wanted him on standby for the moment Cerise woke up again. You bet your ass I got him over here as soon as I heard the news."

Alex is in the reception area already, and his eyes light up as you enter. "Ms. Cerise!" He says. "Oh my goodness. I can't believe you're really back."

"Hey kid," she says warmly. They embrace.

You laugh: "I finally found the thing that'll get you out of the office."

Alex is abashed, but begs it off with a wave of his hand. "I'd never let anything stop me from being here!" The smile on his face is one of the first genuine smiles you've seen from him in a while.

A hostess escorts you back to a private room and passes out menus printed on heavily textured cream-colored paper -- even the menus here are gaudy and pricey-looking, of course. Cerise scrutinizes it, muttering: "wine, wine, wine... where's the beer?" She glances up. "Do you serve beer?"

"Oh --" the hostess says. "Yes. Ms. Darkbloom said there would be a guest who wanted beer, so we got some special for the occasion. I assume this is you?"

Cerise shoots Whitney an astonished look. "Heeeh," Whitney laughs.

"We have Sapporo and Kirin Ichiban. Which would you like to begin with?"

"Both," Cerise says.

"Of course." The hostess goes around the long table now, taking wine selections from the others, and fielding questions about the baroque entree descriptions. Although Vivian and Rose2 are both underage, there's not even a mention of carding them. 

More guests begin to arrive and filter in now. First is Fazil. He gives Cerise a hug and exclaims: "The best boss on the planet Earth is here again! Very good, yes? Yes?"

Still holding Cerise by the shoulders, he nods again and again until Cerise agrees with him: "Yes. Very good."

"Yes!" He parrots. "Very good! And here is this." He presents her with a rugged green bottle that has a dead snake suspended in it. Cerise seems unsure if she should even take it, but he practically forces it into her hands. "I go on holiday to Vietnam earlier this Summer. On my travels, I find this: cobra wine. And rather than drink it, I am think to myself -- Cerise is a purveyor of the eastern cultures also. She would enjoy this if she wakes-- no, WHEN she wakes. It is your present!"

"Th-thank you," Cerise stammers.

"It is good! Yes? Will get you mega fucked-up! Shall we have a glass?"

"Um," Cerise says, "I really like it, Fazil, but I want to experience being NOT fucked-up for a little while. I did just wake up."

"Oh, of course!"

"You can still have some, though--"

"If you insist!" He grabs the bottle back, pops the cork with his bare hands, and pours the foul-smelling liquor into a fluted wine glass. "Şerefe!" He cries, and knocks it back. 

Less happily, Stackleford is next. "Bitchin'!" he says, going for a high five which Cerise doesn't reciprocate. His prosthetic fingers make him look part Terminator. So does his newfound physique. He awkwardly lets his hand fall to his side.

"Stackleford...?" Cerise says. "No fucking way."

"Cerise, you were always my number one nigga. I'm glad you're awake."

"What did we say about that word?" You demand. "I swear to god, if you get us in the news again over that shit, I will put you in the ground."

"Uh -- sorry."

"Jesus," Cerise says. "Did you get lipo? What the hell happened to you?"

"Got tickets to the gun show, that's what!" He flexes one of his biceps and slaps it with his other hand. "After all that crazy stuff happened last year, I thought I should know how to defend myself... and I dunno... I kinda liked working out. I just imagine it's like I'm training to be the next hokage."

Cerise cradles her face in her hands in donated shame. All the exercise in the world couldn't exorcise Stackleford's personality.

Rose2 claps, though. "It's sugoi, isn't it? You really are looking just SO great, Stacks."

He stammers and can't find anything intelligent to say, so he just takes his seat. 

Kay slinks in.

"Oh shit," Whitney says. "Here comes Deep Throat."

"For the last time," Kay says, taking a seat, "Deep Throat was the source. Not the reporter. If anyone is Deep Throat, it's you."

"What the fuck ever, Deep Throat. Who invited you?"

"I know all the best places in town to be. That's a reporter's job."

"Well get the fuck out. This is a private dinner."

Kay laughs, her voice silky and haughty. "Hmm... I'll take it into consideration." She turns to Cerise: "How are we feeling?"

"A little crazed," Cerise says.

"Yeah. Waking up in a brand new world will do that. When you've got your sea legs, let me know. I'd love to talk one on one."

"Um."

"No pressure. It can be off the record..."

"Bullshit," you cut in.

Kay's eyes twinkle.

Conversation passes into multitudes of side-bars, from person to person, as salads come and go, wine gets poured by the bottle and pleasant -- if unusual -- smells begin to emanate from the kitchen. The mood is light, carefree, although of course the events of earlier are nagging at the back of your mind... seeing Camelia, and Mom... and you don't notice that Cerise is also looking a little careworn too. Until she calls your attention to it.

She tugs on your sleeve, leans in to whisper: "Alabaster... do you -- know how Gal is doing?"

Leave it to Gal to ruin a nice night without even being here.

"She's all right," you say. "She has a nice place downtown here in Palo... and right now I guess she's probably at her computer watching porn or something."

Cerise nods. "That's good... I'm glad. You keep in touch with her?"

You sort of half-shrug.

"I'd like to see her later."

You won't rain on your sister's happiness. In fact, the thought strikes you that maybe this is the kind of thing that Galatea would be willing to leave the house for. Her loft is only a couple blocks away.

>[x] Go get her.
[ ] Forget it. 

You pick the napkin up from your lap and set it on the table. "Gotta hit the bathroom," you say.

"Thanks for the news flash," Cerise says. "Fucking weirdo. You want my permission?"

"Just thought you'd like to know. I'll let you know how it all comes out, too."

She groans.

(Best not to get Cerise's hopes up, in case Galatea decides she doesn't want to come.)

---

"Ki-ki-ki-KIMOCHIIIII~~"

Galatea has her ankles propped up on either side of her desk and her hands between her legs as the hentai on the screen plays at max volume. When she sees you walking in, she startles, tips back in her chair, and falls to the ground.

The incoherent wailing of an anime slut getting railed is the only sound for a few moments, until you walk over and shut it off. Galatea peers at you from the floor where she still lies prone and pantsless.

"im sorry"

That's Galatea for you: apologizing for masturbating in the privacy of her own home because you walked in uninvited.

"Get dressed," you tell her. "I'm taking you to dinner."

"what"

You grab her and pull her upright. "I said get dressed. I'm taking you to dinner."

"i don't underst--"

"You don't have to. Just do as I say. And do it quickly."

She looks at the ground. You tilt her chin up to meet her eyes.

"Gal."

"yes," she finally says.

"Wear something nice," you tell her as she roots through a hamper. "It's a fancy place."

"yes sir-- uh-- yes alabaster"

That's a new one. The porn must have gotten to her head.

"Is that really the nicest outfit you have?" You ask when she's done.

"im sorry"

"Whatever. We don't have time to get you anything better. Let's go." 

---

"I thought you pulled an Elvis on us," Cerise says as you walk back into the dining room at Baumé. "You were gone for--"

She freezes as Galatea mousily shuffles in. And for her part, Galatea nearly faints. She goes woozy and you have to slyly get your hand behind her back to steady her again.

"Oh? Who's this?" Asks Vivian.

"A friend of Cerise's," you say. You don't have to explain any further. She's smart enough to know.

Vivian watches as Galatea circles the table and approaches Cerise like someone finding the ark of the covenant. Cerise, tearing up, nods and smiles at her, beckoning her closer.

She sits in what was your chair, right beside Cerise, and puts her head against Cerise's shoulder. She nuzzles Cerise, rubbing her cheek against her in a lovingly tender way, and clasps Cerise's arm with both of hers as Cerise pets her gently. Their reunion is utterly wordless.

You pull up another chair and wedge yourself in on Cerise's other side, next to Whitney. As you settle again, you notice Armstrong and Nelson at the other end of the table -- the only other members of the board who cared enough to show, or maybe the only ones Whitney invited.

Whitney stands and taps a spoon against a wine flute now, drawing the attention of the room. "I just wanna say --" she begins. "We're all so glad to have you back, Cerise... it's fucking wild, seriously. And it wouldn't be possible without the work of my mom -- the smartest mom in the UNIVERSE --" She nods at Dr. Carte from across the table. "Stand up, mom. There you go. Let's give her a fucking hand, huh?"

Whitney begins to clap, and though it feels kind of awkward, you all join in. Dr. Carte seems less than enthusiastic about the attention. She dithers and stares at the table.

"All right, that's enough--" you say as the applause dies down. "Don't embarrass your mother any more."

"Heh. I'll embarrass you all I want," Whitney says, to Dr. Carte.

"Please don't," Dr. Carte replies, sitting.

Whitney stays standing. She puts her hands on her hip and crows: "Dr. Renee D. Carte is smart. Smart!" She pokes Dr. Carte's shoulder, and though Dr. Carte rolls her eyes, she can't help smiling too.

"Anyway," Whitney says, looking down at Cerise. "I'm glad to have you back, big sister."

"Don't call me that," Cerise says.

"Fine. I'm glad to have you back, onee-sama."

"Oh my god," Cerise says. "What did I tell you, Alabaster? Didn't I tell you? It's a fucking contagion."

Whitney snorts.

The entrees begin to arrive and people dig in -- although the portions are a little small. As Cerise nurses beer four or five and tears into her steak, you promise that you'll get her something more later on, if she's still hungry for it.

"Defffntly," she says through a mouth full of food, getting a couple flecks of blood from the meat on your face. Classy as always, your sister.

You scan your eyes around the table.

>[ ] Who to strike up a conversation with?

>[x] Renee

"I'm sorry on behalf of Whitney," you tell Dr. Carte from across the table.

"Don't you fucking apologize for me, dorkass!" Whitney says. "Mom, I am so not sorry. 100% not sorry."

"It's fine," Dr. Carte says. "Whitney's enthusiasm is good. It's gotten her this far in life."

"Fuck yeah it has."

"So tell me," you ask Dr. Carte, "is Cerise back to normal now? What do we expect moving forward?"

"The implant is still inside her, but it's on a low-voltage mode. I put a resistor in it that keeps it electronically isolated from her brain... in simple terms. I thought doing that would let us remove it, but for some reason, taking it out entirely seems to have an adverse effect."

"Then how did she wake up?"

She shrugs. "All I can think of is that her brain was separated from the implant by that resistor for a long enough period of time that it must have started waking up on its own."

"Do we take it out now?" You whisper.

"Best to leave it unless it starts causing problems," she says. "Right now... just enjoy having your sister, Alabaster."

"Thank you, Dr. Carte. For everything."

"Call me Renee."

"Call her mom," Whitney corrects.

"Oh?" Dr. Carte says, quirking an eyebrow. "Is it time to make it official, then?"

"Ah-" you say.

Dr. Carte nudges Whitney. "You better tie him down soon. He's a keeper."

"Hehe. We'll see~" Whitney says.

"If you don't act quick, I will," Dr. Carte says. "So be careful..."

Whitney flicks a carrot at her with a fork. "Back off, old woman."

Dr. Carte frowns. "I'm hurt. Wasn't it only a few days ago that an orderly at the hospital mistook me for your sister? I still have that youthful look..."

"Pfft," Whitney says. "Sure. Whatever makes you feel better."

Dr. Carte tugs at her eye and sticks her tongue out at Whitney.

"She just wants someone to dominate bar trivia with," you say.

"What!" Whitney says. "The fuck is bar trivia?"

Dr. Carte puts her hands behind her head. "Trivia, at a bar. There's this place not too far from my house that does a trivia night every Thursday, teams of two... Alabaster would be perfect. We'd wipe the floor with them."

Whitney slaps her knee. "Trivia at a bar! That's the lamest thing I've ever -- holy shit."

"I don't know," you shrug. "It does sound fun."

Whitney squints at Dr. Carte. "Are you sure you're not HIS mom? You and him might be the only people on the planet who'd get psyched over drunk Jeopardy." 

>[x] Fazil

Fazil is more than a bit tipsy on his self-supplied cobra wine and grins broadly when you walk over.

"Ala-bast-or! So glad you could make it."

"I've been here."

"It's great to see you."

You move on. "How was Vietnam?"

"Terrific. It was absolutely beautiful. Except for the minefields. They have the greatest cartoons on Earth. Now I know you are saying to yourself: no, Fazil, the country with the greatest cartoons is Japan. Until recently, I promise you, I was of the same mind. But then I saw Vietnamese cartoons. My life was changed. As Allah is my witness, it was a beatific experience."

"I'll have to take your word for it," you say.

"The people of Vietnam are good and wholesome," he says. "I have no complaints, except for one complaint." He raises a hand as if taking an oath: "they eat dogs, and I solemnly do not agree with this."

"You're okay with snake, though," you say, nodding at his half-empty bottle. "I thought that was for Cerise?"

"Oh shit!" He says. He's recently taken to using "oh shit" as his favorite English profanity of the month. "I will buy her yet another one."

"Actually -- that's just fine--"

"No! No! I will not hear of it. I will buy her another one immediately."

You should have kept your mouth shut. 

>[x] Rose2

You don't decide to talk to her; she decides to talk to you.

"Ally... you look so happy."

"I guess I am," you admit.

"Me too." She puts her hand on your arm and whispers, in a voice that isn't too quiet: "I can still feel your sperm inside me... it's really warm... hee."

Right beside her, looking at his plate, Stackleford's face seems to pass through all five stages of grief at the same time.

"We need to clear something up," you whisper back. "What happened earlier... was fun... but this boyfriend and girlfriend talk..."

She stares back at you with wide, expectant eyes.

"You had fun too, right?" You ask her, easing her in to the letdown.

She nods enthusiastically.

"Maybe it's best if that's what it was -- just fun?" You prompt.

"Of course! It was super fun! The best kind of fun a boyfriend and girlfriend can have!"

"Yeah, the thing is -- I'm with Whitney, of course, and--"

Still those big doe eyes.

"So what I'm saying is, maybe it's just fun. We can have fun like that without it being anything else."

"Yeah! And other times we can have other kinds of boyfriend-and-girlfriend fun too!"

You close your eyes and sigh. This one is going to take a different setting and more time to think it through. 

>[x] Armstrong and Nelson

"Alabaster, my man, congrats!" Armstrong says, jerking your hand from your side and practically dislocating your shoulder with the force of his handshake. "What did I tell you? Eh? I said -- that Cerise, now THERE'S a fighter. She's a real fighter. Didn't I tell you?"

"Yeah..." you mutter, wrenching your hand free from his grip. You rub your arm and try not to let on that the handshake really hurt.

"I'm sure you're as happy as anyone," he continues. "But be careful now -- don't you go and fuck her like all the other girls, too!"

You stare at him, jaw slightly parted.

"That's a joke, son. I know you wouldn't have sex with your own sister. You're a regular Hugh Hefner, but come on, let's get real, right?"

"Right..."

"Will she come back to work now?" Nelson asks. He's deep into what looks like his fourth glass of wine, judging by the empty flutes around his plate. Must have some minor neurosis about drinking twice from the same glass. "She's a great employee. I'd absolutely have her on the slate for promotion if she was back at work..."

You're not sure about that. You give a non-answer, something like "we'll see," but it leaves you wondering.

[ ] You want Cerise to go back to work.
[ ] You want her to stay away from Darkbloom Analytics. 

>[x] Cerise's choice.

That's a bridge you'll cross when you get to it.

On your way back to your seat, Rose catches your eye. She jerks her head slightly to one side, signalling for you -- she wants to talk in private.

As suspicious as it might look to step out with Rose all of a sudden, you figure she's got a reason. And she did tell you earlier that she found "something" in Amber's bedroom.

So step out you do -- and Rose joins, pushing her seat away from the table where she sits between her parents. Charlotte and Saul give each other a glance that's hard to gauge. They both seem to get a little uneasy when you run off with her because it usually means you're plotting something. Or doing other things.

Out in the reception area, away from the din of conversation, you say: "all right, cow. Make it quick."

"Sure thing, asshole. I found this in Amber's closet." She holds up a USB drive. "You probably already know what's on it."

"North High?"

"You did burn it down after all. I knew it."

"Brilliant work, detective. Let's get back on track. The fact she has the same USB drive with the same video that Camelia used to blackmail me proves she's the same person. Doesn't it?"

"Well I don't know how else a girl you remember as Camelia would end up with Camelia's things. This is..." She lets the hand holding the USB stick fall to her side. "This is crazy, Alabaster. Do you understand how crazy this is?"

"Do I? That's what I've been TELLING--" you realize your voice is getting too loud, so you bring it level again and hiss, "that's what I've been trying to tell you. Now how's this for a second scoop of crazy--"

"Please," Rose says. "I cannot handle two scoops right now--"

"I saw my mom."

"What?"

"I saw my mom at Other Rose's house. She's acting like she's Rose2 and Camelia's mom, but she isn't. She's my mom."

Rose closes her eyes and shakes her head. "This is too much."

"You're telling me that? I just saw my dead mother. Yeah. It's too fucking much."

She looks at you. "Well. We do know at least two other people whose eyes got fucked by Sand Reckoner. Maybe they see things the way you do."

You glance back at the dining room, then to Rose. "I don't want to shit on Cerise's first night awake," you say. "I'll talk to her about it later."

"Don't wait too long," Rose says. "Who knows what the next tear in the fabric of spacetime is gonna be. Good lord, Alabaster. I--"

Rose stops herself short, and you turn around, following her gaze. Rose2 is standing just around the corner of the dining room's entrance, watching the two of you talk. You have no idea how much of this conversation she overheard. 

"Are you two coming back to dinner?" Rose2 asks.

"Were you spying on us?" Rose asks.

"Should I have been?" She asks in return.

"Don't you turn stalker just because Alabaster ejaculated inside you," Rose says. "I'm sorry to break it to you, but he doesn't feel the same way about you that you do about him."

"Rose--" you say.

"I don't know who you are to say how Alabaster feels," Rose2 hums, not perturbed by Rose's obvious aggression, or even seeming to notice it. It's more like she's just stating a fact, not fighting back. She puts a forefinger to her chin, stares at the ceiling. "Or who you are to accuse people of being a stalker. My gosh. That's, like, the kettle calling the pot black or something."

"Answer the question. Were you spying on us? What did you hear?"

"No... I don't spy... are you all right, Rose? I hope you don't mind that I'm seeing your cousin."

"Once removed!" Rose shouts.

"If that's what this is about, please... don't worry... we can still be friends. Me being with Alabaster won't change us being buddies."

"Being with him? Seeing him? Buddies? You're the stupidest piece of shit in the world. You are, unironically, a retard if you think--"

"That is such hurtful language," Rose2 says. "Isn't that ableist or something?"

"Go shove a railroad spike up your cunt."

"I can see you're mad. I'll make it up to you later, I'm sorry." 

You return to dinner, though it's starting to wind down.

You keep casting uncertain glances at Rose Episode V, but if she heard you telling Rose Episode IV that you think her mother is your mother's doppelganger, she isn't letting on. Maybe she didn't overhear anything after all. She's busy debating with Stackleford whether Light or L was right, and doesn't seem weirded out or upset in slightest.

"I should -- hic -- go home." Dr. Carte seems all the worse for the wear after hard drinking at karaoke followed by a couple bottles of wine at dinner tonight.

"You're not driving, are you?" Whitney asks.

"Of coursh I'm friggin driving, how elsh could home get back to me?"

"Okay, yeah," Whitney says, standing up. "I gotta get my drunk mom home safe. You all have a good one. Cerise -- I'll see you back at my house. There's a room for ya. Ally'll show you."

But Cerise has been murmuring and giggling with Galatea all night, and tells you now that she might spend the night at Gal's loft -- Gal seems too afraid to let Cerise out of her sight.

"You don't mind, do you?" Cerise asks.

You do mind, but you don't have it in you to say so.

"You can check out Casa Del Darkbloom-o in the morning, then," Whitney says. She reaches in her pocket. "Oh yeah. I got a key for you, too. Catch."

She tosses it, and Cerise catches it.

"You're living the good life now," Whitney says. "You want anything else, just ask."

"Thanks, Whitney. I -- still can't believe you're a CEO."

"The best!" She agrees, all toothy smile.

Cerise looks at you. "You can come with us, back to Gal's, if you want. I know you probably wanted to spend the night with me, too. Gal and me were just gonna watch anime together, so it's no big deal."

[ ] Go with Cerise and Gal.
>[x] Go with Whitney and Dr. Carte. 

"Am I... a monkey?" Whitney asks.

"No," Dr. Carte says.

"Well..." you drawl. "She would probably say she's a monkey."

Whitney crosses her eyes and rolls them up, as if trying to read the card stuck to her forehead, the one that says "Donkey Kong."

"Don't help her, Alabaster! She's not a monkey."

Whitney scrunches up her face, thinking. "So I'm a monkey who's not a monkey... fuck. That's a tough one."

"Take your time," you say.

She drums her fingers on Dr. Carte's living room coffee table. "Monkey who's not a monkey. Shit. What monkeys aren't monkeys... hmm."

"Ask another question," you say. "Maybe you'll figure it out if you try something el--"

Her eyes light up. "Am I fake?"

Dr. Carte frowns. The deduction is dubious, but coincidentally correct. "Yeah."

"Oh! Fake monkey! Of course! I wear a tie, right?"

You grin. "You do."

She's pointing wildly, bouncing up and down on her knees. "I'm -- ooh! Konkey dong! I'm konkey dong!"

"Uh--" Dr. Cate begins, but Whitney is already ripping the card away. She flips it over and peers at it. "Fuck yeah! I knew it!" She cries, triumphant.

"You have got to be shitting me," Dr. Carte grumbles. "I swear."

"You're pretty good at this," you say. "Nice job."

"Why are YOU Mr. Positivity all of a sudden?" Dr. Carte says. "She only got there because you helped her! And even then, it was luck! And she didn't even get the right answer!"

The unfortunate thing about Dr. Carte is that when it comes to fun and games, her competitive streak is a mile wide -- and she angers easily. Especially when she's wasted. It's kinda cute. And this tendency of hers isn't exactly helped by the fact that she's still drinking -- still in a celebratory mode, it seems -- knocking back homemade screwdrivers with Whitney while you play the game.

"She shouldn't get the point," Dr. Carte insists. "She didn't actually get the right answer."

"Salty salty," Whitney says, pantomiming shaking a salt shaker.

"I'd give her the point," you say. "She knew who it was. She just mispronounced it."

"Konkey Dong is NOT a character! She didn't get it right!"

"Sucks to suck," Whitney needles. She sticks her tongue out.

"Don't you back-talk me, young lady! I will--"

"Relax," you say. "You can still make the comeback. It's your turn, anyway."

She pouts for a moment, to make her displeasure clear, but then she acquiesces.

Dr. Carte's efficiency with this game is brutal and unforgiving. Am I a person? -- Real? -- Living? -- American? -- European? -- English? -- French? -- German? -- World War II? -- Nazi? -- High command? -- Doctor? -- "I'm Josef Mengele," Dr. Carte says, smirking smugly. She pulls the card away and confirms it. Then her smugness passes and she flicks the card at you. "Jerk. That's a cruel thing to put on my card, don't you think?"

"I have my fun where I can," you say. 

You play a few more rounds with Dr. Carte but she's set on winning and pulls out some really dirty tricks to make sure she maintains a lead. Putting Alvey Augustus Adee on Whitney's card, a name even you don't recognize, strikes you as incredibly low and petty -- despite Dr. Carte's insistence that he's an important historical figure that anyone who passed high school should know.

"Dr. Carte, you gotta learn how to cut loose and have some fun once in a while," you say. "It's not just about winning..."

"Winning is fun," she says. "It's the most fun thing."

"Well -- congrats," you say. "It's lonely at the top, isn't it?"

"Hmmph." She folds her arms. "Sucks to suck, doesn't it?"

"I'm putting you to bed," Whitney says. "You're getting fussy."

"OH! Screw you!" Dr. Carte yells, standing. But she loses her balance and tips over. She smacks her head on the edge of the table and lands with a thud on her carpet. She rolls over on her back and groans. "Errrgghh..."

With Dr. Carte's arm over her shoulder, Whitney walks with her to her bedroom and helps her lie down. "Get some rest," she says. "And don't come pissing to me tomorrow morning because you've got a hangover. I don't wanna hear it."

"Goodnight," Dr. Carte mumbles as she settles in. "Get home safe, you two..." Any anger she has over competition is always quick to pass, at least.

"See ya~" Whitney says, turning out the light. 

Back in Dr. Carte's living room, Whitney wavers. "You feeling up to driving?" She says. "I think those screwdrivers mom fed us are starting to get to me."
 
"I'm all right," you say, "but I have to go and pick Cerise up. If you don't mind tagging along--"
 
"I gotcha. No. I'll sleep here, it's fine." She wanders over to the couch and settles down, curling up like a cat. "Have fun with your big sister, Ally."
 
You watch her for a few moments. "I might be a little over the legal ABV," you say. "Maybe I'll hang out a little longer."
 
The truth is you're not sure Cerise wants you to interrupt her time with Galatea. It feels weird, being the third wheel. You don't like it.
 
You go over to the couch and force Whitney to scoot. You lie down as well, and she wraps herself around you. Chest to chest, she gazes at you. The look you share is long and tender and loving.
 
After four or five minutes, she breaks the silence. "You're kinda ugly."
 
"What the fuck."
 
"In a cute way, though. It's weird. You're cute-ugly. Fuckably cute-ugly, even."
 
"You give the worst compliments ever. No joke."
 
"Heeeh." She grins and wheezes, but then her face goes serious: "Ally, can I ask you something without you thinking I'm weird?"
 
"Too late. I already know you're weird."
 
"Fuck you."
 
"Go ahead and ask me."
 
"Well -- maybe you're the exact wrong person to ask about this. I mean, you're the kind of guy who fucks his own cousin--"
 
"Once re--"
 
"Yeah, once removed, fuck. Jesus. Once you remove your dick from her pussy maybe that'll start mattering again. She's your COUSIN--"
 
"Fine. What's your point? If I'm not mistaken, you've been taking part in that too, and you've never complained..."
 
She chews her lip.
 
"Is it... kinda fucked up if I think my mom is hot?"
 
You quirk an eyebrow.
 
She buries her face in your chest. "Oh god. It is fucked up, isn't it."
 
You try to soothe her. "Well... she is hot... so..."
 
Whitney, face still concealed, slugs your shoulder.
 
"Close blood relatives who meet later in life are often attracted to each other," you say. "It's a well-documented phenomenon. There's been a lot of research showing that if you don't form familial bonds with someone in childhood, then--"
 
"Of course you know about this shit. Been doing a lot of research on why it's not fucked up?"
 
You wrap your arms around her. "Stop worrying about it. Even if you're a pervert, that's fun too."
 
Whitney finally meets your eyes again and smiles. Then she leans in for a kiss that lingers. Her warm mouth still tastes like orange juice and her tongue is eager against yours, invasive. She likes to make her kisses extra wet, as if she's giving you every single part of her. You respond in kind. Your saliva mingles and mixes and she moans into you with sheer enjoyment. You can feel the resonance of it, in and against your chest. She writhes in your grip, as if unable to stop herself, and you already begin to smell the growing need between her legs. Whitney's list of fetishes and turn-ons is almost as long as yours, or maybe even longer, but nothing gets her going quite like making out with you. Kissing is all the foreplay she ever needs.
 
She pulls away, leaving a bridge of drool dangling between your lips, and says in a husky voice: "I really need to fuck you. I need your cock in me."
 
"That's good," you say, leering at her. "Because I really need to blow my load in you..."
 
She grins mischievously as she slides down the length of your body, rising back onto her knees so she can undo your button, zip down your fly and tug at your pants. You help her by shaking your hips a little. Your boxers quickly follow, and you pull your shirt off too. It feels wrong to be doing this in Dr. Carte's living room, to be lying naked, and hard, on her couch while she dozes just feet away in her bedroom. But how wrong and forbidden it feels is also exactly what makes it feel so good. Whitney seems to enjoy the idea too, and gets naked as fast as you.
 
She settles back atop you, her bare tits soft on your chest. She might be small-breasted but it still feels just wonderful being skin-to-skin like this, her nipples firm and the meat of her tits nice and squishy, and so, so warm. She reaches down between you, grabs your cock with her hand, and in a practiced motion she helps you find your way home. No matter how many times you do it, she's told you, this is her favorite part: that instant when the fat spongy head of your prick pops through the entrance of her pussy and spreads her open. She sighs through a drooping jaw, her eyes rolling back in her skull, as she relishes the sensation once again.
 
And then she's back to kissing you, her hands gripping either side of your face, as you hump against her in a reverse missionary. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me" is all she can coherently say between wanton, smacking, tongue-waggling kisses. With your dick sawing in and out of her at this angle, it keeps forcing her little pearl of a clit against your pelvic bone. The pleasure of it soon has her juicing all over you, her sweet wetness flowing between your legs.
 
It's not long before she's so overcome that she cannot even manage kissing you, and just has to nuzzle your neck, and hold on tight, while you fuck her stupid. You grab the back of her head with both hands and use it as leverage to rut deeply into her body. In a distant part of your mind you imagine that you've fucked her so many times in so many different ways that it's really true her pussy has conformed to the shape of your dick, has become the perfect mold of an onahole for your exclusive use. The way her soft, sucking insides wrap around you is too perfect to think any differently.
 
Some sixth sense, a subconscious cue that you're not aware of until it's already happening, makes you turn your face and glance across the living room. Dr. Carte is there. She's peeking from the cracked door of her bedroom, watching you mate with her daughter, and though the lighting is dim, you can tall there's motion down lower. You know in an instant that she's masturbating. She's playing with herself while she watches you fuck Whitney.
 
She sees that you see her. Her eyes go wide and she shuts the door, quickly, quietly. You keep fucking Whitney and you're so lost in the moment that any trace of inhibition is gone. You brush your cheek against the side of her head and breathe into her ear, "we had an audience just now."
 
"Wh-what?" Whitney moans, too dazed by getting railed to comprehend human speech.
 
"Your mom was watching us."
 
"--For real?" This gets Whitney's attention, though neither of you break the pace of your fucking. You're both too horny and getting off too hard to stop. But now she's looking at the now closed bedroom door.
 
"For real..." you say. "She was standing in the doorway... playing with herself..."
 
Whitney's cunt tightens around your prick. A little gasp escapes her lips. She liked hearing that.
 
"Should I...?" You prompt.
 
She nods enthusiastically.
 
You call: "Dr. Carte... Whitney says you can come out. It's okay."
 
You fuck Whitney a little harder, your balls slapping against her soft butt, so there can be no mistaking on the other side of that door that the two of you are still having sex as you say this.
 
There is no response, and you worry, although not too much in the throes of pleasure, that you've made things awkward with Dr. Carte. You'll deal with that later though, after you get your cum up Whitney's womb where it belongs.
 
But then there is a response. The door cracks open again, and you meet Dr. Carte's uncertain eyes with a smirk. Tapping Whitney on the back, you get her to glance over as well. Her face lights up when she sees that Dr. Carte is watching.
 
"I hope you don't mind..." Whitney says, punctuating her words with forceful humping, sliding all the way up and all the way down your shaft each time, so that your cock glistens in the light from the ceiling fan before repeatedly disappearing back inside her. "I just reee~ally needed to get Ally's prick up me... so we used your couch... is that okay, mom?"
 
Dr. Carte's mouth is hanging slack and you can hear her labored breathing.
 
"We don't mind it if you watch us," you add, "if you like what you see..."
 
She closes the door again.
 
"Ugh... she must be a prude," Whitney says. "Oh well... cum inside me, Ally..."
 
You fuck her now with a determined, even pace, getting close to that delirious release. But then, unbelievably, there she is again, Dr. Carte, standing at the entrance to her bedroom, the door swinging fully open. The devil on her left shoulder must have finally beaten the angel on her right into submission. Whatever dithering she went through in the past few minutes is over, and now she's committing to this.
 
"Hey mom~" says Whitney.
 
She's naked. And her body could not be any more of a contrast to Whitney's. Taller, paler -- less toned, but fuller -- huge, swaying tits, with fat areola, and a tummy that isn't round but definitely looks squeezable. Thick thighs, the insides of them running with her wetness, and then the part of her that most resembles her daughter after all: a pretty, dark pink little pussy. She keeps it well-groomed, just a small strip of hair over the top.
 
Her fingers are to her lips and her eyes are glued to the scene before her.
 
"You can get closer," you say. "It's fine. Really."
 
She does, her entire body shaking, her steps halting and unsure. But she makes it across the room. She takes a seat, her naked butt on the surface of her coffee table, close enough that you can touch her. Her legs are tightly pinched together, one hand pinned between her fleshy thighs, as if trying to stop herself by force from masturbating.
 
"So?" Whitney says. "You're watching... does that mean you like what you see?"
 
"I'm -- I'm sorry," is what Dr. Carte finally gets out, still transfixed.
 
"Don't be... I like what I see, too."
 
Dr. Carte almost recoils she's so surprised, and meets Whitney's gaze. "You..."
 
"You're hot," Whitney says. "And you've got a pretty pussy..."
 
When it comes to these matters, you and Whitney are usually in agreement.
 
"Can I see it again?" Whitney asks.
 
Lips quavering, breath uneven and heavy, Dr. Carte spreads her leaden legs one at a time. The motion draws her forward so only her tailbone is resting on the edge of the table. The last obstruction left is her hand. As she slowly draws it away, she leaves herself exposed completely to her own daughter. She rests her hands on her knees to steady herself and lets Whitney gawk. Whitney, practically drooling, stares at it unashamedly.
 
"I'm gonna cum," you warn Whitney.
 
Whitney slides up and off of you. Cool air rushes over your cock and you grimace in pained frustration as your balls tighten up, aching to get you back to the place they want to spew their cum in.
 
Languidly rising to her feet, Whitney takes Dr. Carte's hand. "You've got a thing for Ally. I know you do. Like mother like daughter, right? Right..."
 
"Whitney, is this... okay...?" Dr. Carte asks, still overwhelmed by it all.
 
"If you wanna fuck him, you definitely can. I wanna see you... we can share..."
 
She gets Dr. Carte to settle on the floor in front of the couch, so that she's at eye level with your straining dick, so she can see up close and personal the angry red shaft and the fat droplet of precum oozing from the tip. She gulps. "I haven't been with a man since... oh my... it's so..."
 
Whitney is cupping her mother's ass now, taking liberties with impunity, her chin on her shoulder, leering. "It'll fit. If it fit inside me, it'll fit inside you, too..."
 
"Touch it," you say, half commanding, half begging. Dr. Carte reaches for it, and wraps her dainty fingers around it. Her soft hand is warm and she holds you loosely.
 
"You want it, you know you do..." Whitney whispers, becoming the new devil on her shoulder now. "Once he cums inside you, you'll never look back... it's nice and hot and gooey, and he always cums a whole lot... you'll love it..."
 
Dr. Carte is a leaf in the wind, utterly bewildered by this lewd tirade, and yet as Whitney goes on, Dr. Carte slowly begins to jerk you off. Whitney is right. She wants it.
 
"Are you okay -- to have sex with someone like me --" Dr. Carte asks you.
 
You pull on her arm and get her upright, then tug her down, onto the couch, on top of you. "More than okay," you say.
 
She gets on her haunches and straddles your waist. Whitney, ever helpful, holds your cock for you, and Dr. Carte, focused intently on it, lowers herself.
 
Like mother like daughter indeed. Dr. Carte's reaction to getting your dick in her is exactly like Whitney's. The drooping jaw, the sigh, the rolling eyes. But more intense than Whitney's: this is a woman who hasn't been properly fucked in a very, very long time, and the satisfied sigh she makes is more like a pained whine, a noise that belies the deep need that has gone so unfulfilled for so long.
 
Whitney circles around now, gets up onto the couch herself, and straddles your face.
 
"Eat me out," she begs you.
 
You're a conscientious boyfriend and you do as Whitney says. You latch your lips onto Whitney's pussy and let her wetness drip straight into your mouth. The tangy fragrance and taste of it sticks to the back of your tongue as you swirl it around. It makes you salivate, a natural reaction that drives Whitney's pleasure ever higher. Little gasps and whinnies come out at irregular intervals as you alternate between flicking her hard clit with your tongue and seeing how deep you can get it up her pussy.
 
Dr. Carte's motions on the other side of you are impassioned but inexpert and she drives up and down at awkward angles that leave you longing. Then you become aware of a shifting weight, the center of balance moving forward. You realize that, above you, Whitney has linked hands with her mother -- to guide and support her.
 
"Like this," comes Whitney's voice, your hearing muffled by the weight of her ass sitting on your face.
 
"It's -- so deep --" Dr. Carte moans. "So... thick..."
 
"I know... it's great..."
 
With Whitney assisting, Dr. Carte can get you all the way inside, your heavy nuts resting against her ass on the instroke. She gyrates her hips each time you're full inside, before drawing you out again and coming back down. Over and over she uses your cock to bring herself off.
 
"This is wrong-- this is wrong--" Dr. Carte says, panting, in a voice that indicates she doesn't care, even if she knows she should.
 
"Just shut up and have fun~" Whitney coos.
 
All their conversation, all their moans and squeaks suddenly die off. You understand, though you cannot see for yourself, that Whitney is kissing Dr. Carte, has shoved her tongue inside her mother's mouth. And now you can hear the muffled smacking, the slurping, the gasping.
 
Dr. Carte's hips buck hard now, and you pass the point of no return too. You fuck back against her just as hard and frenzied. Whitney's cum erupts like a geyser all over you, spraying your face, and down to the back of your throat, as you do just the same to Dr. Carte's hot cunt -- as you unleash spurt after searing spurt of cum directly inside her. Dr. Carte is just as fun to cum in as her daughter is, has insides that are just as welcoming and silkily textured, a perfect place to deposit your seed. You didn't think you had a thing for older women, but you'll make an exception. You let go of all other thoughts in your mind, except the blinding need to inseminate your girlfriend's mom as much, and as deeply, as you can. You ejaculate into her, fully, until every last drop oozes from your piss slit to her womb.

GIRLS FUCKED: 7/12

Whitney is like the cat who killed the canary as she holds the sleeping Dr. Carte close on the living room couch. If she was concerned before that this is fucked up, she seems to be over that particular hang-up now.

"You two gonna be okay on your own tonight?" You ask.

"Mm. We'll manage."

"Good. I'm gonna go pick up Cerise and bring her home. I'll probably be late to work tomorrow morning -- if that's okay, boss."

Whitney laughs and waves you goodbye.

At Galatea's apartment again, the scene you walk in on is -- in retrospect -- unsurprising. But somehow you're surprised all the same.
 
On the bed, Galatea has her face between Cerise's legs, and Cerise has her hands tightly gripping the back of Galatea's head. She grunts and humps Galatea's mouth. "Eat me. Eat my fucking cunt. Oh my god... that's it..."
 
They're so into it that neither of them notice you coming in.
 
You debate whether or not to interrupt, but the decision is made for you as Cerise happens to glance your way in her ecstasy. Her eyes go wide. "Alabaster-!! What the fuck! What are you doing here!"
 
She backs off of Galatea's face, her legs kicking wildly and looking for purchase. She finally gets herself up against Galatea's headboard, and pulls the sheets up over her lower half. Galatea, on her stomach, wearing a shirt but no bottoms (of course), crawls forward and hugs Cerise's legs. Galatea peers up at you as well now, waiting to see what you'll say, and doesn't bother trying to make herself decent.
 
"I have a key," you explain. "I let myself in."
 
"Freak!" Cerise cries.
 
"Freak. Sure. When you sit underneath me and watch me fuck a boy you dressed up in a maid costume, that's perfectly normal, perfectly healthy. But I happen to walk in on a lesbian camshow by accident, and I'm the freak."
 
She tosses a bottle of water from Galatea's nightstand at your head. You dodge it. "Weren't you and Gal just supposed to watch some anime tonight?"
 
"we did..." Galatea says happily. In the pale light of her computer screen, as always the only illumination in the room, her face is shiny; covered in Cerise's cum.
 
"I guess you're preoccupied," you say. "I was gonna take you home, but..."
 
"Preoccupied!" Cerise says. "Big words for a guy who comes over here smelling like a French brothel! How many people did YOU fuck tonight, huh?"
 
"I'm surprised you can detect that over the clam bake you've got going on in here," you say. "Did you spend ALL night sitting on that poor girl's face?"
 
"I haven't cum in over a year!" Cerise says. "I have needs!"
 
"That's fine. I'll leave you two alone if you want. But... given the history..." You tilt your head, bend your knees a little so you're more on Cerise's level where she sits. "Are you sure you mind me being here?"
 
Cerise is indecisive. Surprisingly it's Galatea who offers this one up: "i don't mind..."
 
You reach out, with halting motions that offer Cerise the opportunity to shout you down, tell you to fuck off, but she doesn't. She lets you pull the sheets down from her legs. In the low blue light you can see that she's sitting on a wet spot. Her pussy was was drooling the whole time, even despite the interruption and the arguing. A year of having no sexual release really did leave her in sexual overdrive.
 
Galatea is already pawing at Cerise's thighs and trying to pry them apart, her eyes on the prize. You wondered whether there was something romantic between the two of them but you had no idea their relationship had ever gotten to this point. The minor sting of seeing Cerise with someone else passes quickly; you can appreciate the sight of a girl as admittedly cute as Galatea licking your sister's cunt. As Galatea settles in again for another round of cunnilingus, Cerise uncertainly plays her fingers across Galatea's head as if petting her, but her eyes never break contact with yours.
 
"I hope you're not 100% lesbian now," you muse.
 
"I'm as lesbian as you are ga-- ahhh--" Cerise can't finish that thought as Galatea elicits a shudder of pleasure from her that cuts the sentence off.
 
You get up on the bed sit Indian style, watching contentedly. Galatea's eager mouth is making a sloppy mess of Cerise's genitals. This impossibly shy, mousy girl is uninhibited when it comes to servicing a cunt. She runs her tongue back and forth from the top of Cerise's clitoral hood all the way down to her asshole, no hesitation at any point. She happily swabs her tongue around the inside of both of Cerise's juicy holes. Despite having cum less than an hour ago, it has your cock quickly hardening.
 
"Enjoying it, pervert?" Cerise demands, looking over at you with a grin.
 
"Of course," you say. "I'm gonna join in."
 
You give Galatea's ass a little smack. Muffled, she squeaks.
 
"You eat each other out -- have you ever used toys on each other, too?"
 
"Hmm, sometimes," Cerise says between moans.
 
You spread Gal's cheeks now and peer at the little puckered rosebud of her asshole, as pale as the rest of her. "Ever played with her ass?" You ask.
 
"Once or twice..."
 
You spit. With a thumb, you smear it over Galatea's lower hole. She tenses, obviously a bit afraid of what comes next, but she isn't going to say no to you. It's Cerise who takes Galatea's face in her hands, pulls her up, lets her breathe. Cerise says: "is this okay for you?"
 
Galatea thinks for a moment. The nod she finally gives is enthusiastic and needful.
 
"You are such a darling," Cerise says. She kisses Galatea, tastes herself on her lips. And then she directs Galatea's head downwards again. She can't get enough of Galatea's mouth.
 
You get Galatea up on hands and knees so you can mount her properly, like the bitch she is. You're going to make her feel this one all the way in her guts. Cerise watches, hand on her cheek, through half-lidded eyes. You stand on the mattress, bend your knees and squat above Galatea's waiting ass.
 
"Alabaster..." Cerise gulps, "can I just say --"
 
"What?"
 
"I missed seeing your cock."
 
This is the only encouragement you need. You drive your cock forward, against the spongy resistance of Galatea's hot little asshole. The lubrication of your spit and her own cum is barely enough to allow you entry. You have to push as hard as you can and even then it's slow going. You sink in by milometers, with gritted teeth.
 
Galatea is grunting and struggling in her own breathy way. Cerise doubles down on the petting and encouragement. "Good girl... good girl... you're so good for me..."
 
"She is," you admit. "She's good..."
 
Galatea goes rigid, like being electrocuted. These words, from you, are the first and only nice thing you've ever said aloud to her. Cerise's bad habit of treating her decently is rubbing off.
 
Galatea's ass is so tight that even when you've gotten yourself inside it, it's still hard to actually fuck. "Relax," you tell her. "I can't fuck you if you don't relax..."
 
Cerise seems to get an idea. She spins around, gets on her back, and slithers underneath Galatea -- face directly below the point where your cock is wedged into her. Galatea has separation anxiety from Cerise's pussy it seems, and practically dives to get her face back into your sister's muff. Like this, they've wound up in a 69 position beneath you.
 
Cerise returns the favor and suckles sweetly on Galatea's carnation pink cunt. With a free hand, she masturbates her, too. Galatea's tiny mewls and coos signal that it's having the intended effect. And like magic she's loosening up enough that you can actually screw her at a reasonable pace, one that feels good on your turgid dick.
 
"You like that position, don't you?" You ask Cerise. "Getting right up close while I fuck someone..."
 
"Mm-hmm," she admits, her mouth full of Galatea's sopping pussy.
 
You piston in and out. Occasionally your dangling nuts slap against your sister's forehead, but that doesn't bother her, so it doesn't bother you.
 
Galatea manages to pull herself away from Cerise for long enough to plead to you: "please choke me sir"
 
Cerise's brow furrows, confused by this new dimension to the relationship as much as you still are -- this "sir" thing -- but she won't let that bother her right now, either. She rolls with it, smiles at you and says: "Yeah, Alabaster... choke her..."
 
Majority rules. You reach down and wrap your hands around her delicate throat. It's not the first time. Galatea almost gags from the force of it. Firmly, you press down, to make her bow her head again, to continue eating Cerise. You're not going to deny your sister the use of Galatea's mouth just because Galatea wants to enjoy getting choked like the dizzy cunt she is. She'll have to lick Cerise out whether she's got an air supply or not.
 
The noises Galatea makes are almost inhuman, a choking, sputtering, dazed grunting as you and Cerise work her over. Galatea's asshole is shuddering around you, clenching and unclenching, as her body reacts to the hard use. Cerise brings her off again and again, sucking and rubbing her. Galatea's a real squirter: you can actually hear the force of it spattering against the mattress and Cerise's face.
 
It's too much, watching this dumb slut cum on your sister's face, and with a deep growl you let loose with a load of cum. You deposit it into Galatea's ass without any warning, and she practically seizes as your cock balloons, and pulses, and seeds her. Sighing deeply in satisfaction, you pull out, hard as you can. Galatea's now-ruined asshole dribbles your cum out of it, to join hers on Cerise's face. Now there's a sight you've missed, too: your sister getting plastered with your sperm.
 
You sit back and enjoy watching the two of them eat other. Without the pressing need for release yourself, you can focus on really choking Galatea the way she likes -- the way she deserves. Straddling the two of them, knees on either side of Gal's back, you tighten and loosen your grip on her neck at random, enjoying the reactions it draws from her. When she seems to be really losing it, you let her go, slap her back into consciousness. Each time she draws shuddering, gasping breaths, and says in the loudest voice you've heard from her: "Thank you sir!"
 
Over the course of the next hour you choke her back and forth from the edge of unconsciousness as she and Cerise ride out uncountable orgasms all over each other. You're happy to be of assistance.

Cerise is insistent on staying with Galatea overnight, and you're pretty tired yourself. Somehow you end up in a heap together, the three of you, on her bed -- Galatea the filling of the sandwich.

"I'm sorry I was gone for so long," Cerise murmurs as she drifts to sleep.

"Don't be," you murmur back. "It's her fault."

Between you, Galatea tenses.

"Don't say that. It's not her fault. It's not your fault, Gal."

Galatea loosens up again, nuzzles Cerise's chest. Cerise pets her soothingly. It's more than she deserves, but you're too tired to argue the point. You fall asleep.

---

It's almost noon when you wake up.

"Late for work?" Cerise says, stretching and yawning.

"I kinda come and go as I please. Whitney's a pretty lenient boss." You stand, peering down at Galatea, who's still snoozing.

"You don't like Gal, do you," Cerise says.

You shrug.

"What I did last year was my choice. She didn't want to put that implant in my eye. She begged me not to make her. She cried and pleaded with me. But *I* made her. I did -- me. And if I hear you saying some shit like that to her again, I'll beat your ass. Do you understand me?"

You frown. "Yeah." Then after a pause: "Do you want to come check out the new place or hang around here a little more?"

"I'm gonna make Gal some breakfast. She hardly eats."

"Right... I'll see you later, Cerise."

"Thanks, Alabaster."

You stop at the threshold and look back.

>[x] Talk to her about Camelia.
[ ] Go to work for now and let her enjoy the day. 

Over instant coffee, you chat with Cerise. Galatea has nothing like a dining room table and the only chair in her loft is her computer chair. You sit in it, and Cerise sits on the bed. Galatea softly dozes.

"Do you remember Rose2's sister -- Amber?"

Cerise rolls her eyes. "This is going nowhere good. It's bad enough you're fucking the candy-coated cringe. Don't go for the jailbait version too."

"This is serious. Do you remember Amber?"

"Sure. I mean, I've met her once or twice."

You shake your head. It's strictly possible Rose2 always had a sister and you just never bothered to internalize this fact about her. The person posing as her sister now is most certainly Camelia, but maybe she had a real little sister before that.

You try something else: "And do you remember Camelia?"

"Of course I do. What's up with these questions?"

"Just humor me for a second -- What did Camelia look like?"

Cerise chuffs. "I dunno... like the chuuni from hell."

"More specific. Anything like Amber?"

"Well, she had that -- wacky eyepatch, of course... and that crazy blue hair, and the contact that made her good eye look red-- I don't remember Amber too well but I don't think there's a resemblance..."

"Okay. Okay. Thanks." You bow your head, heartsunk. 

"Alabaster -- what's wrong?"

"That girl you're describing - the girl everyone remembers as Camelia - it's not her."

"What do you--"

"The real Camelia is living in Rose2's house and pretending to be her little sister."

"You think Amber... IS Camelia? What?"

"There is no Amber. Amber never existed. It's her -- it's Camelia --"

Cerise recoils. "That's crazy. I KNOW Amber. I met her years before we ever knew Camelia."

"I understand how it sounds. But... I'm not the only one here. Rose agrees with me. Uh -- Rose 1, that is."

"Oh! Rose agrees with you! That settles it, then. This definitely isn't some psychotic delusion! Rose, paragon of mental stability, agrees with you!"

"I know Rose isn't all that put-together all the time, but... look, I've had to deal with her for the past year as the next-best thing to someone with brains who I can tell stuff to, and she's not that unreasonable, not really."

"You really have gone nuts."

"Just hear me out. She broke into Amber's bedroom--"

"Oh my God--"

"And found the USB stick Camelia was using to blackmail me last year. The one with the video of me burning down North High. Now how would she have that if she was who she says?"

Cerise is positively bug-eyed.

"And another thing. Wasn't Camelia's real name Amber Langley? Don't you think it's just slightly unusual that Amber Catachresis is named is Amber too?"

"No! Amber is a pretty common name. I mean, not super common, but who the fuck are the two of us to judge people for having uncommon names?"

All this yelling has roused Galatea awake. She rubs her eyes, sits up on criss-crossed legs.

"Gal," Cerise says. "Tell me. Camelia - what did she look like?"

"uhh..."

"It's okay, go ahead."

"blue hair... red eyes..."

"Fucking hell," you say.

>[x] Mention Mom.
>[x] Drop it for now. 

You set your coffee down on the desktop and rest your elbows on your knees, tenting your fingers. Your legs are jostling up and down like crazy.

"I feel like I'm going insane," you admit. "I don't know what's happening anymore... I don't know where my head's at.. or what's real..."

"Things have been nuts," Cerise says, taking a gentle tack. "You need some time to clear your head."

"What do you think Sand Reckoner is really capable of?" You ask. "Do you know? Does anyone?"

She sort of half shrugs and half shakes her head.

"Gal?" You ask.

"it would be -- almost limitless... if darkbloom's idea of total knowledge was real..."

"Powerful enough to change what we only think we know? Powerful enough to... bring people back to life?"

"Dead is dead," Cerise says, staring at the nothing between the two of you. "No AR platform can change that."

"Is it?" You say. "I saw Camelia again. I know I did... and..."

Cerise is looking at you.

"Can you at least admit it's possible -- do you think it's anywhere near the realm of possible?"

"I guess it is," she says, and she doesn't seem to be just placating you. "Camelia was a crazy bitch. I wouldn't put it past her to come back from the grave."

"If it could be Camelia, do you think it could be -- anyone? We saw Damon last year. You know it was him."

"That's exactly what I'm thinking of," Cerise says. "I thought I was just imagining things, but..."

"So if it could be Camelia, or Damon, maybe it could be... fucking anybody. Hitler. Kennedy. Nelson Mandela. ...Vasily Kerimov... David Darkbloom... or..."

"Mom and dad?" Cerise asks.

"What did mom look like?"

"Fuck, Alabaster. I don't know. Taller than me. Black hair. Thick but not in the gross way? Like MOM. What do you want from me?"

"I'm sorry."

"I feel like I'm going crazy now, too."

"We'll worry about it later. It's not actually hurting us, right? Things are okay."

"Yeah. For now."

You stand up, cross the distance between you, and hug her. "Forever."

"As if you can make any promises."

"I'll do my best."

"Get your weeb ass to work." 

At work, past Darkbloom Analytics' in-house security, is the much more rigorous and painful FBI security checkpoint. Unusually, it's Noelle herself at the checkpoint, rather than some low-level agent. You can guess why.

"Name and purpose," Noelle says, scanning her eyes down a clipboard, already looking for your name on the list of employees.

"Alabaster Soliloquy. I work here."

She ticks your name off. "Awfully late to be showing up for work. It's past lunchtime." She glances up. "And you stink like cum. FYI."

"Spare me."

"Are you bringing anything into this building not expressly authorized by your employer?" Noelle asks, reciting from rote.

"No."

"Open your bag, please."

You open the satchel you use to tote around your laptop and notebook. She inspects the compartments, and comes away satisfied. Next she demands your employee badge, which you hand her.

"How's your sister?" Noelle asks, looking at your badge.

"Go fuck yourself."

"Uh huh. This badge was recently taken out of its housing. Why?"

"I like to keep things clean."

"Makes sense, cumstink. When will Cerise be up to an interview?"

"Ask my lawyer."

On the distance, from the mezzanine, Whitney calls out: "Fuck you!"

Noelle glances back, grimacing. She turns again and faces you, begins to say something, but Whitney -- perhaps thinking that Noelle didn't quite hear -- cups her hands over her mouth and calls even louder: "FUUUUUCK! YOOOOOUUUU!"

"I'm -- sorry, for Whitney," you say.

"You just said essentially the same thing to me," Noelle replies, frowning.

"That was a friendly fuck you. Whitney's was an unfriendly fuck you. There's a difference."

"You know, Alabaster -- it doesn't hurt to have someone watching you. Maybe one day you'll realize that."

"Is that from the 1984 Director's Cut?"

She hands you back your badge. "You're free to go." 

You're just in time for a board meeting where Whitney is announcing the good news.

"Vivian's a genius. Smartest kid sister in the universe. Tell them."

"We have recently been in negotiations to acquire several startups which promise to go viral."

"Hear that? Viral. I don't know why I was so worried. After that Genosis bullshit--" (Whitney is talking about the incident last year when she was almost convinced by the rest of the board to buy a startup that turned out to be fraudulent. But Whitney's instincts prevailed, and saved the fragile Darkbloom Analytics from ruin.) "--I mean, I've been touchy about buying any other companies. But these are great."

Vivian pulls up a Powerpoint slide. "The first under our consideration: Yeeple. I dislike the name, and I think we should all agree, so we will have to brainstorm."

"Yeeple?" You say, skeptical.

"It's like Yelp, but for people," Whitney says. "You rate people on a scale of 1-5 stars. Then you can look people up to see who has high ratings or who has low ratings."

Rose, also sitting in, makes a face. "Now hold on just a moment. Wasn't that an episode of Black Mirror?"

"Black Mirror?" Vivian says. "We should not be making decisions based on television programs. Please, let us hew to the topic at hand and the merits of the concept on its own terms..."

The rest of the board continues discussing the idea. They all like it, the psychopaths. Rose glances across the conference table at you, and you share a commiserating glance and a nod. You can at least agree on this: "yelp for people" needs to get squashed, ASAP.

"Let's table that one," you say. "Maybe there are more -- attractive ideas?"

"I agree with Alabaster," Rose says.

"Neither of you assholes get a vote," Tyrus says. He smiles at Rose. "Sorry, sugartits."

Nathan P. Chalmers, the sensitivity coach who's been shadowing Whitney, seems uncertain whether to speak up here or not. 

"Whitney --" Rose says. "Can we discuss this one later, please? Before you decide?"

"Pfft. Why are you so concerned all of a sudden? Wait -- I know why. You're just mad that I'm more popular than you."

"Popular? Whitney, you're the face of the most evil company on the planet. Do you grasp that?"

"Evil!" Whitney chuffs. "The PR girl is calling her own company evil! What the fuck?"

"Notice how no one else on the board is disputing it," Rose says. She motions at them, but they sort of look away, embarrassed.

"Well I'm still popular with some people," Whitney says. She takes out her phone, types something in, scrolls for a bit. "See? Listen to this: Whitney Darkbloom is goals. Hashtag Whitney Darkbloom, hashtag goals." She looks up from her phone with a shit-eating grin. "Fuck yeah I'm goals."

Rose rises a bit in her chair to peer over the top of Whitney's phone. "That's fake," she says flatly, staring at the screen.

"Fake? What?"

"It's not a real account. It's a Twitter bot designed to drum up good publicity for the company. I bought about... 20,000 or so, last week."

Whitney shakes her head, aghast. "You bought a bunch of robots and didn't tell me about it?"

"I did tell you about it. Apparently you forgot."

"Why are YOU buying robots?" Whitney cuts in. "Shouldn't that be Mara's thing?" She turns to Mara. "Isn't that what you people do these days?"

"What is 'you people' supposed to mean?" Mara says. When she gets no response, she glances away and adds: "My contacts at the Kremlin said their American-focused bots are working on 'more important projects'... whatever that means."

Rose shoots you a meaningful look that makes you uncomfortable.

"Okay, fine," Whitney says. "Maybe the account is a fake but what they're saying is still true. I'm goals and you're just holes, Rose."

She rolls her eyes. Chalmers is a little bit more animated: "Whoa! Now let's not have this sort of misogyn--"

"Shut the fuck up," Whitney says. "Oh my god. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. If I'm not talking to you specifically, assume I don't want to hear your voice."

He looks angry, but he's got no clue how to respond. 

None of the other startup ideas are any more promising, although you do manage to divert Whitney's attention to something that's not going to blow up like the Hindenburg. Something about screen-printing custom T-shirts. You don't catch a lot of the details, but it can't be worse than motherfucking Yeeple. You wind her up and get her excited about that one.

What comes next is Nelson's update on Diogenes. Predictably, Alex isn't here, so Nelson has to stand in.

"We've added 50 headcount to the project as of today, so progress should pick up. Mr. Best is onboarding them now. Based on the Solutions Forum last week... it would probably be best to get out ahead of the game and move on digitally-signed blockchain fingerprinting... I know it's not the full Diogenes package, but it keeps us in line with our apparent competition--"

"Say that again," Whitney interrupts.

"Say-- what, again?"

"Blockchain. I love the way you say that word."

"I don't..." He starts. Whitney is staring at him expectantly. "Blockchain," he finally says, deflated.

"That's great. One more time."

"Blockchain."

"You're such a hoot, Nelson. Whatever you need, you've got it. Do the blocky fingerprinting, that's great. I'm sure it'll make us money. Listen, I gotta skedaddle -- meeting adjourned."

As she and the rest of the board shuffles out, Nelson sidles up to you.

"I hope you're keeping her good and fucked," he mutters.

"--Excuse me?"

He turns to look at you. "I said I hope you're keeping her good and fucked. The future of western civilization lies in that girl's hands. If she's not happy... no one is going to be happy, for a very long time."

He goes, leaving you to your unhappy thoughts. 

You bring Cerise home that evening to the splendor of what Whitney affectionately calls "Casa del Darkbloom-o." Cerise's bedroom is right next to yours, same as old times -- it's ready and waiting, and has been for a year.

"This is nuts..." Cerise says, standing and turning in slow circles. "My bed, my bookcases, desks and drawers... you got all my old stuff out of storage?"

"We've got room for it now," you say, shrugging. "All the stuff from our old house is here... mom and dad's things too, and the stuff from the living room, and all the rest... if you want to check it out later. And here..."

You pull a box from Cerise's closet, root around in it. The Soliloquy family photo album is here, a trinket you were keeping ready for when Cerise came back -- and now, imbued as it is with importance by recent events, you figure you may as well look at it with her.

Heart palpitating but trying not to show it, you crack open the dusty leatherbound binder of photos.

"Holy shit, you were an ugly baby," Cerise says, gawking.

"At least I didn't look like a tomato..."

She slugs you.

You flip the page. And then there she is: Mom.

On her wedding night with dad -- although it's a terrible photo -- the fucking photographer managed to snap the picture right as a balloon floated past the lens, obscuring dad's face. They kept it in the photo album as some kind of joke.

But more critically... it's the same woman you remember, albeit younger. And the same woman you saw at Rose2's house.

"Jesus," Cerise says. "Mom was gorgeous. I swear, dad was batting way out of his league. Must have had super pheromones or something, to bag a girl like her."

Your heartbeat returns to normal. Cerise recognizes her too. She recognizes mom.

Like a weight being lifted, you settle, and enjoy reminiscing with Cerise for a long time. 

When you're done, you stand return to the closet, putting the photo album away. As you push the box back under a shelf, you say: "so, what are you thinking for dinner? Any ideas? I was kind of in the mood for burgers--"

Turning, you see Cerise is still sitting on her bed -- as motionless as death, with that horrible dead-guppy expression from when she was catatonic.

"Cerise?" you exclaim, crazed with sudden, horrible, heart-rending despair.

She blinks. Once, twice, shakes her head. Thank god.

"I don't..." she begins. "Am I--" she looks around, as if dazed, but seems to quickly get her bearings back.

"Are you okay?" You prompt.

She smiles, and you can tell it's forced. "Sorry. I'm fine. It was just a brain fart." She stands up, shifts her weight. "I'm hungry -- I think I'll go and find a bite to eat."

She goes for the door, but you stop her just before she opens it.

"It's just... your eyes," you say. "Your eyes are blue again."

Cerise touches her face. "Oh. Is that so?"

"It is. Your implant must be acting up... you're still not 100% yourself, are you."

Cerise bows her head. "I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't want to worry you."

"It's fine," you say. "But Cerise, you gotta tell me this stuff. We can't help you if you don't tell us when something's wrong. If your implant is doing weird things... making you forget, or causing trouble like that... we need to know about it. Can you agree to that, for me? Please?"

She seems unsure, but finally nods. "Yes... absolutely. Thank you. I'll be more forth-- I'll tell you these things in the future."

You chuckle. "You better. Because I'll know anyway. You're the easiest person in the world to read. I can tell when something's wrong."

She shakes her head. "That's my brother for you, huh."

"Yeah..." you get closer to her. "It's, hah -- it's like that time you came home drunk, remember? And you insisted you were sober, so mom had you say the alphabet backwards, but you couldn't even say it forwards -- you kept insisting you knew your 'ABGs'..."

Cerise laughs. "Well, that was a long time ago... I definitely know my ABG's now, of course..."

You pound a palm flat against the wall, trapping her.

"Alabas--"

"That never happened. Who are you."

"Alabaster! What the hell? You're scaring me..."

"You are not my sister. Who are you."

The mask of fear and shock on Cerise's face melts away like ice off a windshield. A grim blankness replaces it.

"I need your promise that you won't go berserk when I tell you," says the person pretending to be your sister.

"No."

A moment passes. You don't move a nanometer, don't say a word. Finally, rolling Cerise's jaw, this other person uses Cerise's mouth and vocal chords to say: "David Darkbloom." 

You nod. "That's what I thought."

"I -- don't know how this happened," Darkbloom says. "The last thing I remember is... Amber, shoving a knife into my stomach... a gun in my face... pain, agony -- black -- and then waking up in the hospital, in... in Renee's arms..."

He's way too happy at that last memory, so you bring him back to Earth. "Renee hates you," you sneer.

"I... suppose she does," Darkbloom says. "But for just a moment, I-- oh, nevermind. This isn't what I want, Alabaster, you must understand. It's some unintended consequence of Sand Reckoner."

You step back, give Darkbloom some room to breathe.

"I'm truly sorry," he says. It's bizarre to hear this monster speaking through your sister, in your sister's voice, wearing your sister like a meat suit. "But know this -- that I am on your side. I want to fix this. As badly as I'm sure you do. We should work on this, together -- as a team -- as, dare I say -- a family."

"A family," you repeat. "Yeah. A family! Of course." You motion at him with a flattened palm. "We'll figure it out like a family."

"So the first thing--" he says.

You massage the bridge of your nose, putting a hand on your hip and shuffling your weight to another foot. You look back up at him. "Did you kill my parents?"

He studies you for a moment. "If I told you no, would you believe me?"

"Well if I'm not going to believe you either way --" you bob side to side like a pendulum, or a scale, with every syllable -- "then what difference does it make to tell me the truth?"

"Of course. You make a good point. So the absolute, unvarnished truth is this: I did not kill your parents. I swear it. I had no part in their deaths."

"Then who killed them?"

"I don't know. As far as I'm concerned, I remain unconvinced their deaths weren't an unfortunate accident. But if it was foul play, then -- unfortunately -- I have to say that it was probably my wife. It was Mara."

"You would say that, though."

"It's as I thought. You don't believe me."

"No. I don't."

"Be that as it may," he says. 

You hold up a hand. "Yeah. I understand. This is difficult for everyone. We need to call a truce here. At least until we figure out what's going on."

"Yes. Precisely."

You put a reassuring hand on Cerise's shoulder. "We'll find a way to get you out of my sister's head. For sure."

He seems a little taken aback. "Thank you, Alabaster -- thank you. You're being extremely reasonable about this. Based on your history, I half expected you to fly off the rail -- to let your emotions get the better of you. I'm quite happy to see I was mistaken. You've matured so much in the past year--"

He winces as you slowly tighten your grip on Cerise's shoulder. He looks down at your hand. He gulps. "Alabaster, you are are-- hurting me--"

"I already helped kill you once. This time, I'll make sure you stay dead for good."

He's trying to step back, to get away, but you won't let him.

"For the love of God, man-- stop it-- this is your sister's body. You're going to leave a-- ah--" He stumbles and nearly falls over as you continue to squeeze.

"I'll kill your wife, too," you add. "You should also know that I'm not only fucking both of your daughters, but I fucked Renee last night too. That's the first of many. Maybe I'll keep you alive long enough for you to watch me put a baby in her. And then I'll destroy Sand Reckoner. I'll dismantle your company. I'll sell all your assets. I'll keep the last spark of your consciousness in a jar on my mantle forever. And then you can sit up there for all of eternity regretting the fact that you tried to use my sister's body as your personal walking sarcophagus. Ohhh... you thought you fucked up when I found out that you murdered my parents? You have no idea what's coming now. Welcome to hell, David."

END OF EPISODE 3. 

February 14, 2015

Rose2 stands outside the Mallory household, holding a pyrex dish full of shortbread cookies baked into the shape of hearts -- complete with pink and white fondant icing. Homemade, of course. She balances the overlarge dish, precariously, in one flat palm and uses her other hand to ring the doorbell: ding-dong. She likes the pleasant chime of it, muffled as it is by the heavy white wood door.

She grabs the dish again with both hands now so it won't fall. She waits. She's a bubbling cauldron internally, but she forces what she imagines to be a pleasantly nonchalant smile. In reality, her lips are pursed thin and trembling.

She waits and waits, for agonizing moments, but there is no answer. She tries again: balancing the dish, ding-dong, grabbing the dish again just as it starts to wobble. On her nose is a small dab of pink icing. It wound up there genuinely by accident, but she's aware of its presence -- she saw it in a mirror before leaving the house today, and purposely left it under the assumption that if Ally saw it, he would think it's cute. Even better, it's evidence of all the hard work she put into the gift.

After another half minute with no answer and no discernible sounds of movement from within, she paces back down the little concrete walk and to the driveway around the corner of the garage. Mr. Mallory's BMW is gone, but Mrs. Mallory's Volt is parked there. The cogs and gears in her mind start slowly rotating. Could the whole family be out? It seems odd to make a family event of Valentine's Day. Wouldn't it be more reasonable for Mr. and Mrs. Mallory to have gone on a date by themselves? Then if the other car is still here, probably Ally and his cousin are home. This takes fully a minute of her staring at the parked car in the drive to suss out.

She walks back up the drive and tries the doorbell again. This time she does hear some sort of movement inside, a heavy but distant thud, shuffling. Energized by the promise of getting an answer after all, Rose2 goes for broke: She hammers on the doorbell over and over. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding--

The door swings open. Ally's cousin is staring back at her.

"Rose! I'm glad you're around." This is a lie, but god does she sell it. "How the heck are ya?"

Ally's cousin doesn't reply; only stares.

"Is Ally around?"

"What do you want?" She demands.

"Uh..." Rose2 makes a face. "I just wanted to talk to Ally, is all. Is he home?"

"He's tied up at the moment."

"Have you been exercising? You sound a little--"

"What do you want?"

Rose2 debates the proper course of action here. The last thing she wants is to work through Ally's cousin as a go-between. Stalling for time, and genuinely a little curious, she tries a diversion: "What's that smell?"

It seems familiar, somehow, but somehow also not.

Ally's cousin swipes at her hair, tamps down some stray frizz. She seems weirdly exhausted for a Saturday afternoon. "If you have something to say to Alabaster then I'll be happy to pass it on." Her eyes drift downwards, to the dish. "What is that?"

Rose2 can't think of anything to say except the truth. "Cookies... I made some cookies for Ally."

There's that creepy stare again.

"If he's around, I can give them to him real quick. Won't take more than a chotto--"

"I'll give them to him."

"I'd really rather be the one--"

There's a brief tussle as Ally's cousin tries to take the dish and Rose2 tries to hold on to it. But Rose2 is conflict-averse, and anyway not nearly as strong. The dish now belongs to Ally's cousin.

"I worked extra hard on them, so I hope he likes them!" Rose2 says, masking her frustration well. She adds: "If he's okay with it, you can have a couple too. I made lots."

Ally's cousin slams the door shut.

The smile crumples from Rose2's face. "Bitch," she mutters.

She wipes the fondant off the tip of her nose with her thumb and sucks it clean. What a waste...

February 14, 2011

"Who is it?"

"Who do you think?"

Vivian opens her bedroom door. Standing at the threshold is Ms. Carte.

"I require your assistance," Ms. Carte says, striking a dramatic pose: elbow crooked, palm flat and facing out with the fingers splayed, partially obscuring her face.

"At once," Vivian says, now energetic. "If there is a matter that requires my attention, please, tell me."

From behind her back, Ms. Carte produces a heart-shaped box and pink envelope. "I am in dire need of a Valentine," she says. "Vivian Darkbloom, will you be my Valentine this year?"

Vivian feigns disinterest but cannot help staring at the box of sweets. As mature as she tries to be, she is still a little girl, and nothing gets her attention like the promise of chocolate. She alternates between standing flat on her feet and standing on the sides of her black platform shoes as she deliberates.

Still, she spurns the offer. "I apologize. I am already taken. My Valentine this year is father."

Ms. Carte folds her arms and makes a pouty face. "He's your Valentine every year. Maybe it's time to dump him and get someone cooler. Someone like me."

"Father is extremely cool," Vivian says. "And regardless, I cannot see what claim you have to being cooler."

(Well, first of all, thinks Ms. Carte -- I'm here. When was the last time you even saw your dad in person? Of course, she isn't cruel enough to say this out loud.)

"Maybe that's true," Ms. Carte says. "But then, nobody ever said you can't have TWO Valentines." She winks.

"Two Valentines?" Vivian says. "Is such a thing... permissible?"

"I can keep a secret if you can."

Vivian narrows her eyes.

"And anyway, what am I gonna do with all this chocolate if you say no?"

Vivian is an easy girl to sway. She nods and says: "you raise an excellent point. I would not want these confections to go to waste."

Ms. Carte sits on Vivian's bed, Indian style, as Vivian, sitting at the other end of the bed, excitedly retells the story of book five of Proust's "In Search of Lost Time." Between them sits the box of chocolate, already half-demolished -- mostly by Vivian.

Satisfying young Vivian's budding curiosity about scientific matters is more Carte's speed -- whenever Vivian gets going on this French lit stuff, her eyes glaze over. Who has time to care about the romantic pinings of some unemployed French aristocrat from 100 years ago? But she placates Vivian's enthusiasm all the same, inserting "oh wows" and "tell me mores" where appropriate and asking the occasional question too. It may bore her to tears, but it's important to encourage a child's passions wherever they lie, and how many nine year olds are passionate about high modernist continental lit? Vivian is a rarity, a true prodigy at everything she turns her attention to. Ms. Carte loves her with all her heart.

"...and ironically it is this very instinct -- the instinct to keep Albertine caged like a bird, like the titular prisoner of novel five, which finally alienates her... in the cruelest twist of dramatic irony, it is the narrator's own jealousy and suspicion which drives his lover to abandon him, even perhaps into the arms of another woman. The selfishness of his love sows the seeds of its destruction." She takes a bonbon and bites into it. "Coconut," she muses. "Mm."

"The narrator sounds like a real loser," Ms. Carte says.

"He is emblematic of the disaffected bourgeois of prewar France. Many people in real life were of similar disposition. Of course the Great War hardly helped matters."

Only Vivian would still refer to WWI as "the Great War."

A silence descends. Dr. Carte nibbles on a chocolate filled with peanut butter, thinking of nothing in particular. And then, with the help of Vivian, up comes waddling Johann, grabbing her attention.

"What are you doing?" she demands of the stuffed penguin.

"I would like to partake of these sweet treats," replies Johann, through Vivian, doing her best impression of gruff distinction.

Ms. Carte grabs the box and slides it closer to herself, away from Johann. "Sorry, Johann. These are for Valentines only."

"Harrumph!" (Vivian actually says the word "harrumph" instead of making a disgruntled noise.)

"You can have one if you agree to be my Valentine too," she says with a sly smile.

"I have no time for such trifles," Johann insists. "I have a campaign to run." (He is a perennial candidate for President of Antarctica, according to Vivian.)

"Suit yourself."

"Harrumph!"

"Regardless, Johann," says Vivian in her own voice, turning the penguin to face her, "Ms. Carte is my Valentine. Therefore she cannot also be yours."

"Now hold on," Ms. Carte says. "Don't be greedy, Vivian. If you can have two Valentines, then so can I."

"No," Vivian says. "I will not permit it."

"Ohhh," Ms. Carte says breathily, pretending to swoon, back of her palm to her forehead. "Oh how I despair! The selfishness of my Valentine has driven me -- and my chocolates -- into the flippers of another!"

Now Vivian's turn to pout. "Fine. I shall permit you to be Valentines with Johann. But he will be strictly your secondary Valentine. I shall remain your primary Valentine."

"I assent to this," Johann says, through Vivian.

Ms. Carte pushes the box towards Johann and, with Vivian's hand against his back, he leans in for a nibble. "Munch munch," he says, again saying the onomatopoeia instead of making actual sounds. "Scrumptious."

Of course, since Johann bit into that chocolate, Vivian helpfully volunteers to finish it off. She doesn't want Ms. Carte to catch any germs.

After another, lengthier, and increasingly gloomy silence -- Ms. Carte can sense when there is something on Vivian's mind -- Vivian finally comes out with it:

"I believe mother and father are headed towards divorce."

If you only knew the half of it, thinks Ms. Carte to herself. Their shouting matches at board meetings register on the seismographs at Berkley's geology building. If divorce is the only outcome, they'll all be lucky. She has repeatedly warned David that Mara is violent, unhinged -- that worse may come if he doesn't do something soon.

"Father always speaks so highly of you... the way he speaks, the things he says... even how he says your name... it is not like how he speaks of mother."

Ms. Carte watches Vivian closely, waiting for her to finish that thought, but she doesn't.

"It's a complicated situation," Ms. Carte finally replies. "You might have a handle on French aristocrats, but things are different in the real world."

"I am not so certain." She fiddles with Johann's fur. "Mother has repeatedly accused father of being in love with you. Of... other things, as regards you."

She doesn't respond to this.

"I enjoy my time with you, Ms. Carte... if you and father ever want to... I suppose what I mean to say... everyone could be happier if the two of you--"

Ms. Carte hugs Vivian. "Don't worry about those things. I like my time with you, too. No matter what, we'll have that."

"Forever?"

"And ever."

They embrace for a very long time.

February 14, 2019

Noelle is staring at her nails as Hugh describes, in dreary detail, his hiking trip up Angel's Landing. "And all you have is these poles in the ground with some chains to hold onto... both sides of you, a sheer 1800 foot drop, and nothing to hold onto but that weathered old rickety chain..."

Noelle glances up. "Dear god. Who would ever want to do that?"

He smiles that annoyingly white, calculatedly charming smile. "It's gorgeous. When you get up to the top and you have this pristine view of Zion canyon... you just feel this oneness with nature. Like you really are a part of the natural world again."

"Nature? Nature is awful. It's got bugs, it's hot... there's, I dunno... lizards..." She uses her fork to point at her tiramisu. "There's no tiramisu in nature."

"Sometimes you gotta remember your animal side too," Hugh tries. Is that supposed to be sly? Flirty?

"We made cities to get away from nature. Frankly anyone who wants to go back is suspicious. You know who else wanted to go back to nature? The Unabomber."

"You are an office bee," Hugh says. "Jack warned me about you. Said all that time cooped up in San Fran made you soft."

"I'm not soft. I'm just not crazy. If I have the choice, I choose air conditioning. 100 times out of 100."

"You should get out more. It's good for your skin, too. A little sunlight would make you even prettier." Backhanded compliments. Great. "We're going after Konstantin Federov tomorrow, maybe you can ride along... watch us put the collar on him."

"I look forward to your report," Noelle says.

"You're no fun," he says, smiling, but Noelle doesn't smile back. He bows his head. "You're a brick wall. All right. What do you like to do, then? I've worked with you all this time and I feel like I hardly know you."

Somehow Noelle imagines this guy won't understand that "watching cute girls do cute things" is a legitimate hobby. That being the case, she can only shrug.

It's the same way pretty much every date goes. An inability to think of anything good to say about herself, and a conversational void filled instead by a deluge of interminable personal details about the guy. Hugh is probably a fine person. Nothing wrong with a guy like Hugh, who's fit, and likes to hike, and has a lot of photos of said hiking on his phone that he wants to show you, and oops that's a picture of me at the gym ignore that -- a nice person, an agent with a sterling record on his way to making SAC himself one day, who will one day marry a very nice woman.

She can't stand people like him.

After another hour of trying to put up with him, she makes her excuses and leaves. Pulling out a wallet, she produces U.S. Grant and lays him on the table. "That should cover my half."

"Don't even think about it," Hugh says. "I've got it."

"Yes you do, with my half."

"Now now. It's only right for a man to pay for his date's meal."

"I agree. So -- there's my half of the bill."

Hugh purses his lips.

"Goodnight."

"Yeah."

At home, Kuso greets her at the front door with a little mew. She pushes him back with her foot so he doesn't get any big ideas about escaping.

Kuso rolls onto his back at her feet, collar jangling, and wiggles around like a snake with his belly exposed to her.

"I'm not falling for that one again," Noelle tells him.

"Mew."

She squints her eyes at him.

"Mew."

She kneels and reaches down.

Slowly, oh so slowly, she puts a hand to his belly and pets him.

"HSSSS!!"

He claws the shit out of her hand, flips onto his legs and darts away at supersonic speed.

"MOTHERFUCKER! YOU BETTER RUN, SHITHEAD! FUCK!" She tosses her handbag after him, but he's well gone before that.

As she disinfects the scratches over her kitchen sink, she mutters: "can't even get my own cat to like me..."

She glances around her dim, mostly empty apartment, frowning.

A few minutes later she's watching an episode of Yuru Yuri while idly masturbating at her computer chair. The two activities are unconnected. She likes yuri in the sense that anime girls are cuter than anime guys, so two is always better than one -- but it doesn't particularly turn her on. It's simply her habit to masturbate whenever she happens to be alone.

One usually overtakes the other -- most of the time, she'll get too into the show she's watching to keep going all the way to climax -- but she's seen Yuru Yuri enough times that it goes the other direction tonight. Soon she's in her bedroom, naked, split-legged in front of the full-length mirror attached to her closet. Riding Old Dependable. She likes to watch herself doing it. She's a cute girl, too, after all. It strikes her as perhaps a little weird, and definitely vain, but her own body turns her on like little else. Especially seeing it with Old Dependable inside. She rides out a few wailing orgasms, and then tired, curls up on the floor rather than bother climbing into bed.

Kuso walks over, like nothing happened earlier, and tries to nuzzle her face.

"Go away. I'm mad at you."

"Mew."

He curls up beside her.

"Asshole."

"Mew."

She falls asleep like that.

February 14, 2015
 
"I will fuck you up. I will beat you into a fucking pulp. Untie me right now."
 
Rose grins smugly at Alabaster as she tightens the restraints pinning his wrists behind the chairback. With his arms and legs properly secured, there's nothing he can do. He's totally at her mercy.
 
Little ever thrills her quite like this feeling.
 
"You stupid cunt. If you don't untie me, I'll--"
 
Rose slaps him in the face. His groan of indignation gives her the opening she needs: she shoves a wadded up pair of yesterday's socks into his mouth. He says something, unintelligible, through the gag. Not that he needs words for her to understand. The undiluted rage in his eyes says it all. It's the best sight on Earth.
 
"What's that?" Rose says, liltingly, mockingly. "I can't quite hear you."
 
More muffled curses and impotent threats. Even Rose can tell how bad those socks stink... it must be unbearable for him.
 
"Speak up, please. Is there a problem?"
 
He keeps going as if he can make himself be understood, the darling.
 
"I know, Alabaster, I know. It's so degrading, isn't it? Being overpowered by a girl. Being gagged and bound! Oh dear."
 
She circles the chair, lazily runs her hands over his chest. She puts her cheek to his and whispers: "But secretly... you know this is how it should be, don't you? You know you deserve this..."
 
His neck muscles are straining, his face is deeply red.
 
"Pretend you don't like it all you want," she sneers. She reaches down and cups his crotch obscenely. "If you don't like it, why is your cock hard? Disgusting little pig~"
 
Ding-dong, comes the doorbell.
 
Rose makes a sour face, but ignores that. Probably some missionary or something. The last thing she has time for, right now, is a missionary.
 
She slowly, agonizingly slowly, unzips his zipper. As much as the two of them have danced and skirted around this moment, they've never--
 
Ding-dong, comes the doorbell.
 
Rose closes her eyes, sighs deeply, shakes her head. Go away, whoever you are, she thinks.
 
Anyway. As much as the two of them have danced and skirted around this moment, they've never crossed the rubicon like this. She has never seen that disgusting part of him that he keeps hidden from her as if he deserves such decency. A worm like him, walking around with a thing like THAT between his legs... he needs to punished. And she intends to punish him.
 
Alabaster fights her, but feebly, rocking side to side as if trying to escape. But there is no escape. She's going to have her fun with him whether he wants it or not. But of course he wants it. Men are all the same. Their cocks make them stupid. Alabaster would debase himself in any way she wants if she promised just to touch his cock. She licks her lips at the thought as she fishes around inside his fly.
 
Ding-dong, comes the doorbell, and this startles and frustrates Rose so much that Alabaster manages to knock her back. He headbutts her, uses the momentum to keep going, and tips himself to the side. The wheeled chair topples over, Alabaster with it, landing with a hard thud. Rose, also falling, lands on her butt and groans.
 
Quickly gaining her bearings again, she clambers to her knees. Alabaster is still secured, and immobile, just rotated 90 degrees. He's even still gagged. And Rose's ultimate prize is visible, jutting out from the fly of his jeans, only the thin and darkly stained fabric of his boxer shorts separating her from it...
 
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong
 
"FUCK!" Rose yells.
 
She quickly hurries downstairs to an obnoxious and unwelcome encounter with... that girl. What a stupid, nosy, desperate little CUNT-- that she thinks she even has a CHANCE with Alabaster-- calm yourself, Rose...
 
She sets the dish of cookies on the countertop in the kitchen, intending to get rid of them later, but first things are first. Mom and dad could be back any time. She needs to finish what she started.
 
She goes back upstairs to Alabaster's bedroom. "Now where were we..." she says, voice airy and sly, and full of anticipation. "I think there's a little piggy who needs some discipl--"
 
The chair is empty.
 
Her eyes bulge in sudden animal fear. The beast has escaped. She wheels, makes a dash for her bedroom, where she foolishly left the pepper spray. But there, in her door, is Alabaster.
 
"Looking for something, bitch?"
 
She screams -- can't help herself -- turns and tries to flee downstairs. But Alabaster is so much faster. He grabs her by the shoulders and hauls her back, spinning her like a top, and lands a punch to her gut. She hacks up a wad of spittle, clutches at her stomach, and falls to her knees. Now Alabaster is looming over her, he's got her taser in one hand. He arcs it a few times sadistically just to demonstrate what the business end of it looks like.
 
But Rose strikes back. Alabaster's fly is still undone and she quickly gets her hand in it, finding what she's looking for: the weak point. She squeezes, hard and unmerciful, flooring Alabaster instantly. He squeals like a little girl at the pain of it. Rose climbs over top of him, pinning his wrist with her knee, and confiscates the taser. Close one. She needs to make sure he learns his lesson so something like this doesn't happen again. She jabs the taser into his stomach: click, zap. His whole body goes stiff and he grits his teeth. Foam forms at the corners of his lips. Rose puts a hand to her cheek and coos. What a pretty sight. She should do this way more often.
 
"You're so cute when you're in pain--" Rose begins. But that's all she can say before she feels something on her ankle. Alabaster's hand. They lock eyes: Alabaster is smirking through the mask of electric pain.
 
He tugs her, sliding her knees out from under her. She lands on her belly on top of him. He heaves her off.
 
She's instantly on her feet again, like a cat springing back up from a fall, looking all around frantically for the taser she dropped. But too late. Alabaster charges her, and thus her only option is to try to respond in kind. They collide, their momentum unequal, Alabaster's overpowering hers, and they fall backwards -- back, back to the edge of the staircase, and then too far. They tumble down together. Hand over foot, face over elbow, tit over dick: they roll like two clumps of playdoh molded into a rough approximation of a sphere, down an entire flight of stairs, then somehow around the landing, and down a second flight of stairs, all the way to the foyer. The house's foundation rumbles in their wake. One or both of their skulls leave a hole in the drywall at the landing. Picture frames fall from the walls.
 
Rose, owing maybe to her lower weight and smaller profile, is a little less beaten than Alabaster. She stumbles upright first, punch-drunk and woozy yes, but upright all the same. She totters half-blindly forward, in the direction of the kitchen, looking for an implement of self defense. Alabaster is on her heels, literally, and she has no time to search. The first thing she can lay hands on is the pyrex dish full of Valentine's Day cookies. Swinging around with form befitting an Olympic hammer tosser, she cleanly connects with the side of Alabaster's head and sends him falling to the right. The dish clatters to the ground, cracks the tile floor, and sends heart-shaped cookies all over.
 
Alabaster is not to be deterred by something so minor as blunt concussive forces. He finds his way to his feet again, finds a tuft of Rose's hair in his grip, and brings her face down hard into the countertop. "CUNT!" he yells savagely. "FUCK YOU!"
 
Rose falls, right into the scattered pile of cookies, and then Alabaster is over her, kneeling -- astride her.
 
There they are: Rose and Alabaster beating the living shit out of each other as they lie on top of a literal pile of broken hearts, three dozen frosted shortbread heart-shaped cookies crumbling to dust beneath their mutual abuse. She kicks and fights gamely back, but it's over, the ref is calling it and the judge's table has ruled it a TKO. Alabaster wins.
 
Finally feeling it himself now, Alabaster has to relent from his flurry of punches and slaps, has to pause a moment. Still kneeling over Rose, he straightens his spine, takes a breath. Then feels dizzy and collapses. He's on his back now, right beside Rose, and they're both moaning in agony.
 
Some minutes pass. Rose comes back from the edge of consciousness first. And the very first thing she does is get on hands and knees and crawl over to Alabaster.
 
"G--" he grunts. "G-get away--" He swats at the air but he's too enervated to mount a real fight. Round two promises to be tilted in Rose's favor.
 
But instead of striking him, she's pawing at his jeans again. His heart shudders and the fear grips him. She's going to torture him like THAT again. "W-wait--" he says, picturing a future life of infertility and missing testicles, "P-please-- please, no..."
 
Not too proud to beg. But Rose is after something else.
 
She frees his cock. It's hard like she knew it would be. She's not going to bother with any more window dressing, she's too fucked-up right now to try the domineering, humiliating mocking, she just wants to get his cock in her mouth. Is that too much to ask? Christ. She runs her nose along it, relishing its disgusting scent, this slimy hunk of meat that makes this idiot think he's better than her. She doesn't know why it smells so good or why she wants it so bad, she'll have time to punish him for all that later. Right now she just needs to enjoy the opportunity while she's got it. She takes deep, lingering and shuddering breaths. She closes her eyes and lets that smell linger in her frayed mind.
 
"Stop-- s-stop it," he pants, but he's not doing anything to stop her, and if he really wanted her to stop then he would. See? Men are all the same.
 
The smell of his nasty prick makes her mouth tingle. The glands underneath her tongue produce saliva, and now she lets that saliva pool, and opens her mouth, and lets it run in a steady laminar stream -- from the bottom of her bruised lip to the tip of his straining cock. It's disgusting and she loves it. The way her spit makes the shaft slick, the way it glints in the sun through the kitchen window. The primal heat of it.
 
"Your parents -- could be back --" Alabaster protests in between ragged breaths.
 
"Shut... the fuck... up..." she mutters, hardly able to speak herself.
 
She gets her lips wrapped around the head. It's absurd how well-endowed Alabaster is, how thick this piece of trash between his legs is, and her lips are stretched to straining as she tries to take it. She's aware of a small trickle of blood down her forehead now, hers or Alabaster's she isn't sure, and doesn't care. The searing warmth of the underside of Alabaster's dick against her flattened tongue is the sensation she's more focused on right now. She needs more of it... and deeper...
 
"Turn around..." Alabaster says.
 
"Mmn-mnng--" Rose mumbles, too transfixed to take his dick out of her mouth and respond properly. But it gets the message across: the answer is a flat no. Alabaster's cock is as delicious as it smells, like a concentrated version of his essence. And so she imagines that she can suck his essence up like this, take everything that makes him him and make him hers instead. That thought makes her pussy clench and ooze. She wants to take his entire being away and claim ownership of him... wants to make him depend on her for everything...
 
Alabaster still has an obnoxious amount of free will though, and strength, too. He manages to sit up, to grab her, to force her bodily to turn. She is so focused on keeping his dick firmly in her drooling maw that she can hardly resist him. He gets her skirt up around her waist, has his disgusting fucking hands on her panties, and she's powerless to stop him. She wants to stop him. She's revolted by the idea of what he's about to do, by the fact that he'll be able to see her private parts, but she has to make a choice. To fight him off or keep her mouth around his cock. And, well, she really need to have his cock in her mouth right now. She suffers the humiliation with a shiver as Alabaster roughly tugs her panties down. The cool kitchen air hits her steaming pussy.
 
Then his hands are all over her. His fingers are playing over the lips of her vulva, and the hard little clit. Not trying to give her pleasure but just exploring for his own sick enjoyment. Poking and prodding at the opening, that stubborn hole she wills to stop leaking but can't. And even more humiliating, further back he reaches, to her anus -- poking and prodding there too the fucking ape, the fucking pig, the fucking WORM... so why do his invading fingers make her even wetter, why do they make her mouth drool more and inspire her to force herself deeper down on his meaty prick even to the point of gagging around it?
 
Then his mouth is clamping onto her, his lips are sucking on her. He makes soft little groans and grunts as he licks her pussy. He bucks his hips against her face while he molests and violates her. She can't believe this is happening. She can't believe Alabaster is eating her out and she's LETTING it happen... but she can't stop, not now, not with this delicious prick pushing past her tonsils and into her esophagus, not with this spongy head nestled in her gullet, pulsing so pleasingly, filling her so nicely. Not with this wonderful, gross, bitter slimy precum dribbling straight into her hungry tummy. She's not going to let him go until she claims her prize. She's not going to let him go until he fucks her mouth full of cum.
 
This thought really gets her cunt off. The idea that she'd willingly debase herself, lower herself to Alabaster's level like that -- it's practically bestiality, to do this with a boy like him -- and her clit tingles with waves of pleasure, aided along by Alabaster's curious tongue. He hasn't eaten pussy before, that's for sure, the fucking virgin -- not that she's sucked cock, either -- but their inexperience is more than compensated for by their eagerness. He seems as intent on getting her to cum on him, as she is on getting him to cum too.
 
The kitchen is filled with the lewd sounds of these two cousins sucking on each other's genitals greedily, writhing around in their little pile of sweets. Rose is really juicing now, Alabaster is actually gulping as he tries to keep up with her sopping wet cunt, and Rose is stuffed so full that her gagging has become a deep, guttural heave emanating from below her diaphragm. The sensation of her gagging on it must feel good against Alabaster's prick because he picks up the pace, and his heavy balls tighten back towards his body. Rose's head bobs up and down, half against her will as Alabaster fucks her face. Meanwhile his tongue is as deep as it will go inside her, raping her... he's RAPING her... and that's when he lets loose without warning. He kicks his legs around and locks his thighs around her neck, forces her down, down, down -- and spews a putrid load of sperm into her face like it's his own masturbation sleeve -- the one he hides under his bed and thinks she doesn't know about. It's because of that masturbation sleeve that she knows what his cum tastes like already, but she's never had it fresh from the source. The salty taste and aroma of it, the texture, the heat, drives her over the edge. She cums, hard, and sprays all over Alabaster's worthless fucking face. She grinds her cunt against his mouth and savors this insane pleasure, so wonderful that she almost faints. Or maybe that's just the lack of air.

Lying side-by-side on the kitchen floor, drained in more ways than one and hurting all over, Alabaster and Rose nurse wounds both physical and psychological.

"We need to get this mess cleaned up..." Rose says.

"We? You."

"Go to hell."

Alabaster's groping hand finds a half-intact cookie. He holds it up. "Where did these come from?"

"I made them for you," she says sarcastically. "Happy Valentines Day."

"Bullshit. Where did they come from."

"You've got a secret admirer. Because of fucking course you do."

"Is that who was at the door? ...Who was it?"

"Fuck you if you think I'm telling you after all that."

Alabaster nibbles on the cookie. "These are really good. Tell my secret admirer she's marriage material."

Rose finds a partially intact cookie herself. There would of course be no way for either of them to know it, but they're holding two halves of the same cookie. She takes a nibble of her own.

Damn it. Alabaster's right. These are really good.

"These taste like shit," Rose says. "Your secret admirer is shit. Everything about her is shit."

"Can't be worse than YOU--"

Rose flips onto her belly and slithers to Alabaster, gets on top of him. She puts a hand on his chin, gazes down at him. "You belong to me now. Understand? So get any notion of other girls out of that little head of yours. You're my property."

"You fucking wish. Dumb cunt."

There's a silence as deep as the sea and a distance shorter than a hair's breadth separating their faces as they stare into one another's eyes. Rose is just about to lean in for a kiss when the sound of an engine pulling up snaps them both back to reality. The parents are back.

They've got maybe 30 seconds to get themselves put together. When Mr. and Mrs. Mallory enter the front door to find Alabaster sweeping up cookies in the kitchen, and Rose righting picture frames in the hall, it's not clear whether they exactly buy the story the two take turns fabricating -- but they don't dispute it.

February 16, 2015

"Happy Mondaaaayyyy~~" Rose2 squeaks, blocking Alabaster's path. "How's grumpyface?"

"Grumpy. Go away."

She cocks her head. "You're limping. Why's that?"

"Threw my knees out, kicking people who block my path."

Rose2 doesn't get it. She presses forward: "Didja like the cookies? Didja?"

So that's who it was. He shakes his head. "Those heart cookies? Huh. That's funny... Rose told me that she made them."

Rose2 forces a laugh that does not hide her obvious anger. "That's silly. Your cousin is silly--"

"Once removed."

"--She didn't make 'em! I did!" She points at herself with a thumb. "Didja like 'em?"

"They were great," Alabaster says honestly. Rose2 beams.

"Wellll~..." She puts her hands behind her back and leans way off to one side. "If you liked 'em, you should thank me! Maybe by taking me out on a--"

"Sorry, but I already thanked Rose."

"...What?"

"Rose told me she made them, so I thanked her."

Rose2 considers this, as if she needs to work through the logic of it before being certain in disputing it. "But that's so silly! She didn't make 'em! I made 'em!" She points at herself with her thumb again.

"I understand that, but I already thanked Rose. Sorry."

"I don't..."

"If you want, take it up with her... look, I gotta get to class."

Alabaster turns and steps past Rose2, side-wise, leaving her confused and blinking in the emptying hall.

---

That afternoon, at the pep rally, Alabaster is making a speech to the student body. As StuCo Prez, he's supposed to deliver some perfunctory, scripted remarks -- but he loves being in front of the crowd and the crowd loves him being in front of them. As always, he's way off script.

"...and nobody has ever done these things before. Vending machines in the hallways, the administration said no. But I made it happen. That was all Alabaster Soliloquy. You're welcome, North High!" They cheer and chant: "So-lil-o-quy! So-lil-o-quy!"

Rose, sitting in a metal chair off on the side of the stage with the rest of the student council, is seething. She hates nothing more than having to sit through these things, evidence as always of her loss in the election.

"We're doing great things for North High. It's actually unbelievable, some of the things we've been able to do -- just spectacular. We're making this school gr--"

"YOU FUCKING WHORE!"

There's a screech of microphone feedback, a scuffle, the sounds of bodies colliding, the thwack of flesh on flesh. Then more bodies adding to the crush, yelling, obscenity -- as the incident that will live on forever, passed from year to year in North High legend, happens right before your eyes. The day one Rose jumped the stage and tackled the other, and got into a vicious catfight right there in front of a hooting crowd of students, while faculty tried in vain to separate them.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, kabedon kommando and bodysnatcher-catcher. 

"Alabaster. You are making such a mistake--"

"Don't wanna hear it." You finish tying the twine around Cerise's hands, securing them behind her back. Years of being under Rose's thumb taught you at least a few useful skills after all. Cerise sits against the foot of her bed, on the floor, bound hand and foot.

You circle back around and survey your handiwork, folding your arms.

"You will need my help," Darkbloom says. "Just as I need yours. Please. Please see reason."

"I know what you're doing, David. You think because you're in my sister's body, you can use that to make me feel more sympathetic towards you. Like a subconscious reaction. It won't work."

"This is absurd. Listen to yourself. Will you keep your sister tied up forever just because of this unfortunate circumstance?"

"You are not my sister," you say. "She would want me to do this."

"Would she?"

You pull up a chair and sit directly facing Cerise. You stare, arms still folded, silent. You crack your neck: first one direction, then the other.

"What's your next move, then?" Darkbloom demands. "Shall we stare longingly into each other's eyes all night? You did not think this through, did you. You never think, Alabaster, you never plan for contingencies. You never see beyond the very next move, the next, most immediate impulse. You could be so brilliant if only you could overcome your myopic--"

"And you had a plan, chessmaster? You knew what you were going to do when you wandered out of this bedroom in my sister's body? Or are you making it up on the fly, too. You are, aren't you. I can see it on Cerise's face. You have no idea what the fuck is happening anymore. And you're scared."

He doesn't dignify you with a response. But he doesn't need to. You know you're right.

"As for your question," you say. "My next move... I'm thinking about it." 

You find yourself staring into your palm, head bowed -- doing that "thinking about it" step for a long time. How long, you're not sure. An hour? Two?

Darkbloom stops trying to make conversation, but eventually your directionless wondering is interrupted -- a soft rustle from over by Cerise's bed. You look up to see Darkbloom writhing around, squeezing Cerise's thighs together.

"What the hell are you doing," you demand flatly.

He swallows hard. "Alabaster -- I -- I need to -- urinate."

"Not a chance in hell."

"For god's sake."

"You don't get to see my sister's body naked. Or use it like that."

"Who knows how long I'll be conscious like this!" Darkbloom pleads. "Will you make me wet myself? Cause your sister the physical discomfort and humiliation and possible urinary tract infection stemming from sitting in her own--"

"Shut up. Just shut up."

"Blindfold me if you must. Just allow me to relieve myself. Must I debase myself and beg you?"

"How do I even know you're telling the truth? That you're not just trying to escape?"

Darkbloom throws Cerise's head back and lets a wordless whine escape. Then: "Please," he says, voice tiny, "I can't bear this pressure. Perhaps... perhaps this is normal for Cerise, and well within her tolerance... but I have never felt such a horrible urge to urinate in my entire life... the difference in qualia from one mind to the next --" He chuckles bitterly. "This is such a stupendous moment in human history... the first time a mind has experienced life in a different body... it is sheer agony... for the love of god, let me urinate, please!"

"No," you say simply.

The groan Darkbloom makes is long and pained and pitiful, and verges close to tears.

"There you are! -- Whoa. Shit."

"Whitney..." Darkbloom mutters.

"I didn't realize you guys were getting freaky," Whitney says. "Wow. That's hot."

"It's not what it looks like," you say.

"Suuuure." She winks at you. Then she strolls across the room, towards where Cerise is tied up. "I had no clue you were into getting hogtied, Cerise. I should have gotten in on this sooner..."

"This really isn't what you th--" you begin, but the look of sheer terror and confusion that Darkbloom is making, is worth letting this play out just a little longer.

Whitney lays a hand on Cerise and looks back at you. "Do you mind if I join in? I don't wanna get in the way of some good old-fashioned incest... if you and Cerise want some time alone, that's cool... but three is more fun..."

"I mind!" Darkbloom is shouting. "I certainly mind!"

"Maybe getting my tongue in your mouth will change your opinion," Whitney croons. She leans down, and forward, lips puckered. Darkbloom tries to scoot back. But he has nowhere to escape to.

Cerise's eyes are dinner plates. At the last possible moment, you relent, and stop Whitney from what she's about to do: "Hold on."

Darkbloom is frantic. "Whatever you have planned, Whitney, I do not consent! Please don't!"

Whitney chuckles. "You need to learn to make your noncon play more convincing, Cerise. Take some tips from Rose, maybe. Now there's a girl who knows how to get raped."

"It is not an act!" Darkbloom hollers. "I steadfastly refuse your advances! Now you listen to me, Whitney, I do not want to have sex with you!"

Whitney looks half dejected, half confused. She makes a pout that actually sounds a bit like "mou~"

"Sorry, Whitney," you say. "Cerise and I need some alone time. It's a brother-sister thing. You understand."

Whitney is still leaning before Cerise, hands on knees. "Guess I'm the third wheel. I'll leave you two to your fun."

Cerise's facial features soften. "It's all right... you can stay, if you're chaste about it. I-- it's nice to see you."

"You don't have to let me down easy," she says. She straightens her back. "I made it weird. My fault. You know how horny I get -- I'll fuck anything that moves!"

David is not having a good time listening to this.

"See you guys later. Try not to get pregnant with mutant flipper babies, okay?" 

On her way out, Whitney tells you: "Oh -- I'm taking Vivian to Safeway at 6."

Darkbloom, in spite of everything, can't hide his curiosity. "You and Vivian are getting along, then?"

She points at Cerise with her thumb and nods at you. "Your hostage is getting a little talky. Maybe you should gag her next~" She turns to Cerise and answers the question: "Ehhh. Sorta. We've been hanging out a lot, which is progress."

Darkbloom considers this. He seems to have a realization, and backtracks: "Safeway... the grocery store? Why would the two of you go to a grocery store yourselves rather than have someone procure your groceries for you?"

"Pffthaha," Whitney laughs. "Guess having money already made you go all lifestyles of the rich and famous on me."

"Tell Cerise about Project Sperger," you prompt Whitney.

"Oh, yeah. Guess she doesn't know." Whitney makes air quotes as she explains: "Poor Viv's had people 'procuring' things for her all her life. That's a huge part of why she's Queen Ice Bitch of Autism Mountain. Bio-dad did a real number on her. He was so obsessed with making her smart that he totally forget to socialize her... so I'm trying to teach her how to behave around human beings. Trips to grocery stores, movie theaters, all that shit she never did when she was growing up. It's working... slowly... I think."

Darkbloom winces at the explanation.

"When you're done knocking up your sister," Whitney says, "you wanna tag along?"

"I'll let you know," you say.

"I do," Darkbloom says. "I want to go. I'd like to spend some time with you... and Vivian..."

You glower at him. He's figured out that you're not ready to tell Whitney the truth quite yet, so it would be suspicious to step in and refuse to let Cerise go along.

"We'll see," you say. "If Cerise isn't totally fucked-out and unconscious by the time you're ready to go..."

"Cool." She glances over at Cerise. "Just leave some cum for me, okay?"

She goes.

"You've turned my daughter into a degenerate," Darkbloom says, voice quavering. "You have completely warped her mind."

"I think you've got that exactly opposite," you say, swiveling in your chair to face him again. "Your daughter is a real freak. Always has been." After a pause, you add: "Both of them, actually. It's great."

Darkbloom snarls.

You'd rather not be tethered to Darkbloom all night -- and for who knows how much longer than that -- but you're not sure you feel safe leaving him on his own, no matter how securely tied down. It won't be long before you have to make a decision.

[ ] Make sure Darkbloom cannot escape, and leave him to go with Whitney and Vivian.
>[x] Tell Rose what's going on, and have her keep an eye on Darkbloom while you go with Whitney and Vivian.
[ ] Stay here. 

"It's best if I show you," you say, as you open the door to Cerise's bedroom.

"Rose!" Darkbloom cries. "You have to help me! Alabaster has gone crazy -- he tied me up... started ranting about how he thinks I'm someone else--"

Rose stares down at Cerise. "Are you?" She says.

"Wh-what? I --"

"Your eyes are blue again..."

"Rose, listen to me! He's CRAZY. He thinks I'm David Darkbloom-- just because I disagreed with him about something! This crazy, chauvinist pig is abusing me-- he thinks a woman isn't ALLOWED have her own opin--"

"Are you David Darkbloom?" Rose says.

"For now," you answer. "It happened when Cerise first woke up, too. Somehow his consciousness--"

As you try to explain, Darkbloom shouts over you, vying for Rose's attention: "Don't listen to him! He's LYING. Rose -- Rose, please! He's hurting me! He's been hurting me for a long time now--"

Rose rolls her eyes, groans. "Shut the fuck up, David. Jesus."

David stares at the ceiling, and his fear as reflected on Cerise's face is real. David now understands that he won't find a dupe in Rose. He has returned once again to a state of powerlessness that must surely be quite alien to him.

You explain to Rose everything you know.

"What are we going to do about this?" She asks.

"I don't know. Any ideas?"

She shrugs.

"Perfect. Well, Whitney wants me to go to the store with her and I don't want to make her suspicious just yet. Can I trust you to keep an eye on this asshole?"

"Sure, I wasn't doing anything tonight," says Rose sarcastically. "Just how I wanted to spend my time. Babysitting a megalomaniac."

"Don't get bitchy with me. I'm inviting you into the circle of trust here. Cherish it."

She pantomimes jerking off in the air, and then asks: "Who else knows?"

"The circle of trust is... a little small right now."

"How small?"

You sigh. "You're -- the only one I've had a chance to tell."

Rose arches an eyebrow.

"You two will regret this," Darkbloom says, trying to adopt an intimidating tack. "I have destroyed people much greater than you."

Rose turns, points at him. "I told you to shut the fuck up. Don't make me stick a pair of socks in your mouth."

"She'll do it," you warn him.

Rose faces you again. "Fine, Alabaster. I'll stay with her... him... err. I don't get the pronouns here, but I'll stay. What should I do if Cerise wakes up, though?"

>[x] Tell her.
[ ] Don't tell her. 

"Tell her the truth. She should know... she has to anyway."

"Fair enough," Rose admits. She walks over to Cerise, kneels. "You're gonna regret taking up residence in my cousin's body," she says with a sneer.

"He's been whining about needing to pee," you tell her. "Don't let him go."

"I'm not stupid," Rose says, eyes still fixed on Cerise. She thinks for a moment. "There must be some sort of trigger... something that makes Cerise and Darkbloom switch off who's in the driver's seat."

"I'll be back in a couple hours. We can talk then."

"Of course. While you're gone... I'll see if there's any way I can trigger Darkbloom."

"Don't hurt him. That's my sister's body."

Rose slumps her shoulders, and finally looks back. "You must really believe I'm an idiot. Only one of us hurts women, Alabaster, and it isn't me. I'll keep your sister safe and sound."

You nod. You can trust what Rose says. After all this time, there's a begrudging mutual understanding between the two of you.

Downstairs, you wave Whitney off the couch where she's slouching with a family-sized bag of Doritos, slackjawed, watching an episode of Cops.

"Whoa," she says, trailing crumbs off her shirt as she stands. "Mr. Quickshot over here. That was, what, five minutes? I hope you're not on such a hair-trigger later on..."

She sucks the orange residue off her fingers, each in turn, twisting them around in her mouth with loud wet noises to make sure she gets it all. If she can stay that sexy, she's definitely not going to have any problems with premature ejaculation on your part...

"Are you ready?"

"Ready Freddy. Guess Cerise isn't coming?"

You shake your head.

"Let's go pick up the kid sister, then." 

Whitney's emerald green Lambo is only a little less tacky than the construction orange one that Stackleford used to own. You do give Whitney some extra points since she opted for a manual transmission. But you're still of the opinion that any car with doors that open like a toll gate is a car for assholes.

Whitney is startlingly good at driving stick. She always double-clutches every gearshift and you never notice a change in the rate of acceleration between gears. "Gotta baby this thing," Whitney explained to you one day. "I'm not about tearing up the tranny on a car that costs more than most houses..."

At the Darkbloom manor, Vivian is waiting at the edge of the long white stone drive, outside the tall gates. As usual, she's all bedecked in a black satin gown complete with parasol. It does little to shield her from the heat of the low August sun, and you can see her milk-pale skin glistening with sweat.

There's only two bucket seats, so Vivian has to sit in your lap. The fabric of her dress is almost searing to the touch, the material having sucked up sunlight like a vacuum as she waited. The slightly sour smell of her sweat is only faintly detectable over her layers of perfume. It really turns you on.

"When do you close?" Whitney asks. "I'm sick of driving all the way over here for you."

"Next week," Vivian responds. She recently purchased a house for herself and will be moving away from her childhood home -- closer to Whitney's house. It's a big change.

You let your hands rest idly in Vivian's lap, hugging her midsection. She doesn't mind the closeness. Nor does she mind the tenting in your crotch, which she must surely feel.

"I've got a big list," Whitney says. "I split it in two, so can I trust you to get your half of it?"

"Absolutely," Vivian says. "I will procure the items with utmost haste."

"Remember to look for deals. If there's a generic version of something, get that. Unless the name brand is cheaper because of a sale or something. Oh -- there's some coupons in the dash, too."

"You seriously clipped coupons?" You say.

"Fuck yeah I did. There's one for buy-one-get-one-free Pillsbury cookie dough! How awesome is that?"

Vivian makes a face.

You look in the dash and find the coupons - a whole deluge of them fall out - along with the two lists Whitney wrote up. "Forget about that Pillsbury shit," you say, reading over her lists. "I'll get the ingredients for real cookies."

"Holy shit. You're gonna bake for me tonight?"

"I just feel like baking. It's not for your sake!"

(You do need to get some practice in, of course.)

"You're gonna be the best househusband ever."

Vivian is squirming a bit in your lap, her butt grinding against you. You're not sure why but you're not complaining either. "Is it just my imagination or is this car dreadfully warm?" She asks.

"It's cold as witch tits in here," Whitney says. "Your internal thermostat is busted."

You have a feeling why she's so warm. She gets like this from time to time. 

Under the garishness of the grocery store's fluorescents, Vivian is an even stranger sight than usual -- like a Victorian ghost who accidentally haunted the wrong place. Her cart is a lot emptier than Whitney's, after 20 minutes of shopping; her intention of "procuring with haste" has butted up against the reality that she's totally unused to shopping. At one point she finds you and Whitney in the dairy aisle, with an apparently urgent question:

"Do we prefer ketchup or catsup?" She asks, holding two bottles aloft in either hand.

"Uh... they're the same thing, little sis."

"Preposterous. Why would they be labeled differently if they are, in fact, the same condiment? You clearly do not know what you are talking about." She turns to you and says, "Alabaster. Which do we prefer: ketchup or catsup?"

"They're the same thing," you confirm.

"Live in ignorance if you must," Vivian says. She puts the catsup in her cart and sets the ketchup back on a random shelf beside some almond milk.

Whitney chuckles, elbowing you, and says: "Watch this. Hey, Viv. Do you know what this is?" She takes a can of cream of chicken soup from the cart.

"It appears to be some sort of condensed... soup."

"You are seriously some kind of fucking robot. Yeah. It's soup. What do you think it costs?"

"I do not know," Vivian says.

"Guess."

"I dislike speculating."

"I swear to fuck, if you don't take a guess, I will toss this can at your face."

"$20?" Vivian says.

"Bwahaha. You kill me. For real. 69 cents."

"Less than a single dollar?" Vivian is dumbfounded. "The profit margin on that can of soup must be extremely small."

Whitney shrugs. "They sell like a bajillion of them every day so it doesn't matter."

You're legitimately impressed. Whitney, in the broadest of strokes, understands economies of scale. Maybe in another year she'll crack the riddle of supply and demand.

"Ally, go help Viv find the rest of the shit on her list. I don't wanna be stuck here until I'm 80." 

Vivian wanders the aisles at a snail's pace, as if she needs to inspect every single item in turn, and compare it against the list in her hand to make sure she doesn't miss anything, before moving on to the next item and repeating this process.

"You suck at this," you tell her.

"It is a skill which needs time to develop," she admits. "I am learning."

"Hey! You guys need anything?" A stockboy asks, walking up.

Vivian jumps back, adopting a defensive stance. As if she's about to bust out some Taekwondo on this poor teenager. "Who are you?"

"Just an employee here -- can I help you find anything?"

"I do not know you. Please do not converse with me." She puts her hands back on the cart's handle and walks past. The boy watches in confusion as you follow.

"It's their job to ask that," you whisper. "Next time, just tell them no thank you."

"I do not like being accosted by strangers. Especially those of the lower class."

"He doesn't want to accost you either. It's literally his job--"

Vivian doesn't seem to grasp the concept, so you let this lesson stay on hold for now.

In the produce section, Vivian insists on squeezing every single avocado before making a selection. "How can we maximize the ripeness of our choice, if we do not consider all the options?" She demands when you grow impatient.

"It doesn't matter," you insist. "Just pick one. Anyway, sometimes it's better if it's a little under-ripe..."

"Nnn," she purrs, disagreeing, but too focused on her task to respond intelligently.

You watch her bent over the case for a minute or two, the way her hands slowly work, the little furrow of her brow and the way she seems to be chewing on the inner wall of her left cheek. Feeling a sudden impulse, you saunter up behind her and rub her back. She startles.

"You were getting a little antsy in the car back there," you say, leaning down to whisper in her ear. "What's up with that?"

"I..." She looks up from the display case, and all around the produce section, afraid someone will see or overhear. "I was merely overheated."

"Overheated, huh?"

She gulps.

"Turn around," you say. She complies.

"Alabaster, this is not the proper place for-- for such things."

"It's fine. No one's looking." You also glance around, to confirm this. "Lift up your dress a little, huh?"

Her face is bright red and she's sweating worse than she was outside. She makes a series of mumbling little noises, clearly uncertain, but feeling temptation's call. Finally she squats, thin fingers reaching all the way down to her ankles, and grips the hem of her dress. As she rises, the dress follows. You can see her spindle-thin legs, the knees wobbling, and her cute white cotton panties. A bow on the waistband. And a small stain where the fabric describes a wonderful looking cleft.

"That's what I thought. Overheated..."

She stands there like that, exposed, waiting for instruction.

>[x] Have fun with just her.
[ ] Get Whitney.

And:

>[x] Right here.
[ ] Back in the car. 

But you don't give her any instructions. You just take a step forward, and reach down, and grab her. No request for permission, no asking if she minds doing it in public. You squeeze hard, enjoying the soft give of her little cunt in your hand, separated only by the sticky cotton.
 
"Allllabasterrrr..." She whines, trying to keep her voice down.
 
You run your thumb back and forth as you hold her pussy, teasing her. She shivers all over and stares at the ground. She is a girl easily overwhelmed by feelings of pleasure between her legs.
 
"A-anyone... anyone could s-see us..." She tries to protest, even though her rational mind is quickly evaporating.
 
"It's fun, isn't it?" You grunt. You draw your hand up just enough to shove it down her waistband. Vivian is a tiny little girl and there's hardly any room for your adult-sized hand in her child-sized panties. The material strains and bulges and pinches against her thighs with the pressure of it, giving even her scrawny legs a pleasant little skindentation.
 
Your fingers find their target: Vivian's sticky, slimy little slit. This barely-there hole is wet for you even if its owner is scared. You hug Vivian to your body as you molest her. She balls up her fists, holding them to your torso to support herself. The dress falls back around her ankles, but with your forearm blocking it at the most crucial part, it's still obvious for anyone who might walk by, what you are doing to her. Leaning her head against you also, she closes her eyes and gives in to the sensation of your intruding digits.
 
"You need to work, too," you say.
 
She looks up at you, chin touching your chest, eyes big and round. "Work?"
 
"Play with my cock."
 
"Nnn~" There's that little moan of uncertainty again, but this time tinged by a shudder of lust. Haltingly, her hand unzips you and reaches in. Flattened palm of her hand inside your fly, she inexpertly rubs your cock, pressing it against your thigh for added pressure. It feels nice -- but you need to do something way naughtier, and riskier.
 
"Pull it out."
 
"Alabasterrr..."
 
"Do it."
 
She can't say no, especially when she's like this. When you get her cunt all hot, her prim and proper facade melts away. She's stupider for your dick than any girl you know.
 
You involuntarily hiss as your prick meets the air conditioning. Her little hand does not wrap fully around the shaft and only covers a small portion of its length. She stares down at it, at the angry red head with its big dollop of clear fluid already collecting on the tip. Her eyes are dewy with wonderment and lust as she slowly begins to jerk you off, getting your fuckmeat ready to ruin her. Still playing with her as well, you look up and survey your surroundings to make sure no one is looking. You're in the clear -- for now. But someone could still approach from any angle, and there would be no explaining this. To all the world it looks like you're violating a little girl right here in public, making her play with your leaky prick against her will.
 
You tilt her chin up and press your lips to hers. She gives in to the kiss, her breath hot and tasting of mint against your tongue. Her body thrums with pleasure and her cunt is making lewd noises against your digging, encircling fingers. As you pull away, a small bridge of saliva connects your lips, and her eyes are crossed, glazed over, distant. Like her sister, kissing riles her up.
 
You glance to the next display case over and get a wicked idea.
 
You haul Vivian over so you're between the two cases, practically pulling her by the pussy as if it's a handle. Unceremoniously now you tug her panties down, and she helpfully steps out of the legholes one at a time. You discard them, right there on the ground, not a care in the world.
 
"Hold your dress up again."
 
This time, her compliance is instant. She stands there with her hairless little cuntslit on view for the whole world, even going a little akimbo as if to maximize her exposure. At heart, Vivian is a pervert.
 
You grab a cucumber from the neighboring case and hold it up to her lips. "Suck on it," you instruct. Again, instant response: she wraps her lips around the cucumber without question and twirls her tongue around its circumference. You enjoy the sight of it and let her fellate it for a little while. You push it back and forth, past her lips and down deeper, to the back of her throat. It gags her. Even without your fingers on her genitals, this act of degradation keeps her exposed pussy dripping like a faucet, wet little trails running down the pale flesh of her legs, and plainly visible in the bright lights above. Her face is similarly wet as she coughs and sputters around the vegetable raping her throat. She stares into your eyes with utter adoration.
 
Satisfied that this is enough, you take the cucumber out of her mouth with a plop. She tries, just a bit, to follow it with her face, as if she doesn't want to stop blowing it. But she understands that you want to do something else now, and she won't contravene your will.
 
You push firmly on both her shoulders, lowering her so she's squatting. She keeps the hem of her dress in both hands, so her privates are still fully on view and accessible. Kneeling now yourself, you bring the cucumber up to her drenched pussy hole. This thing is about as big as your dick and the contrast to her little innie is hot. It looks like it would rip her apart if you tried to put it inside her. That thought makes your cock, still poking out freely, dribble. A thin strand of sticky precum drools from your rampant cock all the way down to the linoleum. Vivian can't help but coo at the sight.
 
You wiggle the cucumber a bit to find purchase against her cunthole. And then you shove it in -- all at once.
 
"Ghhh--!!" She gasps.
 
No mercy. You fuck her with it. Brutally and wantonly. You twist and corkscrew the cucumber inside her, make her feel every ridge and bump, bottoming it out time and time again at a frenzied pace. All she can do is squat there and try to endure the rough use. She lets her head droop and whinnies like a bitch in heat. Then soon enough she's cumming herself silly, her juices squirting all over the tile floor, making a puddle beneath her feet. Shamelessly, she reaches down and frigs her own clit to help her orgasm along, to rub even more cum out of her needy pussy. She's so greedy when you make her cum. She's a horny little slut for you.
 
Unable to take it anymore, you rip the cucumber from her and toss it aside. At the same time you push against her chest, knocking her to her back. Her face is caught between fear and thrill. You flip her over to her belly, hike her dress up so you can see her pussy from the rear, and the little pucker of her anus too. Right out in the open. The cold floor must be an awful shock on her skin because she gasps through gritted teeth. You don't care. You climb over top of her, lying on her -- mounting her. Her little butt rises a bit to meet you, but she can't manage much movement with your full weight oppressively bearing down on her. To add to the depravity you grab her about the neck, getting her in a headlock that gives you the leverage you need to really fucking pound her.
 
"Fuck... fuck..." you grunt, getting your cock in her. It's so fucking tight, and wet, and just as hot as the rest of her. That's Vivian: a tight little cunt.
 
Right there on the floor of the grocery store, you rape Vivian senseless, your bodies slapping loudly together.
 
Vivian, half choking, her face tomato red, manages in a pinched voiced: "rrr-- rrape mmmy wooombbb~~"
 
That's what you intend to do. You're going to rape her womb full of your dick milk and knock her up. The insane drive to mate with her, to fuck her pregnant, presses against your mind, and blots out all other thought. You need to seed her, to inseminate her. Right here, right now.
 
"Do you-- oh my god!"
 
An employee, some young teenager, probably a high schooler, walks around the display case and sees what's happening. She puts a hand to her mouth in shock. She stands frozen in place.
 
Grunting, you rise to your knees and pull Vivian with you so she's in the doggy position. Holding either of her wrists, you slam hard in and out of her vicelike pussy, making her flop like a ragdoll. Her face, a mask of sheer delirious pleasure -- eyes drooping, jaw drooping, entire face one big droop -- strands of spittle hanging between her teeth, tongue lolling out -- meets the eyes of this shocked employee, this member of the "lower class" she so derides.
 
"A-are you -- V-Vivian Darkbloom?" The girl asks.
 
"Nnmmmn..." she moans, a guttural, unintelligible noise from the back of her throat.
 
"She is," you say, clenching your jaw as you continue to rail her, approaching your climax. "And I'm about to blow my load up her."
 
The employee watches transfixed as you do exactly that. You let loose with a bellow, feel your nuts tighten, and spurt off inside of Vivian Darkbloom. Your cum marks her in her deepest recesses -- marks her as your property.
 
"Cummmmmm..." Vivian mumbles, fingers to her lips, still looking at the employee, too. "He's... he's... he's cummmminnnngggg..."
 
You finish squirting your sperm into her as the employee, stepping back, says: "I... I'll go get a mop..."
 
Vivian is always a little unfocused after getting fucked, but you have post-cum clarity and quickly do your best to make yourselves decent again. You shove your cock back in your pants and, with Vivian still lying on her belly on the floor, you put her panties back on for her. As you help her to her feet, her still unfocused eyes drift down and find the cucumber. She picks it up, stares at it, and then, with a shrug, she puts it back in the display case.
 
"Uh..."
 
"Thish item ish not on our lisht..." Vivian says, still slurring her speech a bit.
 
You find Whitney, quickly pass through checkout, and leave. The girl who saw you two must have been too shell-shocked to tattle. Or maybe she liked what she saw.
 
On the car ride back, Whitney can tell what happened. She's got the nose of a bloodhound, after all, and in any case, Vivian still has that dreamy, dopey, post-sex smile.
 
Vivian, in this state, is still pliant, and doesn't mind her sister's curious hands. "Can't believe you two horndogs," Whitney says in faux outrage. She hikes up Vivian's dress and mashes the cummy panties against her crotch, enjoying the wet and slimy feeling of it as your cum oozes from the pores of the cotton. "Right there in the store? Animals!"
 
Vivian nuzzles your neck as Whitney, cruising down the interstate, molests her little sister. Since Whitney's offering, you figure you may as well enjoy it too. You pull your hardening cock out, letting it jut between Vivian's thighs. Whitney, eyes only half on the road, pulls your cock so as to trap it between the ruined material of Vivian's panties and her messy hole. Then, hand on the outside, Whitney enjoys eliciting little pips and moans from the both of you as she presses her palm repeatedly against Vivian's crotch -- as she repeatedly presses your cock against Vivian's slick slit. Like this, she draws three or four little orgasms out of Vivian, her wetness making the entire car smell like sex, and permeating the bucket seat with her juices. And then soon enough, you're shooting off too, burying your nose in Vivian's hair, bucking your hips, as your pulsing cock blasts thick ropes of semen against Vivian's squelching cunt, and adds to the mess.
 
"You guys are crazy," Whitney laughs, pulling her hand away, licking it clean, and downshifting as she exits the interstate. "Do either of you ever get sick of cumming?"
 
"Never..." you grunt, still nuzzling the top of Vivian's head.
 
"Never..." Vivian agrees.
 
"Well -- me neither," says Whitney, with a sly wink.

At home, the first thing you do is check on Cerise.

She's free of her restraints: lying curled up in bed, seemingly asleep, with Rose -- who is also seemingly asleep.

The irrational part of your mind instantly goes to animal rage. With the thought that Darkbloom is still in Cerise's conscious mind, it's like seeing your girl in bed with another man. Not that, uh, Rose is your girl. Of course.

But when Cerise's eyes flutter open, they're their normal color. And rheumy.

She sits up. She rubs her elbow and averts her gaze. "Alabaster," she says. "I'm..."

She doesn't get any farther than that before you sit on the bed with her and hug her tight.

She cries on your shoulder, literally. "I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry..." she repeats between heaving cries. Why is she taking blame for this? You rock her back and forth.

Rose, waking up now herself, sits and watches. She shares a somber look with you as Cerise buries her face against you and weeps, inconsolable.

"How did it happen?" You ask.

Rose shakes her head. "It just happened. No reason. About an hour ago."

If this can truly happen for no reason, the situation is worse than you thought.

"Who should we tell?" Rose asks. "Or should we? We'll need to take shifts keeping watch over her."

[ ] No one.
>[x] Someone. (Name all that apply.) [Dr. Carte]

"We could tell Dr. Carte," you offer. "If that makes sense to you too, Cerise--"

She nods and sniffles. "She can help, can't she?"

"It's worth a try," Rose says. "She's bound to know more than we do."

"Three people makes keeping eyes on you a lot more manageable, too," you tell Cerise. You pause, then: "Anyone else? ...Whitney?"

"Oh my god," Rose says. "Do you really think that's -- advisable?"

"Rose has a point," Cerise says. She blinks, and then shudders at what she just said. "Ugh."

"Get used to it," Rose says. "We're in this mess together now."

"Okay," you say, "we'll figure that one out later. What about Alex? He worked on Sand Reckoner. Maybe he could help."

Rose shakes her head. "I don't trust her."

"Him. For the last fucking time, Rose. Him."

"Well the answer is still no."

"I trust Alex," Cerise says. "We could tell him if you think it'll help. And Gal--"

"No fucking way," you and Rose say at the same time.

Cerise winces.

"Not until we know better what's going on," Rose adds.

"For now, just Dr. Carte," you confirm. "We'll expand the circle of trust on a need to know basis."

You all agree to that. 

You bake a batch of white chocolate macadamia cookies, wearing an apron that says "Kiss Me I'm a Billionaire" -- as tacky as Whitney's Lambo in your opinion, but she loves it. And the kiss she gives you as soon as she loops the apron over your neck is nice enough that you won't complain too hard.

Over the tray of piping hot cookies -- Whitney was too impatient to wait for them to cool, even though she singes her fingers and shouts "FUCK!" with every one of them she takes -- sitting at the long dining room table, she's a chatterbox. And Vivian is loose enough from her marathon session of cumming that she's willing to make conversation for once. Neither of them seem to notice that you, Rose, and Cerise are a lot more glum.

"So I was like, what the fuck! Yeeple is totally gonna take off. For sure. I mean. Isn't it good to know if, like, the guy next door is a creep? Rating people like you'd rate a restaurant, that just makes sense."

"I wholeheartedly agree. It's a wonderful idea. Much more than this screen-printing business..."

"The Tshirt thing is great too," Whitney insists. "You'll see." She takes a nibble of a cookie, shouts "FUCK! OW! Hothothot--" then continues, "but yeah, Yeeple is cool. Just needs a new name. Do you have a better name for it?"

"Mother suggested SoCred--"

"Yuck."

"You just dislike anything mother suggests."

"Correct."

"I was considering PeopleBase. As in -- people plus database."

"Horrible. Get out of the naming business. You suck."

"Regardless..."

"We'll think of something. For sure. I -- FUCK! HOT! -- it really is an awesome idea. You'd always know who to stay away from."

"Indeed. You would never find yourself mixed up with unscrupulous elements... criminals and other shady people would naturally have lower ratings."

"Yeah, like your mom."

Vivian frowns. "Hmm. Or that red-headed harlot who killed my father."

Whitney quickly moves the conversation on to another topic, trying to avoid the awkwardness of that last remark.

Your eyes shoot up, look across the table at Vivian, who's busy discussing the details of other potential business moves with Whitney.

No one else caught that. That remark -- "red-headed harlot." Vivian remembers Camelia has red hair.

She remembers who Camelia is.

You're not sure what to do with that information. 

At work the next day, Whitney plops a box on her desk. "The shirts are here! This is great... here -- put it on, put it on!"

"I don't... shirts?" You say.

"Duhhh, Ally. The first batch of shirts from PrintSmart. You're the one who told me to buy this piece of shit business, don't tell me you forgot."

You only vaguely remember the details. Something about a company that pulls data from your social media footprint to make custom slogans for T-shirts. In other words, micro-targeting individuals with a product that is personal to only them. The company wants to enter into a data-sharing arrangement with Darkbloom Analytics' social media platforms, get access to non-public info and, well, analytics... to make the shirts' slogans more precise, and therefore more attractive to potential customers.

Whitney pulls a shirt out of the box, inspects its front, and does that wheezing "heeeeh" thing. "This one's mine!" She pulls it on, tugging it over her head and wearing it over top of her dress suit. Now you can finally read the text:

>I'm sassy, un-classy, and a bit smart-assy
>I'm a billionaire tomboy of sub-average intelligence who plays soccer and likes to get dirty
>I was born in April and I'm a proud California girl
>(If you're annoying me, don't worry, I'll tell you)
>I eat like a fucking horse and ANY HOLE'S A GOAL
>Got a problem with it? Tough!

"This shit is amaaaaazinnnng!" Whitney says, voice going sing-songy. "It's like, what! How did it know! These things are gonna sell like moon pies at NASA."

She digs through the box, pulling out a couple more shirts, before she finds the one apparently meant for you. She turns it, holding it between thumb and forefinger by either shoulder, so you can read:

>I'm a trivia-obsessed know-it-all weeaboo 
>I'm sarcastic, mean-spirited, and generally kind of a dick
>But if you look under the surface, at what lies in my heart... 
>I'm an even bigger dick!
>I think I'm God's gift to women but cartoon girls are more my speed
>YES I'm a lolicon and YES I like traps and YES I was born in November
>Don't bother me about it, I don't care what you think
>And don't call the FBI, because I'm in enough trouble with them as it is
>Fuck you!

"I'm not wearing that," you tell her.

Whitney points at the bottom line, the one that says "Fuck you!"

"I'm serious," you say.

She taps her finger against the fabric of the shirt, indicating the "Fuck you!" again.

You sigh. It's no use. She's gonna make you wear it. 

Rose2 pokes her head in. "Coffee, anyone?"

"Gimme," Whitney says. "I'll trade ya."

She hands a shirt to Rose2, who puts it on without even thinking about it.

>I'm a frumpy white girl who likes to pretend she's Japanese
>If I'm not reading yaoi manga, I'm writing fanfiction about yaoi manga
>So what if I like to watch two cute boys going at it? Got a problem!?
>The only cultural achievement I care about outside the shores of Japan is Killing Stalking
>I like pink, I was born in July, and I wish my eyes were more slanty
>If I fall in love with you, watch out because I'm CRAZY if PROVOKED
>But stay on my good side and I'm the sweetest girl you'd ever want to meet!

She looks down at the shirt, and is apparently satisfied with what it says.

"Is your cousin around?" She asks, looking up at you.

"Once removed. She stayed home sick today."

"Bummer! I made her some buddy cookies."

"...Buddy cookies?"

Rose2 holds up a tied-off handkerchief whose bottom is sagging with cookies. "Well, mom helped of course. But I added the finishing touches! These are to show your once-removed cousin that we can still be buddies."

You take them from her. "Mind if I try one?" You ask -- this is your opening, unexpected though it may be.

"Err... those are for--"

You put the handkerchief on the desk, untie it, and take one of the cookies. They're soft and gooey, chocolate chip. Pretty good. They have a weirdly tangy aftertaste, but still -- pretty good.

"Your mom made these?" You ask, through a full mouth.

"Uh. Mostly."

"Tell her they're... not that good." You swallow. "Yeah. Frankly, not that good."

She puts a hand to her lips. "Wh-what?"

"I have pretty high standards, is all. I was making cookies just last night, and these things simply aren't up to snuff. I could make a better cookie in my sleep."

"Hahaha!" Whitney laughs. "I gotta try one for myself." She takes one.

"Err--" Rose2 says again. "Those are really meant only for--"

"Ally's right. These are okay... I guess. But his are better. Like way better."

Rose2 frowns.

"You pass that on, okay?" You say. "Tell her I offer lessons if she wants to become a better chef..." 

On your way to the basement where you've set up a meeting with Dr. Carte, you run into a photo shoot.

Right there in the grand lobby of Darkbloom Analytics, Makoto fucking Kikuchi is surrounded by a horde of Japanese press, and camera crews from the movie she's supposed to be shooting soon.

"Did you authorize this?" You ask Whitney, looking down on the scene.

"Yeah," she says. "They want me to be a part of it, too..." She makes a face and puts her hands on the back of her head. "Some BS about doing a documentary or some kind of making-of about this movie. Kind of a drag, but Kimochi got snippy when I tried to tell her no, so here we are."

She points at Makoto now. "Hey, look! She's wearing one of the shirts too."

Whatever algorithm designed these shirts must not be so great with Japanese, or maybe Makoto's real social media fingerprint just isn't large enough to identify much in the way of specifics, because her shirt says simply:

>WANT to FUCK
>~Born in August~
 
Below the T-shirt, all she's got on are a pair of spats and some running shoes. Assuming the role of Whitney for the time being, it seems.

"Wanna be on Japanese TV?" Whitney asks.

[ ] No thanks. (Continue to Dr. Carte)
>[x] Sure. 

"Whitney! Whitney Darkbloom!" A man, a reporter, apparently, is shouting. Of course through his thick accent it comes out sounding more like "Hoitonni Dakuburumu," and Whitney, who is hopeless about Japanese accents, doesn't understand at first that he's trying to get her attention. She turns in a semi circle and waves at the assembled Japanese press corps, ignoring the man.

"This one would like to ask you something," Makoto whispers, pointing at him.

"Oh! Shit. What is it?"

"Is this your boyfriend?"

"What's a boy ferendo?"

"Boyfriend," Makoto says. Her accent is just this side of intelligible for Whitney, so she serves as a decent translator.

"Oh! Shit. Hell yeah he's my boy ferendo." She throws an arm over your shoulder. "Total dick munch, but I love him."

"Dick munch?" Another reporter asks.

Makoto provides some sort of Japanese translation that you're worried might be literal. Then comes a volley of questions in her mother tongue now, which she answers with cool ease. From her lips you hear "Dakuburumu" several times, and again worryingly, "Arabasuta Soiruoki."

"You're not badmouthing me, are you?" You ask.

"I am confirming suspicions that you munch dicks." She winks at you.

"Alabaster! Alabaster!" A woman is yelling at you, shoving a microphone in your face. "What is the real Whitney Darkbloom like?"

"A real rug muncher," you offer.

"Rug... muncher?"

Makoto, ever the helpful one, translates this as well.

"Is she always so filled with energy?" Someone asks.

"Annoyingly so."

"Does Ms. Kikuchi remind you of her? Do you think she fits the role?"

You scrutinize Makoto. "Frankly? I think she could do with being a little higher-energy. But it's a pretty high bar, to get to Whitney's level. Whitney's probably the highest energy individual I know."

Makoto's stage smile dissolves. "I disagree!" She says in English, then comes a stream of Japanese. She finishes back in English: "Alabaster is blinded by love for his lover. But I am working tireless to match Whitney in all ways. Correct? Whitney?"

"Most ways," Whitney says. "Not ALL ways..."

Makoto's cool is really being tested here. She didn't expect to be criticized in front of the cameras like this. She's practically seething as she says: "I will do my best!" She claps her hands together. "Thank you! Thank you for coming out! I must work and rehearse!"

She pushes through the crowd, who continue to hail her with questions, but she's ignoring them completely as she stomps away.

"Well that's one thing she gets right," Whitney says, getting the cameras back on her. "She knows how to be pissy!"

"Pissy?" A reporter asks.

"Angry," she says. "Write that one down. She gets mad as fuck when you shit-talk her. Super cute." 

You and Whitney find Makoto in the cafeteria, stewing over a cup of tea at a table by herself.

Whitney, who's probably the most approachable CEO on the planet, gets quickly pulled away by an employee who has a problem with something or another. She immediately says, "we'll get that fixed," before even knowing what the employee's problem actually is. Only then does she add: "Uh, what is it?"

She walks off with him, to find out.

You sit across from Makoto. She kicks you in the shin.

"What the hell!" You shout. You kick her back. What follows is a brief below-the-table tussle that neither of you seem to get the better of.

"You said cruel things about me," Makoto grouses.

"Yeah, and you said I munch dicks."

"You do munch dicks! I have seen you hanging off the shoulder of Mr. Alex Best!"

"THAT is private information," you say. "You can't go around telling everyone in Japan my personal business."

"And you cannot say that I am a poor actress! That is cruel! You are a cruel spirit, Alabaster!"

"It's not my fault that you can't match Whitney's energy. If you don't want me to say so, try harder."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" Her eyes glimmer with anger. "I am trying and trying!"

"You need to get in her head more, spend more time with her, I don't know. Hell. I'm not an actor."

She laces the fingers of both hands around her cup and sips.

"Where does Whitney's energy come from?" She says.

"If we knew the answer to that, the world's energy crisis would be solved."

"I will endeavor to find out."

"You do that."

She kicks you.

"Seriously. If you kick me again, I'll punch you in the face."

She kicks you again. Calling your bluff was a pretty good move. You're not going to punch a Japanese teenager in the face in public. When you fail to live up to the threat, she sticks her tongue out at you. 

On your way out of the cafeteria, you see Whitney with the employee from before, puzzling over a Keurig on one of the countertops.

"CC Load Espresso?" Whitney mumbles, mystified. "The fuck does that mean?"

"See? It's busted," the employee says.

Armstrong enters now, and walks up. "What are you calling me down here for?" He demands. "I've got shit to do."

"Look at this," Whitney says, pointing at the Keurig.

"I"m not your fucking coffee boy," he growls. "Get someone else to make you a cup."

"That's not it, dumbass. It's broken. Look."

He gets closer, reads the error message. "CC Load Espresso... what?" He steps back. "What am I supposed to do about that?"

"Fix it."

He can only laugh. "Good fucking lord, woman. We have 500 employees here. Do I look like the Keurig-fixer to you?"

"Yes you do." She puts a finger to his chest. "You're always using the Keurig upstairs in the C Suite, right? You're the only fucking reason we've got one up there. So I know you know how to fix it. So fix it."

She walks away.

"Motherf--" He starts, but then just shakes his head, sighing. He goes up to the machine and starts playing with the display menus. 

In Dr. Carte's office -- a sub-sub-sub basement right next to the server-room, as tiny and cramped and out-of-the-way and un-glamorous as Mara could make it -- Dr. Carte is already waiting, and she already knows.

"Rose told me over the phone," she says, beckoning you to sit at her desk. She closes the door behind you.

"What do you think?"

"What do I think. That the worst monster who ever lived is now living inside your sister's head... that this could very well be the worst of all possible, imaginable situations... that I am... just... so sorry, Alabaster."

"Don't be sorry. Help us fix it."

"The intermittent nature of it makes me think it might be a simple fix," she says. "But... we'd need to pull your sister's eye out -- again -- to do it."

You massage the bridge of your nose.

"David lives whatever fucking half-life he has left, inside that implant. At least that's my best hypothesis. The barrier I tried to put between the implant and her brain, that resistor I told you about? Maybe we just need to make it a little stronger. Maybe the current one is failing."

"Failing. Failing is bad -- failing becomes flat-out failed. And then Darkbloom is just there, forever."

"You're right. So time is of the essence." She pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one up.

"You can't do that here," you tell her.

"Get bent. I need this."

You won't fight her over it. "Can't we pull the implant out of her?"

"You saw what happened the last time we tried." She takes a long, ruminating drag.

You prop your elbows on the desk and rub your forehead with the heels of both palms.

The door opens. Alex is poking his head in. "Uh, Ally? Whitney said I'd find you down here." He coughs, waving his hand in front of his nose to dissipate the smoke. He starts to say something to Dr. Carte, but she gives him the stinkeye, and he doesn't.

"What's up?" You ask.

"There's someone upstairs in the lobby who wants to see you." 

At the security checkpoint, exchanging heated words with Noelle, is the woman you recognize as your own mother. The one who's currently claiming to be Rose2's mom instead.

"I don't care if I'm not on the list! I'm coming through!"

"Ma'am, what part of FBI do you not understand? This is a secure area. If you're not on the list of employees or don't have prior authorization, you don't. Get. Through. Period."

"I have business here and I am coming through! I have rights! Read the constitution, hussy!"

"Do not make me detain you. Please. I don't want to deal with the paperwork."

Standing there gawking from the other side of the cordon, your presence finally draws her attention. "There you are!" She says. She points menacingly. "There's the intolerably RUDE young man who came to my HOME, did indecent things with my daughter, FORCED me to cook for him, and then LEFT and took my daughter with him after I had already WASTED all my ingredients! And now he's telling her that my cooking isn't good enough for him!"

"Hi," you say.

"Get over here!" She yells. "I'm gonna kick your butt!"

"Uh..."

She doesn't take your hesitation well. She starts to climb over the cordon. Noelle is already drawing her pistol. "Stay back! Stay back!"

But Ms. Catachresis is not to be deterred, despite the threats, and despite getting one leg tangled in the black retractable belt of the cordon, pulling down a couple of the plastic barriers with her.

"You're under arrest!" Noelle shouts as agents in blue jackets start pouring out of the little windowed structure beside the cordon. "You're under arrest!"

You shout: "Hold on! Jesus fucking Christ. Let her through, Noelle, fuck."

Noelle grimaces. "She needs authorization."

"I'll get the fucking authorization. It's not like I'm the CEO's boyfriend or anything! Dumb bitch. All I have to do is ask Whitney and she'll let her in. So let her in."

You step forward, to offer your mom a hand.

"Oh?" She says, still tangled in the belt. "You've decided to approach me now?"

"I can't help you off your ass if I don't."

She snarls. 

"Just where do you get off?" Mom says, as she gets untangled and steps past the cordon, with your assistance. "How dare you treat me with such disrespect!"

"What? I literally just helped you to your feet--"

"Don't back-talk me."

Noelle is on her walkie-talkie, paging for someone, and soon a retinue of agents are marching upstairs, presumably to fetch Whitney.

"It's not about disrespect," you insist. And even as you raise your voice, it still feels way too bizarre to be carrying on with her like this. You can hardly believe you're having a conversation with mom again, after all this time. And that the conversation is, like always, an argument... "It's like I told Rose2. Your cookies are okay. They're just not as good as mine. I'm sorry if you're offended."

"Not as good!" She repeats. "Not as good? You have some nerve. You're nothing but an ungrateful little punk, that's what you are!"

Whitney is in the lobby now. "What's the matter?"

"This -- woman, wants authorization to enter the premises," Noelle says.

Mom, hearing this, shouts at Noelle. "I told you, skank -- I have constitutional rights! I can go where I please."

"Ha! I like you," Whitney says.

"Mo-- Ms. Catachresis, calm down," you say.

"...Mom?" Rose2 is fast on Whitney's heels, descending the stairs from the lobby's mezzanine. "What are you doing here?"

Whitney laughs: "So that's what this is about. You're Rosie's mom? You came all this way just to bitch Ally out for talking shit about your baking?" She points at Mom, and says to Noelle: "She can come in. I wanna see how this plays out. Pull that stick out of your ass, huh, Noelle?"

"Need I remind you that this is a secure area?" Noelle says. "The lax security protocols here were part of the reason the 3/10 hack happened to begin with. It's my job to prevent your company from screwing up again, because you obviously can't manage it yourself -- and to find out what else you've been letting happen under your watch..."

Whitney is animated: "Fuck off already! This investigation has been going on for over a year and you haven't found anything. It's a total wit--"

"What do you mean we haven't found anything? We've arrested over a dozen Russian nationals with clear links to Mara Darkbloom--"

Whitney is flapping one of her hands as if it's a mouth: "blah blah blah. No one curr."

"--Not to mention the unusual twitter bot activity which recently exploded, thousands of astroturf accounts singing the praises of your company--"

"Do you really care about Twitter bots, Noelle?" You ask. "Give me a break."

"Not particularly," she admits. "I sent that one on to Bob, he can deal with it. But there's a clear pattern of corruption here."

"Some company you work for," Mom says to Rose2. "Run by idiots and under investigation by the FBI. You're going to end up in prison if you keep dating this boy!"

"I'm okay with that..." Rose2 says, seemingly genuinely, and even you do a double take at that one. 

You pull mom aside and let Whitney and Noelle go at it. Rose2 joins you.

"For the last time," you say, purposely needling her: "There's nothing wrong with your cookies, Ms. Catachresis. They're fine. They're just not as good as mine. If you want take some tips from me, I'd be happy to give you some."

"What do you see in this insufferable boy?" Mom asks Rose2.

"Err... geez louise. Hmm."

"I'll tell you what, Ms. Catachresis. I'll prove to you that I'm a better baker. And I'll make it up to you for leaving early last Sunday, too."

She folds her arms, sneering. "Yeah? And just how are you going to do that?"

"I'll come over to your house and bake you whatever you want. I'll bring my own ingredients, too. You won't have to pay for anything."

Rose2 claps. "Oooh! Goodie! I like that idea!"

"Don't encourage him," Mom says. "Besides, I refuse to let you turn my home into a brothel, young lady. I know why YOU want him to come over."

Rose2 makes an exaggerated pouty face, although she doesn't dispute what mom says.

"It's a standing offer," you say. "And I'm for real. I feel bad about running off right as you were about to cook for me -- honest. So let me make it up to you with a batch of my clearly superior cooking."

Her right eye twitches. You're going to give her a heart attack if you keep going. "It is NOT going to work like that! You'll come over to my house and eat MY food, and you're going to like it, mister! And you'll see for yourself that it's better!"

"Ooh!" Rose2 says. "I know! How about -- a competition~?"

"That might be your first good idea ever," you say. "Yeah. A competition."

You poke Mom in the belly. She grits her teeth, jumps back, and actually growls at you. "That is..." you say, "if you're not scared... Ms. Catachresis."

"I'll mop the floor with you and wring you out in the sink when I'm done," she says. "Name the time and place!"

"Your house. Tonight."

Rose2 is clapping again.

"We need an unbiased judge," Mom tells you. "Someone who won't be blinded by their own stupidity, unlike you."

"How about Rose2? She loves us both equally."

Mom narrows her eyes at Rose2 as if waiting for her to say otherwise, but Rose2 just looks away. "Honestly, Rose. I don't know why you care so much about a boy who calls you Rose2. You're not even his number one Rose!"

She shrugs.

"I think Amber would be a better judge," mom says. "She's a good, honest, hardworking girl. And she has taste!"

"You're trying to rig the game from the start!" You protest. "No way. That girl hates me. If you get Amber as a judge, I get to bring my own judge too. Then it can be a panel of three."

"It'll be like a Japanese game show!" Rose2 says.

"Or... just a normal game show," you say. "Why would it be specifically a Jap--" Rose2 is giving you that blank smile that means she's not following, so you drop the thought.

"Who's your judge gonna be?" Rose2 asks.

[ ] Cerise
[ ] Whitney
>[x] Rose
>[x] Vivian
[ ] Dr. Carte 

"I'll bring Vivian," you say. "She's basically a computer in the body of a human, so she'll be impartial."

"So cool!" Rose2 says. "Vivian is kawaii as heck. She can give me fashion tips while we wait for dessert!"

The real reason you want to bring Vivian along runs a a lot deeper than getting some goth loli fashion tips for this bubblegum crisis of a human being. You need to confirm that Vivian's memories of reality align with your own. So far, she seems to be the only person whose memory does.

"I expect you at my home no later than 6 PM!" Mom says. "I know you wealthy bohemians like to keep bizarre hours, but I run a wholesome family and we eat at wholesome times."

Wholesome? Does she not understand that her two putative children are a weeaboo degenerate and -- even if she's not literally Camelia -- a girl who's clearly a terrorist-in-training?

"I look forward to it," you say, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her towards the exits. "I apologize in advance for humbling you in front of your children."

"Why you awful little-- tch!"

"See you later, Ms. Catachresis."

She's so mad that all she can do is ball her fists, pull a face, and stomp off.

---

"I understand."

In Vivian's office, the news that you're worried about Camelia's possible reappearance is received with surprising placidity. You weren't sure about telling her, but she's your only lead on trying to find out what the fuck is going on.

"And that's how you remember her too, right?" You ask. "Red hair, blue eyes?"

"It is. You mean to imply that everyone else has a -- false memory?"

You don't want to actually show her the video of her father's death again. So you only describe what you saw a few days ago.

"It is true that we never recovered Camelia's body," Vivian says. She considers the facts dispassionately, and says: "Perhaps she survived after all... and found some way to wield Sand Reckoner such that it can subvert human memory. Memory is a fragile thing, after all."

"Can you handle seeing her in person -- if that's who she is?"

Vivian nods.

"There'll be food," you offer. You describe the parameters of the competition.

Vivian stares at the corner, where the moulding meets the ceiling. You think she's somber, more than usual, but she then she says: "I do not think I can be an unbiased officiant. I vastly prefer your cooking over most people's." She looks at you. "Yes, Alabaster, I can handle seeing Camelia again. I know why she did what she did. Why you helped her. I have made peace with it. In the spirit of reconciliation, there is nothing better than breaking bread with those who were once your enemies." 

---

"No!"

"No? Fuck you, no! Stay with Cerise!"

"I'm coming. I'm definitely coming. I'm not going to let that crazy cyber-terrorist reality-bender be alone with you! You're too stupid to handle her by yourself!"

You peek your head around the corner of the dining room, where Dr. Carte and Cerise are deep in conversation about the unwelcome guest in Cerise's skull.

"If you don't take me, I'll just follow you," Rose says, drawing your attention back.

"Not if I tie you down," you say.

"I'll escape."

"Not if I beat you unconscious."

"I'll beat you unconscious first. Then you don't get to do this dumb cook-off at all."

"You really chafe my fucking asshole, Rose. You know that?"

"I do my best." She smiles smugly up at you. After a pause, she asks: "Why is this so important to you, anyway? What is cooking with this woman going to do?"

"I want to..." you trail off and sigh. It feels kind of awkward to say this out loud, equal parts desperate and embarrassing, but you press forward: "I want to jog her memory. If she really is my mom. When I was growing up-- when my mom would bake, I helped her. Uhh. Not because I wanted to or anything. I just... I just didn't want her to burn our house down, that's all."

Rose's quirked eyebrow is boring a hole into your soul. You look away.

"And so -- I ended up learning a lot about baking, you know, by osmosis. All that time cooking with her, that's about the closest mom and I ever came to getting along. So if I cook with her again like that... maybe she'll remember."

Rose laughs. "Oh my goodness, Alabaster."

"Don't."

"You're a mama's boy."

"I told you--"

"That is precious. I can't believe it."

"I swear to god, Rose--"

"I'm not making fun of you! It's precious. Sincerely. I mean -- all right, it's funny too, but--"

"Do I need to remind you of the pistol in your gun safe that says Daddy's Girl on it?"

She bites her tongue.

"That's what I thought. Be ready to leave at 5. If she's still anything like my mom, she'll break out the whips if we're even a minute late. You don't want to deal with that. I'm serious." 

On the way to Rose2's house, while you drive, Rose has one of those "buddy cookies" for herself. She nibbles at it, scrunches up her face, and smacks her lips as if trying to get rid of the taste.

"These things taste like shit."

"You're exaggerating because you don't like Other Rose. They're not that bad."

"No, I'm being honest. They taste like... they taste weird. Metallic. Like... copper?"

You glance over, meet her eyes. The realization there is wordless, too awful to say aloud. Rose folds the cookie back into the handkerchief and drops it out of the open window.

---

"Tadaiiiiiimaaaa~" Rose2 says when she answers the door for you.

"That's what the person arriving is supposed to say," you tell her, frowning. "Your line is okaeri."

"Oh, yeah! A-durr."

"Actually, I take that back. No one is supposed to say either of those things unless they're in Japan."

"Silly," Rose2 says, swatting your shoulder, but you fail to see what's so silly about that. "Where's Viv-tan? Is she--"

Rose2 trails off as she sees Rose approaching up the drive.

"You said you were bringing Vivian," Rose2 says, her voice suddenly low and flat.

"She's coming too. She texted me that she'll be here soon."

You show her your phone's screen to confirm. (https://i.imgur.com/MlvYZ1h.png)

"I understand some of those words," Rose2 says, lost.

"That's great. Lead the way, huh?"

Rose2 shares an evil look with Rose before allowing you to pass into the Catachresis household. 

As you step into the kitchen, mom appears -- as if from nowhere -- and in her hand is a blow torch. She clacks it on, and its angry blue flame shocks you backwards several paces. You hold your arms up, shielding your face, terrified. This was a trap. This was a terrible trap you walked into, orchestrated by Camelia, and now you're going to die--

"Sissy," Mom says, lowering the nozzle, letting the flame dissipate. "I'm not anywhere close to you. Haven't you ever seen one of these things before?"

"What the hell are you holding a blow torch for!" You demand. "Warn me next time!"

"We're making baked Alaska tonight. I assume you've done a dish that simple. Right, Mr. master chef?"

You have -- with mom, of course. Her baked Alaska with homemade brownie ice cream and chocolate sponge was a legendary favorite at the Soliloquy household. It was good enough to make dad put his paper down at the dinner table whenever it came out. Of course, he would promptly bury his face in that mountain of meringue and ice cream, but you win some, you lose some.

More importantly, you wouldn't characterize the dish as "simple" -- it's anything but. Making a decent baked Alaska is one thing you never got a handle on.

"Why do you get to choose the dish?" You say. "That hardly seems fair."

She pounds a palm in her first. "Baked Alaska tests all your fundamentals! Your ability to make a good sponge, your ability to mix flavors, manage time, and perhaps most importantly -- your pipework!"

This is definitely mom. She always criticized your pipework.

"I think we should do something more elaborate," you try. "How about a multi-tier cake?"

"Absolutely not! This is my house, and I decide what we have for dinner!"

You sigh. If you have to pit your baked Alaska versus hers, it's going to be a historic rout -- you're the McGovern to her Nixon here.

>[x] Do your best. You can win!
[ ] Maybe we should work together. 

You grab an apron off the hook by the entrance to the kitchen. It's one of hers, pink and frilled, but you're too hyped by the adrenaline of a challenge to care about that as you tie it off around your back.

"You're on," you say. "I'm gonna show you exactly what a true master's work looks like!"

The first step is making the ice cream, because it needs time to set. "You can use store-bought ice cream if you need to," mom says as she dices chocolate above a mixer. "I have some in the freezer. I know that preparing it homemade is quite a challenge..."

"You wish," you sneer as you dig through the fridge for what you need. And you find it: strawberries. You knew you'd find fresh strawberries, just like mom always kept at home. You quickly begin stemming them, rinsing them, and mashing them through a sieve to make the base of what will be strawberry-vanilla ice cream.

"Oh ho?" Says mom. "I knew you were a fruity person." She's already heating the cream and sugar mixture in a saucepan over the stove. Your decision to go with a fruit-based ice cream has set you back on time -- but you're confident you can make up for it.

"Keep talking," you say. "You'll shut up soon enough when you taste the finished product..."

As you measure out the sugar for yourself and add it to a saucepan of your own now, you start to whisk it all together. You turn your attention to the crushed strawberries, grabbing them, and add them in too. But with a sudden rush of panic, you realize that the heat was too high -- and leaving it unattended for even a few moments allowed the mixture to begin scorching. Surreptitiously, you turn the heat lower, and debate whether to suffer the embarrassment of getting a new saucepan to salvage the cream's flavor.

"Do you need a new saucepan?" Mom says.

Goddamn it...

"Why would I?" You say, all bravado.

She grins. "You scorched it. You definitely scorched it just now."

Fuck. She's way too good.

Cookware in the cabinets goes clattering as you angrily root around for another saucepan of suitable size. Mom watches, chuckling low and sly, as you finally find one, and pour the cream into it.

"Make sure to run that under the sink," she says, pointing at the pan you scorched. "I don't need an amateur like you ruining my pans with baked-on gunk."

You grumble. 

The "Squeeeeee~~" You hear from the dining room can only mean one thing -- a more favored guest has arrived. And then, yep, confirmation: "You look just SO kawaii, Viv-tan!"

Whatever murmured response she gives is too low to be intelligible, but Rose2's confused "you're silly!" that follows it, means it probably wasn't as effusive.

The sponge cake is an even more terrible disaster than the ice cream. You wanted to do a relatively plain sponge, with just a hint of lemon. But when it's done baking, and you pull the sponge from the oven, you find all the zest has settled to the bottom -- leaving a totally white, anemic-looking top, and a somewhat burnt, sad-looking, crisp bottom dotted with lemon rind like acne scars.

Mom's sponge is pristine and delicious looking, chocolate-based, of course -- a nice, dark, even brown that makes your mouth water just looking at it. Are you buckling under the pressure?

"Ready to give in?" Mom asks, poking your sponge and seeing how it just stays depressed where she touched it rather than springing back. "Most sports have a mercy rule, don't they?"

"Never!" You say. "I'm not going to lose to you!"

"Poor thing," she says. "He doesn't know he already lost..." 

The final stage, the meringue, is the worst of all.

You forget the tartar, and add the sugar too fast, and the result is a granulated, separated, runny meringue that barely even pipes, let alone seems fit to set. Worse: when you go to pull your ice cream from the freezer, you find it's still mostly liquid, with only the edges starting to freeze. Whereas mom's is of course already a nice, fluffy, solid-looking dish of ice cream ready to go onto her sponge.

You clench and unclench your fists in frustration; at this rate, despite all your rushing, your effort, zipping around the kitchen and jockeying with mom for room in the cramped quarters -- it will all amount to nothing. You won't even be able to serve, let alone win.

"You're hopeless," Mom says.

"I don't need to listen to you mock--"

"Here."

She takes the tin from the counter, the one full of your half-set ice cream, and places it back in the freezer. Then she dumps your meringue in the garbage -- and starts over again, for you. "Did you forget something?" She asks, handing you the cream of tartar. "1/8 of a teaspoon. You do know that, right?"

You set your jaw and nod. "I just forgot. That's all."

"Of course. You seem like a forgetful sort."

You add the required amount to the egg white mixture that mom is already preparing.

"You don't have to help me," you grouse.

"That's good, because I don't want to. I just can't stand winning against such an obvious incompetent. Here -- now whisk."

She hands you the whisk. You do as she instructs.

"No... no, not like that. All wrong." She takes the whisk back. "See how I angle it? You want to fluff the mixture, not beat it bloody. A gentle touch, Alabaster. Okay?"

"Yeah."

"Now you try."

She watches.

"That's almost good enough," she says. "I can live with that."

She slowly pours the sugar for you as you work. Winking, she says: "Of course, this means you forfeit."

"You're forcing your help on me," you say. "I never requested it. It's not my fault my opponent has no self-preservation instinct."

She tsks at you. "Don't be a sore loser."

"I haven't lost yet, so how can I be a sore loser?"

"Show me your pipework," she says. She lays some wax paper on the counter.

You gulp. This is a moment of truth. With trembling hands, you pour the meringue into a piping bag and cap it with the nozzle. You squeeze from the top and begin to draw lazy spirals on the wax paper. But she balks:

"All wrong, all wrong. Tch. I'm going to have to teach you everything, huh."

You bow your head in defeat. But somehow there's a smile on your lips that wants to spread. 

Mom handles the final stage: torching the meringue as it sits domed atop the ice cream, applying just enough heat that it turns a nice crispy brown, without the ice cream inside beginning to melt. It's a practice maneuver that, of course, she pulls off with ease.

"After you," she says, holding her baked Alaska on a serving platter. You take yours on a platter as well, and then: to the judge's table. No turning back now.

"Where's Cam-- where's Amber?" You ask, glancing around as you set the platter down.

"Sleeping" Rose2 says. "She's such a lazy daisy."

Mom scrunches her lips all the way to one side of her face. Laziness really ticks her off.

"Laziness really ticks me off!" She says.

Yep.

"That Amber... it's 7 PM! Why is she asleep?" Mom grabs a broom and pounds on the ceiling. "Amber! You get your butt down here right now, missy! Wake up! You hear me? Wake up!"

You hear thudding above, and know she's coming down. 

Amber arrives in the dining room -- wearing a tanktop and panties, nothing else. She looks around, from face to face, and then says: "Sweets. Sweet."

Vivian stares at her with apprising eyes. Then back to you. A single curt nod is all she needs to confirm.

It's her. Vivian recognizes her.

"This house is a regular billionaire hangout nowadays," Camelia says, sitting down and cutting into your baked Alaska with a serving spatula. "When do we start getting some kickbacks, huh? We'll launder your money for you if you give us 5%..."

"Amber!" Mom says. "You should wait to be served."

"Sorry ma. But -- too late!"

Rose2 claps her hands together. "Itadakimasu!" -- her customary tic again.

Vivian, sitting beside her, gently pushes her hands together in mimicry. "Ita... dakimasu."

Rose2 beams, swivels in her chair, reaches over, and embraces Vivian from the side in a bear hug.

"Why are you encouraging her?" You ask Vivian.

"Rose2 has decided to take me to a local collective of Lolitas," Vivian says, still trapped in her embrace, "and there to introduce me as the newest member. Therefore, I am trying to endear myself to her."

It's a little weird to explain it so starkly while the person you're trying to endear yourself to is right there, but then again, Rose2 would hardly understand, given how Vivian puts it.

"She'll knock their socks off!" Rose2 affirms.

"I'm impressed," you tell Vivian. "Doing social things on your own. You're growing up."

"If there is a group of girls in town who wear Lolita fashion, they must be brought to heel. They must be made to understand that I alone am the best. Thus, this is a journey I make out of necessity."

You purse your lips and nod.

Vivian eyes Camelia. "Do I know you?" Vivian says, prodding for an opening.

"Jeeeesus you rich fucks are forgetful," Camelia says. "I don't know how you'd know me. 'Cause I don't know you from dick. Sorry, babe."

Vivian seems willing to let it drop there -- for now.

By Camelia's fiat, your baked Alaska is first up for judgement. Everyone gets a plate full and digs in -- their polite murmurs and "it's very good"-s are all you need to hear. Your final product sucks. Even with mom's help in the ninth inning. Everyone is just being polite about it.

Mom nudges you. "Don't look sad. You're a better cook than most bachelors, I guess. That's almost something to be proud of!"

You're sad for a different reason than having already lost, though.

Through all of it -- all this time in the kitchen with her -- there wasn't a spark of recognition on mom's part whatsoever. You're still as good as a stranger to her. 

Mom's baked Alaska is next. When everyone starts in on it, their reactions are much more animated:

"Oh-- ohhh-- oh my goodness-- I--" Rose mutters, gasping almost sexually between bites.

"This... this delectable flavor... this aroma... this texture..." Vivian says. "I am... this is... thish ish... unghh..." She dissolves into tremors.

Rose2's face is drooping. She says nothing -- cannot, so overwhelmed by pleasure.

Camelia isn't safe, either. She gobbles it down in nanoseconds and then tips the plate to her lips, throwing her head back, to drink up the residue of melted ice cream left over. She moans to herself, utterly wallowing in ecstasy, squeezing her thighs together.

Mom watches, palm to cheek, smiling.

Of course your reaction is just the same. You can't help shuddering as the first morsel touches your tongue. Five years without this -- five years you never want to relive. This is heaven.

"So?" Mom says. "Who wins?"

"You win, ma," Camelia says. "Of fucking course you do."

"Language."

"You blew this dork away. It was a slaughter. Fish in a barrel. Damn."

"I agree..." Rose2 says, diving for seconds. "Sorry, Ally, but-- ohhhh man... I'm getting dizzy..."

You lock eyes with Vivian, hoping she can at least throw you a pity vote now that it doesn't matter. But she's got that dreamy smile on her face as she horks down her second serving, and, mouth stuffed, points at mom with her fork. A 3-0 victory.

"Rose?" You ask, hoping at least SHE will lie to you, since she doesn't even get an official vote.

"Alabaster... Alabaster, please hire this woman..." She says, swooning. "I want to eat her cooking every day..." Her cheeks are deeply flushed and she's sweating despite the cold temperature of the dish. She sucks on her spoon.

"Well, Alabaster?" Mom says. "You're the only holdout. What do you think of my baked Alaska?"

[ ] It's terrible.
[ ] It's great.

>[x] You're great.

Swallowing your last bite, you say: "I admit it. You're great."

Mom's smile drops -- she cocks her head as she gazes back at you.

There's an awkward pause while your mind processes what you've just said. Finally catching yourself, you append: "I mean-- it's great. IT'S. The baked Alaska. Err-- not you-- I mean, not NOT you-- but-- the baked Alaska..."

She slowly shakes her head, blinking -- once, twice. The way she looks at you, now. Suddenly it's different.

She sees you with new eyes. That spark of recognition you were looking for: like a lightbulb coming on, there it is. And her voice is very small as she says: "Alabaster?"

With all your heart, you want to say: "Mom?" But fear and the memory of last time holds you back.

She pushes her chair away and stands.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I feel ill all of a sudden. I... I think I should go lie down. Thank you all, for coming... and for voting for me... I... hope to see all of you again soon... Alabaster."

You watch as she leaves the dining room and goes up the stairs. 

You follow. Without thinking. But in the hallway at the top of the stairs, you see her slip into her bedroom, and the expression she makes when she glances over her shoulder -- so fearful, and sad, and full of trepidation -- you know she needs time to deal with this. Whatever is going through her brain right now, she understands as little as you do, and she needs the space to come to grips with it.

Turning, intending to go back downstairs to the dining room, you bump into Camelia.

"Give me back my property, please," she says.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're not as clever as you think. You or your cousin -- once removed."

You say nothing.

"It's fine. I'm not mad. I know Rose was in my bedroom, but that's to be expected. Right? That bitch loves to stick her nose in other people's business. It's, like, her thing. And she never liked me anyway. She said I couldn't be on the student council because my views were too radical. I said sugar, this is a high school extracurricular, not the federal government. The wheels of global commerce don't exactly hinge on our policy. Deflate that ego a bit. And anyway, just because I listen to Chapo Trap House doesn't mean I can't play nice with liberals. But she didn't want to hear it. Are you paying attention to me?"

"I'm trying. What I'm getting from you is that you don't care Rose broke into your room."

Speak of the devil: there she is. Rose, of course, wasn't about to leave you alone up here. She arrives at the top of the stairs as well, standing behind Camelia, watching silently.

"Emphatically not. I actually feel bad for her. Dumb cunt never got over being named hall monitor in kindergarten and she's been chasing that high ever since. So of course she's gotta get her narc on every once in a while. Hi, Rose."

You and Camelia stare each other down. You feel a little bit safer, with Rose on the other side: Camelia is sort of pinned.

"Where did you get that USB stick?" you demand.

"Found it. Last year during a field trip to Silicon Valley where we were supposed to hear from a bunch of Thought Leaders who wanted to lead our thoughts. We stopped at the Rutabaga Cafe for lunch. And there it was on the ground, underneath one of the benches."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. But please, it's a very dear personal possession. I'd like it back."

"I know who you are," you say.

"And I know who you are," Camelia replies.

You don't respond.

"Fine. You want to keep it -- that's okay. Just don't say I didn't warn you."

She slips into the door at her left -- her bedroom. 

As Vivian waits for her limo outside, Rose2 teaches her magical girl poses -- sure to impress at the Lolita meet, she insists.

Vivian, elegant though she may be, doesn't exactly take well to it. She's clumsy and almost falls on her butt multiple times as she tries to mimic the twirling, leg-kicking, arm-swinging maneuvers.

"We'll work on it!" Rose2 insists.

"Yes."

You see Vivian off when her chauffeur picks her up. Helping her into the limo, you whisper so only she can hear: "Camelia -- right?"

"Correct."

"Would you believe me if I told you that her mother is actually my dead mother come back to life?"

"At this point I would believe all. I will see you later, Alabaster."

She shuts the door and the limo pulls away. 

You're on the couch with your three girls: Cerise, Whitney, and Rose, watching trashy TV together. A typical night spent home. You plan to tell Cerise about mom when you go to bed tonight.

You are home like this for no longer than about an hour, when that "see you later" from Vivian happens. Vivian comes to the front door, totally unannounced, and rings the doorbell. You and Whitney answer.

"Fuck me sideways," Whitney says. "What are you doing here?"

Hands demurely held down at her front, Vivian explains: "During a hypnagogic state while lying in bed, my dreams were perturbed by unpleasant visions. I hoped that I would get a substantially more restful slumber in friendlier environs."

"I... don't know what that means," Whitney says.

"She had a nightmare, so she wants to sleep with her big sister," you translate.

"Shit, Viv. That's all you had to say!"

"Mm."

Whitney steps aside, letting her in. Cerise, watching from the living room couch with Rose, waves hi. And Vivian, ever polite, waves hi back.

"Wanna watch Cops?" Whitney asks. "There's a marathon! Right now they're about to bust this male prostitute in Miami--"

"I would rather lie down. Would you... kindly accompany me?"

Whitney pokes her shoulder. "Accompany you. Hah. Fuck yeah, I'll accompany you."

You watch as they ascend the stairs.

"What were you dreaming about?" Whitney asks.

"Erm."

"C'mon. Don't make me spank you."

"Monsters."

"Scaaary~"

"More importantly... worse than these disturbing dreams, I have had such a terrific migraine recently... it comes and goes, and it is starting to come back again in force. I-- chhh--"

She stops at the first landing, dainty fingers pressed against her forehead, and hisses like television static with the pain.

"Viv?"

"It is -- all right --" she says, breathless, but gaining her faculties back a little. "Please -- let us continue --"

With difficulty, she and Whitney continue the rest of the way to the bedroom. Whitney, like you, is obviously concerned. Vivian will need to get her head checked. Migraines like that, for someone so young, are not natural.

You turn, heading for the living room again. What you see there is an unwelcome sight: Rose restraining Cerise, arms held fast, as Cerise struggles against the full-nelson.

Cerise scowls at you. Her eyes are blue again. 

September 2, 2018

"Thank you, Stasi, for everything." Mara shakes her hand. "I trust you to deal with the rest?"

"Of course. We will cremate the body and dispose of it. And we will yet find the red-headed bitch who killed him, too."

Mara nods. "Hers won't be a corpse you're looking for. She's alive -- I'm sure of it."

"Regardless."

"Don't get me wrong. I trust you. I am quite impressed with how your men managed to find that warehouse before the feds did. Getting in and out... stupendous work."

Stasi lazily smokes her cigarette.

Mara presses on to the next topic: "Is Konstantin ready for the procedure?"

"Ready when you are," Stasi says. "Go get her."

---

Mara finds Vivian sitting in the Darkbloom manor's dining room, alone. She sits in a chair pulled away from the table and turned sideways, directly facing another chair just centimeters away. It's the spot where she and her father played that ridiculous anagramming game all the time, among other insipid conversations. Now she sits there wordlessly, no one to talk to the poor doll -- never learned how to get on with people besides her father.

Mara slinks over, stealthily, and reaches around the chairback, hugging Vivian from behind. Vivian winces and goes rigid at the contact.

"We will begin soon," Mara tells her.

Vivian nods. Mara runs her hands up and down Vivian's body in a way she assumes might be soothing, or motherly.

"I am -- having second thoughts --" Vivian mumbles.

"There is no time for that. This is your father's legacy -- this is precisely what he would want."

Vivian, taciturn, stares at that painting David also liked to stare at, the one of Adam and Eve being evicted from Eden.

"And --" Mara wheedles, "you will get to be close to him. Always. With his implant in your eye... he will be a part of you forever..."

Tears are rolling down Vivian's cheeks.

---

Vivian is sedated on the operating table.

Konstantin wastes no time and spares no moments for gentleness. He scoops her eyeball out of its socket like a fish monger gutting a fish, and gets to work threading David's old implant around the ocular nerve.

Mara watches Vivian's eyeball dangling on her cheek -- how it leaves a little streak of blood there in is wake. And Mara is smiling. Of course because of what the success of this procedure promises for the future. But also because...

Well, some things are their own reward. She likes what she sees.

END OF EPISODE 4.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, NTR'r of megalomaniacs and bake-off runner-up.

December 26, 2011

Pebbles crunch beneath thick off-road tires. The car swerves off the barely-there dirt path and its hi-beams illuminate the woman standing there already. The driver kills his engine and calls: "Hello to Ms. Bail Breaker. Are you ready?"

Renee nods. Gustav steps from the vehicle and Renee hands off the little corrugated metal box. Gustav adds the implant alongside the tapes that Renee has already put there. By walking out of Darkbloom Enterprises with this device, he has made himself persona non grata to David Darkbloom and a host of other, very powerful, and very cruel people, who are probably on the hunt for him already.

Renee pulls her windbreaker up to cover her neck against the numbing winter wind. Keeping the collar clutched with whitening knuckles, she mutters to herself, irons this location into memory: "42 10 42.1 -- 119 42 12.0. 42 10 42.1 -- 119 42 12.0. 42 10 42.1 -- 119 42 12.0. "

Gustav digs, the headlights casting him in dark shadow. Renee continues to mutter the numbers, over and over, until they become a mantra devoid of any syntactic meaning.

Soon Gustav is patting the gravelly earth with the back of his shovel. He swipes his foot back and forth several times as well, to further conceal that there was ever a hole here.

They stand side by side and stare at the nondescript patch of desert together, in front of the big Joshua tree, silent.

Gustav finally says: "I have chartered an aircraft. There is room for another passenger."

"Where are you going?"

"A place far away. I will tell you on the ride there, if you come."

She considers it, and then: "I can't."

"Not for David's sake, I hope. He has resolved to throw you under the bus, as it were. In fact I dare to say he will throw you beneath the entire depot."

"I kn--"

"There is nothing left, Renee. We made a good attempt. We did good work. But David has gone mad, and Mara has gone madder. There is no use handing world-changing technology to madmen."

"I have to stay," Renee says, eyes downcast.

"You will go to prison."

"I'm protecting someone."

Gustav nods. "So it is true, at last."

"Her name is Whitney."

"We could always find her. I have committed many felonies tonight. What is kidnapping in addition?"

"I could never do that. She's been through enough. I won't make her go on the run with a woman who's a stranger to her."

Gustav pats her back. "You are a wonderful woman, Renee. I so sorely regret my part in this sadness that has befallen you."

"I suppose this is goodbye, then?"

"For now." He gets into his car. "Farewell and good luck to you -- your daughter also. I hope to meet you both in good health and high spirits one day."

He drives away. Renee stays there by the burial site, hands in pockets, considering the lifeboat she just turned away. It was worth it -- for her. Everything for her. And Vivian too. She gets into her own car now. The first day of her trial is tomorrow. 

---

You sit at the edge of Dr. Carte's bed as she noisily sucks your cock.
 
Despite her older age, her technique is more amateurish than most. She has trouble keeping her jaw unhinged enough to take your entire girth. Her teeth occasionally scrape lightly against the underside of your cock-shaft, and you have to continually chide: "no teeth." She's getting better, though. You'll make a star cocksucker out of her soon enough, if these trips to her apartment continue. Running your hands tenderly through her hair, you guide the bobbing of her head at the pace you enjoy. You're more or less masturbating against her broad, wet tongue and her delightfully wet throat. Right now, this woman's mouth is your personal onahole.
 
But her teeth make contact, again, and this time when you chide her, she takes your dick from between her lips with a plop. She nuzzles the slobbery shaft with her cheek. Giggling a low and devilish giggle, she meets you with smoky eyes and says: "it's not my fault your penis is so big... my jaw hurts..."
 
You love the sight of Dr. Carte rubbing your dick against her beautiful face. It's obscene in a way that makes your toes curl. So you say: "keep going -- just like that."
 
"Hmmm," she murmurs, trapping your hot shaft against her cheek using a free hand. It's almost as long as her whole head. "You like the way this feels, too?"
 
You nod desperately.
 
She also nods, pressing the soft skin of her face against the straining hardness of your dick, smiling as your precum and her spit leave messy, viscous smears all over. It's almost like she's soaping herself down with your combined fluids. Closing her eyes, she savors it just as much as you do, the dirtiness of it. She switches cheeks back and forth at random, then rubs you against her forehead and her hair too, and her puckered, smacking lips, and her chin -- making a real fucking mess of herself indeed, leaving not a square inch of her face unmarked by your cock-leak. And of course, she traps your cock right under her nose several times too. She has remarked, more than once, that she loves the way your dick smells, that she's hooked on it, that the thought of it keeps her distracted during the day. She never wastes a chance to fill her lungs with it. She mashes her nostrils right up to your mushroom head and inhales deeply again and again, simultaneously showering the sensitive underside of your prick with loud kisses. She loves the way you smell so much that she's practically making herself orgasm just by this alone. You think so many years being deprived of sex left her cock-starved and desperate, and now this is the result, an older woman who's obsessed with the manly scent and taste and heat of your dick.
 
"You're going to cum soon," Dr. Carte remarks. A quick learner in this as in everything else, she knows the signs.
 
"I am," you moan. "I'm gonna cum. I'm gonna nut all over your fucking face."
 
"Dirty boy," she says, with another low laugh. She rises to her feet. You draw a sharp breath, frustrated at the sudden loss of the delicious pressure and wetness of her face.
 
She lays her hands on your shoulders. "Wouldn't you rather spunk somewhere a lot nicer?" She asks. Your eyes drift down. Dr. Carte is naked below the waist and her perfectly trimmed pussy is on full view. A downy patch of hair above the hood leads to a pair of drooling lips, a tight hole just begging to get packed full of cock and fucked full of hot cum. This is another thing Dr. Carte has quickly grown attached to, the bliss of getting cummed inside -- the sensation of your expanding cockhead spewing its seed in her. So now she climbs onto the bed, and rears back onto her tailbone, and spreads her legs just as wide as they'll go.
 
"Fuck me," she says. "Get on top of me and fuck me stupid. Right now."
 
Your balls aching for release, you have no choice but to comply. You crawl to her on your knees and prepare to mount her. Even from a distance you can feel the heat, the womanly need emanating from her overstimulated cunt. Half blind with lust, you desperately rub the bulbous head of your prick up and down over her sopping outer lips until you find the hole at last. You surge home, glutes tightening like a rock as you force your horny cock up into her. The overwhelming heat and tightness of it causes you to fall forward, laying atop her in a true missionary position. And now she locks her legs around you, hooking her ankles about your waist so there is no getting away. Pulling you ever closer, humping back against you to wedge your cock even further inside, she loops her fingers around the back of your head, and draws you into a wanton tongue kiss.
 
"Ahhn~" She coos against your lips every time you drive your dick into her, swimming in an ocean of pleasure. "Ahhhn~" It's hard to believe a woman of her age can make such cute, girly noises. Or that she could have a pussy this tight and this wonderfully inviting. You'd cum inside her any day.
 
"Do you like my pussy, Alabaster?" she says with a husky voice. "Do you like fucking my pussy?"
 
You trade a series of hot, searching kisses before answering through a gulp of air: "Yes... fuck, yes..."
 
She pulls her face forward, and brushes her still wet cheek against your ear. Whispering directly into your eardrum in a way that sends electric chills down the side of your body, she demands: "Do you like my pussy better than Whitney's?"
 
You can't answer that, but the way you frantically plunge into her quivering cunt over and over, faster and faster, is an answer all its own. She knows she's got you, she knows you need her pussy for release. She giggles again, that mischievous giggle of hers. Twirling a finger through your unkempt hair, she bites your earlobe to elicit another shudder from you. Then she whispers once more: "I won't tell. It'll be our little secret~"
 
"Dr. Carte... I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."
 
Her voice is like silk and she begs, still whispering, "Yes... yes! Cum inside me, PLEASE cum inside me, Alabaster."
 
The bed squeaks beneath you and the bedframe thumps hard into the floor as you drive into her at a mad pace, your hips a blur as you work towards that final peak. Dr. Carte continue to encourage you, coaxing your load out: "You can always cum inside me... whenever you get sick of cumming inside those little girls you play with, and you need a woman to help relieve you... my pussy belongs to you..."
 
If she wants it so bad, she can have it. You shout in ecstasy, nestle your cock as deep as possible and let go of your load. Thickly you squirt your jizz into her, squirt after noisy, squelchy squirt, filling her with it, making her into your cum-toilet. Dr. Carte's mouth turns into a wide O as she looses a silent scream of her own and gets off all over your cumming dick. She loves nothing more than getting seeded by you, it seems, the gooey heat and pressure of it, the deep hot internal sensation of your sperm hosing down her interior walls. It always sends her over the edge. Getting fucked raw and pumped with hot cock juice is her favorite thing in the world; now you know where Whitney gets it.

>11:19 PM

"Who invented the telegraph?"

"Samuel Morse. Duh. It's called Morse code for a reason."

"What state was US President Gerald Ford from?"

"Nebraska... Omaha, specifically. Do you have any hard questions for me or do you just assume I'm too stupid for them."

"Don't get mouthy with me, young man." Dr. Carte wiggles a bit in your lap to get more comfy, cracks the trivia almanac again, and continues. "Lowering global temperatures by up to 1.2 degress Celsius, what year was the Krakatoa eruption?"

"1883. You're leaking cum on my thigh."

"And whose fault is that?" She boops your nose with a slender index finger.

"Yours. It's your fault. You're the one who wanted to sit in my lap."

She tosses the almanac aside. "Fine. Maybe I'll just take my lap-sits and give them to someone who'll be more appreciative."

"Yeah right. Who else can you find who'd be half as good a partner as me for bar trivia?"

She frowns. "You are such an arrogant prick."

You draw her in a semicircle so she's facing you. You lean forward and rub your nose against hers: an Eskimo kiss. Obviously surprised, her cheeks flush deeply and her eyes bug out.

"You're one to talk, huh?" You say. "You're so competitive that you even compete to have the best pussy."

"W-well--!" She sputters. "That's obvious! My pussy is the best!"

"I'm sure you've got a spreadsheet tracking average time-to-orgasm so you can prove it."

"No I don't!" She insists, so quickly, and with such vehemence, that you actually begin to suspect your joke might have hit on the truth.

"Well you're making a mess in my lap, so maybe we can take this conversation to the shower."

She smiles. 

>11:47 PM

The bathroom is practically a sauna; your shower has dragged on and on. You long ago finished soaping each other off -- and then fucked again -- and cleaned each other again. Now, strange sight: you sit facing one another on the steamy floor of the shower and let the stream wash over you as Dr. Carte lazily lobs trivia questions at you from her own memory.

"Third man on the moon?"

"Pete Conrad."

"SI base units of the Poise?"

"Uhh... let me think." You do some quick dimensional analysis in your brain. "Kilogram per meter-second."

"Too slow. Way too slow. You're going to lose the game for us if you're that slow on Thursday."

"Jesus," you say. "First of all, it's gotta be close to midnight. Second of all, I just ejaculated twice. Third of all--"

She pounds a wet fist against a wet palm. "No excuses!"

"Fine. Now it's your turn. Who directed the Tom Hanks comedy film Big?"

She interlaces her hands behind her head, shrugging and grinning smugly. "Penny Marshall. My youthful beauty must have made you forget that I was a kid when that movie came out. I'll forgive you, of course. But you're asking about a seminal part of my childhood here. Can't you come up with anything more difficult?"

You shift forward, trying to prod at what you assume will be a weak point: "Who holds the record for most points scored in a single NBA game?"

"Wilt Chamberlain. That's way too easy, Alabaster. Not all of us are mentally deficient when it comes to sports."

You shove her, and she shoves you back, and it devolves into a playful little tussle beneath the flowing water, with you somehow ending up atop her, as she gasps for breath between her fits of laughter, and you force a series of Eskimo kisses upon her that she weakly tries to fend off.

>12:49 AM

Sitting in towels on Dr. Carte's couch with her, you feel a little sorry for how humbly she lives. Her place is spartan and small. She could live with you and Whitney -- Whitney has offered, many times -- but Dr. Carte doesn't want to be a bother.

She's finally beginning to get a little sleepy herself, although frustratingly, you still haven't found a question that will stump her. She's right: as a duo, you'll knock 'em dead at trivia night.

Drooping against your shoulder, and beginning to slowly doze, she mutters: "shall we... call it a night?"

>[x] Stay here.
[ ] Go home to Whitney.
[ ] Go home to Rose.
[ ] Go home to Cerise.

You gently lay Dr. Carte in her bed so she can be more comfortable. Of course the sheets are covered in wet spots and the room still stinks of raw sex, but at least she'll be warm. You debate whether to drive all the way back home or not -- you're pretty sleepy too and you're already not going to have much time for rest as it is. Being a working stiff has its downsides.
 
Dr. Carte, mumbling, decides the issue for you:
 
"Alabaster... have you ever had sex with a sleeping woman?"
 
You arch an eyebrow as you stare at her supine form, naked save for the plain white terrycloth wrapped around her body and barely concealing her enormous tits.
 
This is one of those "depends on what the definition of 'is' is" kind of questions, because you've certainly fucked Rose to the point of passing out and kept going, but does that count as having sex with a sleeping woman? This proposition feels different.
 
"You can do it, if you want..." she says, dreamy smile on her lips. "I won't mind."
 
You crawl into bed with her. If this is what she really wants, you'll oblige her. And you'll do it right. Which begins with denying that you have any unseemly intentions at all: "I'd rather just get some sleep. You wrung me dry already."
 
"Mm... that's too bad..."
 
You wrap your arms around her and cuddle up. She's incredibly warm, and incredibly soft, and makes for a great hug pillow.
 
"If you change your mind, just go ahead," she murmurs, and this is the last thing she says. Even though it takes very little time for her to pass into dreamland, you're fighting exhaustion yourself, and your eyes burn with the effort of staying open. Of course, with a standing offer to have sex, sleep will have to wait.
 
Once Dr. Carte's jet engine snoring leaves no room for doubt that she's well and truly asleep -- so ladylike -- you begin.
 
First you unknot the towel where it's secured around her side, and let it unfurl softly on the mattress. Her tit meat, no longer constricted, springs out, the soft and spongy orbs jiggling in the light of the moon.
 
Dr. Carte stirs, and her snoring catches, but she doesn't wake up. Undetected for now, you reach down and fondle her. You have no inhibitions and don't bother to worry about whether or not this will rouse her. She said you can have your way with her, so you will.
 
As you molest her prodigious breasts, enjoying their give and their soft texture in your palm, the way you can press down on them and feel like your whole hand is getting swallowed up -- you reach back with your other hand and undo your towel, too. Fully naked, you spoon up against her and rub your rapidly hardening dick against her ass. As with her tits, Dr. Carte's ass is thick and wonderfully soft, and the globes of them wobble like jello when you hump against her. She's all flesh, warm and springy and so nice against your prick.
 
Dr. Carte may be snoozing, but her body is perfectly well aware of the liberties you're taking with it. Her nipples harden against the heel of your groping palm, and you can feel her pussy heating up. Even in her sleep, this woman is hot for your cock.
 
You tenderly raise her thigh, just enough to give you the space to jut your prick in between her legs and get it wedged against her pussy. The soft hair of Dr. Carte's landing strip tickles you, and this strange sensation teases your cock to its full hardness.
 
The sticky lips of her vulva hug your shaft and ooze against it, as if to say on Dr. Carte's behalf: "please fuck me!" Not just her cunt but her entire body is getting hot now, beginning to sweat and flush. She's like a bunny going into estrus.
 
By some sort of autonomic reflex, Dr. Carte's thighs tense as you slide your dick back and forth against them. Her sweat and natural wetness make them slick and the clenching of her muscles makes them tight: it's the next best thing to fucking her for real. But why settle for the next best thing when you can actually fuck her, free of guilt? You rear back all the way now and find the sultry opening of her slit. In this position, she's even tighter than usual, and you have to really push to get yourself seated inside her.
 
Good things never last, and Dr. Carte's ignorance of what you're doing to her comes to an end as your cockhead spreads her vagina open, and you groan in satisfaction.
 
"Mmmh~" she mumbles, coming to, "are you... oh... ohhh... ahhhn..."
 
Her chin presses against her collarbone. She lets out a long sigh as she adjusts to your prick sliding into her.
 
"That feels..." she says, still dazed with tiredness, "that feels... reeeally good... keep... keep going..." Her voice drawls and she seems about to fall asleep again even as she says this.
 
You hug her against you and hump her with abandon. Awake, asleep, you don't care: you just need to fuck. Her hole is perfectly hot and wet and tight, whether she's conscious or not.
 
The only sound in the room is the slick noise of your cock sliding in and out of Dr. Carte, and your little gasping breaths of enjoyment as you screw her. She really does seem to have fallen asleep again. You rest your face on hers, get some payback for earlier. You whisper directly into her ear: "I'm gonna cum inside you."
 
"Mmmhhh... what's that? ... cum...? Okay... go ahead, Alabaster."
 
She nuzzles your cheek lovingly and wags her hips a little. You grip her even tighter, arms around her tummy, and really give it to her. The force of your fucking, the raw slapping of your crotch against her butt, the wet sluicing of your mated genitals as they make another mess, keeps her semi-awake. She coos contentedly while you stuff her with your cock. Mumbling, more to herself than anything, she repeats: "cum... mmm, cum... mmm... cum..."
 
Even though you've shot two loads quite recently, the load you blow up Dr. Carte's cunt now is the biggest yet. Something about the situation, and the position, really drives you wild, and your orgasm seems to stretch to infinity as you fire of blast after searing blast into her welcoming body. Maybe she's right and her pussy really is the best. You can't get enough of its rippling folds, its wet heat, and how it seems to suck on your cock like a mouth sucking a lollipop whenever you nut in it. Her pretty cunt literally sucks your semen out of your body as you fill her up. An orgasm that tremendous and mind-melting is hard for even you to withstand; and within moments, you're nodding off, too.

At work the following morning, Whitney scrutinizes you with suspicion as you pass by the security check. You and Dr. Carte are both looking a little bedraggled after everything last night -- that combined with the fact that you're coming in together, makes it easy for Whitney to understand what happened.

"Long night?" she says, arms folded.

"Uh, yeah," you say. "We were practicing for bar trivia... you know..."

Whitney glances over at her mother, unamused. Dr. Carte, much more amused, winks. "We drilled all night long."

"Uh huh," Whitney says. "Go ahead. Rub it in."

"Don't be jealous, honey," Dr. Carte says. "You know his heart belongs to you even if I have a little fun with him from time to time..."

"Well," Whitney tells you, "since you so rudely decided to have an unscheduled sleepover with the old woman here, again, I was forced to use Rose AGAIN. And I don't know what's gotten into your cousin--

"--Once re--"

"--OnCe ReMoVeD--" Whitney cuts in mockingly. "--But she keeps wanting to have your sister watch us. Which is wild, and I think you'd appreciate it, but noooo. Have to go and fuck Miss Universe 1905 over here instead."

"I'll make it up to you," you say.

"You definitely will, because if you spend another night at my mom's place, I'm busting down the door." She continues as you and Dr. Carte follow her towards the elevators: "So since you're late -- and I'm docking your pay for that, by the way, both of you -- you haven't heard the good news."

"Which is what?" You say.

"Cerise is back. She decided to come to work again. Dunno why but she even volunteered to work with Rose. Imagine that. Watch out that your sister and your cousin ONCE REMOVED don't cuck you, now."

Dr. Carte shares a serious look with you. Whitney doesn't know yet how dangerous this could really be.

>[x] Tell her.
[ ] Keep it under wraps for now.  

You sit with Whitney at a picnic table under the shade of a stately ash tree, one of many dotting the campus outside Darkbloom Analytics.

"So it's like that," she says.

You nod.

"When were you going to tell me?" She says. "Fuck. I've been living in the same house as... as HIM all this time..."

Dr. Carte lays a hand on her shoulder. "I'll fix it, but... I need to make sure I do it right. I don't want to rush anything, or make any mistakes... if only I could get in touch with my old research partner, I might have a little more confidence in trying to remove the implant again."

"So...?" Whitney says. "Where is the asshole?"

"I wish I knew. He disappeared right before I -- went to jail."

"I'll find him," Whitney says. "What's his name?"

Dr. Carte tells her. You're a little disturbed by the prospect of Whitney running off half-cocked in search of this man, but she brushes off your concern. "You fags can't do anything on your own. Leave it to me. I'll find him. And then we'll fix Cerise."

"Don't do anything without telling me," you say.

"Of course," Whitney says. "You'd do the same thing for me."

You catch the note of sarcasm there.

Since now seems to be the time to come clean, you really come clean: you tell her about Camelia and Mom, too -- the false memories, everything. Whitney is reluctant to believe you, but you bring her around.

"My dad, your mom... fuckin' Camelia..." Whitney rubs her forehead, struggling to grasp it all, which isn't a ding on her intelligence. You're equally struggling to grasp it. "This world is fuckin' crazy."

When her eyes meet yours again, they're damp, but she's keeping herself from shedding any tears by sheer force of will.

"I thought we were all happy again, you know?" She says with a slight tremble to her voice.

"We will be," you say.

"I hope so..." she sniffles, looks around, jostles her legs. "Hey... if Mrs. Soliloquy really is alive... wow. I missed her cooking. So much. Well... her desserts. Bring her around sometime, huh?"

You'd like to, but it's been over a week with radio silence on her part. You think, if she really did recognize you, she may be too freaked out. And you still aren't sure how to proceed with a woman who half believes she's someone else, and half believes she's your mother. 

---

"We're not gonna let this shit rain on our parade," Whitney says, putting her game face on again as you stroll back inside. "Make sure you eat a big lunch, 'kay Ally?"

"I usually do," you say. "Why is it more important today than--"

"You ARE ready, right?" Whitney says, stopping, wheeling to face you.

"Uh."

"The tournament?" She raises her eyebrows and fixes you with a confused look. "Did you forget? It's today, 2 PM."

Fuck.

The 2nd Annual Darkbloom Tennis Invitational. It's Whitney's queer attempt at an employee engagement exercise: forcing a bunch of tech dweebs to play tennis against each other. The first one was a spectacular failure, having been conducted during the chaos and fragility of her first couple months as CEO. It ended with a fistfight between the winning doubles team and the runners-up, not over the outcome of the match, but over how the prize money was going to get split. Everyone back then expected to be out of a job within a few days.

"I haven't checked the sign-up sheets yet," Whitney says. "Who'd you pick for your doubles partner?"

You narrow your eyes at her. "That's -- a secret," you say.

"Bwahaha. Fine. Be all mysterious, then. See you in court!"

"On court."

She sticks her tongue out at you.

The truth, of course, is you completely forgot to sign up. And you hope the sign-up sheets are still posted on the bulletin board in the cafeteria, otherwise Whitney's delicate mood could sour again.

You rush to the cafeteria, and find the sheets still there, thank god. Grabbing a pencil, you look for the name of someone you know who doesn't have a doubles partner yet. You find one:

[ ] Rose
[ ] Alex
>[x] Kay 

It's between her and Trenton McAllister, the marketing beanpole who you know by proxy through his friendship with Rose2. He's often in the theater area, watching anime with her and the rest of those rejects. He's about 90 pounds wet and 6'2" or something, and at age 25 still has a gnarly case of acne; how he can succeed in marketing is anyone's guess. Kay and Trenton are the only two people who don't have a partner to play with yet. Since you'd rather hang yourself than spend time interacting with Trenton, you have to bite the bullet -- for Whitney's sake -- and tether yourself to intrepid reporter Kay Vera.

Something else on the sign-up sheet catches your eye, though, and since you feel the need to check on Cerise anyway, you head up to Rose's office.

"Alex?" You say. "How did you convince Alex to partner with you?"

Alex is here, across the office, far enough away that you can carry on a hushed interrogation of Rose without him overhearing. He's already wearing his gym clothes, ready to play. He's having a carefree conversation with Cerise about the future of her circuit-bending livestream. He still really wants to be her patron, it seems.

"If you'll recall, I offered to partner up with you," Rose says. "But of course you stood me up."

"Don't change the subject. I've been trying to drag him out of his office for weeks. What gives? Why are you the Alex whisperer all of a sudden?"

"Maybe it's because I treat Alex like a human and not a set of holes to cum in."

"Oh? Is that why you went to town on him with your strap-on the other week?"

"Don't change the subject."

"This isn't about being nice to Alex, is it -- you know Alex played on the varsity tennis team when he was in high school, don't you."

Rose perches her chin on tented fingers. "I play to win, after all."

"Well you're in for a surprise," you tell her. "I'm gonna fuck you up. I'm gonna beat you AND Alex into the ground, and when I'm done, I'll take out my dick and pis-- hi, Mrs. Mallory!"

You spin on your heels as she walks up.

"Am I... interrupting something?"

"No," you say. You notice that she too is all decked out for athletic activity -- and Saul, entering the office now, is as well. Of course they teamed up.

"You're not interrupting anything at all, mom," Rose says, pushing her chair back, standing. "I was simply explaining to Alabaster how I'm going to humiliate him on the tennis court today."

"Right," you say. "And I was explaining to Rose how she's wrong, as usual."

Rose snaps her fingers, beckoning for Alex like a mistress beckoning a puppy. "I have to go get ready," she announces. "Enough of this."

Saul and Cerise discuss the details of the pending interview with Noelle, later today; there was no putting it off any longer once Cerise returned to work.

Meanwhile, Charlotte watches her daughter depart.

She turns to you. "She reminds me so much of myself as a young girl."

"She still reminds me of you," you say. "Actually, I get the two of you mixed up all the time."

You never resist the chance to flatter her -- with Charlotte, flattery goes far.

"Alabaster, it's rude to lie to your elders~"

"That's why I don't lie to you, Mrs. Mallory."

"After all this time -- you can call me mom, you know."

You nod, but don't reply to that. You weren't ready for that before, and you certainly aren't now, with the recent circumstances.

"I know she's a handful," Charlotte is saying, "but please, have patience. She's at that age..."

She pauses, thinking, and recounts an anecdote: "when I was in college -- of course, Rose isn't going to finish school, even though I think you both should--" (she pauses again to give you a displeased look) "-- well, anyway, it seemed like every little thing was the most important thing in the world. Every conversation, every interaction, was another blow to strike against the system."

"Yep," you say. Sounds familiar.

"You might not believe it, but I was as much of a firebrand as Rose. Did I ever tell you how I met Saul?" You shake your head, so she fills you in: "Law school. This was back when the 'no means no' campaign really took off -- my sorority sisters and I were doing some different events and pamphleteering with that as a slogan, you know. Well Saul ran the school's humor bulletin at the time... and he published an article where he said that no means yes and yes means anal."

You nearly choke, on nothing.

"Crass, I know. So I marched straight over to his dorm to ream him a new one and explain exactly how horrible he was being. I wasn't going to let a misogynistic prig like him get away with that. Well after about an hour of lecturing him on the seriousness of sexual violence and how awful it is to joke about, he asked me on a date!"

"And you actually agreed?" You say.

"Well..." she winks. "I didn't say no."

You do choke this time.

"But only to keep an eye on him, obviously. Not because I liked him. I just needed to make sure this chauvinist ass knew exactly who he was dealing with... to teach him a little respect. To show him I wasn't some dumb little girl he could mess with."

"So what changed, then?"

She puts a contemplative finger to her chin. "Nothing at all," she finally says with a smile. 

Alone again with Cerise, you tell her about letting Whitney in on everything.

"When are you going to bring Mrs. Catachresis over?" Cerise asks. "I'd like to see her for myself... if she really is mom..."

"I'll reach out to her soon. I don't want to scare her off for good." There's an awkward pause, and you finally say: "hey, by the way. You should have told me you were coming back to work."

"Sorry. It was a spur of the moment kinda thing. I was sitting around last night, thinking about going back to being a NEET and I just about wanted to puke. It's the weirdest thing. I actually... actually kinda want to have a job?"

They grow up so fast.

You shrug. "Since you're here anyway... want watch me grind Rose into dust?"

"Of course. I'll have a front row seat."

"Alex is going to be collateral damage, sad to say... but that can't be helped. He shouldn't have partnered up with satan."

"And who did you partner with?"

"Ah--"

"You! There you are." You turn: it's Kay. 

"Just where do you get off?" Kay demands.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me! Why did you sign up as my partner? Did I ask you to be my partner?"

"Well, you didn't have one. So."

"Exactly! That was by design!"

"It's a doubles tournament, Kay. Doubles. Two. Partners. Do you understand this concept, or...?"

"I understand it perfectly well! I didn't want a partner!"

"You wanted to enter a doubles tennis tournament as a single."

"Yes! Exactly!"

"Well it's too late to take it back now," you say. "Besides, unpaired sign-ups get forced together. Would you rather play with Trenton McAllister?"

Kay's eyes dart around inside her head as she scans her mental banks trying to place the name.

You prompt her: "Marketing guy. Skinny. Acne."

"Oh god," she says.

"Right. So. Take your pick."

She folds her arms and stares at the ground, tapping her foot, deliberating.

"You cannot seriously be--" you begin.

"Shut up! I'm thinking!"

"Fuck's sake, Kay. If you're going to be like that, I'll have Whitney un-sign me up and let you pair with Trent McHalitosis after all. It doesn't matter dick to me either way."

"No," Kay says. "No -- you'll do."

"Gee, thanks. I'll do. Hear that, Cerise? I'll do."

"You don't even work here," Cerise says. "How the fuck did you get into the tournament?"

"The key to everything," Kay tells her, "is acting like you belong. If you can convince people you deserve to be there, then you do. Simple as that."

"You are something else," you tell her. "I seriously don't understand how no one has kicked you out of the building yet."

"You don't have to understand," Kay says. "And you don't have to play tennis either. Just stay out of my way on the court. If you can manage that, I'll carry you to victory." 

Lucky for you, you keep a pair of workout clothes in a locker down by the saunas. Not that it ever gets much use -- at one time, Whitney had cajoled you into starting an exercise routine at the gym here, but you quickly fell off that wagon.

You go and change. On an empty stomach, with no time to warm up or otherwise prepare (not that you would actually know how to go about that), you head for the tennis courts behind the campus of Darkbloom Analytics. Whitney has rented them out for the day, all 6 of them. Your first match is scheduled for the second cohort, which leaves you with time to observe another set of teams playing first.

[ ] Trenton McAllister & (empty) vs. Steven Armstrong & Nelson Berenstoin
>[x] Fazil Çatalhöyük & Takagawa Kenichi vs. Whitney Darkbloom & Makoto Kikuchi
>[x] Rose Mallory & Alex Best vs. Rose Catachresis & Boyd Stackleford 

In a dainty pleated skirt, with leggings, tanktop and a visor, Makoto is the very picture of toned athletic beauty; she could be a model for a sportswear catalog. Her form, to your admittedly untrained eye, seems perfect as she stands rigid at the back half of the court, one arm extended directly in front of her with the elbow locked, holding the tennis ball. The first serve belongs to her.

"We're gonna rock your faces, bot-boy!" Whitney shouts over the net at Kenichi, preferred name Ken Smith.

"I reckon them's fighting words," Ken replies.

Makoto bounces the ball, once, twice. With a majestic arch of her back, she tosses it into the air, brings her racket-arm up, then down again in a graceful arc, and... she whiffs it. She misses the ball completely. As her arm completes its arc and the racket softly whumpfs down on nothing at all, coming to a rest parallel with her body -- she totters, off balance, the hand that held the ball still held aloft. She wobbles on one foot, nearly falling over. When she finally rights herself again, she stays in place like that, with her racket-arm in front of her, and her other arm held high, frozen in place by the surprise of missing the serve.

The ball rolls uselessly behind her, towards the bleachers at the rear. A ballboy runs up and hands it back to her. When he returns to his spot across the court, the ref in the tall chair at court-side says: "Service fault!"

Makoto blinks confusedly.

"That's okay!" Whitney says. "Try again, babe! You got this!"

Makoto bounces the ball the exact same way -- once, twice -- and then again with that truly stunning arch of the back, the forceful swing of her arm. A beautiful study in the grace the human body is capable of. And with exactly the same result. She misses.

"Double fault!" The ref says. "Point receiver. Love-15."

"Okay, baby!" Whitney says. "Head in the game now! Let's do this!"

Cerise, sitting beside you, covers her face. "I can't watch," she says.

It's a wise decision. Makoto faults eight times in a row. The first game goes to Fazil and Ken without them having to swing their rackets even once.

As they prepare to begin the next game, Whitney's positivity is about at its limit. She walks over to Makoto, shouting. "You said you were good at tennis!"

"I am good at tennis," Makoto says.

"Bullshit! You can't even hit the fucking ball! What the fuck! You have to HIT THE BALL to be good at tennis, Kimochi!"

"I will do my best!"

"Fuck your best, bitch! Hit the goddamn ball, you slanty-eyed cunt!"

Sitting in the bleachers up and to your left, Chalmers just about goes into conniptions. 

"She's boned," Cerise says. "Guess partnering up with a J-pop idol is a bad idea for anything that isn't J-pop."

And Cerise is right. Fazil -- wearing his goddamn fez, which somehow stays perfectly perched atop his skull while he plays -- sends a shot blazing down the edge of center court to Makoto, who receives first. You wouldn't have guessed it, but Fazil is clearly a practiced player. Maybe tennis is a popular pastime in Turkey.

And Makoto -- poor Makoto -- seeing the ball rushing towards her, turns, and squats, and curls up into a sort of fetal position to shield herself.

"FUCK!" Whitney wails when the ball bounces right past Makoto and the point goes to the other team.

On Whitney's turn to receive, she actually manages to get a volley going. Soccer isn't analogous whatsoever to tennis but apparently some basic skills carry over, because she's coordinated, with great form, and follows the ball with poise. Which is just as well because Makoto, on the other half of the court, near the net, is cowering again. Whitney carries the volley all on her own, nearly taking the point off of Fazil and Ken. But like Fazil, Ken also has surprising skill, and finally he lands a spike to the court side opposite Whitney that she can't catch. Clutching her knees, wheezing, Whitney curses with such creativity and such force that you're sincerely impressed.

"Please do not terminate our employment!" Fazil says. "Is all fun and a game, yes? Yes?"

"Go to hell, asshole! You and your little red hat too! Say one more word and I'll deport your fuckin' ass!"

"We will take care of these varmints real nice and quick-like," Ken tells Fazil.

Fazil is worried. "Please do not antagonize the opposing team. It is unsportsmanlike, and also, a threat to future earnings."

Not that it matters. The game quickly devolves into a blowout. Whitney manages to score a couple points but without the help of her partner -- with her partner, in fact, getting in the way and taking more than a couple balls to the face, with tiny little squeals and oofs (you really do feel bad for her), not to mention automatically losing the point each time she receives -- it's hopeless.

By the time Whitney begins to chase a terrorized Makoto around the court with her racket like a maniac wielding an axe, you and Cerise have both seen enough, and decide to visit the next court over to see how the match there is progressing. 

The game there is much more competitive. Not for the contributions of Rose and Rose: The Revenge to their respective teams. Mostly the volleys seem to be between a shockingly agile Stackleford and an equally agile -- and viciously competitive -- Alex. The two Roses kind of hang back on the rear halves of the court, not doing much of anything except staring daggers.

Except for when it comes time for Rose2 to serve to her opposite number. In an embarrassing mirror of Makoto's incompetence, Rose2 faults the first attempt, missing the ball completely. But it's not a total repeat; because noticing you in the bleachers seems to give her a second breath of wind.

She waves happily at you: "Ally~!"

Alex and Rose glance back at where you sit. Alex waves, too. "Hey there!" He says. "Nice day, huh? This is so fun!"

It's way too hot for this day to qualify as nice -- you're sweating like a hog before your first game even begins. You pull your collar out and let it snap back repeatedly, to cool your body.

"Don't kill yourself spectating--" Rose begins, but she can't finish the thought because the ball is sailing clean past her head.

"15-Love!" The ref calls.

Rose2 served to her while she was distracted.

Turning, Rose growls: "oh, you cunt. You're dead. You hear me? Dead."

Even more surprising is Alex's reaction. "Dead?" He sputters. "Death is too good for this cheating skank!"

"Heh... sorry," Rose2 says, rubbing the back of her head. "I didn't realize!"

On the next serve, Rose returns the ball with ease -- you're surprised that she can even hit the thing -- and Rose2 swats it back. Has your presence injected new energy into the match? Rose and Rose2, one in her plain white athletic wear, the other in her ridiculous neon pink frilled skirt and purple tanktop -- get closer and closer to the net with every hit. Soon they've entered into a rapid back-and-forth right at the net's edge that leaves Alex and Stackleford to merely gawk.

Whap-whap, whap-whap -- the two girls are practically on top of each other, batting the the ball across the mere inches that separate them, and at blazing speed. But there is a victor when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, after all; Rose2 jumps up, lands a dazzling spike, and nails Rose square in the face. Toppling to her butt, she covers her nose, which is leaking blood like a seive already.

"Aw geez!" Rose2 cries. "Whoops! I'm such a klutz. A-durr."

"30-Love!" the ref announces.

Alex helps Rose to her feet and glowers at his opponents. "You're going to regret that!" He warns them.

"Hey now," Stackleford says. "It was an accident. Don't get all--"

"Fuck you!" Alex screams.

This is going to be ugly. 

Rose gets gauze stuffed up either nostril by the nurse, and the ref asks if she would like to quit. Whatever Rose says in response, you can't hear, but it clearly scares the poor guy. He scurries back to his chair at court-side.

"The twink and the harpy look real mad now."

You turn. Out of nowhere, Kay has appeared at your side.

"I don't think mad comes even close to capturing it," you say.

"If they make it through their bracket, we'll face them in the finals. I'm a little concerned."

"Don't be. They're pushovers. They're just up against even bigger pushovers right now."

"You're fucking both of them, right?" Kay asks.

"Uh--"

"Can you maybe fuck them happy again before we have to play them, if it comes to that?"

"I'll consider it," you say.

Perhaps as an act of revenge, Alex seems purposefully to aim a lobbed ball at Stackleford. And though it doesn't hit him with quite the force that Rose2's spike hit Rose, it still bowls Stackleford over. He howls in pain, rubbing his thigh where the ball smacked him.

Rose2, helping him up, is not nearly as concerned for his well-being as Alex was for Rose. "Come on, Stacks. Don't get hit."

"S-sorry," he says.

"Don't be sorry! Just don't get hit. We lose points when you get hit."

"Y-yeah."

Rose2 returns to her side of the court to receive the serve. She doesn't get turned around again before: payback. Rose scores a service ace while Rose2 has her back turned. The wake the ball leaves behind ruffles Rose2's hair like a gentle gust of wind.

Turning, smiling, Rose2 cocks her head. "That was kinda silly of you!" She says.

"Go fuck yourself," Rose replies.

The next serve brings another savage volley with both girls right on top of the net. Rose, face still streaked brown with dried blood, isn't going to yield. This time she spikes the ball, and nails Rose2, right in her forehead. You swear you hear a hollow echo. The welt it leaves behind is angry red and throbbing already as Rose2 lays out flat on her back on the baking blue court.

Tit for tat. A service ace while distracted, followed by a spike to the head. Rose grins smugly. Alex high-fives her.

"Angel!" Stackleford cries, rushing over, to grab Rose2's hand.

She swats him away. "Get off, Stacks." She sits up now, rising to her butt, woozy. She rubs her noggin. "Aw fuck," she says, maybe the first time you've ever heard her curse aside from that encounter in the karaoke booth.

She looks up at Rose. "I'm sorry, but that really felt like it was on purpose just now!"

"It was," Rose says.

Rose2 smiles. "Well then... if you want to break the buddy code, we can break the buddy code..." 

Tennis as bloodsport is enthralling. By the time the next couple sets have ended, three of the four players are badly bruised, and battered, and bleeding. It obviously took Stackleford longer than anyone else to catch on to the fact that the players were deliberately trying to hit each other with the ball, and when he began to take aim at Alex, Alex turned out to be far more deft than Stackleford's lumbering attempts at unsportsmanlike conduct could overcome. So while Rose and Rose2 beat each other bloody by proxy with the tennis ball, and Alex lands blow after blow on Stackleford -- Alex himself gets away cleanly, dodging the ball again and again, even saving Rose from a few hits with some truly impressive dives.

"You gotta help me out here, Stacks--" Rose2 begins, swaying. "Stop getting hit."

"I'm sorry... I think they're aiming for us on purpose..."

"Yeah!" Rose2 says, the veneer of patience wearing perilously thin. "Yeah, Stacks! They are! Stop getting hit!"

"B-but -- you -- I mean -- y-you too--"

She shoves him. Through her fat lip, she slurs: "Don't messh with me!"

"Rose is going to come out of this match retarded," Cerise muses. "And Rose2 will come out of it... uh, even retarded-er."

"This... this is good for us," Kay says, nodding. "I like this. Let them fight."

"I'm... I'm... I'm sorry!" Stackleford pleads. He's crying. "I don't wanna see you get hurt anymore! Can't we just be nice?"

"Be nice," Rose2 says, sauntering up, gripping him by his collar, "by not getting hit."

Stackleford nods. She steps back and says, "Instead, hit her." She points the racket at Rose. Another first: the first time Rose2 has ever directly admitted to aggression against Rose.

Stackleford glances across the court at Rose. But of course, his crush on Rose is older than time at this point, a legendarily hopeless and one-sided pining -- he's been obsessed with her ever since prom. When Rose, black-eyed, lip busted, hair a mess, sneers back at him, he breaks. He rushes from the court, sobbing.

"Stacks!" Rose2 calls. "Oh, for the love of--"

Through the pain, Rose manages to smile. Sweet victory.

"That's a forfeit!" Alex says. He looks up at the ref. "They forfeited just now!"

The ref agrees. Rose2, with a savage scream of pure frustration you had no idea she was capable of, snaps her racket over her knee, tosses it, and stomps away. 

Your first match is against Tyrus and Spancer. Just great: you're up against brick shithouse 1 and brick shithouse 2, right off the bat.

Beforehand, Kay takes a few moments to stretch. She goes to one foot and grips the tip of her shoe in her hand. Like this she forms basically a perfect circle: her arched back, bent leg and arm. She repeats this process with the other leg. Fucking Dhalsim over here. Years of yoga have made her impossibly limber.

Whitney, still smarting from her early elimination, catches up with Tyrus on the court right before the match begins.

"I need your help, Tyrus. This N word thing is getting out of control. You have to tell the people from the news that I have the N word pass."

"I don't speak on behalf of all black people everywhere. Shit."

"That doesn't matter. I just need some cover on this N word thing, that's all."

"Stop calling it the N word thing. And you don't have the pass. I'm not gonna go and tell the media that you've got a pass on that word."

"I don't want to actually use it! I'm only asking for it so that people stop bitching at me. Just because I MIGHT have used it in the past! It's bullshit!"

"That sounds like a personal problem to me, Nightmare." After all this time, he still uses that nickname for her -- you're glad. It seems like a mark of respect.

"Look. If you're so worried about it, maybe say that I had the pass when I was younger but it's expired now. Everybody wins."

"Bitch, why the fuck would you ever have a pass on saying nigger."

"I'm cool with you guys. For real. Lots of my friends are black!"

"Name one black friend you've got."

"You."

"Besides me, motherfucker. Jesus."

"That's not important!" Whitney stomps. "Just give me the fucking pass, Tyrus, goddamn it!"

The ref is blowing into his whistle, signaling for her to get off the court. "We'll finish this later," she tells him.

"Pfft. Maybe never."

Kay, all warmed up now, sidles up to you. "Remember what I said about staying out of my way."

"I don't know what the fuck you expect to accomplish against two guys who pretty much take up the entire width of the court just standing there."

"I expect to win," Kay says, smiling up at you.

She's confident, but by way too much. A tiny little woman like her up against these two guys is going to have her work cut out for her no matter how good she is at the game.

[ ] Help her out.
>[x] Stay out of her way. 

Spancer serves first. He holds his torso stock-still during the serve, his arms moving with the unmerciful force and inhuman precision of robotic assembly machines at an automotive plant. The ball is a neon yellow blur that you instantly lose track of in the glare of the high August sun. But Kay somehow keeps on top of it. Pivoting, her sneakers squeaking on the hardcourt, she smacks the ball just after its first bounce. As her racket makes contact, Kay screams: "HAAAAHHH!"

The ball swerves, against all known laws of inertia, in a 180 degree arc that sends it in the direction of Tyrus who stands directly opposite. Tyrus is surprised to have the ball sliced at at him and scrambles to intercept it. He does, just barely, the ball rolling off the edge of his racket and slowly caroming at a near-vertical angle. It clears the net on your half of the court -- you're standing only inches from where it lands -- but Kay told you to keep away, so you do. Instead of moving towards the falling ball to hit it, which even you most certainly could, you step back. And good thing, too, because Kay has already covered the distance from the other side of the court and now she's jumping in front of you, catching the ball at the very apex of its bounce, spiking it with obscene strength.

"HAAAHHH!" She grunts, the noise blending with the nails-on-chalkboard echo of her sneakers squealing as they leave the ground.

At the rear of the court, Spancer is Usain fucking Bolt but even his seemingly supersonic run speed fails to save the point. He misses the ball, falling flat on his face and skidding to a stop.

"15-Love!"

Nonplussed, Kay is already taking up her position in front of the service line; it's your turn to receive.

"Don't fuck this up," she warns you. "If you can return the serve, I'll take care of the rest."

"Yeah," you grouse -- and with very little time to do much else because Spancer has already whacked one straight for your head. You choke on your own spit, stumble forward on unsteady feet, and, nearly falling down, you get your racket against the ball. You don't have any follow-through, so the ball sails lazily through the air at a low elevation. It nicks the top of the net and loses its already small momentum, tipping over -- on the right side thank god -- bouncing quickly twice on the opponents' turf before Tyrus can hope to run to it.

You scored a return ace. Tyrus has a vocabulary mostly consisting of the word "motherfucker" right now.

"That was awful," Kay says. "Do better next time."

"Oh, I'm sorry. How exactly can I do better than scoring on the very first hit?"

Kay pokes you in the chest with her racket. "Blind luck scores us a single point. Meanwhile, your inability to walk two feet without tripping over your own dick is going to cost us the match. Do better."

This fucking woman. 

On the next point, Kay gets into a volley with Spancer that's honestly kind of eerie. It's like Kay is playing tennis against a cyborg. The way he strides directly to where the ball lands is strangely bionic, like the uncanny valley of running -- and whenever he hits the ball he's so silent that not even his racket resounds. Meanwhile, each and every time Kay hit the ball, gripping the racket with both hands and swinging like a madwoman clubbing a baby seal to death, she screams: "HAAAHHH! HAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Kay wins the point for you, at the cost of your eardrums.

"Are you in pain or something?" You ask, sincerely wondering.

"Why would I be in pain?" Kay says. She's just a tiny bit out of breath and beginning to shine just a little with sweat.

"You scream like you're being murdered every time you hit the ball."

"That's how you're supposed to play tennis," she tells you.

"What? Where in the rules does it say that players have to scream every time they make contact with the ball?"

Kay has both hands in the air, motioning wildly. "It helps! Grunting focuses your energy and assists your tempo--"

"Excuse my ignorance here but I'm calling bullshit. You don't need to pretend you're a dying cat just to hit the ball harder."

"Stop complaining and take the serve, Alabaster!" 

But you're not the only one annoyed by Kay's caterwauling. Tyrus winces every time she does it, and eventually it seems to put Spancer on the fritz. He begins missing easy lay-ups and he faults into the net a few times; at one point he even swings for thin air on his left as the ball flies past on his right.

After Kay takes the first set for you without dropping a single game, Tyrus complains to the officials. "This bitch is gonna kill me with her screaming. It's like I'm playing tennis against a Japanese porno up in here. Tell her to shut the fuck up."

Kay is under the tall chair now as well, defending herself: "It's deep breathing! It focuses my energy!"

Spancer now: "I believe she is trying to distract us with the volume of her noise-making. I assess that she does not require it to aid the quality of her own play."

The ref agrees and asks Kay to tone it down, which sends her into a fit of frustration as she marches back to the court: "Fucking biased fucking umpires! How am I supposed to play if I can't focus my breathing!"

Kay's service is stunning whether or not she gets to scream at full volume. She scores four service aces in a row and takes the game. By now, Tyrus is so tilted, and Spancer so demoralized ("Failure," he repeats after every dropped point. "Failure. Failure.") -- that all is over but for the crying. And as you approach the peak of victory, Kay's grunting slowly begins again, increasing in volume with each hit, until she's back to "HAAAAHHHH!" again -- this time doing it with impunity. Who's going to stop her?

"You are... wow," you say at the end of the match.

"I am wow," Kay says. She's panting like a dog, but in high spirits, smiling. Beads of sweat drip slowly from her drenched bangs. "I'm wow as hell."

On the other side of the net, Tyrus is slamming his racket into his duffel bag, with his headband and wrist bands and water bottle, angrily zipping it all up. A man you presume to be his boyfriend approaches, but there's not the tenderness he once had with Marquis; Tyrus backhands the poor guy and pushes past him, leaving the court. Spancer goes and sits on the bench near the chain link perimeter, staring at nothing, and his face has the closest thing to an emotion -- sadness -- that you've ever seen from him.

You sit down on the bleachers next to Cerise. Rose, who was babysitting her during the match, pretends to cough, saying under her breath to you: "carried. Carried."

"I'm surprised you can still talk after that beating you took," you say. It's true. Her dual shiners look more vicious than anything you ever gave her, and she's still caked with dried blood around her chin and hairline.

Rose doesn't have to respond to this, because then comes the bitter sting of betrayal. Cerise does the same fake coughing maneuver: "carried. Carried."

"You two really are getting too close," you say. "I need to keep you separated."

Kay does her typical materializing-out-of-nowhere schtick, showing up behind you and handing you a mustard-covered hotdog in a paper tray. She has another one of her own perched on her pushed-together knees. Unlike yours, Kay's hotdog is covered in jalapenos and onions, and nothing else. Adventurous girl, to risk playing with heartburn.

"Thanks," you say, and take your food. "I'm starving."

"Yeah, I could tell," Kay says. "Doing nothing sure works up an appetite, huh?"

Cerise again: "Carried. Carried."

"I could smack you right now," you snarl.

"I dunno," Cerise says. "I thought you were trying not to hit anything today."

Cerise and Rose snicker. 

Alex, from the bleachers below, puts a reassuring hand on your knee. "Well I think you did a great job, Ally!"

There's something about Alex sitting below you, between your legs, and looking up at you, that always does something to you. Even in a chaste situation like this. You glance away and take another bite of your food.

"It's wonderful how supportive your boyfriend is," Kay says with a smirk.

With your mouth stuffed full of hotdog meat, you can't formulate a derisive reply. So the gap is filled instead by Alex. "Aww, you're so sweet!" He tells her.

Rose and Alex take the court again, this time to play against Armstrong and Nelson.

Their match against Trenton McAllister required the invocation of a mercy rule, but that doesn't say much about how formidable they'll really be. You watch with interest.

As it turns out -- they're not terribly formidable at all. Armstrong, despite his braggadocio, and his absurd muscle structure, isn't very deft -- and he often complains of his sore knees during gameplay. Age isn't on his side, it seems. Nelson is actually the more agile of the two and is responsible for fewer dropped points. Armstrong is hardly appreciative, though, and the two bicker like an old married couple as things turn south.

"Get to the fuckin' ball, ya dumb fuckin' Jew!" - Armstrong.

"Go to hell. Maybe if your goddamn knees didn't break in half every time you took a step, we wouldn't be behind right now!" - Nelson.

"I could have been President. Instead I gotta put up with this dumb shit!" - Armstrong.

"You could have been President like I could have been king of the moon. Fuck yourself, Steven, you egomaniacal ass." - Nelson.

Rose and Alex dispatch them easily. Rose doesn't contribute very much -- without a rival to spur her on, she's back to hanging by the sidelines as a semi-spectator -- but the hits she does get in are clean, and her coordination impresses you. You may not win so easily if you have to face them. 

Your next match is a bitter prospect. Dr. Carte has formed a team with Vivian.

"Go easy on them," you tell Kay as you walk towards the courts again. "I don't think either of them are very athletic."

"If they're not athletic, they should have stayed home," Kay responds, without even looking back.

Before the match begins, you shake hands with them over the net. (Dr. Carte has to hold Vivian up under her arms so she can reach.)

"I am terribly sorry," Vivian says while shaking your hand, "but we will have to destroy you now. You understand, of course."

"Kay is a monster," you tell them. "I'd keep my head low and just focus on not getting hit if I were you."

Dr. Carte's turn for smugness: "Sounds like the words of a man who's scared!"

"That doesn't even make any--" you begin, but the ref is already blowing into a whistle; time to begin. Are you the only person in the tournament who isn't treating this like a matter of life and death? 

As it turns out, the duo of Vivian and Dr. Carte are more challenging than you ever would have guessed. Dr. Carte's fumbling incoordination (is she a little drunk right now?) is amateurish, it's true, but it gets the job done; jogging, tits jiggling, nearly taking several pratfalls, she gets a handful of nick-of-time returns that surprise even Kay and take some points off your team.

More shocking still is Vivian. Decked out in full gothic lolita attire, ankle-length gown and all, this pale beauty turning quickly beet red in the heat of summer is impossibly nimble. It's as if she teleports from wherever she's standing to wherever the ball will be -- zip-zip, zip-zip, like an apparition floating across the court. Her one-handed style is effete and yet oddly effective. She gets some serious velocity on the ball when she hits it just right.

On reflection, you shouldn't be so taken aback. Vivian is obsessed with excellence, with being excellent. If she won't excel at something, she usually just won't try it at all. So her strange efficiency at this game makes sense. She wouldn't be here if she couldn't manage it.

They're a good team. Especially with Whitney cheering them on from the bleachers: "Wooo! Kick their ass! MOM-AND-SIS! MOM-AND-SIS!" Is she holding pom-poms? Where the hell did she get those? More importantly, why is she taking sides here?

Unfortunately for the pair, even with your steadfast adherence to the principle of non-intervention, Kay is simply a cut above. You don't have the TENNIS WORDS for what she's doing, but her transit from point to point across the court and back again is like a ballet; the way she miraculously intercepts so many seemingly lost balls and catches Dr. Carte and Vivian in so many gotchas that have them running for the opposite direction the ball is really going in -- Kay could probably play professionally.

The only downside, of course, is this:

"HAAAHHHH! HAAAAAHHHH! HAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"

Vivian's assessment is on-target: "I -- am going to be bested by a tennis-playing neanderthal..."

"No wonder you teamed with this horrible woman," Dr. Carte says. "Do you feel good, getting carried to victory like that?!"

There's that word again: "carried." You're getting sick of it.

Dr. Carte confers with Vivian between sets, tries to devise a winning strategy. "We shall prevail," Vivian insists, keeping her hope alive. "We shall crush them like insects beneath a boot-heel."

"That's right," Dr. Carte agrees, "that's absolutely right. Let's go!"

It's absolutely wrong, in fact. Less than an hour later, with the sun drooping in the sky, Vivian is fighting back tears as Kay puts match-point to bed.

Kneeling, hugging her, Dr. Carte says something you never thought you'd hear from her:

"Winning isn't everything."

Sniffling, Vivian tries for optimism: "We shall emerge victorious next year."

"Maybe we should start practicing."

"I am in total accord. I will clear space for it in my agenda." 

Kay brings the team two more easy victories by the time the sun has set. As the sky turns a deep perwinkle and the xenon lights along the court's perimeter clack to life, the semifinal match between Rose/Alex and Fazil/Ken is just beginning.

Fazil is a little less obsequious against people who aren't in a position to fire him directly: "We will fuck you up now, yes? Yes!"

Whereas Ken, who reports directly to Alex, is suddenly the model sportsman: "Let's have a good clean match, y'all."

Kay is like an official in the situation room watching Seal Team Six move on bin Laden. She remarks several times that both pairs will be a challenge -- you and she will be up against the winners for the championship. As always, Kay is way too invested in this stupid tournament, and seems to be taking extensive mental notes on the play style of both teams.

Rose is running ragged, out of breath, and making sloppy mistakes, but Alex -- somehow none the worse for the wear despite a full day of playing -- makes up for it. Over the course of some fiercely contested sets, he pulls the duo into the lead.

It seems like they're going to coast to a win. Until the unthinkable: from your position on the bleachers, you see Ken press a button on the handle of his racket during the match-point for Rose and Alex. You're not sure what it does, but when your attention goes back to the game, you hear the ref calling the point for Ken and Fazil. That's deuce.

The next point goes much the same way. Alex hops up, making a cute little "hunh!" sound from the exertion, spikes the ball -- and then there's Ken, surreptitiously pressing that button. This time you keep focused on its effect, if any.

The ball, against all plausibility, veers off course, and lands out of bounds.

"Advantage receiver," the ref announces. Suddenly, Ken and Fazil are poised to win the set when just moments ago their opponents were one point from defeating them entirely.

Alex and Rose are knocking heads together, confused. You hear their shocked whispering: "I don't know what happened -- I -- I don't know!" ... "We've got this. We just need to focus." ... "For sure, Ms. Rose. We'll do it -- I know we will. I'm so sorry!" ... "It's fine. There's no need to say you're sorry. Let's keep our eyes on the prize, all right?"

(Of course Rose is all sugar and sweetness when she wants help to win something, you think.)

It's clear they've begun to panic; the specter of a last-second choke hangs over them. Meanwhile, Ken and Fazil are high-fiving and yukking it up -- all the momentum is behind them now, they sense a change in the air, a shift in their fortunes. Those cheaters!

>[x] Intervene.
[ ] Let it happen. 

You feel honest to goodness anger. Why is this stupid game suddenly making you angry? Although, of course, it's not about the game, it's about the fact that people you care about are getting played for fools. Although, of course, you're only angry for Alex's sake, not Rose's (although, of course, that's not because you're romantically inclined towards Alex... since he's a guy... it's really more of a friendship issue than anything -- you mean -- well, anyone would be upset to see their close personal friend getting cheated out of a victory, so it only makes sense...)

Look, never mind. The point is that you need to do something. You need to keep those jerks from stealing the match.

Mentally, you try to calculate the best strategy to achieve that. And so you hardly notice that you're already striding from the bleachers and past the chain-link fence.

"What the hell are you doing!" Rose demands. "Get off the court, Alabaster!"

"Ally...?" Alex says, blinking.

The ref is madly blowing into his whistle. The crowd is jeering.

You ignore all of that, square up to Ken and shove him. Grabbing the racket, you sneer: "cheater."

Ken is panicking. "Now hold yer horses. Let's not lose our druthers here..."

You press the button on his racket. The ball, currently in Alex's grip, jerks away -- flying to the left. Alex whips his head around just in time to see it smack Rose in the face. She falls back with an "oof." Holding her freshly bleeding nose, she says: "Whad da fuckhh!"

The booing is directed at Ken and Fazil now. But of everyone, no one seems more appalled than Fazil himself. "You have... you have placed a device inside the ball? You have... cheated?"

"Now I -- I --" Ken stammers. "I ain't -- aw, heck."

Fazil locks eyes with the ref. "I forfeit!" He says. "I hereby resign from play!" He looks again at Ken. "You have brought me nothing but shame! I spit on you!" (He spits on the ground for effect) "I spit on your family!" (He spits on the ground again) "Solemnly I repudiate your evil tactics and trickery!"

Making an X with his arms, he backs away. And then turning, he leaves the court in a huff. Ken, ashamed, hangs his head.

Rose is finally standing again, wedging the gauze already in her nostril a little deeper to stem the new tide of bleeding. "Guess it's just us now," she says.

"Of course," you say smugly. "But you only got here after two forfeits. Your luck is over as of now."

"Ally!" Alex laughs. "I'm sorry to say this, but... I think you're mistaken!" 

"Why did you have to grow a conscience all of a sudden?" Kay grumbles when she joins you on the court. "You could have kept that to yourself until they won. We could have gotten them disqualified and taken the tournament by default..."

"Come on, now. You don't want to win by default. Isn't it more fun if you have to put some effort into it?"

"Fuck that," Kay grunts. "I just want to win. Winning by default suits me just fine."

Says the woman who wanted to enter the tournament by herself. But you let that drop.

Rose serves first. She's a little dizzy from a day of exercise and all the ball-abuse, so she double-faults on her first attempt. That's when you make a critical mistake. You laugh at her.

The next serve goes blazing down the centerline and right past you. 15-All.

"Goddamn it!" Kay says. "Are those two paying you or what? It's like you want them to win instead of us!"

Alex is the one laughing now. "Of course!" He says. He pulls a stray strand of hair behind his ear. "Ally cares about us so much that he's trying to hand us the win! He's a nice guy if he likes you!"

Leave it to Alex to find a way to be both sweet and sarcastic at the same time.

Kay is unforgiving, though, and her play brutally exploits the weaknesses she identified in their partnership beforehand. They have particular issue with covering the middle of the court, because they never seem to be able to coordinate on who should go for the ball when it's ambiguous; again and again Kay takes advantage of this and gets them bumping heads or otherwise just standing there uselessly while the ball lands between them. This in turn brings the two into conflict: Rose is bitching, and Alex is bitching right back. "It was your ball!" -- "What do you mean? It was over the service line! You're covering the front half!" -- "I was at the net! You were closer! You should have gone for it!"

It's a little sad watching their partnership crumble. But with match-point looming ever closer, Alex is turning his anger inwards, getting upset at himself. With every lost point, he pounds his forehead with the heel of his palm and mutters "stupid, stupid." Even Rose takes pity, and goes from naggy to motherly, trying to soothe him and get him to focus. She rubs his shoulders, pets his head; Alex is brushing her off, telling her that he just needs to try harder.

"We've got it," Kay says triumphantly. But at what cost?

Rose, from across the court, shoots you a recriminating look. 

It comes down to the final set; if you can take it, you take the match. Rose and Alex would have to win the next two sets to turn it around. For them, all seems lost.

Even as he plays, Alex is turning to mush. He blames himself for his failure to perform and his head isn't in the game anymore, leaving Rose -- indefatigable -- to zoom around the court, fighting like mad to stay in competition. You secretly respect it a little. She doesn't give up even when it's already over.

A funny thing happens: she begins aiming for you. No matter where she intercepts the ball on her side of the net, she always tries to steer it back to you. It's a challenge. She wants you to actually play against her.

After the fifth or sixth volley like this, you take up the gauntlet. For the first time ever, you hit a ball that you didn't strictly have to hit -- shocking Kay who's halfway to it already.

"Don't do that!" Kay screams, skidding to a stop.

"Don't tell me what to do," you say.

Rose smacks the ball back. This time it's going to land closer to Kay than to you. By rights, she should be the one returning it. She squares herself up to hit it. But you get in front of her and interrupt, batting it back to Rose.

"Alabaster, I swear to God--!" Kay pants.

You ignore her. Like Rose2 before you, you enter into a back-and-forth volley with Rose from directly across the net that lasts for 20 or 30 returns.

Kay's insensate wailing whenever she hits the ball has got nothing on the invective you and Rose hurl at one another with every hit:

"CUNT!"

"ASSHOLE!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"GO TO HELL!"

"FAT WHORE!"

"PIG!"

"BITCH!"

"FAGGOT!"

With a roar of "SUCK MY COCK!" you swat the ball right over her head. She tumbles back, practically cartwheeling to catch it, but only succeeds in scuffing her knees. Alex is too flabbergasted by Rose's little homophobic slur there -- from her of all people -- to go for the ball either. You get the point.

When you turn, Kay is smiling. "I guess I've got a partner after all." 

It's match-point and you're in another obscenity-laced volley with Rose.

You're going to win. Although neither you nor Rose are exactly prime athletes, you're just a little bit fitter, and you also haven't been exerting yourself as much as she has been for the past few hours. Victory is an inevitability.

But another spanner in the works. From the corner of your eye, you see Alex already leaving the court.

It's just a game, you try to tell yourself, to salve the way his glum expression makes your heart hurt. And besides, you have to show Rose that you're not going to lose to her.

That thought does nothing against the image of Alex sitting on a bench with his chin in both palms.

"MISOGYNISTIC PRICK!" comes Rose's war cry. But she had to lob the ball high and slow to catch it, and now you're perfectly positioned to spike it -- to end the tournament with one more hit.

>[x] Spike it.
[ ] Lose. 

You spike the ball and win the match.

Except not, because to your utter shock -- Rose manages to return it. She flops to her stomach, diving, screaming, and just barely catches it at the edge of the court.

That dumb bitch can be so fucking fast when she wants to be. What a pain in the ass.

You're so stunned by that turn of events that you don't even move. Not to worry. Kay, in typical Kay fashion, carries you.

She intercepts the ball and bats it to the other side of the court from Rose.

Alex is suddenly on his feet again, rushing back into play -- to save the ball -- but for naught. He doesn't make it. The ref is announcing your victory.

"Awww man," Alex says.

Rose, panting as she totters to her feet, complains: "Goddamn it, Alex. You said the puppy dog shit would work!"

"I thought it would..."

"Wait..." you say as you put two and two together. "You mean--"

Alex rubs the back of his head. "Sorry, Ally! I thought I could sucker you. Guess you're too smart for that, huh."

"You were only pretending to be upset?" You sputter. "What?"

"Well -- yeah. I mean, it's all just a game, Ally! No hard feelings." He makes a pouty face, eyes narrowing and lips curling to one side of his cheeks. "I did want to win, though... but you had to team up with a regular Maria Sharapova..."

"I don't feel so good," Rose says, wobbling on her feet. As always, all of the physical abuse is only catching up with her after everything is over with. "I need to go... sit down..."

She limps off the court, with Alex's assistance.

That devious little cocksucker. He took advantage of you! He almost made you throw the match!

Kay is hoisting the trophy high above her head, exulting in the thrill of the win. Whitney seems none too pleased to be presenting it to her. And Armstrong, tilting his head in confusion, remarks from the bleachers: "That woman doesn't even work here!"

Kay ignores that as she smiles and turns in a circle to display the shiny trophy for the crowd on both sides of the court.

You need a little time to yourself after almost handing victory on a silver platter to Rose and that no-good, dirty-rotten homosexual whose name you don't even want dignify with a mention. Lying sluts, the both of them!
 
So you go back to the Darkbloom Analytics campus and make your way to the showers by the saunas there. Turning the water on full blast and high heat, you lean with both palms up against the tile wall, head bowed, and let your brain fill with static. The sweat and grime of the day run down your body, to the floor and through the grating of the drain. It feels nice; and soon any sourness you had about that little ploy is starting to evaporate. Alex might have played dirty, but you can respect the grift. And it didn't work anyway. So let that be a lesson to him.
 
Plus... you'll have time enough to punish him properly, of course.
 
---
 
You figured you were alone down here, so you don't bother toweling up when you head for the lockers again to change.
 
Unfortunately, you aren't alone. Sitting on a bench in her sweat-drenched shorts and tanktop is Kay Vera. She's got her back up against the wall and one leg on the benchtop, intently focused on applying a compressive athletic bandage to her calf.
 
"Jesus!" You cry, ducking behind a locker, and groping in one of the nearby bins for a towel.
 
"Don't worry," Kay's voice comes, echoing off the walls. "I wasn't holding a magnifying glass, so I didn't see anything."
 
You peek your head around the corner. "Rethink your insults. I know I don't have any problems in that department. Believe me."
 
You finish tying off a towel around you waist and step out.
 
"Are you sure?" Kay says. She lets the spool of the bandage dangle from her leg as she looks up at you. "Maybe the girls in your life are just lying to spare your feelings."
 
"Compared to most guys I'm sure I'm doing just fine. But I admit I might not stack up, if you're comparing me to Lady."
 
Kay makes a disgusted little purr. "You are vile."
 
"Don't dish it out if you can't take it, Kay."
 
You turn to leave and find the locker with your street clothes. But behind you, you hear a little hiss -- a sharp intake of air through Kay's teeth, the wince of pain. You turn and see her rubbing the calf she's got wrapped up in the bandage.
 
You approach with a frown. "Are you gonna be okay or what?"
 
Her voice is a little breathy as she says, "Fuck, that hurts." Then, gulping, she adds: "I pulled a tendon carrying you, that's all. I'll be all right."
 
You kneel down and pull her injured leg straight out so it lies flat against the bench. "Let me see."
 
She rolls her eyes. "What, you're an expert in sports medicine now?"
 
"No, but I know a thing or two about dealing with sore muscles." Another skill years of living with Rose taught you.
 
"I guess this is how you managed to seduce your way through a harem's worth of girls," Kay says. "Color me unimpressed. I'm losing what little respect I had for my fellow women."
 
"I'm not trying to fucking seduce you," you grouse. "This is purely platonic concern for a teammate."
 
Still, the slightly sour smell of Kay's unwashed body, laced with pheromones as it must be, combined with the give of her bruised and tender skin, has a predictable effect on you. You try to ignore it as you administer a soothing massage to Kay that works the kinks out of her muscles.
 
"Why were you so obsessed with winning?" You ask. "It's not like anyone's going to care about it by tomorrow."
 
"I'll care," she says.
 
"That's a little masturbatory, isn't it?"
 
"And who are you to criticize people for THAT? You're throwing stones in a glass house, aren't-- ahh--" She puts a flattened palm up against her lips and lets out a gasp as you hit a particularly sore area.
 
"Softer or harder?" You prompt.
 
"Harder."
 
You oblige. Your thumbs work in tight little circles, creating little dimples in her skin, and your fingers encircle opposite sides of her baby-smooth calf. Maybe she didn't really know what she was asking for because the little gasping "ahh" and "unf--" sounds increase in intensity.
 
"You doing okay?"
 
"I'm all right-- ahh--"
 
"Did you really hurt yourself that bad? You took this whole thing way too seriously."
 
"Hey -- hands where I can see them."
 
You pause, looking her in the eye, confused. When you look down, you notice it: in your ministrations, the tips of the fingers of one hand have crept up, and up -- past her knees, towards the legs of her shorts. It was genuinely unintentional.
 
"Trust me, Kay. I don't want to fuck you. If for no other reason than to save my hearing. If you make sounds like that on the tennis court, I don't even want to hear what you'd do in bed."
 
"I understand," Kay replies. "You're not used to hearing a girl moan in bed."
 
You shake your head, stare at the ceiling. "Seriously, Kay. There are insults that work on me. But this whole sexual inadequacy angle just doesn't cut it. You won't get under my skin that way."
 
"Are you sure? It seems like I am."
 
She curls and uncurls her toes in a playful way, the big toe brushing against your cheek. She pokes her tongue out at you.
 
If she wants to be like that, you'll get even. You know what button to press to annoy her now, too. You focus again on massaging her calf, but this time when your right hand creeps slowly upward, it's deliberate.
 
Your fingertips make it again to her shorts. She shuffles her legs, her spine goes rigid, and she pushes your hand back. "I told you once," she warns. "Next time it's a kick in the nuts, you understand?"
 
"Sorry, sorry," you lie. You bring your hand out of the danger zone again, and Kay relaxes. Her skin is turning to gooseflesh as the air conditioning here cools the sweat sheening her and makes her chilly. She hugs herself by the shoulders as she watches you work.
 
This is another opportunity, with her guard down, and you take it. Up creeps your hand.
 
She's like a cat after the laser pointer. She lurches and brings her palm down in a flash, pins your hand there with the fingers just under the legs of her shorts. One time is an accident, two times is a gentle tease, but three times is crossing a line, and her eyes are bulging with shock. She's frozen like that, so you push the matter. You bring your other hand up, over her other leg where it dangles from the edge of the bench. You get that hand almost all the way up inside her shorts, past the third knuckle, before she finds the wherewithal to pin it in place, too.
 
Arms criss-crossed to hold both your groping hands back, she's in even more of a state. This, combined with her onset of chill has her shivering. She stares at you like a frightened fawn.
 
Time to let her off the hook. "Okay, that was a little much. I think I've done about all I can for that tendon of yours, anyway--"
 
Kay cuts you off by suddenly hunching herself forward and locking lips with you.
 
You're so surprised that you do the instinctual thing and kiss her back, but only briefly. You pull away, and get your hands out of her shorts, and sit up straight on your knees. You hold your palms up like a magician saying, see, nothing up my sleeve. "I -- I think I gave you the wrong idea--"
 
Kay lunges from the bench and wraps herself around you, her hands embracing your head on either side. She forces you into another, deep, and needful kiss. You rock back and forth with her for a moment, unable to do anything but again return this kiss, as she pushes her tongue past your lips and invades your mouth. She ruffles your hair, moans into you, suckles on your tongue. You can taste the salty trickle of drying sweat on her lips and the stale vestiges of breath mints. Her body, in your hands, is rock-firm, the toned body of a woman who takes taking care of herself deadly seriously.
 
Still kissing you, she begins tugging at your towel. You try to push her back. "You're all sweaty and dirty right now," you protest. "Geez. If we're gonna do it, at least shower--"
 
Whatever switch you flipped in Kay is totally and irrevocably flipped. She's still tugging at your towel when she says: "No. Like this. Fuck me dirty, Alabaster."
 
That flips your switch, too. You help her get your towel undone and your hardening cockshaft springs free. You push her back now, easing her to the cold tile floor. Her eyes are fixated on that spot between your legs, and she isn't making fun of your size anymore, that's for sure.
 
You grab the elastic waistband of her shorts and tug them down. You don't bother getting them all the way off -- you stop at the knees. She wants to get fucked dirty, so that's exactly how you're going to do it. Quick and dirty, and without any dignity.
 
Next come her sweat-saturated white cotton panties. Pulling these down, you clamber to get between her legs. The closeness of your bodies, and the fact that you've got her mostly naked now, means you can even more strongly detect her unique scent. It's not clean, but it's not unpleasant. It really is laced with pheromones and it fuels a sort of primal urge in your hindbrain that broadcasts a simple command on repeat: "Mate! Mate! Mate!"
 
Kay is less enthusiastic all of a sudden, though. She's still staring at your prong. Dithering, she says: "You should know... I, uh..."
 
"Out with it," you grunt, impatient.
 
"I never, um..."
 
Oh god.
 
"You're fucking with me," you say. "Never? Aren't you, like... 27, 28?"
 
"T-twenty... twenty nine..."
 
This is criminal. You and Kay might spar but you've always allowed that she's gorgeous. She's never gotten laid before? How?
 
"Just take it slow, all right?" She says.
 
You nod. On your knees between her, you widen your stance, to push her legs further apart, and give you access to the prize: a pussy mound that drips with wetness, a mixture of sweat and womanly desire. The lips are dark, almost mauve, a much deeper and richer color than other women you've fucked. But pussy is pussy, and hers is beautiful. It looks as tight as the rest of her. It probably is, you reason. You're going to be the first and only man to get your cock up her.
 
Slowly, stifling the part of you that wants to slam yourself into her to the hilt and fuck her ragged, you get the head of your cock pressed up against the virginal entrance of her cuntslit. With a sigh, you begin to push. The slimy texture of her unwashed mound provides the lubrication you need and makes the going a bit easier. Still, she moans and gasps in some discomfort, discomfort that mixes and melds with lust while she watches you steal her cherry. She chews her fingers and just watches. The awareness in her eyes is plain, she knows there's no going back now. She gave it up for you. And those tiny inhaling gasps of hers drive you further forward, impel you to make sure her virginity is well and truly gone. Before long you're going to fill this virgin's pussy with sperm.
 
Once you're sunk about halfway in, you wrap your arms around her and lift her up. Leaning back to your butt, you've got her now in your lap. Gravity will help you do what brute force can't. You need to make sure she takes the full length of your cock on her first fuck.
 
Kay is a right mess now, all her bravado gone as she struggles atop your cock. Nonetheless, she helps you get it deeper and deeper. You make out with her wetly, her breath hot against you.
 
Depraved synapses firing, you moan: "You ARE dirty, huh? You've got a nice dirty little cunt..."
 
Gyrating her hips, she moans back in delight: "Clean me off..."
 
You run your hands up and down her body, and find the hem of her tank top, and roll it off of her. She helps, raising her arms for you, but the garment stubbornly adheres to her body and makes it a bit difficult. She's sweating all over, new beads and trickles mixing with the old. You take your lips from hers and trail kisses down the hollow of her neck, to her tiny A-cup breasts and ribs, her tight tummy, back up to her shoulders and arms. Even her bare armpits. All the while, you fuck your cock in and out of her drooling snatch. Her wagging hips sync with yours and her unsullied pussy milks you off. You enjoy the tangy, slightly bitter taste of her grimy skin. The sensation of being kissed and licked all over must be ticklish because she's laughing in ecstasy between moans of pleasure and little gasps of: "fuck me! Fuck me!"
 
Suckling on her skin, leaving little hickeys in your wake, enjoying the way Kay pets you as she would a dog, and loving the way her tight cunt shudders around your raping cock, you're about to lose your load. You're fucking like animals and you're going to finish like an animal: "I'm gonna cum inside," you tell her. That's a warning, not a request for permission, but she warms to it. She picks up the pace as well, trying to coax it out.
 
"Yes," she cries, "yes! Fill me up!"
 
Your cum is fighting against gravity and the vice-like grip of her interior walls but it races out anyway and bursts from the head of your dick with the force of a firehose. Kay's wail -- it really is like the noise she makes on the tennis court -- transforms over the course of several lingering seconds into a little choked squeal, then into nothing, as she throws her head back and lets her jaw hang loose and cums on your cumming cock. She's cumming as you take away this last trace of her virginity, and fuck her womb full of hot jizz. Your cockhead pulses, and spurts, and makes a wet mess inside of her. She's dirty now inside and out.

GIRLS FUCKED: 8/12

Kay has finished cleaning herself and drying off. She's still naked from the waist-up and now she's languidly pulling on a pair of pantyhose in the locker room as she informs you: "Whitney talked to me a little earlier."

"Yeah, so? She didn't say the N word again, did she?"

Kay makes a face. "She told me she's looking for an old research partner of Renee Carte's. Gustav Eichmann. Figured I would know."

You squint at her.

"And wouldn't you know it," Kay says with a grin, "but in fact I do."

"How the fuck do you know everything before the rest of us?"

"That's a trade secret. Sorry."

"I guess all that time not fucking leaves you with nothing better to do."

She flips you off.

"Well?" You say. "Where is he?"

"Why do you want to know?" Kay demands. "Are you stupid motherfuckers working on another Sand Reckoner? Or maybe your sister isn't all better, after all -- something is still wrong with her. Those are about the only reasons I can think of that would make you want to get in touch with that wannabe Nazi hack."

>[x] Tell her.
[ ] Make something up. 

"There's something wrong with Cerise," you admit. "I'm not going to say anything more."

"I'll find out," Kay says. "So you might as well."

"You know as well as I do that there could be listening devices in here--"

Kay reaches for her purse, opens it up. "I've got a handy-dandy listening device of my own," she says. She shows you something that looks like a portable radio, or Walkman. "This will beep if there's anyone listening in. And it isn't beeping, so..."

"It doesn't matter," you say. "It's my family. My personal business. Something is wrong with Cerise's implant, and Gustav Eichmann can help us. Tell me where he is or don't -- we'll find him either way."

Kay puts a finger to her lips in a very Steve Jobs-ian thinking pose. She contemplates this. "Something is wrong in her brain. All scrambled up by Sand Reckoner. Amnesia? Or does she still see things the way Sand Reckoner sees -- is she overloaded with information?"

You give her a steely glare.

"All right," Kay says. "So whatever it is, it's serious. Life threatening?"

"Yes."

"Business threatening?"

"Yes."

"...World threatening?"

"Quite likely, yes."

"Wow."

She pulls out a pen, and a slip of paper, and writes. "This is a PO box. You can reach him there. He's very analog these days, for good reason."

"You remember this random person's mailing address -- just like that?"

She smirks that annoying smirk of hers. "You're not the only one with a good memory. That's another requirement of my trade. Here."

She hands it over. You read.

"Palau?" You say. "Talk about running to the edges of the Earth. I'm not sure where Palau even is."

She laughs. "Pull out your atlas, then. Who knows. If things get much worse, maybe you'll have to take a permanent vacation there too." 

---

You sit for a long time in the driver's seat of your car, in the parking garage across from Darkbloom Analytics. Saul's text that Cerise's little "interview" with Noelle is over has helped put your worried mind a bit more at ease. But you've still got 1,000 other problems, and they're rapidly multiplying.

Kay was fun, but you still need to take the edge off.

>[x] Alex's apartment -- to punish him.
[ ] Dr. Carte's -- to drill for quiz night, even if Whitney is sure to interrupt...
>[x] Home, with Cerise -- to unwind with a wholesome family movie night. 

You just want to go home for the night. Aside from the fact that you're tired and sore all over, you're sure Rose would like a break from keeping an eye on Cerise. Beneath their bickering, you know they do care for each other (of course, those idiots would never admit it!) But having to spend every waking moment together must be a little much. And you did promise to separate them, after all.

There's a lot of anime in your backlog too. Cerise, who's had a lot of free time since waking up, has made recommendations: obviously she's nuts about the NeeKyu revival, which was unexpectedly announced and brought to air right before the season began. Aside from that, she really enjoys Bunnygirl Senpai from the prior year -- seemed a bit dumb, to you, when you first heard about it. And she says that poor Rose, forced to watch alongside her, has managed to find enjoyment in an anime from last winter season. Kaguya-sama you think it's called, which you never followed either.

So there's lots to choose from. And so little time, these days. 

At home, these expectations of a quiet night being a homebody with Cerise evaporate. In Cerise's bedroom, you find Rose (as expected), all gauzed up and still pale from the blood loss. Cerise too, obviously. But also an unexpected third: Alex.

"Hey there, Ally! Uh -- hope you don't mind."

Two things you notice straight away.

One, Cerise is slumming it, as usual; braless tee and panties, the NEET special. She might protest that she wants to be gainfully employed again, but the rotten soul of a NEET remains.

Two, Alex is in Cerise's maid costume -- now there's a memory.

Only after these observations do you realize the reason for the occasion. Cerise has all her old circuit bending gear arrayed on her desk, and she's been dissecting one of her Furbies. Alex, sitting alongside, with a soldering iron in hand, is her gleeful assistant.

"They're entering business together," Rose says. "Isn't that sweet?" Her speech is slurred and she's clearly drowsy.

"Is that so?" You say. "Going back on stream, Cerise?"

"Uh-huh!" Alex answers for her.

"I couldn't say no when he hit me with those puppy dog eyes," Cerise confirms. So that settles it: between the two of you, Cerise is the bigger sucker. "Alex is going to be my cohost."

"In that getup?" You say. "Alex, you're on the board of a Fortune 500 company. I know this is 2019 but it's a little -- uh --"

"That's why there's this!" He says. He grabs a surgical mask off Cerise's desk and dons it. "Like a bandit. Totally anonymous." He makes finger guns at you.

You actually, and without irony, clutch at your chest. It should be illegal for boys to be this cute. (In some jurisdictions, it actually is.)

"We were just finishing up," Cerise tells you.

"Good," you say, "wait here."

You help Rose to her feet and walk her to her bedroom. "Where's Whitney?" You ask. "I didn't see her car in the driveway."

"She assumed you were at her mom's, so she went over. Turns out dear old mother was still trying to help Vivian get over her loss in the tournament. So now I guess they're all having a big cry-in together. Honestly. Vivian is such a baby about these things... she doesn't know how to lose with grace..."

"Oh, and you do," you say, helping her in to bed.

"Of course," she says. "I learned from the best."

"Are you calling me a loser? In case all those concussions made you retarded, I beat you tonight. You were the loser."

"No. I beat you. The only reason you won that point is because of Kay. But you and I... we know the truth. Rose wins."

"Don't talk about yourself in the third person. It's creepy."

"Rose wins."

"I'll deal with you later," you say, as she snuggles up, and you leave again for Cerise's bedroom.

"I should stop bothering you two!" Alex says, hopping up from his chair. The skirt of the maid costume ruffles as he does. "I'll get changed again and head back home."
 
"No bother," you tell him. "I've got business with you."
 
"Err..." he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot and biting his lower lip. "What kind of business?"
 
You grab him about the waist and tug him toward you -- then grip him by either shoulder. The gasp he makes is really more of a tiny squeak.
 
The gasp Cerise makes is louder, and tinged with a little undercurrent of perversion.
 
Alex is fearful. "A-Ally..."
 
You force him to walk backwards, so that you're both at the foot of Cerise's bed. Turning, you lift him and get him on his stomach over your lap.
 
"Oh my god," Cerise says. "What are you doing?"
 
You glance up at her. "Should I take this back to my bedroom?"
 
"What? I didn't tell you to stop!"
 
Alex, looking at Cerise with pleading eyes, finally realizes that no help is coming. "B-but..." he stammers. He looks back at you, lips quivering. "W-why?"
 
"You tried to fool me," you say. "That's not gonna fly."
 
"Uh, uh... I'm sorry..." he says in a tiny voice, and seems genuinely remorseful. Then again, who can tell? You need to remind him the hard way that honesty is the best policy.
 
You reach back and hike up the frilled hem of his costume. You chuckle. "Panties too?" You say, marveling at the pink polyester fabric covering his butt.
 
Alex makes a humiliated little whine. "It's... part of the costume..."
 
"You're such a fucking slut, Alex." He makes another embarrassed sound at this, but you feel the truth of his reaction, pressing up against your knee: his little cock lurches.
 
You raise your hand high above your head. Cerise, her breath hitching, stares transfixed at the sight before her. She obviously didn't expect to be suddenly in the front row of How to Punish Your Trap 101. But she's happy for the show. She flexes her thighs rhythmically, and paws at her tits through her shirt, already all worked up. And the real fun hasn't even begun.
 
You bring your hand down now, hard -- just as hard as you can. The slap resounds in the dimly-lit bedroom. So does Alex's cry of pain and humiliation. You do it again, and a third time. Alex's weight shifts forward then back again with each hit. His cock is hardening more and more. Yours is, too.
 
"He should -- he should be bare," Cerise says between deep breaths. She foregoes shame and gets her hand down her panties. She starts masturbating right there in front of you, digging her fingers into her twat while she watches.
 
"What's that?" You say, just to make her tell you exactly what she wants to see.
 
"If you're going to spank him -- do it right -- spank his bare ass..."
 
"Cerrrisssseee..." Alex pleads, but it falls on deaf ears because all Cerise says in response, is to you: "Do it, Alabaster... spank him raw... punish him."
 
You grab that whorish little pair of panties and tug them. You pull Alex's stockinged legs off your lap so to get the panties fully off him. You toss them aside. Alex's milky bubble butt is on display now, and beneath him, you feel the heat of his throbbing prick against your knee.
 
"Count to five for me," you tell him.
 
"W-what?"
 
You smack his ass. Instantly it turns red, and a welt in the shape of your hand starts to form. He yells, but says nothing sensible.
 
"I lost track," you say mockingly, "so we'll have to start over. Remember to count, now."
 
"I--"
 
The next smack echoes off the walls. Alex is smart: he counts, loud, through a gulp of air: "Two!"
 
"I don't think that was two," you say. "Doesn't one come before two? Let's start over just to be safe."
 
The sound of Cerise's fingers in her cunt is loud and wet. She pauses only to get her shirt off her body, all the better to tweak and play with her fat nipples.
 
The next smack is the hardest yet and begins to bruise poor Alex's abused butt. His tongue wags as he wails: "One!"
 
Smack -- "Two!" -- smack -- "Three!"
 
You shrug. "I didn't catch that one. Where are we?"
 
"Th-three! Three, Mr. Ally!"
 
"I'm not sure... Cerise?"
 
"I lost count too..." she says, delirious with depravity. She's got her legs spread wide and she's sitting on her tail bone as her knuckles strain the black fabric of her panties. She smiles lecherously.
 
"Let's start over."
 
"Alllyyyy..."
 
Smack!
 
"One!!"
 
Smack!
 
"Ow! Two! It hurts! It really, really hurts, Mr. Ally!"
 
Smack!
 
"Three-eee... owww... stoo-ooop..."
 
"Are you sure it hurts?" You ask. "Your little prick is leaking on my jeans."
 
Cerise hisses in pleasure at this.
 
"Ow... ow-owww... please stop... it hurtsss..."
 
Smack!
 
"FOUR!" He's sobbing.
 
Smack!
 
"Five! Five!!! PLEASE, Mr. Ally..."
 
"Are you sorry?"
 
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
 
You cock a finger at Cerise. "Come here."
 
She's standing, but her hands are still in her underwear, and she's still masturbating. She looks adoringly at Alex's ass, the different shades of red and black and blue you've created. He won't be sitting comfortably for a while.
 
"Get him ready for me," you say.
 
She knows what you mean. She lays a hand on one globe of Alex's butt -- he sobs anew at this sensation -- and spreads him. The white little pucker of his anus is there, winking at both of you. He knows what's going to happen now.
 
Still frigging herself off, Cerise leans forward, opens her mouth, and drools. A viscous stream descends from the edge of her lip down to Alex's asshole. You helpfully take over the duty of holding Alex's ass open now, while she smears the spit around and then fucks her finger in and out of the hole. She spends over a minute doing that, and you let her, because she's obviously having so much fun. She plays with her cunt while she plays with Alex's ass. First one finger, then two, then three -- spreading Alex's ass nice and wide in preparation for you, but mostly for her own selfish and sadistic pleasure.
 
"Now me," you command through gritted teeth.
 
Sinking to her knees with zero hesitation, Cerise undoes your fly, and pulls out your cock. You close your eyes and relish the sensation of your older sister fellating you. She gets you deep, way deep, into the recesses of her throat. And she makes it extra wet for you, purposely letting little geysers of her drool leak out all around you, down your shaft and into your crotch, while she heaves and gags. Gagging on your cock must really get her off because you hear a soft patter, and know that she's cumming, squirting all over the carpet of her bedroom floor as she tries to force you deeper still.
 
"Good," you say. "Good."
 
She pulls off you, falls to her ass, and finally dispenses with her panties. Not completely -- they're still hooked around one ankle -- but she's naked enough. She sits spread eagle on the ground, one hand playing with her still creaming cunt and one hand exploring her own asshole, while she watches.
 
You lift Alex up, and around, so you're chest-to-back with him. "Hold my cock up for me," you whisper leeringly in his ear. "Help me fuck you."
 
"O...okay... okay..."
 
He reaches between you, grips you with a trembling hand, and dutifully holds your prick so you can sodomize him. Cerise's hands are a blur on her genitals as she repeats: "Fuck him... fuck him, Alabaster... fuck him fuck him fuck him FUCK HIM--"
 
Alex's fists ball up and clench to his chest as you sink deep into the snug confines of his asshole. It's a beautiful sight, to watch your perverted sister playing with herself while you use Alex for an onahole like this. You bounce him up and down. Alex's foreskin-covered cock also bounces, in tune with the force of your jackhammer thrusts. He's really nothing but a disposable fucktoy like this, right now.
 
Cerise can't handle this. Her overstimulated cunt is a fountain as she cums and cums, so hard you think she's probably pissing herself, but she doesn't care. Her fingers are deep inside, pussy and asshole, digging, spreading, strumming -- getting her off again and again.
 
Her eyes are distant and glazed over. She seems to be moving without conscious thought when she rises to her knees, and her mouth drifts open, and she begins to lap like a hungry kitten at the spot where you're fucking Alex. Her tongue is hot, and worshipful, and indiscriminate. She licks from your heavy balls, up the length of your pistoning shaft, all around the stretched hole of Alex's boypussy, and even higher still, up Alex's bouncing cockshaft too, which elicits tremulous girly moans from him, ending finally in a few wet swirls around the inside of his foreskin, against the sensitive head. Then all the way down again, drooling over your cock once more, kissing your balls, licking you oh so lovingly. Back and forth she goes, using her mouth to show her appreciation for the show, and to give you extra lubrication, while she rides a basically continuous orgasm.
 
You're going to pop off too, so you grab Alex's shoulders and force him all the way down, to get yourself fully inside. And then you let loose. The rush of hot semen against Alex's prostate makes him go too. With staccato moans he lets out ropes of thin, slimy cum. Cerise gets hit with it -- cups her hands in front of her to catch it and let it pool there. When you pull out of Alex's ruined little pussy, your cum sloshes out of the hole and she catches this too, a big puddle of your intermingled cum forming in her palms. This she brings with her as she stands. She holds it up to Alex's face and smears it all around. Alex is panting like a bitch, almost invisible under the opaque white film of jizz that Cerise paints him with. Thick ropes of it dangle from his chin, and fat dollops plop on the apron of his costume, staining it. Cerise sighs in satisfaction at her handiwork. You do too. He looks like a cheap, nasty fucking whore. And the look really suits him.

It's well past midnight when you wake up again. You're cuddled beside Cerise, who is secured tightly, hands and ankles ziptied together -- a nighttime precaution against the potential of an unwelcome visitor. (Alex, all cleaned up, is passed out next to Rose in her bed -- it would have been difficult to explain to him the need for tying Cerise up.)

What wakes you, you realize, is the incessant ringing of the doorbell. Over and over again it chimes. Rose and Alex must both be too exhausted -- each for different reasons -- for it to have roused them. Cerise, even if she woke up, would of course be unable to answer. And Whitney, you assume, isn't home yet (wasn't she was just bitching at you about unscheduled sleepovers with her mom?...)

So it's up to you.

Groggy and wiping the sand from your tear ducts, you march downstairs. "I'm coming, I'm coming," you groan.

You open the door. Standing there is your mother. 

Her eyes are searching your face, looking for something. For what, you're not sure. That recognition is still there, though. It burns brighter than ever.

You pluck up the courage to say it this time. Nodding reassuringly, and laying a hand on her shoulder, you say: "Mom..."

She slaps you.

You reel back, clutching your cheek. "What the fuck!"

"Did you mess with my head? What did you do to me, Alabaster?"

"I didn't do anything," you insist.

"Am I some kind of test subject? Is that what this is? Did you put false memories in my brain? What did you do to me? Answer me!"

You stand tall again, and look her straight in the eye. "It's not a false memory. I don't know how... I really don't... but it's for real."

She clenches both her jaw and her fist.

"It's..." you begin, but trail off. You gaze up and over her shoulder, at the moon, thinking. After a moment, you try again. "When I was in 6th grade, I put off a science project until the very last day before it was due. You helped me make a scale model of the solar system out of styrofoam... we stayed up til 1 AM working on it... and then you grounded me for procrastinating."

She winces and violently shakes her head, as if trying to reject this.

"The first time Whitney came over for dessert for dinner Sunday, you kicked her out, but you still sent her home with a tupperware full of apple pie."

She's jutting her jaw in and out, eyes closed, practically hyperventilating.

"When Cerise graduated from high school, you framed the diploma and put it on the wall in the living room. But she made you take it down because it embarrassed her."

"Stop!" She screams. "Stop it! It's not true! I'm not your mother!"

"If you aren't my mother, who are you, then?"

"I'm... I'm Scarlett Catachresis... I'm Rose and Amber's mother... I always have been."

"You taught me everything I know about how to cook. And a lot of other stuff... stuff I didn't ever thank you for."

She wipes stray tears away with the back of her palm. "You're an awful cook. There's no way I taught you how to cook, because I certainly would have done a much better job than that!"

"Mom..." you say.

You step forward, slowly, and draw her into a hug. Sobbing, she hugs you back.

END OF EPISODE 5. 

You are Alabaster soliloquy, meganeko fetishist and LVP of the Darkbloom Analytics Annual Tennis Invitational.

A few days ago...

Alex walks up and down the aisles of the server farm that seem to stretch all the way to infinity. A fat man in his late 40s or early 50s, with a patchy, frizzled tuft of a beard and big coke bottle glasses, wearing a denim button-down shirt and wrinkled dockers, accompanies him. Alex thinks the man introduced himself as Ben, but he can't be bothered to recall for certain.

"...99.99999% uptime - that's five nines -- which we have maintained with total ease for the past 10 years..." Ben drones. Alex is looking from rack to glowing rack, as they snake their way back to the perimeter of this enormous grid of shelving units. The air is sterile and recirculated and unnaturally cool, but bears just a tinge of ozone.

"Are there offices?" Alex asks, completely interrupting Ben mid-sentence.

"Oh? Yes... yes, would you like to see?"

"Lead the way," Alex replies.

As they go, they pass a rent-a-cop in a golf cart, who stops at an intersection and toots his horn; this man is even fatter and sadder-looking than Ben is. The two wave and nod at one another in their sad, fat way.

"We are just so pleased you could get all the way out here, Mr. Best. It's quite a drive from Palo Alto out here to Diablo Grande--" (he says it grand-ay, Alex notes, cringing) "--I think you're the first person from the main campus to show up around these parts in a few years."

"That's our model, right?" Alex says. "Highly decentralized!"

"Uh -- right..."

The offices are small, their fluroescents dim and gray-tinted, the carpeting threadbare, the old desks chipped and office chairs literally coming apart at the seams. This might be the most depressing place Alex has ever seen. On the wall of Ben's cubicle hangs a yellowed newspaper cutout, an old Family Circus strip. The strip depicts two children serving lemonade at a curbside stand, which has a handwritten sign above advertising "LEMONADE - MADE FRESH - 25¢" The strip's caption below reads: "Yep, made fresh from the powder mix just this morning!"

He sees Alex staring at this. Ben laughs, a high pitched, ululating belly laugh; pushes his glasses up his nose (leaving greasy fingerprints on the lenses) and wipes away a tear. "Doesn't that just beat all?" he says when he regains his composure.

Alex frowns. "You are such a waste," he says.

"...What?" Ben says. 

Alex is only a little abashed to realize that he accidentally said that part aloud. He presses on. "That security guard. Is he the only security on staff?"

"Uh, yeah," Ben says, the hurtfulness of Alex's comment clearly beginning to set in, and deeply so. "We -- have three shifts, but usually just one guard on shift at a time. Um... t-that's all that's in the budget, so, you know... if there should be more--"

"No, that's fine. It's just, he didn't even ask me for ID or anything when I came in."

"Err-- well, uh, you're Alex Best. Of course we know that you work here..."

"How long have you been managing this facility, Ben?"

"Ever since it was built. 10 years this next March."

He seems so proud for a person whose career has been frozen in place for a decade.

"Is there a mail room? Who checks it?"

Ben furrows his brow. "Yeah... um. Usually that would be me. Or Cynthia. She's the other team lead here."

Alex wanders around the tiny, sad, gray cubicle, idly touching various items on Ben's desk: his dusty, food-flecked monitor, a red stapler, a framed photo of Ben with his parents. He looks Ben in the eye now: "What's your emergency evacuation plan?"

---

Alex climbs into the back of Sable's van. Sable is lying on her back on the mattress, among her cozy, amber-lit trappings, the hot plate, the mini-fridge, the laptop, the tiny footlocker. Closing the door behind him, Alex turns and faces her, sitting on his knees.

"Would you like to go to yet another?" Sable asks, peering at the list of locations, and scratching off Diablo Grande; the fifth so far.

"No. I can't stand it anymore. It's like purgatory's waiting room in these places..."

"And here -- the security?"

"Like the others. Nothing. I can't believe it, Ms. Guiteau... after 3/10, and Darkbloom's death, and everything... we're not doing anything to keep our satellite facilities safe!"

"That's great news," Sable says. "Dalton is in Mara's pocket. Likely he's keeping security lax to give Mara's friends better access if they should ever want it... but they won't have any idea what's really coming."

"Nothing happens without my say-so," Alex reiterates for the thousandth time, his voice firm. "These servers stay up until Ally and everyone else have guaranteed safety."

Sable nods. Alex, his eyes drifting down, realizes that Sable isn't wearing pants -- or panties. Noticing him notice this, Sable tosses the list of server farms aside, sits up, and spreads her legs invitingly.

"Forget about all that for now," she says. "I need you, Alex..."

---

You sit at the dining room table across from Mom. Next to Mom, Cerise has her arms wrapped around her -- leaning hard against her, cheek to Mom's bosom. Cerise holds on like Mom will float away the second she lets go.

Still, Cerise's smile is deep and dreamy. She nuzzles Mom lovingly, and Mom absentmindedly pats her head in return.

"What else do you remember?" You prompt.

"That's all," Mom says. "Leaving that night with your father... and then there's just nothing. Until now."

"We'll make up for all that lost time," Cerise says, her voice just a bit muffled by Mom's chest.

"It's absurd..." Mom says. "I can't be two people. I remember being with the two of you on every Christmas we had together... but also with Rose and Amber. How could I have been in two places at once?"

You shake your head.

"How am I supposed to be your mother and their mother, too?"

"I don't want to lose you again," Cerise pleads.

Mom pets her, and this seems to soothe her.

"Should we tell them?" Mom asks.

Your answer is instant: "No. Absolutely not."

Mom nods. "I suppose you're right. I don't think Rose would understand. And Amber..." she trails off. "Tch. There's only one solution, then."

You wait for her to finish.

"Since you saw fit to get your jollies off with Rose, you'll just have to take responsibility and marry her now. Then it won't be strange for you and Cerise to treat me as your mother too."

You shudder. Thinking fast, you offer: "Uh... if you're our mother already, that makes Rose2 my sister... and of course, it would be unnatural to carry on a relationship with my own sister, right?"

Mom makes a sour face at you. She clearly doesn't buy in to your logic here. 

"Furthermore," she says. "Why do you keep calling her Rose2? I sure would like to meet this girl who's somehow more deserving of being just 'Rose' to you."

"You already met her--" you begin, but Mom's stern glare is enough to stir you to action. You rise, and go upstairs, and drag a bleary-eyed Rose from bed.

"You are such a fucking asshole," Rose is grumbling as you lead her back, "I wish I could strangle you until you pass out and fucking pis-- oh, hi, Ms. Catachresis. I didn't know you were visiting."

She frowns. "Am I interrupting you, young lady?"

"N-- no," Rose says.

Cerise explains: "We lived with the Mallorys after you and dad... well, they took us in. Rose is their daughter."

Even though she's still badly bruised from tennis, Mom instantly recognizes the resemblance: "Of course. You're Charlotte's daughter?"

Rose nods.

"That would make you and Alabaster..." she thinks for a moment. "Cousins, yes?"

Rose closes her eyes sighs, and shakes her head in frustration.

Mom folds her arms and harumphs. She says to you, "My Rose told me that you and this young woman here are carrying on a relationship. What happened to your qualms about being involved with close blood relatives?"

"We're not THAT close--" you begin, at the same time Rose says: "we're not just COUSINS--" Then, rethinking, you both come out with: "We're not in a relationship!"

"Uh huh," Mom says. She and Cerise share a glance, roll their eyes: neither one seems particularly impressed by the deflection.

Mom points at Rose now. "You -- you mentioned the possibility of hiring me the other day. Is that still possible?"

"I, ah..." Rose stammers.

"I could use the extra cash," Mom admits. "And it would let us keep in touch more easily."

"You want to work for Darkbloom Analytics?" Cerise asks. "What -- as a pastry chef?"

She shrugs. "Why not? Are you trying to imply I wouldn't be capable of it?"

>[x] It can't be helped. We'll have to hire Mom.
[ ] Sorry. That place is too dangerous for you to work. 

"But you need to understand a few things first--" you begin.

"YOU need to understand a few things too!" Mom cuts in. "I'm no slouch. If I have to cook for the whole company every day, I'm going to run a tight ship! I'll need only the best employees, and good facilities. If I'm not pleased with what I see in the morning, you'll be the first to know it."

"--In the morning?" You sputter.

"Of course. Why not start right away?"

You can't argue against it -- the more time you have to reconnect with her, the better, as far as you're concerned.

"We'll talk with Whitney and get you cleared," you say. "We don't want a repeat of what happened the last time you showed up."

"We don't?" Mom says. She tilts her chin up, haughty. "I should think it's that awful Noelle Keki person who doesn't! I can't wait to see her face when she finds out that I'm a favored employee there now!"

Is this entire thing just some sort of roundabout revenge ploy? Mom, as always, knows how to carry a grudge.

"Don't get carried away," you warn her. "Antagonizing the FBI is just about the worst idea in the world."

Mom shifts her weight in her chair and looks over at Cerise. Somehow she's the first to notice: "Cerise, honey... what happened to your eyes just now?" 

Darkbloom seems shocked to be sitting in Mom's presence: the expression on Cerise's face, before Darkbloom regains composure, is slackjawed, disbelieving. He stutters but gets nothing out.

You regain control of the situation and explain to Mom that Cerise has an ocular implant similar to the one she had installed in you. (Mom is a little ashamed to be reminded of this). Eliding over critical details, you say that it sometimes acts up and changes Cerise's eye color.

Darkbloom knows better than to speak out of turn. He only agrees that what you say is true.

"I think we should all get some rest now," you say nodding at Rose. Rose takes the cue, walks over, and loops an arm across Cerise's shoulders.

"Yes..." Darkbloom says. "I'm tired... it's been -- it's been just, so great to see you again, mom..."

The expression on Mom's face is severe and distrusting. She knows that something is off about Cerise.

Rose takes Darkbloom, a willing prisoner for now, and goes upstairs.

You hug Mom goodbye, but she's standoffish and still disturbed.

"Are you telling me the truth about Cerise?" She says flatly.

"What do you--"

"Nevermind. I'll see tomorrow, Alabaster. I --" She pauses, and her expression softens. Then she hugs you again, more closely. You smell her distinct perfume, the same she always wore, and feel her hair brushing against you.

"I love you, Alabaster," she says.

Your voice catches, but you know better than to squander the miracle of an opportunity like this, no matter how it came about. "I... love you too, Mom."

She leaves. 

Cerise is hogtied on her bed already when you get back to her room.

"I know nothing about that!" Darkbloom insists as you step in. "How that woman came back --"

Rose raps her knuckles against Cerise's skull. Darkbloom flinches in vicarious pain.

"You know something," Rose says. "Start talking."

"I know nothing," he repeats. "You insane jackals -- believe me when I tell you that I am equally as lost -- no, more lost, even, than anyone! I wish I had answers! I don't!"

"Ally...?"

You turn; Alex is at the threshold, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Seizing the moment and thinking quick, Rose swoops over, takes him by the arm and ushers him away. "Let's get back to sleep, Alex, hmm?" Alex is still drowsy and confused, and easily led by a demanding woman, as usual.

"I believe you," you say, alone now with Darkbloom. "You have no idea what you really unleashed on the world, do you?"

He seems monumentally relieved by the fact that you believe him, while at the same time nursing a wounded ego at admitting his own ignorance.

A beat passes. And then:

"Alabaster," he says. "I know things between us are at a nadir. But I beg of you -- to take some measure of pity on me -- and, just once, if only for a little while... permit me to see my daughters. You reunited with your mother -- how happy you must be to do that. Would you deny Vivian the same joy? For her sake, Alabaster--"

You slap Cerise -- just enough for it to smart for Darkbloom -- hopefully without leaving any marks.

He recoils at the blow, wincing. Tears begin to stream down his cheek. Despair is setting in; you've reduced David Darkbloom to silently crying.

>[x] You can see them again.
[ ] Only Whitney.
[ ] No. 

He doesn't seem to know what to say. He can only manage: "Thank you, Alabaster... I... thank you."

You kneel at the edge of the bed and lock eyes with him. "I didn't have to do this. Remember that."

He nods.

"You will help me," you say. "You will help me figure out what's going on. You will help me run your company. And you will help me deal with your sociopath of a wife."

"Yes, Alabaster. Yes."

"And you won't complain, ever. You won't step out of line."

"I understand."

"I'm glad you understand. Don't forget your place."

The queer mixture of indignation and happiness on Cerise's face is hard to make sense of. 

When you wake up in the morning, it's Cerise who's beside you in bed -- it's really her.

As you cut the zipties loose, Cerise massages the mild abrasions on her wrists where the plastic left indentations in the skin. "We need to figure out something better," she grouses. "Those things hurt like a motherfucker. Plus it gives me this horrible kink in my neck--"

"We can always buy a kennel..." You say.

She makes a disgruntled little purr.

You fill the gaps in her memory of last night while you drive with her to work.

---

It's past 9 AM when Whitney shows up on campus. She comes in looking bedraggled, with Dr. Carte and Vivian in tow. It's easy to figure out what the story here is.

"Long night?" You say, arms folded.

"Uh, yeah," she says. "We were playing board games... you know..."

You glance at Dr. Carte, unamused. Dr. Carte, much more amused, winks. "We played all night long."

Vivian steps past, towards the elevators; her gait has only the slightest limp to it. Whitney rubs the back of her head, laughing awkwardly.

"So since you're late," you say, "you haven't heard the good news. My m-- Ms. Catachresis came by last night. I told her she could work here as a chef for the cafeteria."

Whitney's grin is as wide as her face. "You didn't! You fucking genius! That's genius! I knew you were a genius." She slugs your shoulder, hard enough to actually hurt. "I'll tell Spancer to get all the HR bullshit together for her. W4's or W2's or whatever the fuck. When does she want to start?"

"Today."

"Fucking A! Wow. Shit, yeah. That's -- whoa." Whitney is just a whirlwind of uncontained glee and curses. "What are you waiting for, then? Get her and her mom jeans over here already!"

You almost feel like she's even happier than you at the prospect of reunion. Then again, Whitney missed Mom's cooking most of all. 

Mom is only too happy to wave the tax forms in Noelle's face when Spancer delivers them to her on the other side of the security cordon.

"See this?" She shouts. "I work here now, hussy!" She repeatedly slaps the papers with the back of her free hand.

"Congratulations," Noelle says, totally disinterested. "I'm happy for you."

"Yeah, I bet you are! Now if you and your cronies give me any trouble, I'll be sure to file charges! Got it?"

"Absolutely, Ms. Catachresis. We'll add you to the whitelist -- you shouldn't expect any trouble from us."

Mom swivels her head to keep an eye on Noelle as she steps past the checkpoint. The look she gives Noelle is long, shifty, filled with suspicion and contempt.

Rose2, who tagged along, follows -- oblivious as ever. "It's so hecking cool that you're working here, mom! Wowie zowie!"

Rose and Cerise receive them. They offer to show Mom the way to the kitchens.

As they walk off, Noelle says to you: "That's a strange woman. With an even stranger daughter."

"Yeah, she's pretty great," you say absentmindedly.

Noelle frowns at you.

"Whatever you're thinking, keep it to yourself," you warn her.

She seems to want to say something to you -- and not about Mom -- but you're not sure what.

>[x] Make conversation with her.
[ ] Go to the kitchens.
[ ] Get Whitney. 

"Out with it," you say.

"Are you and Rose2 really..." she begins. She shakes her head. "I thought you had better taste."

You narrow your eyes at her. "Got cameras on me or what? Following me?"

Noelle huffs. "She told me. God, you paranoid -- how many times do I have to say this? You're not a target of this investigation -- at least not yet--"

"Uh huh. And when would Rose2 ever have the chance to talk to you?"

She rubs her elbow and looks away. "Uh, well... I get bored in the mornings. And there's this little ad hoc sort of club in the theater--"

"Oh my god. The morning anime club? You're hanging out with those wastes of skin? And criticizing me for bad taste?"

"I am -- not proud," she admits, gaze still averted.

[ ] Well, you're right. I'm seeing Rose2 now.
>[x] You're half right. I'm just fooling around with her.
[ ] What kind of guy do you take me for? Of course I'm not involved with a girl like her! 

"It's complicated," you say. "As far as I'm concerned, it's nothing serious -- but other people may have... other ideas..."

Noelle takes it on the chin. "You're gonna break the heart of every guy at MAC. You know that? They're all thirstier for Rose2 than I thought was humanly possible. I mean. They treat her like actual royalty. It's pathetic."

"Sounds about right," you say. "It was the same in high school. But are you sure it's just the guys whose hearts are getting broken here?"

Noelle curls her lip. "I don't think Kimberly Manlove is too interested in you. So no."

"Nice save," you say.

"This is a fair warning, now," Noelle says. "Rose2 has a much different understanding of things than you do. Try not to break her when you tell her that she's just your jizz tissue. I don't like her but I'd rather not walk into the theater one day to find her strung up on a noose, either."

"Thanks for the advice. Here's some advice in return: you're better off watching anime by yourself on your phone in the bathroom than spending even half a second with any of those idiots at morning anime club. For real, Noelle. I'm honestly disappointed in you."

"What can I say. My fellow agents aren't much for Mongolian shadow puppetry. And I don't really know anyone else who has the same interests."

[ ] If you have to suffer their company, I can at least come along sometime for moral support.
>[x] Forget them. We should watch something together, you and me.
[ ] Leave for now. 

"I'm legally obligated to say no," Noelle says. "You're not a target of this investigation, but you're certainly a subject, and fraternizing with you is a bad idea."

You sigh.

"Then again," Noelle adds, "I'm legally obligated not to download half the things I look at on ex. Yet here we are."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

"It's no, with a but."

"I... don't know what that means," you admit.

"It means I'll be in touch, Mr. Soliloquy. Have you seen Yuru Camp yet?"

You feel a hot rush of embarrassment: "Uh -- no, not yet..."

She slugs you, right where Whitney did a little bit ago, and you can feel the bruise developing under your shirt. "I told you to watch it over a year ago. What is wrong with you?"

"You know me. I don't get anything done unless you keep on top of me."

"Har har. I bet you think that was cute just now."

"It's not going to be like last time," you say. "I'll be on the lookout for any interrogation tactics. So you can forget pumping me for information."

"I wouldn't dream of pumping you," Noelle says, tilting her chin towards you, grinning. "Sorry to disappoint."

You leave it at that. 

In the kitchen, Whitney is watching with utter, undistilled happiness as Mom berates the cooks:

"What is this? What is this?" Mom is saying to the man you recognize as Pablo, the undocumented Mexican chef Whitney herself browbeat you into hiring. She points at a tin of bread sitting on top of an industrial oven among the chrome countertops. "This dough is raw! You were going to serve this? It's raw, Pablo, you donkey! Get this garbage out of here!"

He grabs the baking pan and, in a paroxysm of mixed macho rage and self-loathing, he dumps it, pan and all, into the trash.

"I quit!" He tells Whitney, folding his arms. "This woman is impossible!"

"Hell no you don't quit," Whitney tells him. "You two need to, like, synergize. That's a business term. Look it up. Focus on your strengths -- you're good at Jap shit, Mom is good at sweets." She brings her two hands together, interlaces the fingers for show. "See? Synergy."

Mom narrows her eyes at Whitney. "Since when do you get to call me Mom? Just because you snuck into my house all the time to mooch dessert off my table, doesn't make me your mother!"

"Sneaked," you offer. "Snuck isn't a word."

"Do not correct me, young man! I will say snuck until I'm blue in the face!"

"Well you'll be saying a word that doesn't exist, then."

She stomps a foot and locks her elbows. "Snuck! Snuck snuck snuck!"

Whitney puts a hand on Mom's shoulder. "You and Pablo will get along great, I just know it. Take over all the bread-making duties from him and let him do his noodle-y, Japanese-y, chicken and egg thing."

"Oh no, not a chance," Mom says. "This hairy little gremlin needs supervision. I'll have to help him make all his dishes."

Whitney raises her eyebrows at you. This could be a problem. Mom's desserts are second to no one else on Earth -- but her skills at literally anything other than baked goods are... not as good, to put it diplomatically. 

Pulling her aside, you try to explain it to Mom as gently as possible. "We've got 500 employees -- that's a lot of people to cook for -- so some division of labor is necessary, right?"

"Until Pablo knows how to cook, I can't let him serve to these people. And that goes for all the other incompetents you have working here, too. How has no one contracted salmonella from all this undercooked food yet? Honestly!"

Yeah. Mom's idea of making sure that meat isn't undercooked is to keep it in the oven until it turns into a hockey puck. Cerise once privately remarked to you that Mom's chicken is drier than her pussy after talking to Stackleford; a mental image that will haunt forever you on multiple levels.

"I don't want to step on your toes day 1 here," you try. "But everyone likes Pablo's oriental cooking. And Jose's breakfasts and Raul's burgers -- they've all got their niches, yeah? If you take over all the desserts and breads and sweets and stuff -- you'll really round out the cafeteria's offerings."

"You're saying you don't like my cooking. Is that it?"

"No--"

"I never! I only fed you for 18 years. Housed and clothed you! Now my cooking isn't good enough for you?"

"Fuck's sake, Mom--"

"Don't fuck's sake me, you brat!"

You made a mental oath to be more courteous and kind to Mom, but it's hard to break old habits. Especially when she seems so committed to them herself.

"Fine," you say. "But please don't scare our entire cooking staff away. You can't do everything on your own -- not for this many people. Take it easy and let them help -- that's what they're here for."

"Hmmph," she says. "You'll see. This whole company is going to realize what they were missing out on by the time lunch is served today. They'll fall to their knees thanking me, for saving them from this pitiful excuse for cooking they had to suffer before I got here. Then you can march your butt right back in here and say: 'you were right, Mom! Wow!'"

"I look forward to that," you say sarcastically.

"I have to get to work," she says. She pounds a fist in her palm: "Time waits for no woman! But... don't be a stranger, Alabaster."

You nod.

>[x] Go see Whitney and Vivian.
[ ] Go see Rose and Cerise.
>[x] Go see Makoto.
[ ] Go see Alex.
[ ] Go see Dr. Carte. 

You find your way to Whitney's office, but she's not in at the moment. Usually if she's not schlubbing around in here, she's across the hall annoying Vivian, so you decide to check there next.
 
Vivian's mostly-black color palette extends to her office space, and even illuminated by sunlight, this place seems remarkably dim and dreary. It takes a few moments for your eyes to adjust when you walk in and shut the door. Vivian is seated at her tall desk -- a very tall desk, which comes up past her chest even when she has her chair fully lifted. On a chair beside her, is who you expected: Whitney. She has one arm around Vivian's shoulders, and another down somewhere in the vicinity of Vivian's lap. And though the desk obscures your view, you can tell by the way the both of them are squirming -- Vivian more than Whitney, of course -- that nothing chaste is happening under there.
 
"Holy shit, you two," you say. "Lock the door if you're going to do that." You turn to do just this, but Whitney stops you:
 
"We've got an appointment coming up. Keep it unlocked."
 
You eye her quizzically. All the while, Vivian struggles and writhes and makes little discomforted noises as Whitney's hand does whatever it's doing. (Nothing bad, you hope.)
 
You're not sure about this. But Whitney knows what she's doing. Besides, you're too curious to waste time arguing. You circle the desk, and get an eyeful.
 
Vivian's black satin dress is hiked up around her waist, her white-stockinged legs are spread and her panties are missing. She's resting way, way back on her pale little ass. Her tiny slit of a pussy is upturned, delicious-looking, glistening -- while Whitney corkscrews two fingers in and out of her equally tiny asshole. Whitney's fingers are coated in a white lotion, smearing it all over Vivian's lower hole, and all around on the inside too, making a greasy, creamy mess.
 
"Oh my god," you mutter. "What are you doing?"
 
Whitney grins. "Mom went extra hard last night. I don't know what kind of switch your dick flipped inside her brain, but she's wild. Anyway, this stuff is supposed to soothe aches and pains, so I'm, uh... soothing Vivian's asshole."
 
Whitney's nimble fingers continue to work in and out, the thin flesh of Vivian's anus stretched to a seeming limit around them. Although Whitney's fingers are quite small, they look enormous in this little hole. There's no way this can feel good for poor Vivian.
 
"Are you sure you're not just hurting her even more?" You say.
 
"Wellll," Whitney says with a devilish laugh. "If it hurts, that's how you know it's working."
 
"Whitneyyyy..." Vivian whines. Her eyes are glazed over and distant. "That'sss... quite enough, I-I think... Alabaster... c-can see us..."
 
"You like being seen, you little whore," Whitney sneers. When Vivian whines again in protest, Whitney adds: "come here, baby. Let big sister kiss it all better..."
 
She leans forward and locks lips with Vivian, wantonly intermingling tongues and practically drooling into her little sister's mouth -- still molesting the poor girl's ass all the while. Vivian warms to this, though, and kisses right back. Soon she even begins to buck her hips against Whitney's invading fingers even though her asshole is sore from abuse already and only getting sorer from this use. There's two things that both girls really like, you've come to learn: kissing, and Whitney's fingers having their selfish way with Vivian's holes no matter how much it hurts.
 
You're not complaining. Those are two things you really like, too.
 
"I think you're making Ally horny~" Whitney whispers.
 
"Mmmh... is... issh he going to put hish cock in me now...?"
 
If you weren't planning to before, you certainly are now.
 
You unbuckle your jeans and step out of them. But just as you begin to pull down your boxers, and Vivian locks her hungry, fuck-stupid eyes on your throbbing prick, the door of her office opens again -- and in walks, of all people, Makoto.
 
"Fuck--!" You grunt, and, unable to think of what else to do, you dive behind Vivian's desk to conceal your nakedness.
 
Makoto lazily passes the threshold, shuts the door and pulls up a chair. She has a notebook in her hands. "An unexpected third. Is such common in your love life, Whitney?"
 
"Oh yes," Whitney purrs. "Ally finds his way to the action all the time..."
 
Makoto takes notes like a student at a lecture.
 
"What the fuck!" You yell. "What are you doing here?"
 
"You have told me to be more energetic. Therefore I endeavored to ask Whitney from where does her energy come. And I have received an answer. It comes from sex. Now I am to observe."
 
Vivian, her jaw hanging open, is still staring at your dick, and hardly seems to care that there's an interloper. Whitney cares even less, and continues to violate her little sister's anus without inhibition. She massages the creamy lotion practically into a froth, fingers sawing in and out, slowly, twirling them in semicircles. And now she's trying to worm a third digit into the overstuffed little orifice.
 
"Please to continue," Makoto tells you. "I am -- how is the term? A fly on a wall."
 
You give Whitney a disbelieving look, but she just nods. "Roll with it, Ally. She wants to watch us fuck."
 
Whether or not this is a good idea, your cock is doing your thinking for you. You can't resist the sight of Vivian's adorable little cunt, that puffy mound, the soft sheen of the pale skin there, as she gets wetter and wetter for your cum. She's got a pussy so tight that the in-turned lips are actually overlapping just a little, but the fat button of her clit is visible and throbbing with arousal at the top. She might have the body of a little girl, but there's nothing juvenile about her very real lust, her desire to get mounted and fucked raw.
 
You step forward. In turn, Whitney pulls back, and at least for now takes the role of spectator. Maybe out of carelessness, or maybe to degrade Vivian -- which is a minor hobby of hers -- she wipes her greasy fingers clean on Vivian's dress.
 
"Your sister appears to struggle against this," Makoto notes.
 
"Yep. It's always more fun if it feels a little rapey."
 
"Rapey," Makoto says, taking note. "Understood. Rape is good."
 
"Rape..." Vivian repeats, lost to pleasure. "Yesss... rape me, Alabaster... please rape me..."
 
You get over top of her, grabbing the arms of the office chair. You jab your cock forward, pointing it at the entrance to her pussy. Makoto wheels herself around to the side and leans way in for a better vantage, peering closely for the moment of penetration, her pencil at the ready; a diligent student of proper rape technique, now.
 
Whitney gently takes the pencil and notepad from her -- sets them aside. "Nerd," she says. "If you're watching, you have to really watch. That means having fun, too."
 
You thrust forward, pushing your cock in a practiced motion past the rubbery resistance of Vivian's pussy. The lips are so hot they almost threaten to singe and the moist interior is absolutely decadent against your needy prickmeat. You throw your head back and just revel in the way her walls slide and grip and squish against you as you slide slowly, oh so slowly in.
 
A gasp now, to your left: you look to see that Whitney has both hands busy. One down her panties (when did she take off her slacks?) and one in Makoto's skirt. Clearly Makoto did not expect the intrusion. Kind of stupid, you think -- Whitney has shown herself to be prone to molestation. Makoto should have expected this to happen.
 
"Come on, babe," Whitney says. "You're me, right? So you're watching your little sister get fucked. And nothing gets your cunt hot like seeing your sister fucked..."
 
"U-understood..." Makoto says, uncomfortable, but willing to go along.
 
Vivian has her tiny fingers wrapped around the part on either side of the chair that connects the chair-arms to the seat, as she keeps her legs splayed open and presents her defenseless pussy to you. You sink ever further in, your grip tight on the armrests, your body almost totally eclipsing hers. And then, bottoming out against her cervix, making her squeal in agony and delight, you begin to really fuck her in earnest. The chair shudders and rattles beneath you as you pound her. You have to bow your knees just a bit to get a nice angle on her cunt, and this just fuels the animalistic feeling inside you. Vivian is such a nice fucktoy.
 
Meanwhile, Whitney's hand is working magic even on ice-queen Makoto, and she's chewing her lower lip, trying to fight against the pleasure, but failing.
 
"Come onnnn," Whitney pressures, "I know you like this. Your pussy is wet, too. Just let it happen, babe... you'll have more fun that way..."
 
"Mm-- mm--" Makoto mumbles, trapped between resisting and giving in.
 
"Have you ever gotten fucked?" Whitney asks.
 
Makoto timidly shakes her head no.
 
"Hah. Liar. I bet you're a little slut for all those record execs. Aren't you?"
 
She shakes her head more forcefully, but the accusation must do something to her, because she gyrates her hips just a little.
 
"I bet you've never had a dick as big as my Ally's, though, have you. Ever wonder what a white dick feels like? I just know he's always wanted to try a Japanese pussy... I'll tell him to fuck you, if you want it..."
 
Makoto leans her head against the back of her seat and lets out a shrill little whinny -- Whitney is overloading this poor girl's brain with dirty talk.
 
Vivian, under you, is barely conscious as her body flops back and forth from the force of your thrusts. You're railing her, using her body as hard as you've ever used it, prompted on by Whitney's obscene treatment of this prim and proper idol. If her fans at home saw her in this state, her career would be over. Not only having sex, but with gaijin like you and Whitney -- the shame would follow her forever. She must surely be aware of it too, because she keeps shaking her head, and even says, in a soft breathy voice that seems more to herself than anything: "ya-- yamete-- yamete kudasai--"
 
"I don't know what the fuck that means," Whitney says. "So I'm gonna keep going."
 
She gets down on her knees and forces Makoto's skirt off, her panties too; and you see now Makoto's pop star pussy in all its glory. Despite her stature, she's certainly a woman, and the downy tuft of hair she has down there proves it. Without a moment's hesitation about that, Whitney just smirks and dives in -- latches her lips onto Makoto and starts eating her out. Makoto is dying with the sensation of it, a hand to her lips, eyes wrenched shut, but nonetheless thrusting her butt forward, feeding her wet cunt to Whitney's searching mouth. Protest all she will; her body tells the truth. She likes it.
 
You like it, too. It's a great accompaniment to Vivian's squishy pussy hugging your cock. You leak precum into her like a drippy faucet as you alternate between staring down at her delirious fuckface, and Whitney's lez session with this young woman playing her.
 
"Having fun yet?" Whitney asks Makoto.
 
"It's... it's good!" Makoto screams, that last barrier breaking in her brain. "It's a so good!"
 
"Wanna get fucked now?"
 
"Fuck me! Fuck me, Mr. Alabaster, yes!"
 
Whitney is forceful, as she tugs Makoto by the arm and drags her to the carpeted floor. You catch the cue and haul Vivian up, gripping her under her knees, with your cock still wetly mated inside her. This is going to be one to remember; you and Whitney are on the same wavelength. As Whitney gets Makoto laid out on her back, you lie Vivian atop her -- stomach to stomach. And there they lie, the gothic Lolita and the genki Jpop idol, two nice and proper and wholesome girls that you've turned into nothing but a couple of wet holes begging for your cock. Those wet holes, lined up, are going to get fucked in tandem.
 
Whitney gets behind you and hugs you, her arms rubbing your chest as you continue to fuck Vivian senseless. "Don't say I never do anything for you," she coos. She kisses the side of your face and watches in delight as you have your way with her sister. Vivian's pussy is so warm and so much fun to rape that you hardly want to pull out, but Makoto's heaving, impatient little whines and Whitney's chiding in your ear -- "don't you want to try that ricey pussy?" -- get you to switch.
 
You pull out of Vivian, tenderly, watching her ruined little hole slowly close back up -- and then get yourself positioned at Makoto's hole now instead. Vivian, in want of stimulation, finds it in Makoto: without asking first, she kisses Makoto; and Makoto, totally beyond fighting anything that happens, kisses back. Method acting at its finest. She kisses just like Whitney, sloppy and lewd.
 
With that sight indelibly in mind, you push forward, and get your cock up Makoto for the first time. She groans, not that fake high-pitched wail of JAV stars, but a deep, womanly, lustful groan. Whether she's really a virgin or not you have no idea, but you can tell she's never had her pussy spread apart like this. She fucks back against you, loving every second, while swapping spit with Vivian.
 
You can hear Whitney's fingers in her cunt as she stands behind and watches the show; she loves to see you conquering other girls. As jealous as she gets, there's something about helping you dominate a girl that really gets her off -- it becomes you and her teaming up against a little slut -- and that puts her a rung above them, so she enjoys it. This is no different. She kisses your face all over as she masturbates, kisses so hungrily that she's practically just licking you, and entices you ever forward: "That's it, Ally... fuck them... fuck both of them... fuck their little pussies full of cum for me..."
 
You begin to switch back and forth at random now, unable to settle for very long on one cunt or another -- sliding first into Vivian's, getting your cockhead nestled in her womb as the pain knocks the wind from her -- then into Makoto's, her pubic hair tickling your shaft as you enjoy the rich texture of her genitals, as tight and toned as the rest of her idol body. As you swap between pussies, you occasionally find the wrong hole, shoving your cock with a growl up Vivian's abused little anus, or into Makoto's which is probably cherry given how loud she screams each time at the unexpected sodomy. Not that you care, their assholes feel just as good on your dick as their pussies do. All four orifices great, hot little fuckholes; and you enjoy buggering them with little purrs of sadistic pleasure before moving on to the next thing. Easily distracted here, you are, like a kid in a candy store, with these beautiful holes on display to rape to your heart's content.
 
It's by chance that you end up coming close to the edge while you're in Makoto's pussy. You don't really care anymore where you cum, as long as it's inside. But you might as well cum here, there's novelty in it after all; and Makoto's overheated body is more than welcoming for your equally hot seed. Whitney, feeling your balls in one of her palms, knows that you're close, and encourages you to do it. "That's it -- blow your load in her -- blow your fucking load in her, Ally!"
 
You intend to. Whitney gets down between you and Makoto, and her mouth finds Vivian's unattended pussy, and her fingers find Vivian's unattended asshole, as she watches up close and personal the way you fuck Makoto raw. Whitney is an expert multitasker, and masturbates too while you get ready to finish inside Makoto.
 
"Yes... yes... yes..." Makoto repeats, dazed. "Give me semen... give me semen..."
 
Whitney's mouth and fingers bring little Vivian off, gets her little sister to cum all over you and Makoto. Vivian's wails of "yessh... yesshhh..." join Makoto's in a chorus of debauched enjoyment, and finally bring you to climax. You unload, balls tightening, and fire your cock milk into Makoto's squeezing insides. Whitney is cumming too, you can hear her juices spattering against the office floor as she sucks her sister's cunt. You and Whitney enjoy the moment together, a nice sloppy orgasm as you use these two girls for your personal perverted enjoyment. You no sooner pull out with a heave of satisfaction than Whitney is sucking your jizz from Makoto's stretched out cunt -- she never fails to claim her share when she's around.

GIRLS FUCKED: 9/12

Vivian is recuperating with the questionably tender asistance of Whitney while you grab a coffee with Makoto in the executive lunchroom. Aside from being a little bit shaky, she took the hard use well, and now she nurses her drink as she enjoys the afterglow. It's not quite the lunch hour yet so the only other person here is Armstrong, accompanied by his wife Grace who occasionally stops by campus to visit him. From their table across the room she casts a sort of judgmental look at you and Makoto, and says something inaudible to Armstrong, who replies -- you can't make out what, but it contains the words "horny motherfucker" -- before he roars in laughter.

"I think I am beginning to have understanding," Makoto avers.

"Of?"

"Energeticness."

"I don't think that's a word," you tell her.

"I do not presently care."

"Just so you know," you say, "you're going to be in danger now whenever Whitney's around. She's like a shark. Once she gets a taste of you... you're pretty much done for."

"Oh?" Makoto says, smirking. "Are you sure she will not be the one in danger?"

You feel a twinge of apprehension here. "Explain further."

"I am learning. I am learn quickly, Alabaster. The source of energy for Whitney Darkbloom: is not merely to sex, but to rape. Therefore, to become Whitney Darkbloom, I must also become a lesbian rapist."

You rub your forehead and can think of absolutely nothing sensible to reply with. What can you say to a Japanese popstar who has just vowed, in broken English, to become a lesbian rapist?

One Whitney was bad enough. How will you handle two? 

Your thoughts are interrupted by Mom -- who enters in a rage, followed closely by a frazzled Rose and Cerise.

"There you are!" Mom says. "Do you know about--" she trails off, and sniffs the air. "Are you kidding me, Alabaster? Do you have sex with everything that has a vagina?" She glances down at Makoto. "No offense, miss. I'm sure you're a lovely girl."

"I am taking none."

"Come on now -- that's unfair," Rose says, and you briefly marvel at the fact that she's defending you, before she adds: "he has sex with some things that don't have a vagina, too."

"What's the matter?" You ask Cerise, trying to move the conversation along. "Why are you all looking for me?"

"Mom found out about--" Cerise begins, but Mom cuts her off:

"What's the matter? THIS is the matter." Mom shoves a phone in your face. "Were you aware of these horrible people, Alabaster?"

You look at the thread on-screen -- /csg/, a *chan staple. You're more than aware of its continued existence. As much as it pisses you off. (https://i.imgur.com/bz9BVgJ.jpg)

"I'm told you own this terrible website," Mom says. "So do something about this! These people are slandering your sister!"

You push your cup away and sigh, shifting in your seat. "It's the Streisand effect," you explain. "If you try to squash the discussion, you'll only make it stronger."

"Stronger? I'm sorry. How can it get any stronger than drawings of Cerise with a penis, mating with herself?"

Makoto cranes her neck, trying to get a look at the phone screen.

"I know," you say. "It's messed up. I thought after this long, they'd stop obsessing, but... look, it's best to just leave them alone. Don't poke the beehive. Trust me on this one."

"This is your sister!" Mom shouts. "You're going to let these people talk about your sister like that?"

You cast an uneasy glance at Cerise, who seems equally unsure what to say.

[ ] Shut it down.
>[x] Let it continue. 

"You need to understand something about the internet, Mom. And you need to trust me, because I've thought about this a whole lot more than I ever wanted to think about it."

She folds her arms and listens.

"When people get obsessed," you tell her, "they don't stop being obsessed just because you shut down the discussion. They go somewhere you can't control, and they get louder. These people are happy where they are now -- being weird and creepy in their own self-contained hive of scum and villainy. They're quarantined. You cut them loose, who knows what they'll do. They could start climbing through our fucking windows or something. It's a bad idea. Bad, bad idea."

"As much as I hate these words: Alabaster is right," Cerise says.

"I hate this," Mom says. "I always told you two, didn't I? I said being famous is the worst thing that can happen to a person!"

"I agree with Alabaster too," Rose says.

"I didn't ask, dear," Mom says.

Rose purses her lips.

You check the clock on the wall. "It's almost lunchtime, isn't it? Aren't you busy?"

Mom laughs. "You forgot how quickly I work, didn't you? Lunch is ready. You can come, if you're hungry -- and if you're ready to see exactly how wrong you were!"

Cerise coughs. She knows as well as you do what this portends. 

People are suffering. And you're no bleeding heart -- but the moans of despair, the retching, the unanswered pleading to God for help, the insensible sobbing that fills the cafeteria -- you hate it. Ken limps past as you enter, supporting a swooning Fazil under the armpits, crying: "we need a medic! We need a medic!" A woman at a table near the entrance pulls at her hair and trembles before a burnt pile of stirfry heaped on her plate. A man lies passed out on the glazed terracotta floor, face-down in a puddle of his own vomit. Employees wander the cafeteria in a daze, like zombies, clutching at their faces, dead-eyed. The entire hall stinks of charred meat and scorched sauces. Like a warzone's aftermath, a fog of smoke hangs low and heavy in the air. "Why, God, why?" you hear from one corner, and like a call-and-response, from another: "what did we do to deserve this?"

"Oh dear," Mom says, putting her hand to her lips.

Tyrus now, on a bullhorn, standing atop a milk crate, is bringing a peaceable end to things: "Y'all, we're sorry about this, but lunch is canceled today. I'm gonna have to ask that you leave in an orderly fashion and return to work." He retches now himself, and seems to fight the urge to hurl through sheer force of will, clutching a hand to his collarbone (caught off-guard, his mannerisms sometimes dip to the femme side). Regaining himself, he adds: "If you're too sick to go back to work, go on and see HR for a pass. And, oh yeah -- see me if you'd like to get comped a free meal at the Sizzler as our way of making things right."

(Tyrus offers people free coupons to Sizzler whenever he can. Where he gets them, you have no clue. You're sure there's some sort of petty kickback or bribery scheme involved here.)

"Is my cooking really so awful?" Mom asks. 

Rose2, barging in, answers for you and Cerise:

"Mom! What the heck! You said this morning that you were only cooking the sweets here. Now this! Not cool! And now I hear that Pablo is quitting because of you! Whitney is gonna be, like, so totally mad at me. I busted my butt to hire that guy!"

"You busted your butt?" Rose sputters. "I don't seem to recall you doing much of anything but sitting out in the car on your phone while I--"

"Don't mouth off at me, missy!" Mom snaps at Rose2. "Pablo wouldn't know oyster sauce from his own rear end. This is probably all his fault."

"It is not his fault!" Rose2 says. "It is so completely not his fault! Why didn't you tell me you were cooking the main course too? I would have brought a bento from home!"

Seeing Rose2 go off like this is rare -- and the fact that the person she's blowing up at is Mom has you conflicted. On the one hand, you don't like to see anyone mistreat her, even her ostensible daughter. On the other hand, Rose2 is speaking truth to power.

Mom folds her arms and frustratedly blows her bangs out of her eyes.

"Your strength is dessert," Cerise says, being diplomatic. "Why not stick to that? Let other people do the other stuff, Mom--"

"Mom?" Rose2 says, looking at Cerise like she sprouted antennae.

"She's trying to insinuate that I'm too nosy because I made a remark about her drinking habits," Mom lies. "Pardon me! I'm so sorry if I expressed concern about your penchant for showing up to work on a buzz!"

That's Mom for you, quick enough on her feet to score a twofer -- deflecting Rose2's confusion over that slip of the tongue while simultaneously chiding Cerise for day-drinking.

"I suppose I'm outnumbered here," Mom finally admits.

You glance over to the center of the cafeteria where Tyrus, still on top of the milk crate, is dispensing coupons. "There ya go. Tell 'em Tyrus sent you. That's right. Tyrus Kang. Free dinner buffet for one. There ya go. Remember that name now -- Tyrus Kang. That's right. Tell 'em Tyrus sent you. There you go. Dinner for one. All the food you can eat. Bring a friend."

"Tomorrow's another day, right?" You say idly.

Rose2 cuts past your field of vision, hurrying across the cafeteria to get her meal ticket: "Heck yeah!" she's saying. "I love Sizzler."

"I didn't intend for her to be dim..." Mom hums.

"It couldn't be helped," you say.

"I suppose not. Just as I didn't intend you to be a smarmy know-it-all."

You frown at her; she winks. Then, thinking, and obviously humbled, she adds: "I think I need to go convince the cooks not to go on strike... I don't want to get us all fired on my first day." 

At home that evening, you somehow wind up on the living room couch with Cerise, curled in a spooning position. You're her babysitter for tonight since Rose is prepping Whitney for an upcoming TV interview -- Oprah or Ellen or someone like that, you've lost track of her television appearances. There's supposed to be some sort of mea culpa over what she keeps calling "that N word thing."

You're watching the series Cerise is so fond of: NeeKyu, an action/horror seinen about a vampire hunter and her incompetent little brother. After all the character development of the first two cours, it seems like the writers just reset everything and brought their relationship back to square one -- despite the fact that the two characters had done everything short of fucking already. It's aggravating, to say the least. You don't understand why she likes it so much.

That being the case, you're bored as hell -- and for want of anything better to focus on, you're starting to feel the familiar pangs of horniness in your groin that seem to show up more and more often these days.

Since your sister is the only woman around, and since you're getting inexplicably hotter by the moment -- does holding her close like this do something to you? -- you can't be faulted for what you do next. You snake a hand between your bodies and find the waistband of her jean shorts -- typically slutty home attire for your dear sister. Her ass is warm even with the fabric of her panties separating you from the real target.

"Al--Alabaster," she says, her voice catching. "What the hell?"

"Don't mind me. Just watch your show, Cerise."

She kicks against you. "Asshole. I'm not some schoolgirl on the subway for you to get handsy with when you're bored."

You roll your eyes as you pull your hand back. "Pushy, pushy. Fine." You're not a complete freak -- if she doesn't want it, she doesn't want it.

But then she spins around in your arms so that she's facing you. The two of you are so close your noses are practically touching. "You're a real fucking pervert. Has anyone told you that?"

"Many people. And frequently."

"If you want to do something like that," she says, rubbing her knee against your crotch, "we could always make it to Gal's. It's been a while since I visited her."

>[x] I just want you tonight.
[ ] Let's go. 

You kiss Cerise on the lips in a very, very unbrotherly way. Her mouth opens to yours, no resistance, although she squirms a little in your embrace. Your tongues meet and wrap around one another. This is good for her too. She moans into your mouth -- a resounding vibration you feel racing all the way down your lungs.
 
"Just us tonight, okay?" You say. "We've got the house to ourselves. Why waste it?"
 
Cerise is fine with this. That kiss was all it took to convince her. (She doesn't take much effort to convince, when it comes to keeping her little brother all to herself.)
 
You spend the next few minutes -- stretching into a half hour, stretching into an hour -- just kissing Cerise. Somehow it seems your mouths work really well together. Maybe it's due to being so closely related. Her taste, the smooth texture of her tongue, the way she breathes hot against you, is like no girl you've had before, and this is enough to keep you content. Like a couple of teenagers, you lie there on the couch with her just making out and dry-humping. The night is young, you've got nothing to hurry for, and your sister's tongue is in your mouth. Why stop? You press your hardness against Cerise's body and enjoy the soft pressure of her tummy, a minor relief for your aching cock that tides it over, while you and Cerise explore the warm confines of one another's mouths.
 
The best thing about kissing Cerise is how flustered it makes her. This is unique. Whitney keeps control over the situation, ditto her mom; Vivian just goes nuts with lust and Alex is too intent on pleasing you to lose himself. Other girls have similar reactions. They all know what they want. But Cerise, despite skillfully kissing you back, just doesn't. She doesn't seem to know what to do with herself at all, doesn't seem capable of handling the reality of incest, the reality that she's entwining her tongue with her own younger brother's. It makes her shiver all over like she's cold, even as her body gets feverishly warm. It makes her breath go all jagged and shallow. It makes her let out these tiny little uncertain noises that are cute and sexy all at once. The taboo of it does things to her that she struggles to deal with. Her mouth is hot and wet and her eyes are tightly shut as she shudders against you. But she never stops kissing you back.
 
Soon though, Cerise does pull away a little. Her lips are shiny, and her eyes only manage to open halfway. "Why the fuck are you such a good kisser? It's not fair. A loser like you shouldn't be so good at this."
 
"I should ask you the same thing," you reply. "Ms. Christmas Cake over here is suspiciously good at making out. Who's been giving you lessons? Gal, Whitney -- Alex?"
 
"I am NOT a Christmas Cake!" Cerise fumes.
 
"Get real. You're 99.9% of the way there."
 
She narrows her eyes.
 
"I mean, technically, sure, you're not a Christmas Cake. Not yet. But let's just say Santa's sleigh has come and gone, the presents are all open..."
 
She slugs you. Then, grabbing your collar and hauling you in, she kisses you again. Even if she's irate, she knows this is too good to quit. And you might tease her, but you adore it too. Your (soon to be) Christmas Cake sister is way too cute.
 
"Mmh~" Cerise mumbles as she wriggles free of your grip. You reluctantly let her loose. You wonder briefly what she's up to, but when she sits on a nearby recliner and gets on her laptop, you have an inkling. The NeeKyu episode played and finished while the two of you were distracted, and now the giant flatscreen displays her messy, icon-strewn desktop instead. But navigating with apparent ease (however she can manage that nightmarish labyrinth of sub-sub-sub-sub folders), she pulls up something different.
 
"I hope you don't mind," she's saying, as she closes the laptop's lid, and soft piano music plays over Kanji credits on the TV screen. "My backlog is pretty big, after all."
 
"This isn't about traps, is it?" You say skeptically.
 
Cerise, hooking her thumbs in her shorts and shaking them down her hips without unbuttoning them, laughs. "No. Get your mind out of the gutter. It's a slice of life about a perfectly wholesome family."
 
Cerise is pulling down her damp panties as well, the cotton peeling lewdly away from her wet cunt. The sight is almost hypnotic. The way the strands of her arousal glimmer in the light of the screen. And you're not going to let her have all the fun, so you also quickly kick your pants and boxers off. Your hard cock springs up against your belly with a little thwap. Cerise eyes it hungrily, licking her lips.
 
"You ARE a pervert," she says.
 
"Says the woman whose idea it was to watch hentai with her little brother."
 
You sit upright on the couch, and Cerise sits next to you. The action on screen is anything but wholesome -- the family in the show is one man and a harem of sisters, and he's fucking them already, less than a minute in.
 
"Do you mind if I jerk you off?" Cerise asks. Her voice is husky and you know she's probably going to insist on it no matter what you say.
 
But you want her to. "Do it," you tell her through gritted teeth.
 
Your sister wraps a warm, loose hand around the base of your cock, and slowly tugs -- first upward, then downward, taking her time, and enjoying the way your foreskin slides back and forth in her grip. This is another thing you're in no mood to rush. You'll let her jerk you off however she pleases. Cerise lazily masturbates you.
 
After a minute or two, you decide to return the favor. You reach a hand down, finding the nubbin of her clitoris. You pinch it, only lightly, just enough to draw a hiss of pleasure.
 
"Put your fingers in me..." she begs in a low groan.
 
You obey. Your bring your fingers together and rub the fat mound of her pussy back and forth a couple times before parting the lips -- which stubbornly want to stick together, adhered by her thick wetness. And then, finally, you slide a couple of your fingers into the hot hole at the bottom. Her pussy hugs them with a vicelike tightness, and her efforts on your cock quicken. She likes what you're doing to her. She likes the way you play with her cunt.
 
She's torn between watching the obscene animation on the TV and staring down at the way you play with her, the way she plays with you. There you are, two perverted siblings rubbing each other, helping each other get off to porn that's not, technically, legal -- it makes your heart swell with contentment. The way your older sister plays with your cock feels way beyond good. She's holding you loosely enough to tease, to make your cock hurt sweetly for more attention, but she's still jerking you fast enough to keep you building towards orgasm all the same. It overloads your brain with delirious waves of lust, and soon your higher thought processes are all but obliterated. You care nothing anymore for taboo, approve or disapprove, you just want to cum. You need to cum. And cumming in someone's hand isn't enough, not for you, not anymore. Why settle for that when you can shoot your cum inside a warm, wet, welcoming cunt-hole?
 
"Get on top of me," you instruct her.
 
"W-what?" Cerise pulls her hand away and seems somehow flabbergasted that, after masturbating each other, and everything else, you might want to put your dick in her too.
 
"I want to fuck you. Get on top of me."
 
Cerise is struck with indecision. This is the final rubicon of course. You've done so many other sexual things together, but you've never had your dick inside her pussy -- you've never cummed inside your sister. You're certain the thought has crossed her mind, she's imagined that scenario probably as often as you have -- but somehow she may not be ready for it.
 
You keep your fingers strumming her hard little clit, and you take it a little bit slower: "It's okay, right? We've basically done it already."
 
"I know... but..."
 
You don't want to fight her over it -- it wouldn't feel right. She'll take this at her own pace.
 
"You can fuck my throat if you want," Cerise says.
 
Now there's a compromise you can live with.
 
Cerise gets down on the ground -- on all fours -- and crawls over to you. Like a kitten hungry for milk, she lets her head droop into your lap and catches your dick between her lips. Her lips seem purpose made for kissing your prick. She licks you around the underside of your dick too, that most sensitive part that makes you groan in pleasure. The wet trail of kisses and suckles and little licks she leaves, just eggs you on. So does the way she traps the base of your cock in both palms and rubs your leaky cockhead against her cheeks. And also this: "What are you waiting for? Grab my hair. Fuck my face already, Alabaster."
 
You do. You grab her silky, raven-black hair in both hands, and slide your dick into her mouth. You go slow, to begin with. You let her get used to your size and girth, let her clenching throat part and give way to the battering ram of your cock. She takes it well, keeping her tongue rolled out over her bottom teeth, the tip coming to a rest against your nuts. She heaves and retches, so you pull out, and give her air -- and then repeat the cycle, this incestuous invasion of her face.
 
But gently as you might have begun, your primal need to unload your heavy balls is taking over. And after all, she did say to fuck her face. So you speed up, bouncing your butt up and down on the couch cushion as you hold her head against your lap, and fuck your sister's throat just like it's her cunt. Like this, fellatio has become irrumatio. Her gagging, her sputtering gasps for air, are just as good as music. It's the perfect companion to the equally obscene, high-fidelity sounds of the porn on the TV, which you watch with detached enjoyment.
 
But putting on the hentai was Cerise's idea, and you wouldn't want her to miss it. You pull her off of you. She gasps loudly now, gulping air like a drowned swimmer resuscitated. Her face is a drooly, slimy mess. Her unfocused eyes don't show any trace of understanding as you get her to her feet, and spin her around, and position her on the couch with her head dangling upside-down over the edge. The crown of her head is nearly touching the floor as you get on your knees and mount her. Her hands weakly hold on to your flexing thighs, and you thrust home again. It's good. So good you growl like a dog -- spending just few moments with your cock outside the hot recesses of Cerise's throat was agonizingly frustrating, it felt like an eternity. Now that your cock is back inside your sister's body, it's happy again. And so your growl turns to a deep sigh as you establish a steady pace inside her, as you fuck Cerise's throat again. When you crane your head down, you see the bulge that your prick makes in her pale, slender neck. You can just about see the outline of the shaft and head, in all its glory, pushing in and out.
 
You can't see the screen anymore, but she can - it's probably just about all she can look at from where she lies. You're not selfish, and you want her to enjoy herself too. So you fall forward, and clamp your mouth onto her searingly hot cunt. Nothing in the world will ever compare to the way your sister's cunt smells and tastes and feels against your tongue. It really is like honey. It's sugar-sweet, the juices viscous. You gulp it down greedily and eat her out. It's all for you. And as you wag your tongue back and forth, still pumping her face, she creams for you. Cerise cums -- she cums unashamedly on your face. The stimulation of your cock in her mouth, and the hentai she's watching, and your skillful tongue against her hot twat, are more than enough to get her off. As ever, she's just as big of a pervert as you are. And getting cummed on by Cerise, having your own sister squirt into your mouth and buck against your tongue, is enough for you too. You reach down and viciously grab her on either side of her head, near the ears. Forcing her head up, you seat yourself as deep as you can get. You imagine you're going to cum straight into her tummy.
 
"Eat my cum!" You grunt cruelly, "eat my fucking cum!" You feel her lips doing their best to suckle you, pressed all the way up against your ballsack -- it's about all the autonomy Cerise has in this position, but she's doing her best to obey you, to suck out your sperm, to eat your cum. You feel that thrilling release -- your jizz shooting up your urethra, and out of the twitching cockhead. You feel your prick meat expand and contract and pulse as you seed Cerise's mouth with sperm. You cum in big fat spurts. Meanwhile you jam your tongue back in her pussy and relish the flavor, the wonderful taste of your older sister's pussy.

With the edge off, you and Cerise spend a long, lazy hour (or two) in a 69 position, her on top, sweetly exploring each other with your tongues. There's more hentai cued up on the screen, but you couldn't care less -- you're way more focused on the two delicious holes your sister is presenting to you, and of course the sensation of your dick in her mouth.

You think you could spend the whole night like this. But without warning, Cerise is suddenly gasping. She goes rigid, then after a moment, she climbs off of you.

More confused than anything, you rise to your butt. You see her huddling against the far corner of the couch, using her curled-up legs and arms to cover her nakedness from you as best she can. She's smacking her lips as if trying to get a bad taste from her mouth. And... of course, you realize. The fear that's been present at the back of your mind all night has come to pass -- her eyes are blue.

"Dear God, man," Darkbloom says. "Is there no bottom to the depth of your depravity?"

You grope around on the floor, find Cerise's shirt and underwear and shorts. You're somehow not abashed to be seen naked yourself -- maybe it's because of how obviously disturbed Darkbloom is right now. With a shrug, you say: "I don't want to hear it. This entire situation is your fault. You're the trespasser here."

The idea that Darkbloom can see Cerise's naked body galls you, so much so that it makes you wish you could beat him without hurting Cerise too. You force him to look straight ahead as you help put Cerise's clothes back on.

"Do you have -- anything to drink?" Darkbloom asks, lips still smacking.

"Coke or orange juice?"

"I could rather use a glass of whiskey right about now."

"We'll go with Coke on that one."

You dress yourself too, and take him to the kitchen. He gulps down an entire can of soda, then another, and the expression he makes is one that clearly indicates how violated he feels.

You frown at him. "Well, since you sucked my dick, I guess it's only fair to take you out on a date, too."

"I'm sorry?" Darkbloom says. "What on Earth--"

"I'm a man of my word. Let's go see your daughters."

END OF EPISODE 6.

Renee sits cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom and Whitney sits in her lap with her legs tightly wrapped around Renee's waist. Both women are naked. Whitney busies herself by rubbing her barely B-cup tits against Renee's considerably larger chest, the hard little rubies of their nipples flicking back and forth.  
 
They kiss intermittently, gentle and tender, but deeply so -- and stare into each other's eyes like a couple of newlyweds. The introduction of skinship to this mother-daughter bond has already improved it considerably. They seem to have reached a common understanding through carnal passion.
 
"This is such crap," Whitney says, playing at angry.
 
"What's the matter, dear?" Renee asks. She pets the back of Whitney's head.
 
"How come you get to have such big honkers and I'm stuck with these bee stings?" She cups her breasts in either hand for effect, gathers them up and pushes them together to show that there really isn't much there. Though when she lets go, they ripple invitingly.
 
"Hmm," Renee laughs with a low, mischievous tone. "That isn't my fault, is it? I've obviously got the genetics for being well endowed--" She gasps a bit in sudden shock as Whitney, without prompting, begins to shamelessly grope her udders. With Whitney's jealous hands still exploring, Renee continues: "I-it's your dad's fault. Just look at Vivian. Without my DNA to help out, she -- hsss, not so hard, baby -- she ended up even flatter than you. The poor thing."
 
"Well Vivian's a midget. She wouldn't look right with big boobs anyway."
 
"Don't be too sour about it," Renee says. "I think your chest is beautiful just how it is."
 
"Oh, gee. My MOM says I'm pretty. That makes me feel so much better!"
 
Renee has a bit of the devil in her too. In response to this, she leans in and grabs hold of Whitney's left breast in both hands. Before Whitney can fend her off, she gently bites down on the bright pink nipple. Whitney's back goes stiff, from the minor pain and major surprise. Renee, teasing her daughter even more, tugs her jaw back just a few millimeters, pulling the nipple with her and making Whitney moan.
 
"M--mom--" Whitney stutters. Renee changes breasts and does the same thing to Whitney's right nipple. But the little electric shocks of pain from this soft abuse soon meld into pleasure. She grasps her mother's head and rubs it approvingly. Taking the cue, Renee turns her bite into a suckle, twirling her tongue around the areola and enjoying the just-so-slightly salty taste of Whitney's skin. Back and forth Renee alternates, sucking Whitney's nipples, a lewd reversal of what should be; Renee nursing on her daughter's tits.
 
"Mom... Mommy..." Whitney whispers.
 
Renee moves on from Whitney's breasts now, reluctantly, and kisses her on the lips again. She loves how simultaneously firm and soft Whitney is all over, a body very much unlike her own; and she's not lying, she thinks Whitney is gorgeous. Renee's hands roam up and down Whitney's sides and face while she makes out with her.
 
Whitney is equally transfixed by Renee's body, how supple it is, how mature and womanly it is -- how it gives and squishes all over. She wants to dote on Renee, too. So she asks, in a small, innocent, almost childlike voice: "can I play with your pussy, Mommy?"
 
Renee has vestiges of guilt and doubt lingering somewhere inside, but it's gone this far, and a request like that is too tempting to turn down. She gives Whitney a trembling nod of the head.
 
Whitney reaches between their bodies and cups a hand over Renee's overheated pussy mound. Whitney is the type who likes to be rough and selfish with most girls, but with Renee, she feels the opposite -- she wants to please her. She wants to make her feel good all over, the way Renee makes her feel. Whitney's hand is slow and light against her mother's cunt, rubbing in small circles and strumming the clit with her thumb. These efforts get Renee gulping for air and shaking her hips like a bitch. Any remaining doubt Renee has is now quickly flying out the window as she enjoys the the waves of pleasure emanating from between her legs. Like her daughter, Renee has a bit of a hedonistic streak, and she quickly surrenders to anything that makes her cunt wet.
 
"Do you want me to make you feel good, too?" Renee asks, also in a giving mood.
 
"Mmnn~" Whitney mewls happily, too excited at the prospect of being touched the same way to form words.
 
Renee finds a synchronization with Whitney; they masturbate each other's pussy to the same tempo. Whitney, in her mother's lap, is leaking all over the place, and so Renee's thighs are getting streaked in Whitney's cream. Whitney is cumming on her.
 
"I wish Ally would show up," Whitney muses, "I really need something inside me."
 
Renee has presence of mind enough to come up with a solution. She reaches back, and can just barely get the drawer of her nightstand open from where she sits. Grinning, she produces a flesh-colored strap-on dildo. Despite the doubt and guilt, in a fit of perverted lust last week she bought this device, pretending to herself not to know why; but this is why. She bought it to fuck Whitney with. She bought it to fuck her daughter.
 
Whitney takes the dildo from Renee to inspect it, gripping it at the base with both hands, letting the harness dangle in the air. "Oh my gosh," she says. It's about as long and thick as Ally, maybe even a little bigger -- and holding it up close to her face, it's intimidating. But the depraved image in her mind of Renee putting it on, pinning her down and pounding her, quickly drowns out any hesitation she might have about getting such a huge cock stuck in her.
 
"What do you think?" Renee prompts.
 
"I like it..." She says. She kisses the tip for effect.
 
"Wanna try it?"
 
Whitney hands the strap-on back to Renee by way of answering, and scoots back so Renee can stand. She watches with interest as Renee rises to her feet, standing tall above her. Whitney feels very small in this position. She stares directly up at Renee's wet pussy with its cute landing strip, Renee's body casting a shadow across her. Renee secures the ersatz cock, with a little bit of fumbling, strapping the harness around her plump thighs and ass. Whitney doesn't mind that it takes a little bit of time, she could stare at her mother's fat thighs and butt all night long and be perfectly happy. But soon it's done. Renee pokes the rubbery prong with an index finger to test it, and it bounces like a doorstop. It's angry-looking and exaggeratedly veiny and realistic. If not for the black harness it would be easy to believe that Renee had suddenly grown a real dick all her own.
 
With that thought in mind, Whitney is taken by an urge to do something extra-perverted. She gets up on her knees and grabs her mom by the ass and starts worshiping the fake dick with her mouth. This serves a practical purpose, of course, getting it wet so Renee can better fuck her with it. But she's doing it more because, well, she just wants to; the phrase "sucking my mommy's cock" pinballs around in her skull and gets her off.
 
"Naughty girl," Renee purrs, a finger to her lips. The sight gets her going just as much, gazing down at her girl sucking her off.
 
Whitney manages to get the cock all the way down her throat a few times, coating it in a thick, slimy sheen of saliva (and retching hard a few times for her trouble). She never takes her eyes away from Renee's -- stares lovingly up into them the whole time she sucks the dick. Now she pulls out, leaving the dildo dripping wetly on the floor, a bridge of spit linking her lips to the tip.
 
"Fuck me," she whimpers.
 
Whitney guides Renee back to the floor, gets her sitting again with her legs splayed out. Whitney wants to be on top, and Renee is perfectly well fine with this. She leans back on flattened palms and watches contentedly as Whitney climbs up, squats over the dildo, gets it pointed at her frothing cunt. Renee adores Whitney's cunt, how tight it is. How it seems to always be wet, always ready to get fucked. She knows her little girl is an insatiable slut, and instead of being dismayed as a good mother should, it makes her thrill with happiness. She wants to make Whitney an even bigger slut for her...
 
Although Whitney asked to get fucked, she's the one doing all the work. She settles down on the cock, slowly, and a groan of pure pleasure escapes her lips. Inch by inch her hungry little pussy swallows Renee's strap-on. Her cunt grips it so tightly that Renee can actually feel the way it squeezes the rubber, translated down the base by little vibrations that gently jostle against her own oozing cunt. Whitney holds Renee's shoulders for leverage as she sinks deeper and deeper down, determined to take this thing all the way, even if it hurts, even if it pops past her cervix and into her uterus. She wants to get fucked completely.
 
When finally the veiny rubber cock is all the way inside her, Whitney, squatting like a bitch over her lazing mother, begins to hump back and forth. Only her lower body moves -- she keeps her upper half stone-still and stares into her mother's eyes while they fuck. Her face begins to go all droopy and her mind turns to mush. Over and over, she repeats: "fuck me Mommy, fuck me Mommy, fuck me Mommy..." Her ass is a blur as she humps.
 
Still resting on her palms, Renee tilts her chin forward and kisses Whitney. Locked at the genitals and the lips, they screw. Or more accurately, Whitney screws her; Renee just sits there and enjoys it.
 
"Fuck me Mommy, fuck me Mommy, fuck me Mommy... oh GOD..."
 
Whitney shifts her weight, moves a little further down Renee's lounging body to get a better angle on the hard rubber dick, one that allows it to plunge ever deeper into her creaming pussy. Unable to meet Renee's lips, she instead sucks on Renee's tits, paying back the favor from earlier. Renee coos and runs one hand slowly through Whitney's short cropped hair, while Whitney sucks her nipples and fucks herself silly. Whitney is in a total frenzy and lost to all reason, focused entirely on the obscene relief she's wringing from her mother's dick. There really is something motherly about this, Renee thinks, even if it's nasty and disgusting and perverted; she's taking care of her little girl's needs, after all, whatever they may be. It simply turns out that her little girl needed to get fucked tonight. Can she be faulted for helping out? It's the motherly thing to do.
 
"I'm cumming!" Whitney shouts. "Fuck! I'm cumming, Mommy! Are you cumming too?"
 
Renee grips Whitney's hair a little tighter now and half-growls, "Yes, baby. Let's cum together, okay?"
 
"Fuck! Oh, fuck! Cum with me!" She clamps down on Renee's tit and tongues it lewdly and rides out a delicious, 30- or 40- second rolling orgasm that leaves Renee's carpet darkly stained. And Renee wasn't fibbing, she's about to cum too; the force of Whitney's deranged humping has been jamming the base of the strap-on against her throbbing clit. Now, seeing her daughter cum all over the place, drives her to climax also. She moans deliriously as she watches Whitney's orgasm and soon she feels her own cunt start to squirt. As her orgasm deepens and prolongs itself, the mess is hot and wet and seemingly never-ending. She no longer cares about anything except the pleasure she's feeling. She no longer cares about anything but satisfying her horny pussy. A puddle forms beneath them, redolent of their combined arousal. Their bodies loudly thwack against each other, Whitney's toned upper legs mashing repeatedly against Renee's soft thighs and sending them to jiggling. The deepening puddle in the carpet begins to audibly squelch as Whitney humps, and fucks, and screws herself against her mommy's dildo.
 
"I love you! I love you so much!" Whitney sings at the height of her ecstasy.
 
"I love you too, Whitney baby," Renee moans back, her voice smoky and breathy.
 
They collapse, Renee falling to her back and Whitney falling atop her. Whitney's little tits mash almost painfully against Renee's pillowy breasts. The dildo stays lodged up Whitney's steamy pussy as they enter into an extraordinary long and lovey-dovey makeout session.
 
Unfortunately, this parent-child bonding is interrupted by the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen. Vivian, who was still distraught over the loss in the tennis tournament when she fell asleep on the living room couch a couple hours ago, must be awake again.
 
A little shamefaced, and hoping they haven't been detected, Renee and Whitney make themselves presentable. They dress and step out of the bedroom.
 
Vivian is on her knees on the countertop, rooting through an overhead cabinet she cannot otherwise reach. Pulling out what she's looking for, she hops down, her white kneesocks making a soft noise on the linoleum.
 
"Ah, good evening," she says, noticing the two women now, setting her peanut butter next to the rest of the things. She's about to make herself a good old fashioned PB&J. She'd never had one in her life until, at age 18, Whitney introduced them to her. Now, whenever she has midnight cravings, it's her go-to.
 
"I hope you do not mind my consumption of your foodstuffs," Vivian says. "I fully intend to reimburse you, Ms. Carte."
 
"Uh... don't mention it," she says.
 
"I thought you were asleep," Whitney says, watching Vivian spread a thin layer of raspberry preserves on a slice of bread.
 
"I was asleep until just recently," is Vivian's oblique reply.
 
Whitney and Renee share an uncertain glance. Vivian focuses diligently on cutting away the crusts from the sides of the bread, the wet tip of her little pink tongue poking out just slightly.
 
"Sorry?" Renee says.
 
"I'm sorry?" Vivian replies, looking up, confused.
 
"Sorry!" Whitney says.
 
"Ah - Sorry," Vivian says.
 
A few minutes later they're huddled over the coffee table in the living room, playing the board game Sorry.
 
It's a compromise choice when the three are together. Vivian and Renee on their own more often play Scrabble, or Trivial Pursuit, or -- this was more of a favorite when David was around -- Diplomacy. These games fly right over poor Whitney's head, but Sorry is more on her level.
 
In fact, Whitney is always bizarrely lucky, and as she marches the last of her green tokens around, bumping Renee back her starting line for the third time, Renee flies into a rage and flips the board.
 
"Uh... sorry," Whitney says, laughing, rubbing the back of her head.
 
"This is bullshit! You're cheating! No one is that lucky! Statistically speaking -- NO ONE is that lucky! It's impossible!"
 
"Salty salty," Whitney says.
 
Renee looks to Vivian for some support.
 
"While it is true that Whitney's luck is a statistical outlier, I believe it falls within the realm of possibility. Three or three-point-five sigma from median at most."
 
"What!" Renee sputters.
 
"In other words," Vivian summarizes, "I concur with Whitney. You are simply... salty." She takes a nibble of her sandwich.
 
"Unbelievable!" She folds her arms and grimaces as Whitney sets the board up again.
 
"Lover's spat," Vivian murmurs.
 
Whitney freezes in place, hands clutching colored plastic tokens; Renee chokes. Vivian nibbles her sandwich again with a little "om."
 
Vivian is socially inept -- to put it gently -- and takes a few moments to register the awkwardness in the room. Looking up, glancing from face to stunned face, she says: "Apologies. I did not realize you had wished to keep it a secret from me. It did not seem as if you were taking great pains to do so."
 
"You little fucker," Whitney howls, and tosses one of the tokens at her sister. Vivian shields herself weakly with one arm and lets out a little "oof" when it smacks her in the wrist.
 
"I'm -- I'm so sorry you had to hear..." Renee begins, but trails off. "It's not what it... it... oh..." She can't think of any good way to justify her depravity.
 
"It is quite all right," Vivian insists. "In fact, I have done extensive research on this phenomenon. Close blood relations who are separated from birth, and who meet later in life, often experience inexplicable sexual attraction. It is perfectly normal. If approached with an open, mutually caring mindset, it may even be quite healthy."
 
Renee blinks dazedly.
 
"You would know about this shit," Whitney hums. "You're just like Ally! Trying to pretend you're not a fetishy freak with all your superdork trivia junk!"
 
Vivian disregards this jab and bites again at her sandwich: "om."
 
But Renee catches the obvious implication and breathes: "Nooo... you mean -- you and--"
 
"Oh, yes," Vivian affirms. "Did Whitney not tell you?"
 
Renee can't hide the small shadow of revulsion that clouds her face for a brief moment -- replaced by a sort of ambivalent guilt over her judgmental attitude (how hypocritical) -- and quickly replaced again, on introspection, by piqued interest.
 
"I suppose you are surprised. Whitney and I are often at odds, but that does not mean we cannot enjoy one another's company. I am also involved with Alabaster Soliloquy -- and a few others in his orbit, from time to time, as the mood strikes..."
 
"She means she spreads her legs for anyone who asks," Whitney says snarkily, elbowing Vivian.
 
"Om."
 
Renee has a hand to her chest, to still her fluttering heart. But it won't be still. This is a totally new light to see Vivian in: not as a demure, proper little girl, but a fully grown woman (small as she may be) with sexual cravings and improprieties all her own.
 
But Vivian's point is quite true, Renee reasons. She's heard of it herself, this familial attraction sparking in the absence of more wholesome bonds formed during the tender years -- the lack of the inwardly felt incest taboo combined with the tendency of similar people to be drawn together. Who after all is more similar than family?
 
But then -- if this is the explanation -- why is Renee feeling a sudden tingle at the thought of Vivian together with Whitney? Vivian, the girl who was sort of like a surrogate daughter to her all those years ago. Is that not also, in its own way, a sort of incest?
 
Whitney, who has a much lower capacity for compunction, is, as ever, the instigator. Narrowing her eyes and whispering to Vivian, she says: "Mom called you flat-chested."
 
"Such is the truth," Vivian replies. Although she can't mask the small indignation she feels nonetheless.
 
"Psh," Whitney chuffs. "Maybe compared to her. This broad's got jugs big enough to club seals to death. It's a little much. I think our tits are WAY better." She raises a fist: "Darkbloom tits forever!"
 
"More than a mouthful is a waste," Vivian agrees. "And studies show that more affluent people prefer smaller-chested female partners... it is easy to consider that smaller may therefore be superior."
 
"Excuse me?" Renee says. This line of conversation has totally obliterated her tortured musings about incest taboo. Just as according to Whitney's plan; Renee's competitive edge is coming out. She turns to Whitney: "You were just telling me how jealous you are of my breasts! Obviously you know the real truth -- bigger is better!"
 
"Ooooh," Whitney groans, in imitation of an old person, hunching over, "ooooh, my poor back... if only I didn't have these ginormous cow tits... I'd be able to stand up straight!"
 
"You snotty little--" Renee hollers. She reaches across the table and grabs Whitney bodily, and pinches her skin through her thin tanktop.
 
"Oh no, she's mad now," Whitney says through peals of laughter. "What are you gonna do? Huh?"
 
Renee balls one hand into a fist and threatens: "Ever get a titty twister, missy?"
 
"Don't threaten me with a good time, ma--"
 
Vivian watches the developing tussle with a wan smile as she finishes her sandwich.
 
Renee, despite being a little larger, is no physical match for her daughter, and Whitney overpowers her. Wrenching her arms behind her back to subdue her, Whitney says: "you're a fuckin' laugh riot, mom. Is there anything you're okay with not being the best at? I swear. This shit is, like, a psychological condition with you..."
 
Renee grumbles.
 
"So," Whitney says, turning to Vivian. "I guess that means you're okay with me and mom doing it, then?"
 
"It would be a galling self-contradiction if I were perturbed by it," Vivian says. "You are free people. Of course you are thus also free to explore sapphic passions together..."
 
"I... don't know what that means," Whitney admits.
 
"Lesbian sex," Vivian says, helpfully dumbing things down. "You can have all the lesbian sex you desire. I do not intend to stand in your way. Nor do I judge."
 
Renee is horribly embarrassed to hear such frank discussion of her love life and is quickly turning bright red from the neck up.
 
"Gooood," Whitney drawls. Perching her chin on Renee's shoulder, she says: "And I guess you don't mind that me and Vivian get freaky either?"
 
"Well..." Renee chokes, glancing away. "H-how -- how could I?"
 
"Good," Whitney says again. "Then that's settled. The only thing left is..."
 
"Ah," Vivian says. She stands up and begins to take off her dress. Just like that.
 
Renee, arms still pinned behind her back, shouts: "Vivian! What are you doing?"
 
Vivian pauses with her hands also behind her back, the complex series of buttons and clasps there half undone already. She locks eyes with Renee. "I apologize. My deficiency of social grace has caught up with me again. Have I misread you?"
 
"M-misread --?" Renee says.
 
"Do you not wish to make love with me? I will not be hurt by rejection, mind you. I understand completely."
 
"You're so -- so casual about it..." Renee says with a soft voice.
 
"This is the best attitude among those who are simpatico," Vivian says. "To honestly and without the inhibitions or prudishness, go where the whim of the moment dictates. The ethos of joie de vivre as applied to sexual matters..."
 
"Oh my GOD," Whitney groans. "Will you shut the fuck up? Tell her what's really on your mind. Tell her you wanna fuck."
 
Vivian looks Renee square in the eye and says: "Yes. I would like to fuck you, Ms. Carte."
 
Renee is a trembling mess.
 
"Shall I cease disrobing?" Vivian says. "It is all right. I do not wish to force you."
 
Renee says nothing, so Whitney prompts: "keep going, sis."
 
"Mm," Vivian murmurs. She quickly undoes the last of the fasteners on her dress and tugs it up over her head. Her body, proportioned like a plank and ghostly pale, is naked save for long socks and plain white underwear. She is coated in a minor layer of sweat from having slept in her bulky dress. Renee swears she can feel heat emanating from the girl's body.
 
"Like what you see?" Whitney asks, literally the devil on her mother's shoulder.
 
"I... don't dislike it," Renee admits. She can't help but steal glances at Vivian's tiny form, and sort of hates herself for finding her so alluring. This is the girl she helped raise from birth -- but Vivian has grown into a sexy little thing, and Renee can't help the growing feeling of wanting to eat her all up.
 
And now Whitney is helping Renee's shirt off over her head too, and there is no turning back. Soon the three girls are naked. All save for Vivian that is -- who, either to insulate her feet, or (Renee surmises) more likely to make her even more perversely alluring, keeps the knee socks. Renee can hardly believe the vision before her: a besocked porcelain Lolita no taller than about 5 feet, bare naked above the knees with her pristine pussy shamelessly on display, ready for Renee to debauch her however she wants. Renee feels like a hopeless pervert, and she is, and this makes her shiver with excitement.
 
Vivian swoops over, and kneels down before Renee where Renee sits on her knees, and lightly sets a palm on either of Renee's thighs. "Shall I kiss you?" Vivian asks.
 
"Kiss me," Renee says with a tremor still to her voice.
 
Vivian leans in and pecks Renee on the lips, and Renee pecks her back. They pull away for a brief moment, size each other up, try to assess how that made them feel -- then, closing their eyes, they lean in once more for the real thing. They open their lips and mate their tongues together. Renee surges with adrenaline and lust as she gets her tongue in this too-small mouth and ruts it around. Whitney, spectating, claps her hands together and does her trademark wheeze-laugh. She wanted to engineer this moment, but couldn't have imagined she'd manage it so soon.
 
Renee's passion inflames and turns wolfish and very soon she has her hands on Vivian's shoulders, leaning in to her. She forces Vivian back, further and further, until she is lying atop her. Her monstrous tits and much larger body bear down oppressively against her. All the while she continues to kiss and suckle the little girl's mouth. Vivian is perfectly happy to be tenderly dominated in this way, and kisses Renee right back.
 
Whitney, who is never one to stay idle, crawls on hands and knees around the newly minted lovers and gets behind her mom's ass. Without warning, she slaps Renee's butt -- first one cheek, then the other, enjoying the way the supple flesh undulates and turns red. Renee isn't as pale as Vivian, but she certainly doesn't get a lot of sun either, and these light slaps leave a mark. Renee jolts with each hit and throws her head back and grits her teeth. But Vivian, greedy young Vivian, laces her fingers through Renee's hair and pulls her back to her lips, unwilling to let Whitney's little games interfere with this lovely kissing.
 
Whitney spreads Renee's ass now and gazes lovingly down at her mother's two holes: the dark brown pucker of her anus and the wet slit of her cunt. She doesn't know where to begin, so she doesn't bother to choose. She just clamps her mouth down and goes to town, swabbing her tongue back and forth at random, eating her out. She likes the way her mom tastes, the texture and flavor of her girl-cum, the fleshy give of her tight asshole. Whitney makes sure to be loud about it, so Vivian knows exactly what's going on. And as expected, it turns Vivian on just as much. Soon it has Vivian writhing beneath Renee as they make out.
 
"Will you... do that for me, too?" Vivian asks.
 
"Vivian..." Renee says.
 
"Please, Ms. Carte. I want to feel your mouth on me... down there..."
 
"O... okay," Renee says.
 
She lets Vivian wiggle free and scoot back. Vivian sits up on her little butt, leans against the couch. She bends her legs at the knees with her feet flat against the carpet, and spreads them wide. Renee, on her belly, is eye level with Vivian's lewdly wet cunny.
 
"Lick me," Vivian begs.
 
Renee is beside herself with lust and shock, but gets ahold of herself enough to obey the command. Gently pressing Vivian's legs even further apart, she gets her face up against Vivian's crotch -- inhales for a moment the lilac-tinged, sweat-covered, feminine scent of her arousal, so fucking delicious -- and then dives in. She eats Vivian out. Mirroring Whitney's efforts on her own genitals, Renee is non-discriminating and sloppy, her tongue poking its way first into the soft inner folds of her vulva, then drifting lower, to the entrance of her vagina, so wonderfully tight -- then lower still, to the even tighter, pale white rear hole. She slobbers all over Vivian's ass, already wondering just how much, if anything, she can take up there. A few moments ago Renee didn't think of Vivian as a sexual being at all, and now she's getting horny at the thought of sodomizing her. Before the night is through, she wants to try it; she wants to get something up Vivian's asshole.
 
Vivian is getting all shaky and her little pips of pleasure are an intermittent staccato filling the small living room. Despite her obvious enjoyment, she's a bit ticklish, and she seems to be trying to get away. Renee won't allow it. She pins Vivian by the thighs and forces her tongue up Vivian's cunthole. That's all it takes. Vivian's orgasm comes quick. It's breathy, intercut with a moan so high in pitch it becomes almost inaudible. "Ahhn~ Ahhhn~ Like that, pleaaashe..." She rubs her hands all over Renee's head and humps Renee's face. She mashes her tiny pussy against Renee's tongue, her hard clitty rubbing against Renee's nose. She rides out her little trembling cums with her little girlish squeaks and moans.
 
Having this beautiful little girl cumming all over her face is one of the hottest things Renee has ever experienced. Her mind is melting with her daughter's tongue rooted deep in her pussy and Vivian squirting her face full of fragrant cum. If this is wrong, she's far past caring. She just wants to ride this high forever. She wants to cum on her daughter and have Vivian cum on her in turn. So she does just that. She gives in to depravity and lets it happen. She squirts her moaning daughter's face with her orgasm and gulps Vivian's cream down too. She's never had a climax so thunderous and liberating. She cums and cums until she literally feels her brain cells dying.
 
Pulling away from Renee's still puckered lips, Vivian gasps in pleasure, half swooning: "That was... wonderful, Ms. Carte... thank you..."
 
But Renee's cunt is still all hot, and wants more. Much more. She grabs Vivian roughly. "I'm not done with you," she moans. "I want to to fuck you. I really want to fuck you right now..."
 
"If-- if you insist--" Vivian murmurs, knowing full well that a beast has been unleashed inside Renee and nothing but what she just demanded will quell it. Vivian presses her thighs together and excitedly anticipates what Renee might do to her. Vivian enjoys nothing more than when someone's sexual need peaks so high that she begins to feel as if she may be in actual danger.
 
"Go get my toy," Renee commands Whitney. And Whitney, who is always an eager assistant in ravishing her little sister to the fullest possible extent, quickly goes to fetch it. She even helps the fuck-crazed and horny Renee get it secured as Vivian, understanding now what is to come, dutifully climbs onto the couch, and gets her legs spread, and opens herself up for the coming rape.
 
Renee climbs onto the couch with Vivian and rubs the fake cock back and forth across the cleft of Vivian's cunt.
 
Whitney, who's been edging and close to cumming for a little while now, needs relief; she squats over her little sister's face. "Eat my fucking cunt," is her simple command as she presses her full weight down on the girl, giving her no choice but to comply.
 
"God..." Renee mutters. "This is so good... this is so good..."
 
"I know, right?" Whitney purrs. "She's so fun to fuck like this. She's a little fuck-doll..." She grinds her pussy against Vivian's face as she says this, smearing her juices all over.
 
"She's having sex with Alabaster, too? Has he ever put it in her ass?"
 
"Heeeh," Whitney laughs. "A few times..." She falls forward and grabs Vivian's ass and spreads it for her mom. "If you want to fuck her up the ass, you definitely should... your cock would look so pretty in there, mom... don't you think?"
 
That's all the prompting the suggestible Renee needs. She presents the cock to Whitney, jutting her hips forward. Whitney, getting eaten out in earnest by her little sister, repeats the performance from earlier. She deepthroats the dildo, gagging herself on it, getting it ready to go inside Vivian's rear hole.
 
Whitney, coughing a little, looks up at Renee when she's done: "Am I a good cocksucker, Mommy?" she asks.
 
"The best," Renee grunts.
 
She positions herself against the impossibly tight, clenched hole -- Vivian probably overheard what Renee was planning and is tensing with a little fear. Not that it's easy to tell what if anything is going on in Vivian's fucked-out mind, with her face trapped between Whitney's muscled thighs, and Whitney's creaming pussy muffling anything she could say in protest.
 
Renee holds Vivian about calves, enjoys the soft cotton material of her kneesocks. And then she thrusts forward, forcing the cockhead past the barrier of Vivian's ass through sheer force of will. This was her heart's deepest perverted desire, and she's going to see it through -- even if it hurts Vivian. Renee is quick on the uptake and understands implicitly that Vivian likes to get hurt a little, enjoys it when her lovers rough her up. In fact, it seems to be a need of hers. So Renee's twisted brain begins to think of this the same way she thought of fucking Whitney: as fulfilling the needs of her young daughter. That's right, she thinks. It's not a selfish, perverted act of domination done to get her cunt off -- she's just helping little Vivian feel good, that's it...
 
With this justification in mind, Renee rapes Vivian without remorse, shoving the cock as deep as she can get it. Vivian's abused ass is stretched to its very limit and Whitney isn't giving her much air to work with, but what little breath she can draw, she spends on pained gasps. Back and forth Renee saws the strap-on, fucking Vivian's ass to dust, grunting like an animal as she rails the poor girl. Whitney is cumming as she watches the show. Abusing her little sister always gets her on a hair trigger. Like lions over a conquered gazelle, the two women gloat, and smile -- and, locking eyes, they kiss. They get off against Vivian as they kiss and enjoy each other's mouths.
 
Vivian, whose entire world has narrowed to the rubber dick raping her ass, and the creamy pussy mashing against her face, is enjoying herself too. In fact the hard use sets her climax off, and she starts to cum on Renee.
 
"Yeah... yeah... that's it..." Renee says with a husky voice, giving Vivian's asshole short, deep strokes, enjoying the pressure of the cock's base against her cunt, as well as the idea of forcing Vivian's orgasm out of her. She thrusts hard again and again like that, rotating her hips with her cock as deep as it'll go, hugging one of Vivian's legs.
 
"Wanna see something reee-ally cool?" Whitney asks.
 
Renee, still humping Vivian's ass with abandon, kisses her daughter and nods for her to go on.
 
Whitney reaches down and parts her pussy lips with middle and ring fingers. "She likes it when I piss on her."
 
Even as far as Renee has gone, this startles her. Her eyes go wide. "W-what?"
 
"You don't mind if I show you, do you? I can buy you a new couch--"
 
"I..." Renee begins.
 
But Vivian, underneath her sister and still getting buggered, only visible from the mouth down, says deliriously: "Yessh... ussshe my mouth as a toilet..."
 
Whitney stares at Renee waiting for a go or no-go, and receiving nothing, takes it as a go. She begins to pee -- a slow trickle at first turning into a steaming amber stream, loud and forceful, directly into Vivian's open mouth. Renee pauses in her fucking of Vivian's asshole, aghast, as she watches; but seeing Vivian close her lips (the piss momentarily splashing now against her face and body) then gulp, and happily open her mouth again for more -- Renee decides to just roll with it. She resumes fucking Vivian with those deep, short strokes, burying herself and watching Vivian gulp down Whitney's pungent urine. Whitney is masturbating as she pees in her little sister's mouth, and her cum is joining the mess. Her frigging makes everything splash and trickle all over. Very little is making it to Vivian's mouth anymore this way, instead getting in her hair, on her face, splashing on her chest, and the cushions below -- not to mention a few drops splashing all the way back to Renee, which only eggs her on.
 
When Whitney is empty, Vivian, who is an exhibitionist at heart, spends a second or two gargling what remains in her mouth, before finally swallowing it in one last open-mouthed gulp. She smiles.
 
"Wanna try?" Whitney asks.
 
"I..." Renee begins, briefly hesitant. Then lustful: "Hell yes I do."
 
She pulls out of Vivian's ass without ado, just rips the cock all the way out. Vivian stutters and gasps in renewed pain as her sore anus, gaping, slowly begins to seal shut. Renee waddles forward and hovers over abused little Vivian's sopping wet face, and commands: "Lick it clean."
 
Vivian does it without hesitation, swirling her tongue all around the dildo, sucking her ass right off it. There is no degradation too low for Vivian to willingly submit to. Renee feeds the dildo to her inch by inch, enjoying the way her neck bulges, and notes with interest that Vivian has not much of a gag reflex anymore. Now here's a little girl who's been put through her paces.
 
But soon she tires of this, and Whitney too, who's already impatiently helping her mom out of the harness. Tossing the cock aside, Renee gets her pussy right up against Vivian's slack mouth and demands: "do you want it?"
 
"I want it... I want it so much... please pee in me..."
 
Renee strums her clit and Whitney hugs her from behind while she uses Vivian's mouth for a urinal. Her bladder is even fuller than Whitney's was and it makes an even bigger mess as Vivian struggles to keep up with the stream. She chokes and sputters as the sheer volume of it overwhelms her. But she never takes her adoring eyes away from Renee's. They stare at each other, and it's oddly loving; Vivian is happy to be used in any way, even this most disgusting and humiliating of ways. Renee pisses down Vivian's throat until she's empty, then forces her cunt down onto Vivian's face and rides out a few more orgasms -- just for good measure.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Sadpanda Spelunker and defiler of idols.

October 7, 2011

On their annual sojourn into the desert to hunt quail, David Darkbloom and Vasily Kerimov discussed finances -- as always -- but the "home office," as Vasily always euphemstically calls it, seems to be souring on David's management.

When normal investors lose faith in the CEO, they support an ouster and the CEO is fired. If David's darker sources of income lose faith in him, however, he knows being out of a job is the least concern. To drive that home, near the end of their hunting trip, Vasily ominously remarked that the Cosa Nostra used to use the desert here between Basrstow and Las Vegas as a convenient place to dispose of bodies.

Now, that evening, David is in his study, poring over Darkbloom Enterprises financial reports to assess the scope of the crisis. He does it to himself, and that's what really hurts: sterling performance in quarter 3 utterly demolished by the money-hole that is his secret Penelope project. He is developing new wrinkles on his already careworn face in real-time. And it is just then when he hears a small voice from over by the door, near the fireplace: "Euripedes?"

Darkbloom folds stapled sheets back over themselves and sets the current document aside. He swivels in his chair and smiles at Vivian. "Yes! Eumenides?"

This is Vivian's favorite greeting of late, although David sees her so infrequently that it doesn't get much currency. It's the punchline of a tired old joke about a Greek playwright who rips his trousers and visits the tailor to have them fixed. David taught it to Vivian last year. He himself learned it at age 13 -- and, repeating it to his own father back in those days, got called a faggot for his trouble.

Vivian is holding Johann in front of her face the way she does when she's too anxious to look people in the eye.

"Good evening, Johann," David says. "Have you seen Vivian?"

"I have not," is Vivian's best impression of a refined gentleman.

"Shame. I had some cherry cordials to share with her."

Renee taught him this maneuver. He wouldn't otherwise have guessed that little Vivian is as easily motivated by the promise of sweets as any ordinary little girl. But in fact she is, and now Johann is saying: "Aha! I believe I see her now."

Vivian lowers the stuffed penguin so David can look at her properly.

He waves her closer, and she steps forward into the warm little room. He hauls her up on his lap. From his drawer he produces a little bonbon wrapped in red foil. He hands it to her, and she eagerly unwraps it, and bites into it, and it leaves a little dollop of sticky syrup on her chin. Darkbloom wipes it off with a tissue for her. She grimaces, but lets him. 

"I did not know you kept cordials in your desk," she says.

"My secret hiding spot has been revealed," David says with mock despair. But he is quick to remind her: "I know how many candies are in this drawer. Do not think you can sneak any without permission. Cherry cordials are a sometimes food."

"Yes. The caloric content is too high for the relatively small nutritional value."

He bounces her a little on his his knee. She smiles wanly.

"Can I count on your vote in the upcoming election?" Johann asks.

"You can. I will even contribute towards your campaign."

"Huzzah. Your support is critical to my success."

"What is the voting age in Antarctica?" David asks.

"Ten and a half," Johann replies.

"What a happy coincidence. This means Vivian can vote for you as well."

"Indeed. Her support is also key."

Vivian is quiet for a turn, so David finally says: "There is something on your mind."

"Of course," Vivian says. She fiddles with Johann's fur. "My mind is always occupied with important matters."

"As it should be. But there is no one better to help you work through important matters than your father. What are you trying to work through?"

She stares at the ground. "I am wondering -- if I could come and work at the company."

David laughs in his leonine way. "You are a bit young yet, to worry about your career. When the time is right, you will have your rightful place there. I promise."

"Mm."

"But is that truly what you want for your career? You should set your sights higher than running the family business."

"It is only natural. I want to continue your legacy--"

"I know. But you are capable of greater things." He holds her by either shoulder and squeezes. "The world is yours, Vivian. Maybe one day you will let someone else take the reins of the company -- and instead do something to shape the course of history itself. You could even be a President, like Johann here."

"Mm."

"But this is all so far in the future. In the meantime, you should focus on your education. Are you getting on with your tutors? Still progressing nicely with integrals?"

"The tutors are fine."

"You seem dispirited. Something else troubles you."

"It is just... I never see you, father. If I could come and work at the company..."

He puts his broad, strong palm on the top of her head. "I understand. This is not about your career, after all -- is it."

"I miss you."

"I miss you too, Vivian. You are never far from my mind."

She leans against his body and grips the sides of his coat, tight, in both fists. She inhales the scent of his cologne, his warmth. "I do not wish to be maudlin... I am sorry."

"It is quite all right."

"Father, do you... do you love me?"

David tilts his head and peers down at his daughter, confused. "Why would you think I don't?"

But tears are slowly trickling down her cheeks, so he hugs her tight, and says (one of maybe a dozen or so times he ever directly does) -- "I love you, Vivian." 

---

You slowly wind your car up a long, twisting driveway until finally you sit parked outside Vivian's new house. It's a hell of a contrast to the gloomy Tudor style of the Darkbloom manor; Vivian selected a home in the modernist style, all smooth white reinforced concrete, spindly columns holding up a boxy second story above a carport, the perimeter dominated by enormous windows. She's only just relocating, and even now a moving crew is busily unloading Vivian's things from two different trucks -- there's just so much of it.

"This is the house Vivian chose?" Darkbloom says. "It's so dreadfully gaudy."

"Yeah," you say sarcastically, peering out your windshield, scanning your eyes across the house's exterior. "I'm sure that's the first thing Vivian wants to hear from the father she's been mourning for more than a year." You turn to face Cerise. "I get it. It's hard to accept that your daughter isn't your creepy little clone anymore. That she's got her own tastes and opinions. Is that it?"

Darkbloom grimaces.

"After you," you tell him.

He steps out and walks up the driveway like someone dazed. You follow close behind. 

Up a short slat staircase, inside the squat, yawningly wide-open tiled living area of the home, you find Vivian, sitting on a couch, filing her nails; and Whitney, turning in circles, directing the movers.

One of the men makes the mistake of asking Vivian directly, about a china hutch: "where do you want this?" -- to which Vivian replies with a distressed, wordless murmur. Whitney intercedes, saying: "Over there is fine. We'll figure it out."

Seeing you and Cerise now, Whitney greets you happily -- oblivious as always, and not noticing that Cerise has bright blue eyes at the moment. Vivian, her attention catching, looks up. She notices it straight off: "Cerise -- are you wearing contact lenses?"

"Vivian..." Darkbloom says. He begins to say something further, but Vivian recoils, rubbing her forehead, wincing.

"I apologize," she says weakly, "I've had this terrific headache come on a few moments ago, and --" she gulps down air.

"What is he doing here?" Whitney demands. She's staring at Cerise with contempt.

"He wanted to see you two. I told him he could on the condition that he keeps himself well-behaved..."

"Thanks for consulting me, assface," Whitney says.

Vivian, still weak, and massaging her temples, says: "He? Have I missed something?"

"Is your bedroom all unpacked yet?" You ask, speaking over Darkbloom, who is -- in what must be a first -- struggling to find words.

"Yes. I suppose you wish to speak in private?" 

---

Cerise is on the edge of Vivian's four-post bed, hands in her lap; Whitney and Vivian stare down at her. Vivian has not taken the news very well at all. She is angry and reeling in disbelief: "This... must surely be a cruel practical joke. Absurd -- utterly specious. To think you could make me believe that father has been transported into the body of someone else." She looks to you, now: "This entire ruse is sick and detestable. Did Whitney put you up to this? And why? I demand an accounting from you all--"

"Euripedes?" Darkbloom says in a small voice. You cock your head in confusion at this. But it instantly defuses Vivian's ranting. She turns slowly towards Cerise, lips atremble. And then her entire body is shivering, as if wracked by a sudden chill.

"...Euripides..." Vivian repeats. She sounds half shellshocked.

"Yes!" Darkbloom replies. "Eumenides?"

There must be hidden significance to this exchange because it seems to have convinced Vivian of the truth, just like that. Tears well up and come running down in big fat drops. She holds the heels of her palms to her cheeks and clutches her face, and actually falls to her knees. Darkbloom is on the ground with her now in an instant, hugging her, as Vivian says: "Father -- father!"

Vivian weeps against Cerise's chest for a minute or two. Big, gasping, inconsolable sobs. Darkbloom gently strokes her hair and tries to soothe her. "I am here," he repeats over and over, "I am here."

But then all at once Vivian is pushing herself away, wriggling herself free. Darkbloom reaches out for her again, but she swats the outstretched hand and refuses his touch.

"Why?" Vivian demands. "Why did you -- why did you...." There are too many whys and not nearly enough time to list them all.

"I did not intend for things to end as they ended," he says. "But everything I did, I did for you."

"Liar!" Vivian barks. "You did it for you. You did it for your insane ego. You did it for your hubris. Do not think you can manipulate me with your self-justifications and revisionism!"

Darkbloom is shamefaced. He has no rebuttal.

"You... you are a monster," Vivian tells him. "And you deserved the death you got."

Darkbloom reacts to this as if he had been physically struck.

She stands, and sniffles back her tears, and backs slowly away. Then, turning on her heels, she's gone. The door slams behind her.

Now it's Darkbloom who's crying. "I don't know what's come over me," he says through the tears. "Usually I am in much better command of my emotional state. I think my mind is overwhelmed by female hormones--"

"Jesus," Whitney breathes. "Vivian did you even dirtier than I was gonna. That was rough."

Darkbloom stares at the ceiling. "Alabaster -- if you will permit it, may I speak with Whitney in private?"

You glance at Whitney. She seems unhappy with this prospect, but she isn't saying no.

>[x] Let them speak in private.
[ ] Refuse.

And:
>[x] Try to get Vivian back in the room.
[ ] Let her go. 

"Remove that person from my home, please," Vivian says when you return to the living room.

"I will. He wanted to talk to Whitney for a little bit, but we'll go back home after that."

"Is Ms. Carte aware of this? She must be made aware -- she will remedy the situation --"

"She's working on it. He'll be gone for good soon enough."

"Splendid news."

She sounds anything but happy.

"Are you going to be okay with that?" You ask Vivian. "I mean -- if what you just said to him, is the last thing you ever say to him?"

Vivian is trying to appear aloof, but you know she's struggling with a horrible inner conflict. "You helped kill him. Why should you take any greater measure of pity on him than I do?"

"He's not my dad," you say. "Unless some other big plot twist is in the works." You massage the bridge of your nose. How to make her understand? She's setting herself up for a regret you know all too well. "Vivian -- I'm not doing this for his sake. I know you miss him. Don't spend the rest of your life wishing you said something else to him the last time you got the chance to speak. Because who knows if you'll ever see him again."

"What else is there to say?" She asks.

"I don't know. 'I love you, dad'? Or however you two weirdos expressed affection. I'm not well versed on the father-daughter bonding of robots."

She frowns, but you seem to have moved her enough to stomach seeing him again, if only one more time. 

A few minutes later, when Vivian is composed, and the murmuring from within her bedroom is done, Vivian's first words to Darkbloom are not affection, but interrogation:

"Why did you leave me nothing? Why did you hand everything to Whitney?"

"I... thank you, Vivian, for returning. I want you to know that I understand --"

"Answer me."

Darkbloom sighs. "It is as I told you time and again. Running the company is not your destiny. You are meant for even greater things. I had a vision -- of the future -- that I built up for so very long... Whitney running the company without any trouble, and you, ascending to the Presidency... together you could have built an immortal legacy for this family..."

"Guess I'm a real disappointment, huh?" Whitney says.

"You do not disappoint me," Darkbloom tells her. "Quite the contrary. Under the circumstances, it is a miracle you have kept yourself and the people you care about alive. You were the right person to give control of the company to."

Whitney's expression is still contemptuous, but a little surprised at this -- and maybe a little proud over the praise.

"I meant every word of what I said earlier," Vivian tells Darkbloom. "And this just brings the truth of it to bear. Whitney and I were two pieces on the chessboard for you. The same as everyone else."

"You were," he admits. "But you were the most important ones. I was lucky to have had two queens... oh, but nevermind. I have learned... just recently... the folly of planning. And now I am merely a ghost passing through. I will trouble you for not much longer. If you ever wish to consult me, I... but I suppose you never needed that either. You will want to be through with me completely, and that is fine. Just know my heart was only ever full of love for you. You must believe this, please -- if nothing else at all."

"I hate you," Vivian says. "Rationally I should. But... when I assess it with the fullness of my memories and emotions, the vestige of filial affection is there too."

"I, uh," Whitney says. "Is that your way of saying 'I love you'?"

"I still love you, father."

Vivian hugs Darkbloom. Darkbloom hugs her back. The hug has a heaviness to it, though. There is something broken there that cannot be repaired. And when Vivian pulls away, Cerise's eyes are normal again. 

"What did he want?" you ask Whitney on the drive home.

"Couple things. He didn't think Vivian was coming back so he gave me this list of offshore companies he had with a bunch of money in them. Shell corporations, he called them... bunch of wild fuckin' names like Zebra Brain Interactive, Vermont Coma Genetics, Gyroscope Mandala LTD... basically, places to keep some extra cash where the big bad gubmint couldn't tax it."

"How much are they worth?"

"Dunno. Few billion? They weren't in the will and he figures they should go to her. I left the list written down for her."

"How nice of him," you say, drumming your thumbs on the steering wheel. "Not that Vivian needs any extra billions."

"Well fuck, I don't either," Whitney says. "Let the kid have 'em."

"What else did he want?"

Whitney hums. "Uhhh... I agree with the dumb asshole for once. It's probably best not to say the other thing. Knowing how you'd react."

"Fucking seriously?" You say. "You're going to let Darkbloom manipulate you into keeping secrets from me. Is that it?"

"See?" Whitney insists. "Like that!"

"She's kinda got a point," Cerise says from the backseat. "You have a habit of flying off the rails."

"I don't fly off the fucking rails! Fuck you!"

"Ally, if there's anyone who doesn't want to fall for Daddy Darkbloom's bullshit, it's me. I'm, like, hyper vigilante about that."

"Vigilant," you correct.

"Whatever, grammar Nazi--"

"That's not a grammatical mistake. That's a vocab mistake."

"Oh my GOD, Ally. Shut up. Listen. It's nothing you need to worry about right now, so don't. I'll handle it."

>[x] Drop it.
[ ] Demand to know. 

"Okay," you say, calming yourself. "I trust you."

"You-- what?" Whitney says. She seemed keyed up for a fight already.

"You hear me. I'm trying to learn how to be more trusting."

Cerise clutches the headrests of both front seats and leans in between them: "Who are you and what have you done with Alabaster?"

"Ha ha," you grouse. "Don't act surprised. There's enough on my plate already so I sure as hell don't want to deal with any more of Darkbloom's bullshit if I don't have to. If you're telling me I don't, I'll believe you."

"Fuckin' A," Whitney says, smiling.

---

(Time for something else.)

[ ] Bar trivia.
[ ] A visit with the Catachresis family.
[ ] A date with Whitney.
>[x] Anime with Noelle. 

You're in your bedroom on Saturday enjoying some quality me-time with a Mizuryu Kei doujin when you hear a pelt against your window.

You're too into the images on-screen to pay any attention to that, so you don't.

But then comes another. And a few seconds later, a third.

Is someone throwing pebbles at your fucking window?

"What on earth is that?" Rose asks, looking up from between your legs.

"I didn't tell you to stop sucking," you growl.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her palm. "Is someone throwing pebbles at your fucking window?"

What a goddamn mood killer. You tug yourself back into your fly and step across the room. Glancing out the window, you see -- Noelle. You pull the window up.

"Hey weeb-fucker! Let me in!"

"Are you shitting me right now? Can't you ring the doorbell like a normal person?"

"No! I don't want to be seen coming up to your doorstep!"

"And skulking around in my backyard like a burglar looks any better?"

"The point is not to be seen! I'm here for-- oh, motherfucker."

Rose is at the window now too. "Fascist pig," she sneers. "What are you doing here?"

"Should I ask why you're alone with your cousin in his bedroom on a Saturday night?" Noelle says.

"Once re-- go to hell," Rose says. She turns to you: "Should I call my dad?"

"No," you say. "I think she's here for personal reasons. I'll go down to the patio and let her in."

Rose follows you into the hallway. "Wait just a moment now," she says. You think she's going to tell you what a bad idea it is to invite the FBI into your house, but instead she hits you with: "I didn't get my turn!"

"You'll get your fucking turn," you say. You pause at the top of the stairs. "You always do, don't you? So don't worry about it. Being under your desk gives me a kink in my neck anyway so I need some time to get ready for it."

That's the arrangement for me-time you've had with Rose stretching all the way back to high school; it hinges on reciprocating in good faith, so you're not going to upset the balance.

"Asshole," Rose grumbles, turning for her bedroom.

Down in the kitchen, you're momentarily blinded by the the house's motion-activated exterior lights coming to life as Noelle approaches the sliding-glass door. You squint at her from the other side as if deliberating whether to let her in.

She waits for a few seconds. Then, stomping, she repeats Rose's assessment from earlier: "Asshole!" Her voice is muffled by the thick glass. But after sadistically letting her hang for a bit, you relent, and let her into your home. 

"You could have told me you were coming," you say. You lead her back to your room.

"I didn't know I was until about an hour ago," Noelle says. "I was bored at home and just kind of decided... well." She hands you a thumb drive. "I've got Yuru Camp on there."

"Yeah, no," you say, pocketing the drive. "I'm not Stuxnetting myself. I'll torrent it." You sit down at your computer and begin to do exactly that. You don't bother to hide the fact of what was on your screen before that.

Noelle shakes her head. "You are such a jerk. I'm risking my job just by being here, you know."

"That's very sweet of you, but you can understand how my trust might be at a critical low right now."

"It smells like wet dick in here," Noelle says, glancing around. "Do you just have a fetish for girls named Rose or what?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. But my living room is open if you'd rather watch down there, when this is finished downloading."

"I'd rather not have to deal with anyone else," she says. "Who knows what fresh hells await in the orgy house."

"Pull up a chair, then."

"Wait -- shit. You don't have a real TV in here?" Noelle seems amazed that a billionaire could forego such conveniences.

"Somehow I prefer watching things on my computer screen. I never saw the need for a TV."

Noelle sits beside you. Even if she complained, she seems to understand implicitly what you mean.

"We can watch a few episodes," she tells you. "Then if you want to keep going, we totally can... otherwise, I'll take a recommendation from you. I'm sure it's bound to be better than anything the MAC suggested."

"Oh, this ought to be good. They gave you recs?"

Noelle counts on her fingers: "Death Note, Attack on Titan, Haruhi, Dragon Maid, One Piece, Madoka..."

"Well..." you say. "There's some good stuff in there, too, at least."

"Oh gee," Noelle says, then, impersonating a wheezy, lispy nerd: "Hey Alabashter. Have you have ever heard of thish obshcure ah-nee-may called Mad-o-ka? It'sh pretty high level shtuff."

"Okay, so their recommendations were at best useless and at worst awful. But at least there's a glimmer of hope for them -- right?"

"There is no hope for those people. You're only saying that because you put your penis in one of them. You don't want to believe that you've been brought to such a low."

"You're so hung up on that. Are you jealous of Rose2? And are you jealous of Rose, too?"

"You only wish," Noelle says. "I always exclude the ugly bastard tag."

"Yeah, well, ugly bastards have a way of ignoring those types of protests."

"Oh?" Noelle says. "Am I in danger, now? Should I be quaking in my boots?"

"I think I'm probably the one in danger here. Letting a fed into your house is sort of like inviting a vampire in, isn't it?"

"I'll let the Roses handle sucking you dry. I'm just here to watch cute 2D girls being cute."

You can at least agree to that. 

Noelle grabs a can of pringles off your desk and begins snacking on them -- without asking. Already taking liberties.

You can count on her for one thing, at least: she's got passable taste. Of course there's hardly anything resembling yuri undertones, in a series that could have really gone all-out on it (adolescent girls camping together in the woods is a setup rife for it) -- so you wonder whether Noelle is holding back on delivering the goods. She was always more the type to dig series where the girls are perpetually on the verge of pinning each other down and going knuckle-deep.

She's super into it, though -- this was clearly a favorite of hers from recent seasons. You wonder whether there's a kind of nostalgic wistfulness underpinning that. You can picture her as someone who camped a lot in her youth, even if she may not get out much now (judging by her pallid skin tone). And she's weirdly eager to know that you enjoy the series also. That simply could be some sort of desperation to finally hang out with a person who shares her opinions to some small degree, though.

"It's pretty good," you admit.

"Fucking finally." There it is: "I tried to show a couple slice of life series at MAC and they said my tastes were weird and boring. The utter imbeciles. Thank you."

After the prerequisite three episodes, you know you'll give the full run its dues. But it's time for something else.

"Hey Noelle," you say. "Have you ever heard of this obscure anime called Psycho Pass? It's pretty high level stuff..."

"End yourself."

"Geez. All right, let's try again. For real this time. I'll tell you something to piss you off even more: I ended up dropping Magical Witchy--"

"You WHAT?"

"I dunno. I just kind of stopped watching it. No reason."

Magical Witchy ~Pero Pero~ was bar none Noelle's favorite anime of winter 2017, and the two of you bonded over your fandom. It's utter tripe of course, a series about little girls in skimpy clothes who battle monsters, but there's something special and transfixing about it, and Noelle agrees. Its second season aired in Summer 2018. Your attention was a little divided back then, for many reasons. Keeping all caught up on anime was low on the priority list. Plus it reminded you of her, and you weren't too happy with her then -- still aren't. Now you have a chance to make amends.

"You're almost as bad as the MAC," she says. "I should arrest you on principle."

"Sorry, but I'm full up. I've got enough girls who want to put me in handcuffs."

Noelle rolls her eyes.

"If you don't mind rewatching it, I'll just pick up where I left off," you say.

"Where did you stop?"

"Not far in. I only made it past to the third episode."

"Oh..." she says. "Well, the second season gets pretty raunchy. So that's a fair warning. I don't know if you get second-hand embarrassment watching that kind of thing in the presence of another person."

Not at all, of course. You cue up the next episode you haven't seen.

Noelle wasn't lying. Magical Witchy ~Pero Pero~ is one step removed from just being a tentacle rape hentai in its second cour. You sort of wonder how many takes the seiyuu spent in the sound booth trying to strike the right mix between terror and erotic thrill. Maybe BD sales were lagging on the first run, so they felt the need to sex it up. The source material never got this prurient.
 
Regardless of the reasons why, these episodes are certainly designed to titillate as much as they are to tell a coherent narrative. When the three witches, Lillith, Lucy, and Lulu, have to "soul bond" to defeat the villain in one episode, it's pretty clear, despite the mystical steam that appears to obscure the screen, that they're basically just rubbing each other's cunts.
 
"Whoa," you say during the scene, glancing at Noelle. "So much for undertones, huh?"
 
"It's -- it's a necessary part of the story," Noelle says. "They explained how soul bonding works. It's a magical ritual to boost their sealing powers."
 
"Yeah. By cumming on each other."
 
On screen, raven-haired sexpot Lillith is sighing: "Ahh -- it feels so good!"
 
To which blonde-haired, cow-titted Lucy sneers through little grunts of pleasure: "S-stupid Lillith... I'm not doing this for your sake!"
 
And which is followed up by demure, plank-chested redhead Lulu, who timidly orgasms while pleading: "Let's all feel good together!"
 
"This is porn," you say. "We're watching porn right now."
 
"Yeah, whatever," Noelle says. "You were watching porn before I showed up too. Anyway, I warned you, so whose fault is this?"
 
"I'm not complaining," you say. "I'm just surprised the show went this far. Actually, this kind of thing is more my speed. You were the one who always said you preferred things subtle and understated."
 
"I'd rather not hear about your tastes in hentai, Alabaster, if you'd please."
 
"I mean... don't agree to watch hentai with me if you don't want to hear what I think about hentai."
 
"It's ecchi at most," she says. "Anyway, that's about as hot as it gets--"
 
"Hot?"
 
"You know what I mean."
 
"You ARE a lesbian," you say. "I knew it."
 
"Oh please," Noelle says, groaning. "2D doesn't translate to 3D. Just because I like gay things in 2D doesn't mean I'm gay in real life. You of all people should understand such a concept."
 
"Is that some kind of snipe?" You say. "Been digging through my internet history, now, cop?"
 
"No," she says. "But my oh my, did you give away an entertaining fact about yourself just now."
 
You don't know what it is -- something in the air, a sudden shift in the mood of the room -- maybe it's having your masculinity directly challenged like that, or the fact that Rose left you in a state of need, or just because the show, despite your shit-talking, did have its intended effect on you. But you suddenly lean in and grab Noelle and kiss her on the lips.
 
But it seems you misread her. You're not a Lothario after all. She recoils, pushes you back. "W-what are you doing!" She shouts.
 
"I--" you stammer. "I thought..."
 
"I can't have sex with you," she says. "I-- I shouldn't be here. This is such a mistake. I shouldn't be fraternizing with you at all. I'm sorry -- I'm sorry, I need to go."
 
"Noelle--" you say, as she stands.
 
She stops. "You have to understand," she says. "This is a real oh-shit thing to be doing, sitting here, with a subject of the investigation I'm running--"
 
You try to brush away the awkwardness. "I get it. It's fine. I don't want to make things weird, you know? The truth is.... the truth is, I kind of missed just hanging out with you and riffing on anime together. It was... fun. It was a lot of fun."
 
She regards you for a long moment.
 
"I'm not one of those thirsty weeaboos at the MAC," you add. "Just chalk it up to temporary insanity and forget about it. I'm not gonna be m'ladying you all night--"
 
She steps closer and climbs onto your chair with you -- gets in your lap facing you. "Jesus," she says. "Stop digging already."
 
"That's -- a good idea," you agree.
 
You let her kiss you.
 
Her mouth tastes powerfully of mint, the precise flavor of a scoop of mint ice cream, but warm and moist. And you can practically feel her need, a desperate need for something real, companionship, closeness, human contact -- and unless Quantico has a special course on posing as a sex-starved Christmas Cake, you think this must be real and true. How sad that she should land on Alabaster Soliloquy as the tincture for a lonely heart, you think. Somehow the reality of being a loathsome asshole seems especially biting right now.
 
Nonetheless, Noelle is pretty, and warm, and she's in your lap kissing you, and you're never going to say no to such a situation.
 
"The bed?" You prompt in between her ravenous, wet kisses.
 
"Yeah. The bed..."
 
You lead her by the hand there. This feels kind of taboo in a new way too. If you're going to become lovers, you'll be star-crossed indeed -- you've been eyeing each other from opposite sides of the FBI security cordon long enough to know where you stand. This is bad news for both of you.
 
But Noelle is already kicking off her black shoes and socks and slacks -- underneath a surprise, pastel pink panties. And under her shirt, a matching bra.
 
"Been raiding Rose2's underwear drawer?" You laugh. Even now, you can't resist ribbing her.
 
"Oh, shut up. These are cute."
 
"They're extremely cute," you say approvingly. She blushes a little at this. She blushes even harder as you get your hand behind her lithe back and unhook the strap on her bra and pull it off. You're getting pretty good at that maneuver.
 
Noelle's breasts are small and perky, the nipples a dark brown despite her pale skin -- you were never clear what flavor of Asian she is, but her body is small and thin and fuckable all the same. You get your clothes off too, and enjoy the way her eyes bulge despite herself at the moment of the big reveal. You never get tired of that, the way a girl reacts the first time she sees it. Some are upfront about their surprise -- but others, like Noelle, try to conceal the trepidation. All she allows is a little exhaled huff of air, as you take the waistband of her panties and slide them down her legs.
 
"Do you -- have any condoms?" She asks. Even as she asks this, she spreads her legs open, bares her pretty pussy to you.
 
"No," you say simply.
 
"Oh..."
 
"Is that a problem?"
 
Noelle thinks. She chews her lower lip. Then she shakes her head slightly no.
 
You lie over her and kiss her some more. But her kisses in return are full of doubt, it seems, and her body is all trembly. Her voice is pinched as she says: "You'll pull out, right?"
 
"Sure," you say. You rub your cock up and down the cleft of her pussy as you lie on top of her. It's slick, the fat lips feel nice against your shaft. She keeps herself cleanly shaven down there, and you appreciate how smooth and wet both ends of your body feel, as you mate your tongue to hers, and tease her cunt with your prick.
 
"I'm gonna put it in," you say.
 
"Do it slow... please."
 
You're nice; you follow her orders. Rearing back, you find the entrance to her slit with the head of your cock, and instead of ramming it home, you gently nudge it in by centimeters. The first is the most difficult, for her. She takes a choking breath of air as you spread her pussy open around you and begin to slide in. To alleviate some of the tension and discomfort gripping her, you, well, grip her: you find her arms where they lie at her side and bring them up by her head, and then you lace your fingers through her fingers. You hold hands with her as you get your raw dick inside of her.
 
"It's so warm," she says. Her voice is higher than you're used to, way higher. But the warmth in it reflects the warmth she feels in her pussy.
 
You push and push, letting her acclimate to the feeling. She stares blankly up at you, seemingly in shock at just how much there really is -- as if she can't believe that you're not already all the way inside, as you continue you slip your horny prick into her. But it's sooner than it seems to her, when you have yourself balls-deep. She's got a great little cunt, nice and velvety, and you can actually feel the way its wetness seeps from the walls all around your throbbing shaft. She's all wet for you. Her cunt is drooling on you.
 
As you begin to pull out, her legs wrap around you, her bare feet interlock at the ankles just above your tailbone. "Wait," she says. "Go back in."
 
"Do you understand how sex works?" You say. "There's a rhythm... in and out, repeat--"
 
"I want to feel your cock in me... all the way in me... please."
 
She's a bit delirious right now, but her desperation is so sweet that you let her have her way. You get yourself as deep as you can go and settle your weight on her. Still interlocking hands, your mouths find one another's again. She's all pips and squeaks as you enjoy the simple feeling of your hardness resting inside of her, the way her cunt loosens and tightens and loosens again, milking you off. Though she can't move much with the way she's pinned, her butt does gyrate just a little bit with anxious lust. These little rotations masturbate your cock in turn. The pressure and heat is delicious.
 
You lie like that for three or four minutes, letting her revel in being completely full. But your prick is getting so hot for more that the itch actually begins to hurt a bit. Your body doesn't understand why you've got yourself stuck up a cunt but aren't fucking it for all it's worth. Eventually you just HAVE to give in to your base instincts and do it; you're filled with a burning need to fuck her pussy out. And now that she's got you so riled up, you have a hard time being gentle about it.
 
You do try, you really do, but you just can't take it slow. You're in such a state of overdrive that you have to really fucking pound her. Your first in-and-out thrust, a moderate tempo but without warning -- is met with a surprised little moan from her. The second, faster thrust, with Noelle stammering: "Al-Alabaster--"
 
And then, when you cut loose and start fucking her ass into the mattress as hard and as fast as you can, your hips a blur on top of her, she can only tighten her grip on your hands and hold on, breathless, as you rut. And rut you do, like a dog, unable to stop yourself. A few moments later, she finds her voice again, but it's senseless. She can only form a long, low "unnnnngggg-- unnnnn--" while you fuck her mercilessly -- as you rail her.
 
You have the benefit of a soft memory foam mattress without springs that creak; but the frame is thumping against the floor and the headboard is banging against the wall. You're making a huge racket as you fuck Noelle silly. And her low "unnnnggg---" noises are picking up in volume, resounding off the walls, leaving no doubt that you've got a girl in your bed who you're showing the time of her life to. "Unnngh--- unnnngh---!!" Her hands flex in yours and this seems to be her only way to sensibly communicate that she wants you to keep going, exactly like this. Her creaming, cramping cunt is the other indication that she loves it. She's quite the little fuck-bunny when you get her warmed up.
 
It doesn't take much, like this, to get you up to that wonderful peak. You're an honest man -- you know you have to pull out. You ask her, your voice hardly more than a scratchy grunt: "Where do you want it?"
 
"Whu--" she moans, her head shaking side to side.
 
"I'm gonna cum. Where do you want it?"
 
Her ankles around your tailbone tighten. "In," she says. The force of your thrusting leaves her unable to form more than one syllable at a time. "In-- in-- innnnn--"
 
That suits you, too. You mash your lips to hers and exhale deeply through your nose, a sigh of pure satisfaction, as you let go of frustrating concerns about having to pull out. That's right: in is just fine. You like in, too. Her cunt makes lewd, sloppy noises around your dick as you jab back and forth, these final few, deep, short strokes that carry you to the finale. Your balls tighten, you heave, she throws her head back against the pillow and bares her thin, pale neck to you. And like that you blow your load in her pussy. She hugs you to her body with her feet, to make sure you stay exactly like that, all the way inside, while you empty yourself. Blast after blast of cum directly in her womb. You seed her right up, just as she asked -- and just like she really needed. She knows now as well as you, the doujins weren't lying to you: there is no greater pleasure on Earth, for man or woman, than that of cumming inside.

GIRLS FUCKED: 10/12

"Oh my god. Why did you cum in me?"

"Uh. I'm thinking it's because you told me to cum in you. I could be wrong, but that seems like a good explanation."

Noelle is trying to wipe the remnants away with wad after wad of tissue, but more just keeps seeping out -- you're nothing if not prodigious.

"Ugh," she purrs, "I'm gonna reek like your jism for a year."

"Don't be a drama queen. It'll be half a year, tops."

She cracks her neck and then flops back onto your mattress. "You mind if I sleep here? I don't feel like crawling back over your gates and walking to the bus stop right now."

"You may be attacked in the night by an ugly bastard," you warn her.

"That's fine."

"Or a pack of deranged lesbians."

"Also fine."

You crawl into bed with her and find yourselves curled up, spooning.

"This is a one-night stand," she tells you.

"Right."

She wiggles against you, finding a comfortable spot. "Never again."

"Never." Your hand, draped over her body, finds one of her hands, and holds it.

"I'm serious, Alabaster -- don't patronize me. This is a mistake. Not to be repeated. I won't be back."

"Goodnight, Noelle."

You fall asleep together. 

---

The Drunken Robot is classic Silicon Valley kitsch, a gastropub full of nerd paraphernalia like a scale replica ENIAC above the bar, wallpaper that looks like circuitry, and tables with smart tablets built right in so you can order and reorder without having to flag down waitstaff. At the front, you and Dr. Carte are greeted by a Pepper robot hacked to be surly and confrontational. "You assholes want a fucking table or are you going to sit at the bar?" the robot demands, voice polite despite the obscene language.

"We're here for trivia night," Dr. Carte tells it.

The robot beeps and boops, and its eyes swirl with neon colors, as it processes this reply. Finally it comes back with: "Neeeeerds."

"Oh, screw you," Dr. Carte says.

Beep boop, light swirling, and then: "I do not have a fetish for humans."

"This is the least helpful hostess ever," you say.

"And you are the least attractive human ever. Meatbag."

"Let's just grab a seat at the bar," Dr. Carte says.

"Grab this," the robot says as you walk past, cupping its crotch with one hand.

Dr. Carte turns in anger and you have to haul her back by her collar before she slugs the thing. "Don't -- it's not worth it," you tell her.

"You're lucky my man was here to stop me!" She shouts after the robot as you drag her into the bar proper.

Prices at the Drunken Robot are all in binary, how cute, but of course you're paying in base-10. A pint of beer runs anywhere from $10.00 on the low end, up to, as quoted on the menu, $10.00 + $1.11 + 1.01 + $1.00. Just what you wanted -- having to do arithmetic before ordering a drink.

The bartender is a gangling ginger with what he must believe is a good beard since he's wearing it in public. Dr. Carte waves him over. She has her priorities straight: first she orders a rum and coke, then she asks how to register for trivia night.

The bartender's eyes light up about as brightly as the robotic hostess. He runs back to the wall where all the liquor sits on display and presses a button there. Klaxons sound as he grabs a microphone and shouts: "We have new contestants! Neeeeeewwwww contestants for the Brainy Lovers' Bowl!" Cheesy royalty-free gameshow music plays, and patrons at the bar begin to chant: "new blood! New blood!"

Suddenly the mic is in your face. "Tell us about yourself! Who are you and who's this lovely lady accompanying you? Batting out of your league, big guy! Are you betrothed?"

"Betrothed--" you choke. "What? I-- I'm Alabaster and, uh, this is my girlfriend's--"

"I'm Renee. We're engaged."

"Engaged!" The bartender chirps. "How wonderful. When's the wedding?"

"We aren't--" you begin.

"December!" Dr. Carte says. "We're very excited. It's gonna be Star Trek themed."

"Phasers set to looooove," the bartender croons. "Well you two lovebirds came to the right place, because we're gonna be getting started in about ten minutes! Drink up and have fun, you two!"

The patrons clap for you. 

"What the fuck did you take me to?" You whisper from the corner of your mouth.

"It's a couple's night thing," Dr. Carte says. "Didn't I mention that? I'm sure I mentioned that."

Her mock ignorance isn't fooling you.

"Well, the rules say it's for couples only," Dr. Carte explains when you give her a displeased look. "So play along, huh? Is it that awful if a few strangers think I'm your fiancee?"

You nurse an obnoxiously bitter pint of craft IPA while you wait for the game to start. Dr. Carte is excitedly knocking back a second rum and coke already. You warn her: "I don't want to have to carry you. Don't get too drunk."

"Oh, so you're fine with being carried but not with doing the carrying. I see how it is."

"I'm serious--"

"Why the hell do you think I'm watering my liquor down with soda?" She says. "Cut me some slack. If you don't stop bitching at me, I'm calling off the wedding."

"Stop pretending you're the one I'm marrying alr-- oh, motherfucker." Just like Noelle's, your reaction to seeing Rose is usually negative. She strolls up to the bar as casual as can be. 

Close behind her is Vivian. She's walking in reverse, giving the side-eye to that unfriendly robot at the front entrance, simultaneously insulted and perplexed by the thing.

"What are you doing here?" You demand, although you're beginning to understand the gist of what's up.

"Oh!" Rose says, feigning surprise. "What a pleasant surprise. I had no idea you two were coming out tonight."

"Pleasant isn't how I'd put it," Dr. Carte says. "Did you come to get curbstomped like the rest of them?"

"Oh my, no," Rose says. "I came to win. So did my girlfriend, Vivian."

Vivian makes it to the bar now and, in an uncharacteristic show of warmth, she hugs both you and Dr. Carte. "Greetings," she says to each of you in turn -- so, still not quite up to speed on the intricacies of appearing fully human.

"What's with that?" You ask her.

"Hmm?"

"The hugging."

"I am trying to be more affectionate."

"I for one think that's wonderful," Dr. Carte says. "I'm always up for affection from Vivian Darkbloom."

Rose gets the bartender's attention and informs him that she'll be playing. He repeats that outlandish performance with the klaxon and the music and the microphone-shoved-in-face, although Rose handles it more suavely:

"Oh yes, this is my special lady friend," she says. "We've been together for several months now."

"We are madly, passionately in love," Vivian avers as if reading from a cue card. Rose must have coached her.

"Is she, uh -- age of consent?" The bartender asks Rose.

"Absolutely."

"I might need to see some ID!" He laughs, although he only seems to be half joking. Then, definitely not joking here, his tone going serious: "Especially if she's gonna be drinking. We're like one strike away from getting our liquor license revoked."

This is approaching the level of a comedy of errors. Now in comes Cerise and Whitney -- and Mom.

"Should I even ask?" You say as they approach the bar.

Vivian does that same weird hugging thing with Whitney and Cerise, too; these are more lingering and touchy than the first ones, even. As Cerise awkwardly hugs back, swaying a bit side to side with Vivian who's got her face buried in her chest, Cerise says: "What the--? Are you feeling okay, Vivian? Did someone get diagnosed with cancer or something?"

Vivian explains her concerted effort to be more affectionate, which makes Whitney slap her knees, literally. "You're such a weirdo, sis."

"I rather think hugging is normal and wholesome and decidedly un-weird," Vivian protests.

Whitney rolls her eyes.

"Rose and Vivian might be trouble for us," Dr. Carte whispers to you, "but whatever combination those three form, I wouldn't sweat it." Focused on the details of how to win, as always -- never anything else.

"Are you playing?" You ask Mom.

"I am. I heard from Cerise that you were cavorting around with some old cow who's almost twice your age, and I had to see it with my own eyes!"

"--Excuse me?" Dr. Carte says.

"I can hardly believe it, Alabaster," Mom says. "But I suppose it can't be helped. Like mother, like daughter -- this trollop's got her claws sunk into you too, huh?"

"Now you hold on, Ms. Catachresis!" Dr. Carte yells. "I'll have you know that I treat your boy very well--"

"I know what your kind is after, thank you very much!" Mom cuts in. "Spare me the manipulative tactics. They don't work on someone who isn't thinking with their little head."

"You--!"

Thankfully the bartender salvages things before this confrontation turns ugly. "Did I hear someone else say they were playing?" He says. He hits the klaxons before anyone can answer -- itchy trigger finger.

"We're playing," Cerise says. "Me and her."

"May-December romance!" He says. "Uh, no offense. That's sweet."

"Actually, this is my -- nevermind."

"No one to pair up with, honey?" Dr. Carte asks Whitney.

"Pfft. I'm just here to get sloshed and watch you dorks dorking it up."

"Be ready," Dr. Carte purrs. "Poor Vivian is going to need a lot of consoling after tonight..."

"We shall see about that," Vivian says, haughty. "I have already divested my holdings in salt companies, in anticipation of excess supply depressing prices."

The game begins just a few moments later. You make your way to a stage -- this isn't ordinary bar trivia, but a full-on production, with special lighting, and podiums with buzzers for the pairs to stand at -- all eyes on you. But you've been under pressure like this before, and know you can handle it.

>SPECIAL FUCK QUEST EVENT:
>Roll a d6 to determine how many girls leave bar trivia feeling royally pissed off. The mode of all rolls will win.
>[4] 
>...wait, I'm sorry, it looks like I made a typo at a critical juncture here. I somehow misspelled "horny" as "royally pissed off." I don't know how this happened. 

The three familiar teams -- you and Dr. Carte, Rose/Vivian, and Cerise/Mom, are joined on stage by a couple also-rans who don't look too tough, a fat neckbeard and his equally fat girlfriend, and a cleanly professional Japanese couple who both look small and mousy.

The format is simple, rapid-fire questions from the MC, +100 points each, -100 points for wrong answers -- until 30 minutes elapses and the team with the most takes the crown. The prize is a $30 gift card for the Sizzler (there seriously must be some sort of seedy underground criminal empire pushing that place). But of course the real thing at stake here is your pride. You can't let Rose beat you. Or any of the others, for that matter.

"What do you think?" Dr. Carte asks in the scant few moments you have to huddle up and confer before things begin. "Vivian is for sure going to be tough competition -- I've watched enough Jeopardy with her to know. But what about Rose? You were in quiz bowl with her, right? You two won a national competition together--"

"Rose won't be a problem," you insist. "She's got a good base of general knowledge but not as big as us. Her strong suit was always math... and I don't think a bar trivia game is going to ask a lot of math questions. In any case, you should be good at math too, right?"

"I'm a biologist, not a mathematician," Dr. Carte says. "That's like oil and water. You should know that."

"Let's just count on there not being a lot of math, then."

"Hold on. You majored in engineering, didn't you? You're not good at math?"

"I'm okay at math. Rose literally majored in math--"

"Oh my god. We should have prepared better--"

You steal a glance at Rose and Vivian. Between the two of them, it's hard to say who looks more smug. They're both confident, even cocky -- you'll love wiping those grins off their faces.

"What about Cerise and the old hag?" Dr. Carte asks.

"Don't talk about my mom that way."

"Tell her not to talk about me that way!"

"They'll be pushovers. Unless there's a lot of questions about Furbys or baking, you can forget about them. Just make sure we beat Rose and Vivian to the buzzer. Fuck... buzz in even if you don't know. Between us, one of us is bound to know pretty much every answer. Right?"

"Right."

The game begins. 

"For 100 points: What is the integral of sin(x)+cos(x)+x^2?"

"Are you FUCKING kidding me--" you sputter.

Rose is already buzzed in. "-cos(x)+sin(x)+1/3 x^3," she says breezily. "Plus a constant, of course."

"Correct," the host says. He presses something on his tablet. The tablet mounted on the front of Rose and Vivian's podium, acting as a digital scoreboard, increments to 100.

Dr. Carte leans against your podium and massages her forehead with the heels of her palms. Rose and Vivian are grinning at you. You simmer.

"Wooo!" Whitney cheers from the tables in the restaurant area, hands cupped to her mouth.

"For 100 points: Voodoo purple, lagoona, tart tangerine, and cow are all varieties of what popular toy?"

Cerise is already buzzed in before the host is done reading. "Furby! Those are Furbys!" She shouts.

"Correct! 100 points to Team Soliloquy."

Mom and Cerise high-five. "That's it, baby!" Mom says. "Let's kick their butt!" You feel sick.

"Wooo!" Whitney cheers, again. She clearly doesn't have a horse in this race.

"Just buzz in," you tell Dr. Carte. "Buzz in no matter what -- we'll get the answer afterwards."

"Yes. Good idea."

"In Marcel Proust's epic novel Remembrance of Things Past, what is the name of the narrator's love interest who leaves him and then dies in an accident?"

Dr. Carte does as instructed. But you have no idea -- and neither does she. "Oh my god," she's saying over and over, a broken record. "Do you know? I don't know. Oh my god."

"...Mary?" You guess.

"Oooh, sorry. -100 points from Team Submarine. I'll repeat the question--"

But Vivian buzzes in and answers: "Albertine."

"Correct! Another 100 points to Team Whiterose."

"Wooo!"

Dr. Carte literally beats her fists against the podium and grunts in anger. You'd normally think she's taking things too seriously, but you're about as upset right now.

"For 100 points--"

"Fuck's sake," you say. "Every question is 100 points. Why do you keep saying 'for 100 points'? Durr. Just get on with it. Jesus Christ. This is unbearable."

"...Uh. For 100 points: the confection mille-feuille is composed of alternating layers of what two primary ingredients?"

Mom is quick on the buzzer: "Puff pastry and custard. That's obvious!"

"Wooo!"

Dr. Carte violently scratches her head and growls. 

A bizarre confluence of coincidences means that even as the game progresses and you finally rack up a healthy score -- the other four girls manage to keep even with you and Dr. Carte. From questions about famous celebrity chefs, to the discoverer of quaternions, to TS Eliot's first wife, to the amalgam most commonly used in soldering -- it seems like every other question is purposely designed to play to someone else's single biggest avenue of expertise.

It all comes down to the final question -- it's a tie match, and to the winner go the spoils. Rose and Vivian aglow with excitement; Rose's face is deeply flushed and her hair is damp with sweat, while Vivian is almost hyperventilating. At the next podium over, Mom's expression is pure, steely determination, and Cerise is so surprised at being in contention that she's smiling goofily.

"If this is a fucking integral..." Dr. Carte tells you, "I'm tanning your hide."

"Did you beam down from the 1800s with that threat?" You say.

"Tanning. Your. Hide."

"For 100 points, and sweet victory: the study of eggs is commonly called what?"

You buzz in. High on adrenaline and feeling gracious in the thrill of defeating your opponents, you begin: "I want to thank Whitney for this one." You point at her, smiling. "Thanks, Whitney."

"Ally! Shut the fuck up--"

"The answer is oology," you finish.

"Uh," the host says. "I'm sorry, but... you didn't actually buzz in first. Team Whiterose?"

"Oology," Rose says. "The answer is oology."

"Correct! Congratulations!"

You feel like you've been punched in the stomach. You blink -- your mouth goes dry -- you move your jaw but no words come out. Rose just won. She just beat you.

"No no no no no no," Dr. Carte says. "Oh, no. No. No." She's got her hands clasped over her mouth.

Rose and Vivian hug. Rose is so happy that she actually lifts Vivian a little bit off the ground, back arching, and twirls around with her a couple times.

When her feet are back on the ground again, Vivian, thrilling, kisses Rose on the lips. Rose is taken aback by that, but shrugs and rolls with it -- they're posing as girlfriends after all.

Mom and Cerise are gracious losers -- they didn't expect to win to begin with -- they just smile at each other and shrug.

Meanwhile, you and Dr. Carte are like soldiers back from the trenches of WWI: hollow, dead inside. The clapping of the bar's patrons is a distant patter in your ears, as if you've been lifted bodily up and away from this place. 

---

"Goddamn it, Ally! You never listen to me!" Whitney flicks another peanut shell at your face, which you bat away, and return to sucking down your Corona. You're deep into your third bottle and getting a little buzzed now -- not as bad as Dr. Carte, though, who's practically falling over. Across the table from you, the winners are preening and sharing a bowl of ice cream together, feeding each other -- ugh.

"I knew the answer anyway," Rose tells Whitney. "I would never forget that display at the national competition... so yes, thank you."

"Face it, Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. "Superior minds have prevailed." She folds her hands one atop the other, and demurely and lets Rose give her the last gloopy spoonful of half-melted ice cream. After swallowing, she adds: "Your folly was believing you could stand against us to begin with."

"This -- this is your fault," Dr. Carte says, pointing at you. "We lost 100 points because you told me to buzz in on that fucking Proust shit. We would have won without that!"

"Don't..." you grumble. "I'm gonna be sick..."

Whitney flicks a peanut shell at you.

Mom tries to leaven the bitter feelings in your heart: "You were impressive tonight. Err-- n-not that I want to admit it, but... w-well, maybe if you weren't so stupid as to tether yourself to this hussy, you would have done even better tonight..."

"Oh my god, lady," Dr. Carte says. "Call me a hussy one more time. I will put my fist so far up your--"

"I'm getting a mite sleepy," Vivian says. "I think it is time for me to depart..."

"You're the only one sober," Cerise says -- from behind a pyramid of beer bottles. "You and Ms. Catachresis. Do you guys mind being Uber tonight?"

"I would love to drag a gaggle of drunkards around town," Mom says, "but I have a long drive ahead of me already. You'll have to leave things to this strange, small, anemic little girl."

Vivian sighs. "So be it. Perhaps we can make a sleepover of it at Whitney's abode."

This gets the gears in your head spinning. You glance at Dr. Carte. "Hey... still mad at Rose and Vivian?" You whisper.

"You have no fucking idea."

"How about a little payback?" 

---

"I mean -- against their will?" Dr. Carte says. She's in your living room with you, sipping a tumbler of whiskey of course. Rose and Vivian are asleep, happily oblivious, in Rose's bedroom. "That's rape, right? What you're suggesting is rape."
 
"They like being raped," Whitney says.
 
She marvels at her daughter.  
 
"It's kinda their thing," you confirm. "I mean -- Vivian for certain. But you know that already."
 
Dr. Carte demurs.
 
"And as for Rose," you continue, "well... she doesn't really care which direction it's running as long as someone says no."
 
"Just remember - it's not rape if they like it!" Whitney says, holding an index finger up.
 
"You two must be crazy. Couldn't we just, I don't know... prank them?"
 
"Sure we can," Whitney says. "We'll prank 'em full of cum!"
 
"Rose has a safe word she can use," you offer.
 
"Really?" Dr. Carte says. "I didn't take you two for people capable of playing nice together."
 
"There were some... unfortunate events..." you say. "Look, anyway, she'll say 'tenderness' if she doesn't like it."
 
"What about Vivian?"
 
"She, uh, thinks a safe word makes things 'less enjoyable' -- her words. We'll have to play that one by ear."
 
Dr. Carte still seems uncertain, so Whitney walks around the recliner she's sitting in and rubs her shoulders. It would be a chaste bit of daughterly contact, if not for what you're all discussing. "Come on, Mommy... don't you wanna plaaa-aaay?"
 
"Why do you continue to think calling me 'Mommy' in that fake-innocent voice of yours will always convince me to let you have your way?"
 
"Because it will~"
 
She leans around Dr. Carte and kisses her, full on the lips. You probably won't ever get sick of seeing that. It begins as a peck and quickly turns into something much more, and you'd love to let them continue, but you want to keep their energy pent up for better things. You clear your throat.
 
"R-right," Dr. Carte says.
 
"Right," Whitney repeats. "Let's go rape a couple bitches."
 
---
 
You and Whitney have done this enough times to be old hands at it. You flip the lightswitch on Rose's wall, and then you two are immediately on top of the bed. You sit over Rose and Vivian, pinning them firmly in place before they even awaken. Whitney takes care of Vivian and you take care of Rose. Dr. Carte seems hardly able to believe her eyes.
 
"Wh-what the fuck!" Rose squeaks. "What are you doing?"
 
Taking her wrists and pushing them together and holding them in one strong hand, you use your other to cover her mouth and muffle her whiny protests. "Shut the fuck up, cunt."
 
Her eyes go wide, registering the hunger in yours. And as she becomes fully conscious again, she understands perfectly well what this is all about.
 
"Unhand me at once," Vivian insists. "This is outrageous. I did not consent to this."
 
"For crimes against quiz bowl dorks everywhere," Whitney says, "I hereby sentence both of you to two hours' hard rape! Gavel gavel gavel."
 
"You can't just say gavel gavel gavel to imitate a gavel," you tell Whitney, glancing over.
 
"Well what the fuck sound should I make, then?"
 
"Bang bang bang?" Dr. Carte offers.
 
"That's a gun, ma."
 
"Doink doink?" You say. "Like on Law and Order."
 
"Yeah, sure. That really sets the mood. Doink doink. Great thinking, Ally, you fucking dweeb."
 
"Oh, and THIS sets the mood?" You counter.
 
Underneath you, Rose wiggles impatiently. There's anger and frustration in her eyes. Right -- enough of this bickering, on to the festivities.
 
You and Whitney force your victims to a sitting position. As they rise to their butts on the mattress, they catch sight of Dr. Carte for the first time. And the fact that she's naked, wearing a strap-on dildo. It's a model both girls are intimately familiar with, one of Whitney's staples -- it has a hand-pump that allows the wearer to squirt a cunt full of warm lotion. Whitney herself is too horned-up to play the man tonight. In her own words, she wants to get her pussy sucked.
 
"Ms. Carte," Vivian pleads, adopting a pitiful tack, "cease this behavior. If you wish to make love, then perhaps later, but --"
 
But Whitney is wise to this game. She reaches down and tugs Vivian's legs apart. Vivian is wearing only a thin nightie, and when Whitney flips the hem of it over Vivian's waist, you can all see that she's been going nopan. And that little cuntlet of hers, like always, is glistening with arousal.
 
Dr. Carte notices. "You're wet..." she says.
 
Vivian murmurs and looks away. Her cheeks blush deeply.
 
"Of course she's wet," Whitney says. "She's a little slut. Why else would she go to bed without panties? She wanted us to come and fuck her, that's why."
 
"Mmmf mmmf, mm ff mmm fmfmm--" Rose is trying to say something but you can't understand her with your hand still over her lips.
 
"What's that?" you say. "I can't quite hear you."
 
She tries again, obviously a threat or a curse of some kind, and struggles against you. But no use.
 
"Speak up, please. Is there a problem?"
 
She just keeps going and going as if you'll understand or care what she's ranting about, the darling.
 
"What do you think, Mommy?" Whitney asks. "Which of these whores do you want to use?"
 
"Whores..." Dr. Carte says, absentmindedly holding the dildo strapped to her and tugging on it as if it were real. The idea of sexually dominating someone seems alluring to her, but it's all so new to her, too. You decide to help her along her path to degeneracy, while at the same time conveniently shutting down Rose's annoying complaining. You slip your boxers off, get Rose on her back again, and straddle her head. Your balls sag down against her forehead as as you present your pulsing dick to her lips. A dollop of precum drools from your the mushroom cap of your prick, down the length of your shaft a small distance, and plops on her nose.
 
"Suck me," you tell her. You remove the hand covering her mouth.
 
But instead of obeying, she says through a gasp of fresh air: "FUCK you. You worthless fucking PIG, you cocksucking needle-dick faggot, you--"
 
You slap her, four or five times, and these are really vicious, no-holds-barred blows, too. She has to be reminded of her place from time to time, especially when she gets mouthy.
 
You can see the imprint of your hand on her cheek where you hit her. You enjoy the way she recoils each time. The meaty thwacking of your palm against her face reverberates off the walls, and if it's half as painful as it sounds, you know she's in agony. Exactly as she should be. You dick twitches at the thought and drools more of its slime on her. With her mouth hanging open in pain, you have your opportunity, and take it. Now Rose's vulgar little mouth is stuffed full of the dick she can never admit she loves.
 
"I like the way you think, Ally. I wanna beat Viv up a little, too."
 
"W-what?" Vivian says. "I-- did nothing to deserve such ill treatm--"
 
But Whitney is already slapping her. It's a nice sight to go alongside your cock sliding brutally down Rose's esophagus. Whitney gets a little crazed and goes overboard, in moments like these. As she beats on her little sister's face, she demands: "Admit it! Admit you're a cunt who wants to get raped!"
 
The abuse makes Vivian pliant in seconds flat. "I- I am--" WHACK "A c-cunt!" WHACK "I am a cunt who, w-who wants to get raped!" WHACK "I am... I am... I am nothing but a s-stupid little cunt!" WHACK "I am a slutty, stupid little cunt--" WHACK "Please rape me!!"
 
Vivian has learned well the words that please Whitney. And Whitney, hearing this confession, relents. When she does, Vivian's face is already badly bruised -- and she's sitting in a puddle of wetness.
 
Dr. Carte's eyes are shimmering with unconcealed lust now. She's looking more at Rose, though -- the way you pump in and out of her tight gullet, eliciting slick, rhythmic sloshing noises. Drool from the back of her throat sluices over your prick. It's hot and viscous and slimy, and it really gets you off. You can feel the pleasure coursing all the way down your shaft, to your balls, and down to the soles of your feet. Rose has her hands balled up against her chest, and she begins to paw her own cowtits through her negligee while you fuck her face. It's exactly as you said, Rose and Vivian live for being violated.
 
"I think your mom decided which one she wants to try," you tell Whitney. You ask Dr. Carte: "Wanna help use this cumdump?"
 
"Yes..." she says airily, "I think I'll take you up on that offer, Alabaster..."
 
Dr. Carte climbs onto the bed now. You lift Rose off your cock just long enough for her to turn over and get into a doggy position. Fucking her mouth like this feels especially nice because her tongue is against the extra-sensitive underside of your foreskin. And Rose, such a well-trained fuckpig, flicks her tongue back and forth against it in sync to your thrusts. Even when you rape her, this cunt does her best to get you off. She doesn't have to do any work at all in this situation, but she does so anyway, she sucks on you. She can't help herself. She's all stupid for your dick.  
 
Whitney watches her mom preparing to mount Rose. It's the kind of spectacle she wants to experience while being eaten out. So she leans against the headboard and gets her legs wide apart and grabs Vivian by the hair. She tugs the little girl violently into her crotch now. "Lick my pussy and don't stop until I'm done cumming on you," is her instruction. Vivian wastes no time and begins to lap at Whitney's cunt.
 
Dr. Carte holds Rose by the hips and gets herself stuck in. She stares down at Rose's healthy body, the plump butt and fleshy torso. Dr. Carte has got the same lesbian tendencies as her daughter, you figure. She definitely likes what she's seeing underneath her.
 
"This is fun," Dr. Carte purrs, ramming the dick home a few times for effect. "I could really get used to doing this."
 
"Hear that, bitch?" You tell Rose with deep strokes of your own against her sloppy, lapping tongue. "You've got a new friend who likes raping you."
 
Rose's shudder might signal shame or pleasure, but probably both.
 
"I love watching you, Mommy," Whitney moans. She's got her ankles locked around Vivian's head and she's humping her pussy against Vivian's face -- totally hands free. That gives her the ability to reach forward and interlink fingers with Dr. Carte. Mother and daughter hold hands lovingly as they each rape a different girl.
 
Whitney begins to cum like that, bucking her hips against Vivian and squirting all over. Vivian, starved for air and growing weak because of it, services her older sister all the same. She even puts a couple tiny fingers in Whitney's asshole to heighten the orgasm. "Yes!!" Whitney screams as Vivian swirls her fingers around the lower hole and works her tongue against Whitney's clit. "Just like that! Finger big sister's asshole! Drink my fucking cum!"
 
At some point Dr. Carte dispensed with her top, and you enjoy the way her massive tits ripple with every forceful thrust. She hugs herself, shivering, and seems obviously overwhelmed by the stimuli she's getting.
 
"Cum inside her," you say. "It's what she likes best."
 
"Oooh..." Dr. Carte mewls. "That sounds wonderful."
 
She takes the pump in hand and starts squeezing it. You can hear the wet, vacuous noises of the warmed-over cream traveling through the ersatz cock's interior and then spurting with a deep echo into Rose's cunt. But Dr. Carte isn't pleased with just this. She punctuates every spurt of cum with a hard slap against Rose's ass that makes Rose's throat clamp down on your dick.
 
You gulp. "You're gonna make me blow, too," you tell Dr. Carte. "Every time you hit her... her throat gets tighter..."
 
"Is that so?" Dr. Carte says. "Then here."
 
She gives Rose a barrage of spanks, both hands, and she spares no mercy. Her fingernails leave deep scratches and her palms raise ugly welts on Rose's backside. Rose is making some kind of noise, a gurgle from deep down in her larynx that probably wouldn't be words even if she could speak. She's just moaning senselessly against your cock while she gets fucked from both sides.
 
It's enough to make you climax -- you hold Rose by the ears and gag her on your cumming dick. But you only blast a time or two into the warm confines of her mouth before pulling out and finishing all over her face. You know Rose lives for eating your cum, and this is punishment, so you'll deny her the enjoyment. Besides, she looks a lot prettier painted with semen. You jerk your spurting cock and fire thick ropes of pearl-white seed all over her red, sweaty, slimy features.
 
Dr. Carte fills Rose's pussy so full with fake cum that the greasy lotion seeps out and begins to slide lewdly onto the sheets, staining them. She doesn't seem to care. And seeing you jizz on Rose's face makes her want to join the fun too. She pulls out of Rose, letting a torrential stream of lotion come pouring out like water from an unplugged dam. She then roughly turns Rose onto her back, and finishes emptying the dildo on Rose's stomach. The stuff ruins Rose's expensive pajamas and leaves her looking like a used-up whore, a piece of garbage, a dirty cum-rag.
 
Whitney runs a hand over Rose's face and scoops up your sperm, then sucks on her fingers like a lollipop. Vivian, in turn, sucks a few more orgasms out of Whitney's cunt. This is Whitney's favorite thing, enjoying the flavor of your cock milk while cumming on a bitch-pig. Even if that bitch-pig is her own sister.
 
When you three rapists are spent and sated, you give the instruction to your defeated prey to clean everything -- with their mouths. The two broken rape-toys can't do anything but comply. Stomach to stomach, they lick each other's faces, hungrily sucking down the remnants of your cum. They swap it back and forth, enjoying the flavor, lost to the concept of dignity. Then, on hands and knees with their naked asses raised up high for your amusement, they hoover up the sloppy mess from the bed sheets. Their mouths are nothing but holes to drink up anything you tell them to.
 
"So," you prompt, "did you have fun, Dr. Carte?"
 
Dr. Carte answers by removing the strap-on and forcing Vivian to lock legs with her. Cunt to cunt, Dr. Carte humps Vivian and gets herself off. Bemused, you watch this much older and much larger woman scissor with a girl who looks barely more than a child. And Vivian, orgasming just as hard, her messy face a sweet mask of pleasure, lets Dr. Carte take her.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, seitokaichou emeritus and no-time champion of the bar quiz bowl.

You and Rose watch from backstage as Whitney sits in the hotseat opposite the host of the Daily Show.

"I get it," he's saying. "We all go through embarrassing phases as teenagers."

"Yeah! Exactly!"

"You do the whole goth thing, or you get mohawk, or you get into cosplay -- or you go around calling people the N word."

Whitney smiles and nods along as the audience laughs. She seems unaware she's the object of mockery here.

He leans in, holding a pen between the fingers of both hands. "So tell us straight now. Is it true? I mean--"

"No, no, that's fake. That's totally fake news. Listen. I wasn't using it all the time."

"So you did use it, though--"

"I had a slip of the tongue--"

"How is that? Just take me through it. How does a slip like that happen? Were you trying to say 'niggardly' and you stuttered, or..."

Rose has her hand to her lips, watching through narrow eyes, holding her breath.

"I had this friend, see? Well. Not even really a friend. He was this kid who hung out with my boyfriend. And he said ni-- he said that word, like, constantly. So one day I just had it with him. And I said Stackleford -- that's his name -- I said Stackleford, don't you say that word! Don't you say it! Because I have a lot of black friends, and there's black people in my family tree, so that hurts my heart! That's what I said. I said, Stackleford don't you say ni-- don't you say it! It hurts my heart to hear that word! Like that. Get it?"

"Uh huh. Only... Ms. Darkbloom, you talk about this person as if he's some distant memory from your past. But he works at your company."

On one of the monitors backstage, you can see that they're displaying an employee photo of Stackleford, from back when he was fat -- complete, as always, with his slightly slackjawed leer and the pussy deflector on his forehead. In the corner, it says "file photo".

"This is him, yes?" The host asks. "Boyd Stackleford?"

"Yeah. But... I didn't know he still works for me..." She rubs the back of her head.

"You didn't... you didn't know he works for you!" the host is stupefied. "Ms. Darkbloom, you played at an employees-only tennis match with the man just a couple weeks ago. How did you not know he's an employee of yours?"

"That's the thing about Stackleford!" Whitney says. "See. He's not a friend, right? He's just sort of there for no reason. He just hangs around. Like a fart."

The host laughs despite himself. "So you didn't realize that just because he attended an employees-only event, that meant he was -- you know -- an employee."

"Yes! And actually..." She pauses. Then, pointing: "Is that camera on me right now?"

The host says yes.

"Zoom it in closer, then. Closer -- yeah, good." On the display monitors, her face utterly fills the frame. "Stackleford -- ya fired."

"You're firing him on national TV," the host says, half questioning, half just reveling in how batshit this is.

"Yep. He's fired now. Fired for sure. Problem solved."

"And one more thing," Whitney says. "I just wanna add onto this. I have this guy on my board, Tyrus Kang... and he said... he's black -- and he said..."

"Oh my god," you mutter. "Didn't you tell her not to do this? She's gonna start rambling about that pass thing. Goddamn it, Rose. You had one fucking job--"

"I told her not to!" Rose hisses. "What do you want me to do, Alabaster? I told her so many times! Fuck!"

But thankfully, the host is talking over her, and this derails her train of thought: "--to say you're not a racist, then?"

"Absolutely. Abso-positutely. I'm the least racist person I know."

"So you know a lot of racists, then?" He asks facetiously, laughing.

"Now -- now hold on," Whitney responds, taking that little jab with utter seriousness. She points at him. "That's a gotcha. You're trying to gotcha me."

"I'm just having a little--"

"The answer to that gotcha is, well, all of my friends are non-racist. But I'm the least racist non-racist I know. Got it?"

He laughs again. "I think I get it."

"Good. I know that might be tough for you to understand."

He arches an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

Rose is rubbing her forehead so hard it seems like she's trying to dig a hole to the center of her brain. "No," she repeats. "No, no, no..."

"It's not the black thing!" Whitney shouts. She pounds a palm on the sleek black tabletop separating her from the host. "I'm saying it's because you're just -- look, forget that. It really hurts my heart that you would even think -- I mean, you're not even all black anyway, right? You're like maybe half black."

"I'm going to be ill," Rose says. "I can't watch. I can't -- I can't even --"

"Ms. Darkbloom, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think you're just digging yourself deeper here. You're not doing a great job convincing me that--"

"What you gotta know about me," she says, "is I grew up -- so totally poor. Dirt poor. And so I didn't have a lot of former education--"

"Formal?"

"None of that, either. But you know, in despite of that, I've got a heart. I have such a heart, you wouldn't believe the size of the heart I have. It's humongous. And to hear people say these awful things about me... it hurts my humongous heart. It really does."

"Did you teach her that 'hurts my heart' shit?" You demand.

"Yes," Rose says, "but... goddamn it. It's not supposed to be like this. I just gave her a little spice cabinet, that's all--"

"What?"

"A spice cabinet! I taught her all these little phrases of contrition that she could spice her interview with. They're meant to be spices only! But she took the jar labeled 'hurts my heart' and just upended it into the pot..."

At the interview table, Whitney is at a loss. She drops the subject of racism completely, just like that, and plows ahead to the next topic: "I think now is a good time for my announcement thingie. Cool?"

And the host, likewise at a loss -- utterly bewildered by Whitney, in fact -- leans back in his seat, nods uncertainty and motions at her with his pen. "Sure. Go ahead, Ms. Darkbloom."

"Yeah, so. I bought everyone in the audience a new car."

Now the host is even more confused. "Excuse me?" he sputters over the in-studio audience's mountingly excited whispers. "Hold on. You told our producers that this announcement was about a new privacy policy at your company."

"Yeah that was a lie. I just wanted some extra time to do this."

"I--" the host begins, but Whitney is already explaining:

"I always wanted to do that. You know, the Oprah thing. I hope you're not mad. Can I-- oh, I'm just gonna do it."

She stands up. "You're all getting cars!" She says. Pointing at individual audience members, each in turn, she begins to shout: "You get a car! And you get a car! And you get a car!"

Despite the host waving and gesticulating wildly to bring things back under control, the audience will not be mollified. They're on their feet, clapping and hooting. Whitney is off the stage entirely now, running back and forth along the front row, the audience's adulation feeding her energy as she points, and runs, and yells:

"You get a car! And you get a car! AND YOU GET A CAR! AND YOU! AND YOU! YOU'RE ALL GETTING A CAAAAAAAAAAA--

---

One evening at the Catachresis house, after dinner, you're in the kitchen helping Mom clean the dishes. Not because you want to help her or anything, but because you know she'll bitch at you if you don't offer. Might as well save the trouble. You stand side by side at the double-basin sink, wearing matching yellow elbow-length gloves, scrubbing stubborn bits of stuck-on char off pans. The scritch-scratch of your metal scrubbing sponges underpins your conversation.

"Cerise's birthday is coming up, isn't it?" Mom says. "She'll be 26, right?"

You nod yes.

"Is she seeing anyone?" Mom asks. "I can never get a straight answer when I ask her."

"It's... complicated," you say.

"Tch. Why is this such a hard question to answer!"

You shrug.

"Well, you're her little brother. It's your job to make sure she doesn't become a spinster, Alabaster!"

"How is that my job?" You demand. "She's a grown woman. Her love life is her problem."

"I don't want to hear it! Cerise's biological clock is ticking. It doesn't help matters that she lost a year to that horrible coma. You need to make sure she has a child to carry on the Soliloquy bloodline."

"Oh? And what about me? I'm the male heir, after all."

Mom glances over, looks you up and down, head to toe, disapprovingly. "I think Cerise had better carry on the bloodline," she says, frowning.

"Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence. If there's anything you see about me that you don't like, blame yourself. These are your genetics."

"I'm just saying -- who would you even have a child with, anyway?" She idly dries a pan off with a dish rag. "There are hardly any suitable candidates interested in you. Whitney? You don't need to deal with a special-needs child right now."

"There are plenty of options."

"Oh, please! Don't tell me you're thinking of impregnating that strange little Vivian girl. She's basically a child herself. Labor would rip her in half! And aside from that, I think she probably has autism. So she definitely isn't fit to have your child."

You shudder.

"And certainly not Rose," Mom says. "You may as well marry a succubus. Not to mention that you're cousins."

"Once--"

"So who else is left, then?"

"Maybe I could settle down with Dr. Carte."

Mom's left eye twitches. "That old hag? Don't make me laugh. Her uterus is probably filled with sand!"

"Pfft. You're one to talk."

She swats you with her dish towel. "How dare you!"

You shrug. "Maybe I'll just have a kid with Rose2. That's what you're campaigning for, right?"

"I hardly know anymore," Mom says, turning back to the dishes in the sink, resuming scrubbing. Her tone loses its edge. "Maybe that really would be incest."

"Well, speaking of," you say with a smirk, "I could kill two birds with one stone for you -- maybe me and Cerise could..."

Mom chokes on her own breath, horrified. "Al-Alabaster! What a disgusting thing to joke about!"

"I bet we could even find a Mormon commune to do the marriage ceremony. And hey, you wouldn't have to worry about Cerise being an old maid anymore."

Now Mom is raining a hail of suppressing fire down on you: slapping you again and again with the soggy end of the dish towel, forcing you shield your face with both gloved hands. "Sorry -- sorry!" You laugh. "Forget I said anything!"

"Hmmph," she finally breathes, relenting. But you won't let that abuse pass without retaliation, so when she has her back turned again, you twist your own dish towel up and snap it loose against her back. It's more loud than painful, but it shocks her into a fury. When she wheels, grimacing, you stick your tongue out.

"You are the crudest, least respectful boy in the world!" She shouts. "I can't believe you!"

She shouts at you but her eyes are twinkling.

In the living room, Cerise and Rose are sitting across from Saul and Charlotte, who have also stopped by to visit. Mom sips chardonnay with the woman who is technically her niece as they laugh and reminisce about old times.

"And you remember --" Charlotte says, taking a sip from her fluted glass, "--that exchange student who showed up in your senior year? What was her name -- Samantha?"

"Oh god!" Mom laughs. "The slutty bunny?"

Cerise quirks an eyebrow. She, like you, is unused to hearing Mom speak so loosely -- at least when she isn't haranguing someone.

"That's her!" Charlotte says. She slaps at the air limply, the universal sign language of women gabbing. "That costume she always wore! I still can't believe she got away with it on school grounds. Bunny ears and everything!"

"I think just about every boy at school had a turn with her," Mom says. "She was from Omaha or something. Coming out to California must have corrupted the poor girl. Or they just raise them differently out in the flyover states."

"I heard that she actually moved out to the playboy mansion after high school," Charlotte says. "That's just a rumor... but you know what they say, right? Dress for the job you want..."

"Maybe I picked the wrong girl from North High," Saul muses, even as he puts an arm over Charlotte's shoulders and hugs her a bit closer.

"Saul! You're awful!" Charlotte says.

Rose is turning a bit green listening to her parents have this vaguely sexual conversation. As for you -- it's a side to your mother you've never seen before, this gossipy, carefree thing she's rekindled with Charlotte.

Glancing over your shoulder, past the edge of the living room and towards the stairs, you see two things.

First: Amber. She's on her way down. She stops halfway there, appraises the scene in the living room. At the bottom, she turns instead towards the empty dining room. It's the first you've seen of her all night long. She mostly avoids you when you visit, and you're just fine with that.

Second: Rose2, watching you from the top of the staircase, squatting, hands on the vertical rails like a prisoner in her cell. Her face is blank, but severe.

[ ] Stay in the living room.
>[x] See what Amber is up to.
[ ] Go upstairs with Rose2.

You excuse yourself on the premise of going to the kitchen for more drinks, but your object is really to see Amber -- something inexplicably draws you to this girl, even though you know she can only mean trouble. Even so, you think she must have answers, too -- and those are in short supply these days.

Amber is wearing her usual attire -- tanktop, panties, socks -- nothing else. She's at the table, on a laptop, focused intently on the screen. She eats a succulent-looking apple.

As you approach, she finally notices you. She glances up with a sly grin. "Want some?"

"Err--"

She hefts the apple up. "These are pretty good. Try a bite."

"No thanks."

"Oh, come on~" She tosses it at you without warning. By instinct, you grab for it, and barely catch it, clutching it close to your chest. You hold the apple like that, grimacing back at Amber.

She nods at you expectantly. "They're this new hybrid called Gran-Jazz. Super sweet, super sour. You'll love 'em."

Half expecting that she dosed the thing with some sort of hallucinogen or poison, you bite into it anyway. You're not sure why you do it -- you feel almost compelled to by an outside force. Your lips wrap around the dainty bite marks she left in the apple, the light brown bruises her teeth made in its pale white flesh. You bite down hard with a satisfying crunch, and enjoy the explosion of juice that slithers down your tongue, the tart but sugary flavor. There was no poison after all, no drug; other than the knowledge that you've shared an indirect kiss with Camelia herself, there's nothing at all unusual about this apple.

She was right, though -- it's really good.

"So whaddaya think? Did I make you into a convert?"

"Sure," you say. "I'll have to buy some next time I'm at the store."

"Hmm," she laughs to herself. "You're not as dumb of an asshole as I thought, then."

"What are you working on?" You ask.

"Shouldn't you be getting back?" Amber retorts. "You're working so hard to mom-cuck me and Rose. You don't want to lose your momentum now."

"Whatever," you say. You toss the apple back at her. As you hoped, this surprises her. She scrambles to pluck it from the air -- bobbles it, like a juggler, before bringing it back under control.

"Jerk!"

"Just repaying the favor. You know, if I steal your mom, that'll make you my little sister. So I was just showing you a little bit of brotherly courtesy by asking what you were working on."

"Don't make me sick," she says. She bites the apple, right where you bit it. Through a full mouth, she says: "Anyway, I don't need your help."

"Schoolwork, then?"

"Sort of." She swallows hard. "It's an extracurricular thing."

"What kind?"

"Not that you would care. But I'm running for student council president."

You circle the table. On a graphics editing platform, Amber is making a poster for her campaign. It's definitely her work -- and you wonder whether she'll be able to get such a thing past the administration. (https://i.imgur.com/rzfogtn.jpg)

"Well -- good luck," you mutter. "You'll need it. Campaigning for StuCo is a drag, and it's not really worth it in the end."

You start for the kitchen to retrieve the promised drinks.

"Actually--" Amber says. "Hold on."

You turn.

"That's right. You were StuCo prez once upon a time, huh. You won a really tough campaign and all."

"Yeah."

"So..."

You squint at her. "Don't tell me -- are you asking me to help you?"

"Not that I want to debase myself like that... but the guy I'm running against..." she shudders. "He's got the entire fucking school under his thumb. He was running unopposed for a third straight term until I put my hat in the ring. I can't stand autocrats!"

You fold your arms. This story seems almost too perfect. You're wary.

"Trust me, I know the way Rose1 ran that school," she says. "It was a miracle you managed to beat her and that well-oiled political machine of hers. Well that's exactly what I'm up against, too. So some tricks of the trade would be appreciated. Strike a blow for freedom why don't you?"

"My best advice is to cheat," you say. "That's what I did." You expect this to throw her off her game, but:

"That's obvious. Of course I'm gonna cheat."

"Well... there you go. Problem solved."

"That motherfucker Auburn is gonna cheat too, though! Cheating isn't enough. I need an ace in the hole. I need..."

She puts a forefinger to her chin. She thinks for a turn. Then, she snaps her fingers.

"I need an endorsement!"

"Me?"

"A former StuCo Prez campaigning for the new blood. It's perfect! All I'd need is... an hour of your time one day... you make a little speech, voila. Then your brotherly duty is done."

>[x] I'll help you.
[ ] I won't help you.

"I don't know who you think you're fooling," you say. "I know who you really are."

"Will you can it with this 'I know who you really are' shit? You sound like a schizo. Don't go totally crazy before I get some mileage out of your name I.D."

"I never agreed to help you," you say.

"Sure you did. You didn't say no."

"I--"

"Just look at this." She minimizes her current project -- as well as another, even more highly-questionable poster (https://i.imgur.com/EyrU4zI.jpg) -- and pulls up a video. The boy she's running against actually put his campaign announcement on youtube. And even more shocking, the video has over 3,000 views.

He's a horrible vision, a clean-cut, button-down kind of guy, in a cream-colored shirt and dockers, wearing black rimmed glasses, with a swooped haircut, the very picture of nerd-chic. He'd be right at home in an Old Navy catalog. Or on the board of the Teenage Republicans, or the Young Democrats, or whatever other socially-conscious, youth-oriented bullshit he is definitely a part of. It goes without saying this asshole is high up in leadership at the National Honor Society, too -- that's a given. He makes your blood boil just looking at him, and that's before the ukulele kicks in.

Then come his lickspittles, the rest of the StuCo, each more cookie-cutter than the last, like cheap knockoffs of their chief. "We're the North High Student Council!" They say in soul-killing unison over the cloying music. "And we want you to vote!"

"That's right," the president says, hands folded neatly in front of him. "The election is on September 23rd. All StuCo positions are up for a vote. And on that note, I have wonderful news -- I plan to run for another term. Another term as president!"

"Turn this shit off already," you groan.

Amber closes the laptop's lid. "Fucking Raisin Brant," she sneers.

"--What?"

"Auburn Brantly. Raisin Brant. He's the fucking worst. He actually -- nevermind. Now you see, right? Why this election is important."

You half nod, half shrug.

"There's a pep rally for homecoming on Friday. Candidates are officially announcing there. Of course, fucking Raisin Brant played by his own rules and announced early... but anyway, you could come and give your endorsement there."

As awful of an idea as this is -- you agree. What can you say; you like knocking the establishment down a peg.

You meet Amber after class lets out on Friday. It's awkward, as always, to walk the halls of the school you burnt down five years ago. And you're not sure you should really be doing this at all. But you expect to extract your own fee for this assistance: you're going to demand some real answers from Amber when it's all over.

She meets you in an empty hall, by that little glass case that has a timeline of the presidents from North High's illustrious -- and not-so-illustrious -- history. Rose's term as president was followed by Brantly's; North High has suffered five uninterrupted years of rule by soulless bean-counters.

"Check it out," Amber says. She hands you a sheaf of papers. "I stayed up all night drafting my platform."

You read aloud, aghast. "Free lunch for all students... fire any teacher who assigns more than three hours' worth of homework in a single week... all vending machines required to carry morning-after pills? A marijuana dispensary on campus? An official resolution signed by North High recognizing Palestine as the only legitimate government in Gaza? What?"

"What do you think?" Amber asks, excited.

"You can't accomplish one quarter of this shit."

She frowns, and looks deflated. "Man did you sell out. I thought you of all people would know a thing or two about shooting for the moon in a StuCo campaign."

"What the fuck does Palestine have to do with StuCo--"

"You don't come to the table already compromising, Alabaster!" Amber pounds a fist in her palm. "You have to make wild demands at the start, so when you meet the other side in the middle, it's closer to what you want! That's the art of the deal!"

Students are filing past in the hallway perpendicular, towards the auditorium -- it's almost time for the pep rally.

Amber rifles through her bag and produces another sheaf of papers. "Look at this," she says. "This is what Raisin Brant wants to do. This is his actual platform."

You read this now, and it raises your blood pressure -- terrible flashbacks to Rose. "School lunches reduced in price by 25% over a two-year period... student-led curriculum review board working hand-in-hand with the administration... a five-year plan to repair the potholes in the parking lot... planning committee for a new pool... a winter culture festival?"

"Tepid bullshit!" Amber shouts "Who wants to vote for that! People want change, Alabaster. That's why I'm a fuckin' shoe-in."

You begin to speak, but you pause, as you catch a glimpse of something that makes your heart drop. Among the throng of students headed for the auditorium, is the current student council themselves -- and they're impossible to miss, the very blandness of their dress style making them ironically stand out.

But that's not what makes the bile rise in your throat. Because at the head of the pack is Auburn Brantly, and he's deep in conversation with Rose.

[ ] Confront her.
>[x] Bide your time -- surprise her when you take the stage at the pep rally.

You enter the auditorium a little bit late, after things have already begun and the lights are low. You stand near the back, along the walls, and watch. Auburn is on stage, his cronies sitting in metal folding chairs to his right; and on his left, in a position of honor, is Rose.

"Homecoming is fast approaching, as you know," Auburn says. He takes a handkerchief and wipes his sweating forehead. "Which means there's a lot to do! ... The Sadie Hawkins dance is next week... girls, this is your chance to take the reins..."

You whisper to Amber, who's standing beside you. "Did you know about this? Did you know Rose was going to be here?"

"Of course." She's wearing a smug grin -- Amber is a girl who delights in keeping you off-balance, same as ever.

"What is she doing here?" You demand.

"Same thing you are... only for the wrong side. You wanna beat her, right? Well -- stick to the plan."

"Our boys' and girls' soccer team will be playing an exhibition match against one another this afternoon," Auburn says. "You can pay however much you like for tickets. Proceeds will go to the student org fund...

A boy sidles up to Amber on the other side. He's eating a deluxe-sized slice of pizza, although despite his wolfish hunger, he's thin as a rail. "I put those posters up like you asked," he says as he munches. "Plastered 'em right over Raisin Brant's. We'll beat his ass for sure."

"You are...?" You say.

He notices you for the first time. "Oh!" He says, to Amber. "You actually got the billionaire to help you. Fuckin' wild." He moves as if to extend a hand to shake, but realizes it's the hand holding his pizza; for a moment or two he seems confused, before he realizes that yes, he's got two hands, and he extends the other now instead. You shake with him.

"Will," he says. "I'm Amber's friend."

"Don't lie to the man," Amber says.

"I don't even know why I'm helping you," Will grumbles. "You are such an ass munch."

"He's not a friend. More like a hanger-on," Amber explains to you. "Been kind of following me around like a cloud since middle school. Hey, aren't you supposed to be warming up for that exhibition match?"

"Pffthaha," Will says. "The girls' team won't be any problem. If I can't beat a girl, I'm in trouble."

Amber shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

You marvel at the two of them. It's beginning to dawn on you, slowly, that whatever history this girl has, it runs deep; her cover as Amber Catachresis is more than just an assumed identity. She has friends and enemies, an entire life all her own; there is a real history to it, a timeline stretching back years. Amber is an individual in her own right somehow and in some way separate from Camelia. But how separate? And how is that possible?

No time to wonder, because Rose is taking the podium now.

"Thank you, Auburn. And thank you, North High, for having me. It's always such a joy to be back. Some of you old-timers in the class of 2020 might remember me from my time as president of the student council back in the day. Well, I'm here to show my support for the school I love -- by throwing my support behind the best candidate for the job -- the only candidate -- Auburn Brantly. For the past three years and counting, Auburn has continued my legacy, and built upon it in so many wonderful ways..."

She drones on for about 15 stultifying minutes. There's a lot to be said about Rose's time in StuCo, so many different things to despise about it -- it was like a finely aged hatred-wine with a full bouquet of flavors, little undertones and subtle notes that only a true connoisseur of hating Rose could ever truly appreciate. And of the many things you do not miss at all about her governing style, the thing you don't miss the most is her tendency to talk, and talk, and talk, and talk -- for seeming eons.

But of course, you know, there's a perverse strategy in this. She must know that Auburn's opponent gets to take the stage and announce after she's done speaking. If Rose turns the audience off before that happens, gets them bored to tears, they won't be paying attention; and Amber won't leave a mark on them. Snuffing out the competition by faux filibuster. She tried to do it to you, back when you ran. And just like back then, you're going to make sure it fails.

"Let me introduce you," you tell Amber. "I'll get them warmed up for you."

You take the stage.

It's a delicious moment, one you'll keep preserved in your memory banks forever: strolling down the aisle between the bleachers, up to the podium, right past where Rose sits. Her shocked eyes following you the whole way. Her obvious urge to say something, to snap at you -- and her sheer frustration at being unable to. Beautiful. Perfect.

You grab the mic, lean in, and begin. Full throttle, right away:

"Rose Mallory was the worst president in North High's entire history. Her presidency was an absolute disaster." This has the confused student body perking up and paying attention now. "I should know. I ran against her, once -- and I won. My name is Alabaster Soliloquy, and if you're tired of everything Rose and her little toady Auburn Brantly -- or as I like to call him, Raisin Brant -- represent, then vote for something else. Vote for my candidate. The real only candidate. Amber Catachresis."

Auburn, fittingly, is going red in the face; and Rose is even worse. She's bug-eyed, edges of her mouth twitching, physically restraining herself from charging you, it seems. Her balled-up fists in her lap clutch and unclutch the hem of her skirt, the knuckles going white. You smile at her.

"Amber is the girl with the master plan," you say. "She's the girl that's gonna rock this rotten administration to the core and shake things up. Do you folks actually care about a planning committee for a new pool? A culture festival? Of freaking course you don't." Students are looking at one another, nodding, murmuring their general assent. "Well, that's all you get with Raisin Brant. Bland old Raisin Brant. Don't go with that. Go with something fresh. Amber Catachresis. You remember that name now. Amber. Catachresis. Remember it, because in a couple weeks you're all going to vote for her, and she's gonna kick Raisin Brant's bland little ass."

You've got them laughing and enraptured, now; time to hand it off: "But don't take it from me. Here she is herself -- your next president!"

She takes the podium, grinning with an open mouth, exhilarated, resplendent -- and without hearing one word of her actual policy, they're chanting her name: "Amber! Amber! Amber!"

You grab a metal chair from the wall at the edge of the stage, unfold it, and plop it down right next to Rose while Amber speaks.

"I've still got it," you whisper from the corner of your mouth.

Rose is staring straight ahead as she whispers back: "I'm going to destroy you. I'm going to destroy you completely."

"You're on, cunt."

She smiles -- a pained, forced smile, for the audience.

When you return to work to close out the day, Whitney reads the news to you -- or at least, a translation. "These Japanese tabloids are vicious. Get a load of this: Makoto Kikuchi spotted at Darkbloom 'orgy house.' The singer-slash-actress has been seen coming and going from the home of Darkbloom Analytics CEO Whitney Darkbloom. Kikuchi, who is studying Darkbloom in preparation for an upcoming film, is now a fixture at the home where libertine activities are alleged to take place on a round-the-clock basis."

"Where's the lie?" You ask.

"I dunno. What does libertine mean?"

"Horny."

"Okay, so no lie. But still. They're gonna wreck her career like this."

You shrug. "Where is she, anyway? Isn't this her usual observation time with you?"

"Fucked if I know. I think she's hanging out with Rose2."

She scrolls a little bit through her feed, reading in silence. Growing suddenly enraged, though, she booms: "What the fuck! Listen to this: Musk founds new company. ... Called the Lightflower Company, the fledgling tech firm launches with the mission of 'creating an antidote to Sand Reckoner.' ... he's stealing our shit, Alabaster!"

"We've got competitors. That's business."

"Fuck that! I'm gonna sue him. I'm gonna take all his fucking money. Asshole! Lightflower? I can sue him for that, right?"

"I don't -- I don't fucking know. Maybe?"

She fumes. Now isn't a good time to poke her.

Instead, you try to think of a strategy for confronting the arduous StuCo campaign ahead. You don't have a lot of time, and you've got a lot of hurdles to overcome.

>Yes or no to all of these:
[Y] Y/N You need technological subterfuge -- hacking.
[N] Y/N You need to speak with Rose directly and try to understand her strategy.
[Y] Y/N You need to prepare Amber for the upcoming debate with her opponent.

And for now:
>[x] Find another girl (or Alex) to blow off some steam (name your choice). (Rose2)

"Have you seen the world's most annoying intern?"

You sit across from Kay in her office. If anyone would know where Rose2 is, it would be her -- she's got eyes and ears all over.

"Sure I have," Kay says. "What is it worth to you?"

"Absolutely nothing. I don't even know why I'm bothering."

"I know why," Kay says. "You wanna get your dick wet at work."

You shake your head. "If this was about getting my dick wet, I'd just fuck you. You're closer."

Kay flinches at this -- you enjoy making her squirm. But on balance, she doesn't seem averse to what you said.

"I have personal business with her," you explain. "It's about her sister."

"Uh huh. And I should tell you -- why? What's in it for me?"

"Why does everything have to be so goddamn transactional with you?" You say. "You really get on my nerves with this shit."

"If you're not getting ahead, you're falling behind," Kay says. She leans back, smirking. "That's just life."

"Well, fine. How about this, then. If I fuck you, will you tell me?"

She regards you as if uncertain whether you're being serious right now.

"I've really got nothing else," you say, shrugging. "If you want me to give you something in exchange -- my dick is about all I can offer you."

She stands and strolls to her office door. You figure she's walking out on you, insulted over your lewd remarks. But instead she shuts it, and then latches the deadbolt. She spins around, staring down at you.

"Well?" She says. She hooks her thumbs in the waistband of her pencil skirt. "Bend me over my desk, then. Fuck me dirty."

She shimmies out of the skirt and folds it neatly over the back of a chair sitting against the wall. Her shapely thighs are those of a woman who never skips leg day. The gap between them, bridged by a pantied pussy mound, is almost perfectly heart-shaped. When she turns, she catches you gawking. And like that she has, as always, taken the initiative.
 
"Were you peeking?" She says, hands on her thin hips.
 
"When you ask someone to fuck you -- generally, that's an invitation to peek."
 
She sticks her tongue out at you.
 
You decide now to take back the initiative: you grab her roughly by one wrist, tugging her hand off her hip, and lead her to the desk. You spin her around and do exactly what she asked: you bend her over.
 
But like quicksilver, she slips out of your grip and turns again to face you. You are not to be toyed with right now, so you get your hands on her shoulders and press her backwards, her tailbone justting against the sharp edge of the desktop -- you'll fuck her forwards or backwards, it doesn't make a difference to you.
 
"Wait," she moans between your searching kisses.
 
"No. What happened to 'bend me over my desk'?"
 
She puts a seductive hand on your chest. "We'll do that," she says slyly. "First, though... I want to try something a little different."
 
"Different?" You say. "This is the second time you've ever done it. Anything we do is gonna be different."
 
She scowls at you.
 
"Fine," you say, "what's your idea?"
 
She slinks to her own chair and pushes it away from the desk. Sitting down, she turns and faces you and spreads her legs akimbo. The tips of her toes just barely make contact with the carpet and the soles of her bare feet are arched severely as she exposes herself to you. Running a hand invitingly along the cotton crevice that describes the slit of her cunt, she seems to revel in your hungry gaze. "I heard through the grapevine that you've got one hell of a tongue," she says.
 
"Who told you that?" You demand.
 
"A good journalist never reveals her sources."
 
You have an idea anyway. Maybe you'll tell this source, later, that her loose lips drove another yet woman into your arms. She's sure to have a bad reaction to that.
 
You take a step forward. Kay crooks her index finger. "Lick my pussy, Alabaster..."
 
You get down on your knees and reach for the waistband of Kay's panties, but she swats your hand away.
 
You sigh. "Will you make up your fucking mind?"
 
"Take them off with your teeth... please..."
 
You've never done such a thing, and it has a novelty to it. She lifts her petite little butt just a bit off the seat to help you along. With a playful growl, you get your teeth around the nylon waistband and bite down, trapping the fabric in your mouth. From this close distance you can smell, deeply, the fragrant scent of Kay's femininity. She wears a musky perfume that sticks to the back of your throat and underneath this is the slightest hint of sweat, the lingering trace of a good morning workout. But overpowering both of these is the sweetly tangy smell of her overheated pussy. And as you tug her panties down with your mouth, and your nose travels over her bare genitals, you're almost knocked back by it -- this pheromone-laden fuckhole that's getting all wet for you.
 
You slide her panties to her knees, but no farther. That's more than enough for you to get your tongue where she wants it. Pressing your palms against Kay's inner thighs to hold them apart, you lean forward, and purse your mouth, and blow little puffs of cool air onto her darkly colored, dripping pussy. The side of her index finger pressed between her lips, Kay nonetheless can't suppress her little "aahhn~", a moan pleasure mixed with frustrated anticipation. You won't keep her waiting, though. You plant your lips on her vulva now, like the kid who sucks the faucet of the water fountain, and show her exactly why you get such rave reviews.
 
"Ohh-- ohhhhh," Kay says. Her voice is as deep as you've ever heard it and, glancing up, you see her eyes going wide as she adjusts to this alien sensation. Jokes about Lady aside, she's clearly never had a tongue lapping at her cunt before, and she seems about ready to wig out with how good it really feels. Her back arches and her legs flex over and over. She writhes and throws her head back, overwhelmed.
 
You eat her in earnest now, your tongue wagging up and down her sweet pussy hole, tracing little circles over her clit, and occasionally penetrating her too. she holds your head with both hands, fingers digging down to your scalp, to keep your face against her. You work her into a lather. Her warm wet cunt seeps its juices straight into your sucking mouth. You've grown to enjoy this over time, the taste of a woman's cunt cumming in your mouth, and the perverse pleasure of driving her mad with lust.
 
Kay soon loses all sense of propriety and discretion. She begins to grunt and moan as if she were in the privacy of her own home -- rather than in a workplace where anyone can overhear. She runs her hands in circles through your hair and repeats: "That's it... that's it... eat me... so fucking good... FUCK..."
 
You can feel her heartbeat in the way her pussy lips throb. And her thighs squeezing against your hands as if trying to clamp shut around your ears, tells you all you need to know. But then she warns you anyway: "I'm gonna cum... I'm gonna FUCKING cummmm... oh fuck, Alabaster-- make me cum!"
 
You pull back. She hisses in disbelief, and tries to yank your face to her soaking wet pussy mound again, but you're quicker now that you've got her dazed with need. You spring to your feet -- and drag her with you, too, up and out of her office chair. In one fluid motion you get yourself behind her and press her forward, bending her over her desk again. For real this time. You were already turned on from her striptease, but eating out her delicious cunt has your reptile brain in overload. You need to squirt a hot load of cum inside her, and you no longer particularly care how she feels about that.
 
"Alabaster -- hold on!" She chokes, weakly trying to fend you off. "Let me clear off--"
 
"No," you say gruffly. You unzip and pull your cock out. She asked you to fuck her dirty and she's going to get her wish.
 
"But I--" she begins. You cut her off by forcing your dick into her clamping cunt. She's so drenched that you slide in easy, without any real resistance, such a contrast to the first time you broke her pussy open. She lets out a choked "ghhh--" as you seat your cock in her, still unused to such a deep, rough and sudden violation. She loves it anyway. Her pretty little pussy squeezes your cockmeat appreciatively, like giving it a kiss. There's something lewdly cute about that, the thought of her inner walls smooching your dick.
 
You begin to rut inside her now, hard fast thrusts that shake the desk beneath you back and forth. Stacks of papers shift to and fro like towers in an earthquake. Her PC monitor topples to its face. Framed pictures and awards and knick-knacks fall to the carpet. Neither of you care.
 
Kay holds the opposite side of the desk while you fuck her doggy style, her knuckles going white. She holds on for all she's worth, because that's all she can do. She can't fight you, can't stop it from happening, so she might as well enjoy it. She lies beneath you and takes your cock inside her like a good slut. But you want more, you want to fuck her even deeper, so you find her wrists and tug her arms away from the surface of the desk. You hold Kay's arms in both hands like handlebars, for better leverage, so you can get a better angle on the hole you're fucking. You make her curve her spine a little and force her up on her tiptoes too, so that you can thrust into her at a nice, slightly upward angle. You can get into her all the way now, your heavy balls slapping against her clitoral hood with every stroke. Her head droops down, and she goes all limp. Kay is totally pliant and loose-muscled as she lets you ravish her. She makes loud, deep, "unf, unf, unf" noises and her tongue hangs stupidly from the corner of her mouth.
 
But you're still not satisfied. You need to really give it to her. And you have a perverted idea for how.
 
You step back, pulling her with you, never breaking your pace. She's still bent at the hips, but she isn't over her desk anymore. You're walking her across the room like a wheelbarrow while you pound her, her wobbly knees barely managing to carry her even with your guidance.  
 
Kay doesn't realize or seem to care what you're planning until it's already happening. You pull the shades on the floor-to-ceiling windows of the office's north wall -- and get her pressed up directly against one of them.
 
"Alabaster--" she groans. "N-no-- wait-- s-stop--!"
 
You're fucking her standing, her body pinned to the warm glass. Kay's palms are flat against the windowpane, her legs spread wide, your cock sawing in and out of her -- her shame is on full view to anyone who might happen to look up. These windows face the front gates and the spacious quad for employees. It's around the lunch hour still and many of them are milling around down below.
 
"Anyone-- c-could s-see--" she protests, even as she humps her pussy back against your viciously thrusting cock.
 
"You like watching, but you don't like being watched. Is that it?"
 
"N-no... no I d-don't..."
 
"Too fucking bad," you say. You press your cheek to her from behind and plant a wet kiss on her face. You whisper in her ear as you ram her: "Everyone's gonna see how you like to get fucked, Kay."
 
"Nnnnn..." she gulps, and closes her eyes. She can't bear to look. But all the while the swampy insides of her cunt squeeze and convulse around you. The harder and deeper you fuck her, and the more she's on display, the wetter she gets. It's not long before the degradation of it wrings a few tremendous squirts of girl-cum from her. Her ejaculation sprays the window hard like a spritzing bottle of Windex.
 
"What a fucking slut you are," you sneer. "Everyone's watching you cum. Look."
 
"Noooo... nooooo..." she moans as she cums for you. She still can't bring herself to look. A couple people down below really are looking up, but from this remove it's hard to tell if they're watching your lewd display or not. The thought gets you off, though. You like putting on a show for the little people.
 
"I thought you liked having everyone pay attention to you," you muse with a few extra-forceful thrusts up her pussy.
 
She's too frightened and cumming too hard to respond.
 
"That's fine," you say. "Let's show them what Kay Vera's face looks like when she's getting fucked full of sperm..."
 
"Alabasterrrr... unfff..."
 
She's cumming again. All over herself, and the floor, and the window. Her creaming, pulsing pussy is such a nice feeling against your horny dick that you know you can't hold back much longer. You hug her from behind and bury the head of your cock up her womb and lose your load. Your cum fires off in six or seven wet blasts. The deep relief resonates from your cock and throughout your entire body, all the way down to the soles of your feet. You sigh and enjoy this sensation purely for what it is -- forgetting yourself, and Kay, and the possible audience below, focused only and intently on the enjoyment of filling a tight wet hole with your sticky seed.
 
Just when you think you're empty, you feel the last vestiges of your climax shuddering through you, and you're taken by a sudden crazed need to pound her just a little bit more. You fuck her with a few extra rapid strokes, surprising her. She squeals. Your bodies slap loudly together for a few moments, as you have an extra miniature orgasm inside her, and lose a few more fat wads of cum. It spurts from your cock and sloshes around with the jizz you already fucked into her womb just moments prior. Only a little while ago she was a virgin, and now you're repeatedly breeding her cunt out like she's a cheap whore.
 
Completely sated now, you pull out of her. Without your support, Kay slumps against the window. Her face and palms squeak obnoxiously on the glass as her weight drags her down. She makes no attempt to get away or cover herself -- too exhausted. She just slides down the length of the window as your cum slides down her legs. She ends up balanced poorly on her haunches, squatting obscenely with her cum-smeared pussy spread wide in the bright afternoon daylight. Your cum is still running from her fucked out hole and plopping down onto the ground in fat wet dollops, right in front of the window.
 
You peer out now, to the quad below, and yes, people are definitely watching. You smile and wave, your hard cock still jutting from your jeans, also dripping cum -- and then you pull the shades back down. Kay, swooning, falls to her back.

---

In the afterglow, she lies naked on her floor, a little weak, and not quite able to stand up. As you put your clothes back on, she stares at the ceiling, back of her palm on her forehead, and tells you what you want to know: "Rose2 is in the theater -- down by the rec area."

"Thanks. Was that so hard?"

"Yeah... it was..."

Idly, your hands run along the clutter on her desk -- Kay is a real pack-rat. You find a large, round, bronze medal mounted in a frame. "What's this?" You ask her. You already know. But you also know you're going to enjoy her reaction.

And that reaction is instant. She's on her feet, knees still wobbly, naked pussy dripping your cum. "That's my fucking Pulitzer! Put it down!"

You step back. "Huh? Your what?"

"Give it back!" She lunges for you, but you deftly dodge her. As fucked-out as she is right now, it isn't hard. She's uncoordinated and sluggish. Her little tits jiggle as she chases you about the small office. And now she's howling with indignation: "You fucker! Get your greasy hands off of that! If you break it, I swear to Christ--"

She finally does manage to corner you, and pin your wrist against the wall. With her other hand she snatches the award back. You use her moment of distraction to plant a kiss on her lips. She finds herself momentarily caught between anger and passion; finally she does return the kiss, but grudgingly. You can sense her frustration in the movements of her tongue. You reach down to fondle her messy cunt, to get her ready for round two, but she pulls away.

"Enough, you fucking dog," she says. "Jesus." She steps back and gently sets her Pulitzer back on her desk, like a mother laying a newborn in its crib. Then she grabs you by the shoulders, and turns you around, and steers you to the door. "Out!" She says.

She must have forgotten herself because when she opens the door and boots you from her office, she's shocked to lock eyes with Armstrong who happens to be walking by. She's there at the threshold of her office, fully naked, leaking your genetic material -- eyes bulging.

Armstrong is more bemused than anything. He pauses to admire the view, before Kay, finally getting ahold of herself, slams the office door shut again. Immediately you hear the sound of the lock clicking back into place.

Armstrong passes you without any further comment, although you hear him chuckling to himself: "horny motherfucker..."

Time to find Rose2.

In the mostly-darkened theater, Rose2 is up by the projector screen. So is Makoto. They're lying on the plushly carpeted red floor -- Rose2 on her back, Makoto atop her, pinning Rose2's wrists above her head. Rose2 is kicking and struggling as Makoto plants sloppy, sucking kisses on her neck.
 
"Ally!" Rose2 says, staring up at you with frightened eyes. Makoto, totally unfazed by your arrival, keeps assaulting her. "I-it's not what it looks like! S-she attacked me!"
 
"This girl has asked me to fuck her," Makoto purrs between kisses. Even in the low light, you can see dark hickeys on Rose2's neck.
 
"N-no!" Rose2 insists. "It's not like that! I-- I only love you, Ally! I wanted her to -- to show me some dance moves -- t-that's all, I swear!"
 
Makoto stops long enough to leer up at you, her eyes filled with unabated hunger. "She told me I am cute. I said she is also cute. This now is the effect. I am going to fuck her. Would you like to assist me?"
 
"Nn--" Rose2 gulps. Although, it seems, she isn't totally unwilling. Kneeling near them to get a better vantage, you can smell the almost sickly-sweet aroma of her arousal. Even now, it really does remind you of bubblegum.
 
But you'll be the knight in shining armor here. "If you want her to stop, I'll stop her," you say. "Although I honestly don't care if you two do it. Actually, I think it's pretty fun. I'd like to watch."
 
"You... you do?" she says with a trembling voice.
 
"Of course. You're cute. Makoto's cute. What's better than watching two cute girls have sex?"
 
Rose2 chews her lip. To help her decision along, Makoto gets her knee between Rose2's crotch and roughly rubs against her pussy mound as she continues to suck on Rose2's neck. Then, moving upwards, she begins to lick Rose2's face. She actually licks it, like an ice cream cone. Her long wet tongue swirls around, all over the poor, trembling girl's lightly glittered face, leaving a slimy trail wherever it goes. This is a uniquely Japanese spin on lesbian rape... you like it.
 
"So?" You prompt. "Should I stop her?"
 
"If... i-if you're okay with it... then... then I'm..."
 
She cannot say much more as Makoto wraps her thin fingers around her chin and locks lips with her. Gripping Rose2's face with both hands, Makoto's kiss is as violent and violating as any you've ever seen. It's like Makoto is trying to fuck Rose2's throat with her tongue. Rose2's hands are now free. But she keeps them exactly where Makoto held them anyway, as if they are still pinned in place above her head. She falls to pieces when someone makes an advance on her -- becomes docile and unable to act of her own volition.
 
You watch appreciatively as Makoto rapes Rose2's mouth with hers. She's a great study, already poised to surpass Whitney for sheer lust and debauchery. You never would have expected this tiny little thing to be capable of such forcefulness. When she pulls back again, Rose2 gasps for air, and her face is absolutely coated in Makoto's drool.
 
"I want your mouth on me," Makoto says. "Down there."
 
"D-down... d-down there..." Rose2 repeats, dazed, and shocked.
 
"I have never had," Makoto says. "I want to feel this. I want you to suck on my pussy."
 
GREAT use of her vocab words there. Rose2 glances uncertainly your way. "A-are... is that... are you okay if I..."
 
It's both cute and annoying how she asks for permission after you've already granted it; loyal to a fault. You nod. "Suck her pussy, Rose."
 
"Nnn... o-okay..."
 
She parts her lips like a kid waiting for a parent to feed her. And like this she waits obediently for Makoto to sit on her face.
 
She doesn't need to wait long. Makoto hikes up her miniskirt, baring her neatly trimmed idol pussy. She's dripping wet. So wet that you can hear an obscene squish as she gets on her knees and squats over Rose2's head and settles down upon her equally wet face. There's hardly any friction. You can see the thin film of liquid between Rose2's face and Makoto's sopping genitals, and hear the sloppy noise it makes as Makoto wags her hips back and forth. She lewdly rides the girl's face and paws at her own tiny tits through her shirt. Rose2 sucks, as instructed, keeps her lips pursed and blindly tries to follow Makoto's cunt. But it's no use. Makoto is just masturbating against her face -- lips, nose, forehead, cheeks. She's simply enjoying the sensation of rubbing her vulva, her clit, and her asshole all over the poor girl. It's an act of pure domination, nothing more.
 
Rose2 has repeatedly commented on how kakkoii Makoto is, how totally sugoi it is to have an idol singer following Whitney around -- you're sure she never expected to have her mouth sucking down that idol's pussy juice. Or to have that idol use her face as a living sybian. You pull your cock out and masturbate while you watch. You'll join in soon, but for now, you just want to see how far Makoto will take it.
 
Rose2 is gulping and gasping, but you know she enjoys this. She presses her shapely thighs together repeatedly and, from where you sit, you can see that her bright pink panties are stained with need. She did idolize Makoto, after all. It must be an honor to get used as a sexual plaything like this.
 
You watch in awe as Makoto gets off. First once, then again, and again -- squirting copiously all over Rose2. She plays with her clit, frigging it, as she orgasms on the girl. Rose2's already runny makeup becomes a sheer mess, colorful streaks of mascara and eyeliner running in clumps down her cheeks. Rearing back, Makoto gets Rose2's tongue in her ass, and her little nose up her cunt, and rides out yet another climax. Her low, almost neanderthal grunts are utterly depraved. She's lost in masturbatory ecstasy as she cums on Rose2 again and again.
 
You want to get your rocks off, too. It's hard to decide exactly where you want to nut right now, but Makoto's face looks inviting. The way she grits her teeth and stares down at the spot where her pussy is rubbing against Rose2 is hot, but weirdly cute. Even in the throes of perversion, Makoto has the gentle cuteness befitting her station in life. And she's getting a little too haughty for her own good -- shoving your cock down her throat should help keep her in check a bit.
 
You step up to her as she rides Rose2's face. Without asking, you poke your straining dick against her cheek. "Suck," you instruct -- simple and to the point.
 
This is also a first for her, and she's more than a little daunted by the size. Your cock is almost as wide as her small face, and she's clearly doing some mental geometry, trying to figure out how she's going to get it in her mouth. She daintily licks the tip, a single time, and scrunches up her nose at the salty taste of your precum. But that's all she can do because suddenly she's airborne. Rose2 heaves Makoto off of her, sending her flying.
 
"Don't you -- don't you dare!" She wails, all that submissiveness gone, replaced by something like savage rage. She might be a cummy mess right now, her face coated in drool and cunt slime, but her voice demanding and domineering all the same. And now Makoto is on her back, sprawled out by some nearby theater seats, as Rose2 hobbles to her knees.
 
She puts her hands on your own knees now, peering up at you. "Y-you don't want that stupid chink to do anything with you... r-right? You... wouldn't want HER... right?"
 
You have no idea what to say. Makoto rises to her butt, rubs the back of her head. "You..." she growls. "You have made a mistake..."
 
"Forget about her!" Rose2 tells you, forcing you backwards, sitting you down in one of the chairs in the front row. Her voice has a crazed tremor to it. "She's just some silly little Jap whore, right?... I'll make you feel real good, don't worry... not her... so you just sit back and enjoy it... 'kay?"
 
"Rose--" you begin, but choke on whatever you were going to say as Rose2's impossibly wet mouth engulfs your cock. She stares up at you with utter devotion as she forces herself down, and down, and down. Despite the geysers of mucousy drool your invading cock makes her cough up all around you, she doesn't stop for anything. Not to breathe, not to give her throat any time to adjust. She's determined to get your cock nestled in her and keep it there. All the way inside of her. And only her.
 
The sensation of her gagging throat is heaven. You can only sit there and enjoy the shivers of pleasure it sends coursing through your meaty dick. She's obviously not experienced but she makes up for it with raw enthusiasm. She treats your cock like it's the most delicious thing in the world. She never once breaks eye contact through all of her retching and heaving. It doesn't matter to her -- no pain or discomfort, no humiliation or mess, is bad enough to make her stop.
 
Makoto has her revenge, though. Sneaking up behind her, Makoto reaches down, tugs Rose2's panties to the side, and forces three fingers into Rose2's asshole. Although Makoto's fingers are small, Rose2's ass is event tighter than her bubblegum cunt. The sudden molestation makes Rose2's eyes go wide with pain. Despite that, she doesn't break her pace -- she doesn't stop gagging on your cock. But then as Makoto saws her fingers in and out of Rose2's asshole, Rose2's eyes go from buggy to droopy; her face slackens and she seems to melt in pleasure. By the time Makoto adds another hand, this one to Rose2's cunt, she's in paradise. This is a perfect moment for her, you realize: throat being used by the man she adores, while a Japanese idol molests her.
 
"To call me names..." Makoto sneers. She roughly fingers Rose2 as she hurls degradation at her: "You are the one who's a whore. Look at how you suck his cock. You are nothing but a filthy whore! You are a slut! You... you are dirty! You are a dirty cunt! Cunt! You are a fucking dirty cunt whore!"
 
Rose2 just stares at you, and even though her gullet is stuffed with your dick, even though her lips are already stretched to straining, you can tell she's smiling. All she really cares about is that you feel good. And seeing that you do, she's happy.
 
"I'm gonna cum," you tell her.
 
Eagerly, Rose2 nods. She wants you to cum in her. Right into her belly. She wants to suck your cum out of you.
 
So you oblige her. You put your hands on her cotton candy hair and force her down, to really make sure you're all the way in. Her button nose mashes against your pubic bone and your toes curl as you get off in her throat. You feel your balls tighten against her chin and feel your cockhead forcing her esophagus to widen as it pulses, and throbs, and sperms her. You hear her gulping it down, drinking your jizz -- and it's a wonderful noise that resonates so nicely in the empty theater. Makoto brings her off too, now, forces Rose2 to cum on her invading digits. You can feel the way Rose2 sighs with pleasure, the vibration of it coursing down your cumming dick, as she squirts all over Makoto's hands and the theater floor.

---

You're in Galatea's loft, on her bed. She sits at her computer.

"i... i do not understand," she says.

"Amber told me there's this rumor that there's some corruption. Between Raisin Brant and the school administration. If you hacked his emails, right?... and published them on GalLeaks... it would be a slam dunk."

"but... gal leaks is for corruption in silicon valley," Gal insists. "not... whatever this is..."

"I mean, fine. You don't have to publish them there. Just get them and I'll take care of the rest. I'll put them out to the student body."

She demurs.

"I'll give you money," you say. "Lots of money... say... $2 million?"

Gal is like a fish smacking its lips: "two... two million..."

"Now we're talking. So you'll do it?"

"i..."

"You're a godsend, Gal. Thank you so much for doing this. You're the best."

This rare show of praise actually seems to motivate her more than the offer of money. Her eyes go all dewy, and she looks away: "t-thank you, sir..."

"What's up with that?" You say.

"...with what."

"You keep calling me sir. Why?"

She shrugs. She still won't make eye contact. "it feels right."

"Okay, well... whatever. What kind of info do you need to do this whole email thing?"

"he may be too savvy for a spear phishing attack... if that is the case... i would need someone on the inside to penetrate the school's network... someone who can gain administrative rights over the school's computers."

You think for a moment. "Does this person need to know they're your man on the inside?"

"not in theory."

"I've got just the man for the job," you say. "Fine. Done. What else?"

"nothing else... i will put some programs on a thumb drive for you..."

"Thanks," you say, standing. "I'll be back in a little while to pick it up, then. I'll bring Cerise, too."

"wait."

You stare down at her.

"will you please hurt me today sir" 

You decide to get Gal started with an old ritual you used to share with her: that eye-melding trick with your implants that gives you both such a high when you focus them on one another. You get on your knees in front of her, and touch your brow to hers. Your faces are little bit offset, each of your left eyes fixed on the other.
 
You used to do this with her because it allowed Gal to find a link with Cerise, however ephemeral -- to see Cerise while she was in her coma. Now there's no need for that, and therefore no reason to do it other than raw pleasure.
 
But it doesn't happen. Focus on her eye though you may, there is no effect.
 
"I don't understand," you say. "This... this never happens to me."
 
"it's okay."
 
"No, really. This... this isn't right. This never happens!"
 
"it's okay... it's not a problem."
 
Even still, you're mortified.
 
It's Gal who brings you out of it. She caresses your face. The gentle touch of her fingers almost tickles. She's in awe of you: "sir... you're so handsome..."
 
You stand again. Her eyes follow you. "You're right," you say. You prod her cheek with your index finger like testing the ripeness of fruit. "I am. So you should be thankful that I see fit to hurt you, shouldn't you?"
 
"yes..." she agrees. "i am... i'm so thankful..."
 
"You're just a dumb, ugly cunt."
 
"yes"
 
"You don't even deserve my hands on your neck."
 
"no i don't"
 
You prod her face again. "Fucking look at me when I talk to you."
 
Her scared eyes meet yours. "i-i'm sorry, sir"
 
"Take my belt off," you tell her.
 
She complies, but her hands are shaky, and she seems confused by even this simple task. She struggles to get the clasp undone, and to get the belt free from the loops of your pants. You grow impatient. And since she asked you to hurt her, you're going to grant her wish. You haul off and slap her hard across the face.
 
Her tears flow freely as she redoubles her effort to get the belt off. She tugs and tries to force it undone.
 
"Hurry the fuck up," you say. "Jesus. Stupid bitch."
 
"i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry... i'm so sorry..."
 
She finally gets it off, and obediently presents it to you. As you take it from her, she hangs her head in shame and fear; tears continue to trickle down her cheek.
 
You kneel. Clasping her face gently, you force her to look at you. "That one really hurt, huh?" You say, examining the angry red welt on her pale face streaked with her tears.
 
She nods.
 
"That might have been too much. I won't slap you again. Okay?"
 
She sniffles, surprised, and nods a second time. "o-okay. thank you sir"
 
You slap her. Suddenly and viciously. The thwack echoes off the walls. She winces and recoils and diverts her gaze. After a moment or two, she starts to ugly-cry. She heaves and gasps. Big, choking, desperate and pitiful sobs.
 
"Shh," you coo soothingly, "shh. Shh. That was really mean. It was too mean. I'll stop now. Okay? Shh... no more slaps. I'll be nice."
 
She brings herself back under control at least enough to stop sobbing. You make her look directly at you again.
 
"You're shaking so much," you say tenderly. "Are you scared? You trust me, right?"
 
She nods emphatically yes.
 
"Good... good."
 
You slap her.
 
She hardly lets out a little gasp of frightened confusion before you begin in earnest. You begin slapping her like a fucking drum now, over and over, a barrage of blows straight to her face. You rain brutal open handed slaps on her, at least a dozen. Her face is raw and beet red all over, and her eyes are puffy but she's in too much agony even to cry. When you relent, she just slumps forward, exhausted. She falls to the ground in a heap in the fetal position.
 
"Get up," you tell her.
 
She doesn't move, so you prod her with the toe of your shoe. "Get the fuck up, cunt."
 
She fights against gravity but finally finds her way to her feet. She's staring firmly at the ground. If she was trembling before, she's really trembling now. You hand her your belt and instruct her: "wrap it around your neck."
 
She does as you tell her, the black leather an alluring contrast to her milky skin.  
 
"Tighten it," you tell her.
 
She pulls the end of the belt through the buckle and gets it taut, holding her arm behind her back like a person hanging herself. But of course, it's not good enough. You force her hand off the end of the belt and grab it yourself. "I said tighten it, you fucking stupid whore. Turn around."
 
She turns as you keep the belt in hand. You steer her towards the foot of her bed. You lay your other palm flat against her back and force her to bend over. Lower and lower your force her, keeping your end of the belt close to your chest, so that her own weight strangles her.
 
"Can't fucking do anything right, can you?" You sneer.
 
She tries to say something, maybe "yes sir" but her airway is totally blocked and all the sound she can make is a pained "chhhhh-- hhhh--" You know you'll kill her like this if you keep going, so you wrap your arm around her midsection now and haul her upright to allow her a moment to breathe. Her thin chest rises and falls rapidly as she sucks down precious air. The purple tint to her face slowly drains back to the angry red of being slapped.
 
"Answer me when I ask you a question," you say. "You can't do anything right, can you?"
 
"no sir no i can't sir i'm sorry sir" She's sobbing again.
 
She can talk, so she's had enough to breathe. You force her back down. This time you choke her even harder. You take a moment, as you choke her, to grope between her legs and feel her bare cunt -- she's leaking like a fucking faucet. Getting strangled half to death gets her off like nothing else.
 
You let go of the belt and turn her around. You push her to her back so she falls splay-limbed on the mattress, belt still hanging loosely off her neck. Her face is drenched with her own tears and is hardly recognizable after all the abuse. You pull your pants down and get on top of her.
 
"I'm going to rape you now," you tell her simply. "Thank me."
 
"thank you," she says. She's still struggling to breathe as you mount her and get your cock lined up. When you shove it home, she repeats: "thank you! Thank you sir! Thank you for raping me!"
 
You wrap your hands around the back of her head and start humping her. "Shut the fuck up," you say. She does.
 
Wetly you fuck back and forth, using her to get off. All you want is your own pleasure, but this is good for her, too. She likes having her cunt used for a masturbation sleeve. The inside of her pussy drools all over your cock as you rape it. It's a hot, wet little hole and you know she's close to cumming. The metal buckle of your belt jangles in tune with your forceful thrusts and she shudders underneath you. The bed thumps against the floor and the whole loft shakes.
 
"Good," you croon, your heart filling with gratitude as you find your relief inside Galatea, "good... gooood pet... that's it... just like that, huh... such a nice rape hole..." You're irrational now, ranting, enjoying yourself to your heart's content. You pull your head back enough to find her face and start planting kisses on her.
 
She repeats in a voice hardly more than a whisper: "thank you sir thank you sir thank you..."
 
"Choke yourself while I cum in you," you grunt.
 
She smiles brokenly, tongue lolling slightly from the corner of her mouth, as she reaches up and wraps her hands around her own neck, thumbs in the hollow. She presses down, harder even than maybe you did, and chokes herself until she's on the edge of passing out. You rut sloppily and feel her juices really start to flow. Angry, you say: "I didn't tell you that you could cum, too."
 
"i'm shhhorrry..." she says in a pinched, struggling voice.
 
"Ask me first," you tell her. "You fucking ask me for permission to cum."
 
"plleeeashe... pleeaasshheee can i cuuuum..." She continues to choke herself as she lets out this pained plea.
 
Hunching forward, getting your lips up to her ear, you whisper straight into her eardrum: "make me cum and you can cum, too."
 
She locks her legs around you and humps back against you as she gets high off her own choking. She seems to be going lightheaded and is only semi-conscious, but her body is moving all on its own, trying to wring out your jizz. You growl and can't hold back. That wonderful tingly release begins deep in your groin surges throughout your body. You yourself go lightheaded as you pound you cock relentlessly in and out of her, and feel that wet explosion deep inside; you shoot your cum into her without a care in the world. Bracing yourself with your hands behind her head again, you kiss her as you empty your balls inside her. The kiss is deep and passionate, but she's flagging -- passing out for real now. You're kissing an unconscious girl as you nut inside her. And even as she passes out, she cums against you. Her wet cunt squelches and spasms and shudders as it hungrily accepts your seed. She really is a good pet, all the way to the end -- held herself back from cumming as ordered.
 
You gently pull her hands off her neck, and she comes back to the world of the living, gasping for breath. You kiss her again, just as passionate, a kiss she returns this time. And as she kisses you back, she gyrates her hips, mashes her sticky pussy against your crotch. She's enjoying the feeling of your still-hard dick in her as it oozes the last of its sperm. She squeezes and milks your cock for all it's worth, getting every last fat drop of cum. She's a greedy pet, too.

GIRLS FUCKED: 11/12

"When was the last time you showered?" You ask her. You're still on top of her, mated to her.

"i don't know."

"That's what I thought. You kind of stink."

"i'm sorry s--"

"Enough with the 'sorry sir' shit." You pull out of her. You tug her up to her butt, and then help her off the bed entirely. "Let's go. You're getting clean."

You steer her to the shower. Gal's bathroom is messy, which is no surprise, but at least her tub is clean -- which is also no surprise, now that you think of it. You turn the faucet on, and make sure it's just this side of uncomfortable. But when pull the plunger that activates the shower head and force her to step inside, you follow.

Galatea stands there passively as you soap her up with coconut-scented body wash and then scrub her down. You're thoroughgoing and just a little rough. You get her genitals clean, her asshole too -- and her tummy, her back, her feet and legs, her armpits -- everywhere. She begins to smile as you work -- this, too, makes her happy.

As you pull her hair into a ponytail, and apply a lather of shampoo to the crown of her head -- working your fingers downward, soaping away the grease -- Gal, gazing at the swirling water around the drain, asks flatly: "was it true"

"Was what true?" You reply as you work your fingers down to her scalp and massage them.

"am i a good pet"

You think for a moment. Finally, you admit: "Yes. You're a good pet."

She's too elated for even another "thank you sir" -- she just silently stands there shaking like a leaf.

When you finally have her hair clean, you wrap your arms around her, drawing her into a hug from behind; and she nuzzles the side of her face against your shoulder.

"Was I too rough?" You ask. You don't know why, but you feel a small pang of guilt now, even for her.

"no," she says.

"Tell me if I am," you say.

"okay."

"That's an order."

"yes sir."

You stay underneath the running water holding her close for a very long time.

END OF EPISODE 8.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, school idol and choke artist.

"Thank you so much -- we really can't express how grateful we truly are!"

"Do not thank me. Thank Ala-bast-or Soliloquy. He was the one who so happily provided the endowment for IT support. This being his alma mater, it clearly matters a great deal to him!"

Fazil shakes hands with the secretary at the registrar's office and then again with the principal. Under his arm is his laptop. And though he doesn't know it, on that laptop is several gigabytes of pilfered emails in a hidden folder. He would have noticed the data transfer right away if he was looking, but he wasn't; never even considered that the very school he had been asked to help in the effort to beef up their cyber-security might have a time bomb on its network waiting to do a reverse-attack on him. But the network did have such malware on it, because yesterday Alabaster planted Galatea's program on a computer there, and was only waiting for Fazil to be granted administrative privileges for it to download the emails, and transfer them to his laptop. The entire thing was a ruse -- to use Fazil as a Trojan horse -- and then retrieve the real prize after the fact.

Fazil is just happy to have been of assistance. He is oblivious, but his heart is filled with glad feelings, as it always is after a job well done. To Allah be the glory, he thinks. He needs to hurry home now to do his calisthenics and watch his favorite television program, a Vietnamese cartoon about crime-fighting dogs, before taking his repast and retiring to bed at a reasonable hour.

He is on his way to his car when a suspicious figure accosts him in the parking lot.

"Hey!" The ruffian says. "Where are you going?"

"Excuse me, young lady, but I must be headed home. Thank you."

Fazil is on edge and in no mood to prolong this uncomfortable encounter. He quickly reaches into his trousers for his car keys and makes toward his subcompact VW. But he is acutely aware of footsteps following briskly behind him, and when he gets to the driver's side door, the voice calls out: "Wait up, my guy."

"Apologies but I must be going," he begins, not glancing back, trying to get the key in the lock -- but then he howls in agony. Spinning around, eyes bulging, he sees the ruffian -- the assailant -- holding a gun. He feels his side where he was wounded, and yes, he's been shot.

"Please -- I will give you what you want --!"

"Yeah. You will."

The nefarious hooligan fires again, hitting Fazil in the stomach. Then again twice in the chest, and finally the head. Blown back by the force of the shots, Fazil slumps against the hood of his car, and then down to the ground. The laptop clatters to the dirty asphalt. He lies prone and lifeless beside it.

The figure now straddles him, and snatches the laptop up. She searches his pockets for any other items, like USB drives, but comes up empty -- and knowing that time is of the essence, not wanting to be seen, she finally flees.

---

Fazil rubs his forehead where it's bandaged. There's a vicious bruise extending past the edge of the gauze -- his attacker nailed him point blank with a pretty powerful Airsoft gun. You sit across from him in the employee cafeteria at Darkbloom Analytics as he sips a mug of Turkish coffee. The stuff revolts you just looking at it, with unfiltered grounds floating around the sludgy surface, but it gives Fazil some much-needed succor in this trying time.

"It happened so quickly!" He says. "She came and fired at me -- and stole my belongings!"

"What did she take?" You ask.

"Simply my laptop."

You can't help seething at this -- and Fazil, seeing that, apologizes for upsetting you.

"It's not your fault," you say. "Not by a long shot. Listen -- did you file a police report?"

"Not yet. But believe me, I shall!"

"Hold on. What did this person look like?"

Fazil is animated. He motions with his hands. "She was the very picture of the upstanding citizen, Ala-bast-or. She wore the following: a conservative grey skirt and a button-down shirt, and black eyeglasses. She would have been perfectly suited to work in an office, or a nursing home. And yet she was the most frightening person I have ever seen! I knew from the moment I laid eyes upon her that evil lurked inside her heart. Her eyes were soulless and shifty!"

You nod. That sounds about right. One of Auburn Brantly's StuCo toadies, no doubt. That little turd is trying to ratfuck you. Or more accurately, Rose is. This incident has her stink all over it.

You give Fazil a reassuring smile. "You don't have to worry about it. I'll make sure you get your laptop back. There's no need to get the police involved right now."

"But Ala-bast-or -- this is my personal computer. There are things of a sensitive nature on it--"

You arch an eyebrow. You didn't picture Fazil as having urges like that. But, after all, he is a man.

"--Besides which, I have the latest episode of Thám Tử Chó on it -- and I was looking forward to watching it tonight!"

"...Tham what?"

Fazil frowns at you. "I have told you of this series multiple times. You have replied that you would 'give it a shot.' These are your words, verbatim."

Oh, yeah. The Vietnamese thing about the dogs who solve crimes. "I'm really busy," you say, "but I promise -- I'll try it out soon."

"Of course, Ala-bast-or, of course."

"You gonna be okay?" You ask. "I'll make sure your pay gets doubled for all this aggravation. I'm really sorry you had to go through this."

Fazil sips on the viscous slurry he calls coffee: "Do not worry about such things. I merely hope that the perpetrator is swiftly brought to justice. I am leaving it in your able hands."

You intend to do just that. 

Rose is having a conversation with her mother when you arrive in her office.

"What a pleasant surprise," Charlotte says. "We were just talking about you."

Rose turns a shade of pink you rarely see.

"I guess my ears were burning," you laugh, masking the roiling rage within you for the sake of keeping up appearances. The last thing Charlotte needs to see is what you really intend to do with Rose right now. "What were you saying? Nothing bad, I hope."

"Oh, not at all," Charlotte says. "I was just telling Rose how nice it is to see the way you get on with each other now. It seems like only yesterday when you were always at each other's throats!"

"Gag me," Rose groans.

"Oh, don't be like that, dear," Charlotte says. "You should be thankful to have Alabaster in your life! I know -- I know I am... I'm very thankful..."

"Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Mallory?" You ask. Her eyes are getting misty and there seems to be a catch to her voice. You have a pretty good sense of this woman, and right now, something is amiss.

"It's fine, it's fine," she says. She sniffles and produces a tissue from her purse, to wipe her eyes.

"I'm not so sure," you counter. "You seem really sad for some reason."

She tents the fingers of one hand over her forehead and smiles a bittersweet smile: "It's so silly. Talking about old times with Rose just makes me -- oh, never mind. I should be going."

"Hold on -- really. What's the matter?"

This stops her from standing, and she settles back in her seat. "It's so terrible, Alabaster, I really shouldn't say... I'm so glad to have Scarlett back, and so happy for you... but now that you have your real mother -- however it happened -- I suppose you really don't need me to play at being your mother any longer, do you?" She cocks her head and gives you that same sad smile. 

You watch her for a moment with your cheek resting on your fist. This is a sensitive area and you know you have to tread carefully. But you know how to charm, too, when you need to: "It's all right. I'm sure she won't mind having joint custody."

Charlotte puts a hand on your knee. "Alabaster... you're a very silly boy, to tease an old woman like this."

"I'm not joking around," you insist. "Of course Mom is great... but you were a mother to me, too... at a time when I really needed it."

"I -- I see..."

"We're still a family, after all. As far as I'm concerned, you're equally my mother, too."

"Alabaster has two mommies," Rose mutters under her breath. You catch it, although Charlotte doesn't seem to.

"Of course," she says. Her smile now is brighter, and genuine. But then it turns sly. "Although -- there are downsides to that, as well..."

"What do you mean?" You ask.

"I was just telling Rose before you came in... since you two get along so well now, it's sort of convenient if you no longer have to bear the burden of being step-siblings. Right?"

It's hard to tell who chokes harder at this remark: you or Rose. Charlotte puts her hand to her lips and laughs daintily. "Forget I said anything. I suppose there's always room for the two of you to improve your relationship even further."

Rose stares at the ceiling tiles above, mortified. "Thanks for that mental image," she says. "But I should go get ready for my debrief with Chalmers tomorrow. I'm firing his useless ass."

She stands to go. Although she has her excuses, you know what she's really up to -- she's trying to avoid you.

[ ] Follow her.
>[x] Stay with Charlotte.

Rose disappears from the office, down the hall and towards the elevators. You watch her go, and the look you share with her plainly indicates that you're not done with her just yet. She will have to answer for the crimes she orchestrated.

"I apologize for getting over-emotional," Charlotte tells you. "I didn't mean to add any more distress to what you must be feeling already. I'm so terrible!"

"Not at all," you say. "Actually, I'm glad to know you still want me!"

She blushes. "But of course I do... why wouldn't I?"

"I know I'm a pain in the ass," you say. "It's kind of my gimmick. Between all the crazy things going on recently, and all this trouble with the FBI..."

You know how to get Charlotte going, all right -- how to divert her attention from morose thoughts and towards something more productive. She puts her fist in her palm: "The FBI can go screw themselves! We honestly live in a police state nowadays, Alabaster. It's obscene what they've done to you. And to this company... and Cerise, and Whitney..."

"I agree. I totally agree."

"Those bootlicking pigs are going to get a taste of MY boot soon enough. Oh how I'm going to love seeing the look on that smug Noelle Keki's face when the judge grants our injunction against her and her cronies! She'll regret the day she ever crossed Charlotte Mallory!"

Charlotte and Saul have been spearheading the effort, aided by a retinue of fellow attorneys, to forcibly end the FBI investigation into Darkbloom Analytics. Unfortunately, those efforts seem to be going nowhere -- but Charlotte is more enthusiastic than anyone.

You ask when the next court date is, and she tells you that it's only next week -- immediately following the StuCo election, coincidentally. And even more coincidentally:

"September 23rd..." you mutter. "That's Cerise's birthday."

Her eyes go wide. "Of course! I nearly forgot. How awful of me... remind me, how old is she going to be?"

"26."

"Oh, to be young again..." she says wistfully. You have a feeling Cerise would strongly disagree with the characterization. She's dreading the date.

"Have you gotten her anything?" She asks.

"Err -- no. Not yet, that is..."

She swats your arm playfully. "Alabaster! You can't put these things off to the last minute. Especially since she spent her last birthday in the hospital... you need to show her how much she matters to you."

You rub the back of your head. "I guess you're right... see? This is the kind of mom stuff I still need you for."

She smiles warmly. Then, suddenly, she grabs her purse and stands up. "Well?" She says. "Let's go."

"Huh?"

"I know you quite well, Alabaster! I know if I don't take you right away, you'll forget. So I need to make sure you do this."

[ ] Let's go, then.
>[x] Let's take Mom, too.
[ ] I need to take a rain check. [help Amber with debate prep OR catch up with Gal/Cerise and strategize next steps.]  

"This was a splendid idea," Charlotte says, as you and she step out of the car to reconvene with Mom, who's just pulling up in the space behind. You've all come to an upscale, open-air shopping mall to begin with.

You watch with more than a little bemusement as Mom struggles to parallel park. She pulls up alongside Charlotte's car, then cuts the wheels hard to reverse, but ends up at an awkward angle. She pulls out and tries again.

Charlotte cups a hand over her mouth. "If you like, I can pull forward to give you some space!"

Mom's shouted reply is mostly muted from the interior of her SUV: "I don't need help!"

Charlotte giggles, and whispers to you: "She is so headstrong sometimes."

"Sometimes?" You smirk.

Charlotte gives you the side-eye and puts a finger to her lips as if to say: "Shh."

Mom finally gets parked well enough -- by her reckoning, anyway. As she gets out of the car, you point at the ground. "The meter maids can ticket you if you're more than 18 inches from the curbside."

Mom circles the car in a huff and glances down. "I'm more than close enough!" She insists.

"Are you blind? Do I need to get out a tape measure here?"

"Oh, and you make a habit of carrying around a tape measure, then? It's not going to get any longer even if you keep measuring it, young man!"

Charlotte intervenes: "Now, you two. Stop it. Let's not ruin such a beautiful afternoon with fighting."

Mom blows a stray strand of hair from her face, pouting. "In any case, if I get a ticket, I expect that my billionaire son would be happy to pick up the tab."

"Criminals don't learn if they never have to face the consequences," you say.

"Criminal!" Mom sputters. "For parking a bit too far--"

"What do you suppose Cerise would like for her birthday?" Charlotte asks, laying a hand on Mom's shoulder and leaning in. "It should be something really special, don't you agree?"

"Of course," Mom says. "Cerise deserves only the best. She knows how to be appreciative and loving towards her mother. Unlike some people!"

"I've got a few ideas," you say.

Mom and Charlotte both seem surprised at that -- the idea you could be a thoughtful little brother.

"She wants to do her stream again," you say. "You know, the one with the electronics mods? So she'll need to upgrade her PC... and she should have a car of her own, one that's not such a beater, so we should swing by the dealership, too... and of course -- again for the stream -- we should get her a few outfits, too."

Mom blinks. "My... oh my goodness," she finally says.

"I don't--" you begin, but she cuts you off by drawing you into an enormous hug. She presses your face against her voluptuous chest and ruffles your hair.

"What the hell," you say, voice muffled by her body.

"You actually learned how to take care of your sister!" Mom says. "It took you long enough!"

When you finally manage to break free of her grip, you see that Charlotte is watching on approvingly, hand to her cheek.

Mom and Charlotte try to steer you towards an upscale women's clothing boutique at the corner of one of the mall's many cobblestone intersections -- the kind of place that charges $500 for a pair of boots -- but you know you won't find the sorts of outfits that Cerise would need for her stream here. You beckon them on, towards a hidden little shop further down, a place called Fōtsūwan, that specializes in the sorts of outlandish cosplay-style outfits that Cerise prefers for her livestreams. The maid getup is fine, but she's going to need some variety too, in the era of Twitch thots.

"This place seems a little shady," Mom says.

"I have to agree with Scarlett," Charlotte says. "The clothes here seem a bit... risque?"

"You'd better not be trying to turn your sister into a prostitute!" Mom says.

"Nothing like that," you say gruffly. "I'm not looking to buy her anything pornographic, just... cute. There's a lot of cute outfits here too." You run your hands along the racks and come up with one at random. Bad choice. It's a revealing one-piece with built-in fishnets and a devil tail with heart-shaped tip: a succubus costume.

Charlotte blushes. Mom frowns deeply.

It's quite small, smaller than Cerise would be able to fit into, although you make a mental note of it as you put it back. There's someone else who it might be good for.

"Anyway, clothes shopping is a little difficult without her being here, isn't it?" Mom says. "Pants and shoes and such -- those are simple things... but full costumes like these really need to be fitted."

"That's no problem," you say. "You're just about the same size as she is. If it fits you, it'll probably fit her too."

Mom is embarrassed beyond words, literally, at the suggestion. She casts her eyes around the tiny shop, eyeing bunnygirl suits and seifuku and candy-colored dresses. The thought of wearing these things is more than uncomfortable. She's speechless.

Charlotte titters. "Now, don't be such a prude," she says, relishing the chance to needle her aunt. "Alabaster is right. There are some cute outfits here, too. You'd look adorable modeling them!"

"Come to think of it," you say, idly rummaging through the racks, "you're about the same size, too, aren't you?"

Charlotte chokes on her own laughter. "M-me?"

"Yes you."

"Couldn't be--"

You shake your head. "It'll save us a lot of time here if you fit a few of them on, too."

Mom grins smugly at her. "Yes, Charlotte -- it will be much more efficient!"

Now it's her turn to look uncertainly all about at the costumes and the fate that awaits her.

Cerise is maybe a size or two smaller than either Mom or Charlotte, so with that in mind, you have to find things that fit them snugly. Mom is first up to bat: literally. She comes out of the dressing room wearing a different succubus outfit, one that's not so utterly horny. It rather resembles Morrigan from the Darkstalkers series, with bright pink leggings and horns, and tiny bat wings on the back. Of course, then, even if it's not so sexual, the costume isn't exactly chaste either. The upper half of it is more like a bodice, and small -- even for a woman who'd fit it properly -- so with Mom stuffed into it, her tits are mashed together and almost overflowing from the top. In fact the entire outfit presses and pinches into her skin wherever there's a hem, leaving her limbs and butt looking much fuller even than usual. You're her son, so you wouldn't think of her in that way -- but you can at least, dispassionately, ascertain that she's pretty fucking hot to anyone who isn't her close blood relative.

Speaking of close blood relatives, you'll love seeing Cerise wear this. And maybe fucking her in it, too.

Mom rubs her elbow and stares at the ground.

"That looks nice," you say happily, "I think it'll be perfect for Cerise's persona on the stream. She is kind of like a devil, the way she treats those poor Furbys..."

Mom glances up at you. "This is so odd. I haven't worn an outfit like this in years -- and only then for Halloween."

"That's too bad. The world's missing out."

Her face flushes, and you realize yourself. Clearing your throat with a fist to your mouth, you move on to practical matters: "How does the fit feel?"

"Tight. A little too tight..."

"That's just perfect. It'll fit Cerise really well, then--"

You stop as Charlotte walks out of her dressing room now. Mom sniggers: "weren't we just talking about the slutty bunny from North High?"

"Y-you--!" Charlotte gasps. "Don't make this any worse!" She's so shy and uncertain that she seems about ready to crawl out of her skin.

The bunny costume is even tighter on Charlotte than the devil costume is on Mom. That's only to be expected, though -- Charlotte is a little plumper, after all. (Like mother, like daughter.) It's the archetypal example of such an outfit, sleek red polyester accentuating her own enormous tits, dark pantyhose making her thick legs even more alluring, fuck-me pumps bringing her up to about your height and cotton tail that you just wanna squeeze. The pointy ears on top of her head, one kinked at a 90 degree angle, complete the look. 

Although Charlotte is your cousin (none times removed), and also your surrogate mother, you feel less abashed at appreciating her womanly beauty for exactly what it is. So much less so, in fact, that you do what only comes naturally: you touch her fluffy tail. The last time you did such a thing, to that "smug Noelle Keki" Charlotte so hates, you got a violently angry reaction. This time is no different: Charlotte tenses, then slugs your shoulder.

"Alabaster!" She says. "That's indecent!"

"Sorry," you allow. "Force of habit, rabbit."

"I don't like the way you're looking at her," Mom avers. "Charlotte is my niece, Alabaster. That makes her your cousin!"

Charlotte turns to Mom. "That won't stop him. You should see the way he eyes Rose."

"Oh, I'm quite well aware of that," Mom says. "It's unnatural!"

"Well," Charlotte says, not keen to go that far, "they're not full cousins. They're one generation removed, so that's less--"

"Excuse me," you cut in, "but I think you've got the wrong idea about me and Rose--"

"No we don't!" They snap in unison, hands on hips, looking back at you. Great: you've got a bunny and a succubus mad at you.

However, this diversion has a happy if unintended side effect: Mom and Charlotte are less embarrassed to be modeling for you. Somehow, presenting a united front against your insistent perversion has galvanized them to see this through to the end.

Mom comes out next in a gothic Lolita dress that almost makes your heart melt at the gap moe -- but you nix it, figuring Vivian wouldn't like Cerise crimping her style. Charlotte comes out in a schoolgirl uniform, the kind you'd find a 90s anime, and the skirt leaves her with a zettai ryouiki about the breadth of Siberia, her milky thighs almost as white as the tundra. You reject that one, too -- it's a bit excessive.

Mom slips into some kind of futuristic military jumper, like what you'd find on a mech pilot. It hugs her curves tenaciously, so much that you see her protruding nipples. You reject it on the rationale that Cerise would get way too overheated wearing that for the duration of a show.

Charlotte is out next in an actual military uniform -- camo vest, pants, jackboots, even a fake assault rifle. "Bang, bang, pow," she says playfully, pointing it at you. "You're dead."

You clutch your heart and feign falling over. "Ack! Betrayed by my own mother!"

Mom narrows her eyes. "Your mother?" She says.

"Uh..."

"Now Scarlett, don't be jealous. I did raise him for a few years, after all."

She shrugs. "Jealous? Who said anything about jealous. I'm not jealous. I'm just saying that -- between the two of us -- you're kind of a shabby mother, aren't you?" 

"Shabby?" Charlotte spits. "Just what do you mean--"

"I raised four sterling children, didn't I? Meanwhile, you produced -- that horrible daughter of yours. The truth is obvious, isn't it?" She stands proudly with arms akimbo, the motion of striking that pose making her tits jiggle invitingly. You try and fail not to stare.

Charlotte is scowling indignantly. This is going to turn into a shouting match if you don't do something.

"What happened to not ruining this beautiful afternoon with fighting?" You try. "Let's not argue, huh?"

"Of course," Charlotte says, smiling. "I'll let it go. Just as long as you correct the record."

"The record--"

"Tell Scarlett what a wonderful mother I've been for you, please."

This is a grave you dug for yourself. You gulp. You explain as your mother's eyes get narrower and narrower: "Yeah. She's been really great -- I mean -- you're also great -- you're BOTH great -- what I'm trying to say, is -- is --"

"Exactly," Charlotte says. "Neither of us is a better mother than the other one!"

A rope ladder thrown down into the grave -- thank you, Charlotte. You agree whole-heatedly: "Yes. Neither of you are better..."

Mom seems at least willing to accept this. Except then Charlotte just has to add:

"Of course, I'm much cuter. I make these outfits look a lot better than poor old Scarlett does."

"Oh, please," Mom says. "I'm sorry, Charlotte, but you need to eat a little less Ben & Jerry's if you want to make a habit of dressing like this..." She pinches Charlotte's thigh. Charlotte jumps back and points the toy gun at Mom as if ready to fire for real. "I've always been the beauty between the two of us," Mom continues, "even all the way back to grade school."

"This isn't grade school anymore, dear," Charlotte says. "I'm sorry, but age is taking its toll on you..."

A conversation between two women is getting to a critical point when both their statements start receiving the preface, "I'm sorry, but..."

"You can correct the record here, too," Charlotte tells you.

"Not going there," you say.

"That's all right," Mom says. She whispers as if trying to keep this between the two of you, but makes sure to do it loudly enough that Charlotte can overhear: "I know you don't want to hurt the poor fatty's feelings."

Charlotte smiles. It's the smile you've seen on Rose, right before she ties you down. "Don't worry, Alabaster. I don't need you to defend me. I can see the effect my body is having on you quite well..." she glances down at your pants, just briefly, then back up: "of course, Scarlett's decrepit old body is leaving you cold."

"It's not --" Mom begins, but then she catches herself. Charlotte, clearly, is a lot more open to the idea of turning you on -- Mom isn't willing to compete with her on that point. As horrible as it is, you know this was just a bit of gamesmanship; it's the subtle way Charlotte wins an argument, by bringing her opponent into unfamiliar territory. Like mother, like daughter... 

"I'll be in the changing room," Mom mutters, leaving. Although you notice that she chooses out an extremely revealing cocktail dress for the next round. Maybe she is open to this level of competition, after all.

Charlotte picks out a sweater that's very... well, very Charlotte. It's not much different at all from the usual fare she wears, except for this: it's got a heart-shaped portal in the chest. She holds it up to her body. "What do you think, honey?"

"It's maybe a bit too much."

She twirls and faces a full-length mirror, still holding it up, considering it. "A bit too much is good," she purrs. "If you don't like it for Cerise, maybe I'll keep this one for me."

She goes into her own booth now. Alone again, you awkwardly shop the racks -- anything to take your mind off such awkwardness. Loath as you are to think so, Charlotte is right to an extent... her body does things to you. Maybe it's just the resemblance to Rose. They're eerily similar. But worse yet, Charlotte is decidedly wrong about the other point. Mom's body isn't leaving you cold.

It's a horrifying thought. Plenty of girls have called you a dog, recently, and maybe they're right.

Thinking this ruefully, you pull some hangers apart -- and are startled beyond measure to find HER squatting there, hidden among the clothes.

"Camelia!" You choke.

"Shh!" She hisses, finger to her lips. She's wearing an outfit that's about as slutty as any on offer in this store -- tanktop with no bra (what else?), ultra-short jean shorts, and sandals. She's got a dumdum in her mouth. She pulls it out with a wet plop. "Anyway, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Amber, for fuck's sake."

"What are you doing here?"

"You were supposed to come help me prep for the debate. Are you constitutionally incapable of not being a dickwad, or what?"

"I'm busy, goddamn it. I'll come soon, all ri-- wait." You eye her suspiciously. "How did you even know I'd be here?"

"Duhhh. You ever hear that song, This Land is Your Land?"

"Huh?"

She begins to sing, swinging her arms back and forth like someone at a hoedown: "This mom is your mom, this mom is my mom... from the thick-ass butt-crack, to the big old tit-rack..."

"Jesus fucking Christ."

"I texted her. She told me where you were at." She sucks on her lollipop, rubbing it against the back of her tongue. "Are you coming or not? Or are you just gonna date my mom all night. Are you my new daddy, mister? 

"I'll be there. Fuck. Why are you hiding, anyway?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. Cloak and dagger shit just kinda comes natural to me. Oh fuck--!"

She grabs the costumes on the rack and pulls them over her like drapery. You stand and turn just in time to see Charlotte coming out.

"Well?" She says.

Talk about sweater puppies. That thing is more than a couple sizes too small, and you can actually see the edges of her areolas. Why she decided to forego her bra mystifies you. It wasn't necessary.

"It's... good," you say, gulping.

"Good... good." She steps closer. Your nostrils fill with her perfume. Distantly, from Mom's dressing room, you hear thudding -- she's still struggling to get out of that tiny jumper.

Charlotte lays a palm on your chest. "You know, it's true... you do look at me kind of... how should I say this."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, dear. I know why. I remind you of Rose, don't I."

You say nothing.

"It's okay. You and her -- have you already -- oh, don't think about lying. I know you two must have."

"We haven't done anything like that," you lie.

She frowns. "That's quite hard to believe. Are you certain?"

"Certain I'm certain."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" You repeat. "We're c--"

"Nervous? Intimidated? I know Rose can be a very intimidating girl..."

Her tits are mashing up against you now. She's staring wanly up at you. "Or maybe you need some experience first."

You shake your head dumbly.

"I've been putting on all these lewd outfits and filling your head with all these thoughts, it's really quite unfair, isn't it? It's okay. You can tell me."

"Mrs. Mallory..."

"I'll be in my dressing room."

>[x] Follow her.
[ ] This is a bad idea -- you can find another outlet for your needs right now. Make your excuses and leave with Amber. 

This is such a tremendously terrible idea on so many different levels and from so many different angles that its terribleness legitimately makes you dizzy -- gives you a heady rush of nausea and cold sweat. So, of course, you follow. The last thing you see when you glance back, before you slip past the rickety plywood door of the fitting room, is Amber's head poking out from among all the garments, watching with a sly smile.
 
Charlotte is sitting on the tiny bench against the wall, knees pressed together, hands folded neatly atop, waiting for you. You stare at her; as you take her in, behind your back, you latch the the door.
 
Your mouth is dry.
 
"Are you feeling all right, dear? Are you feverish, perhaps? Here, let me check..."
 
"Uh..."
 
"Come on, now."
 
You step forward, like a chided schoolboy, and bend a bit, so she can put her palm against your forehead. "Oh my," she says. "Oh my, oh my... you're burning up."
 
"Is this... is this okay?" You say.
 
"Is what okay? A mother checking her son for fever?"
 
"That isn't what I mean."
 
She laughs that carefree laugh of hers, the one you've gotten so used to over the years. "Oh, Alabaster. Why wouldn't this be okay?"
 
"Your husband--"
 
She shakes her head. "Saul and I have an understanding... I am not the only one of us to wander. You remind me so much of him, in that way."
 
You really didn't need to hear that your adoptive parents are, apparently, swingers. But then, you're one to talk. You're about to do it with one of them.
 
"So yes, this is okay," she says. "Granting that you're okay with it too. And you are -- right?"
 
You nod stupidly, unable to form words.
 
"We need to be quick," she says. "We wouldn't want your other mother getting suspicious, would we?"
 
"Other mother..."
 
"Does that make you uncomfortable?" She touches your knee. "Would you rather just think of me as Mrs. Mallory? I don't want to disturb you, of course..."
 
"It's fine," you say. "I really did mean what I told you earlier. You know. The way I think of you."
 
She puts a hand to her cheek. "I'm glad. But even if you think of me like your mother... you still get all hot and bothered when you see me dressed like this, don't you?"
 
No use denying it. "Y-yeah."
 
She nods and smiles. "Good. Very good. Then let's get started, shall we? Come have a quickie with mama Mallory..."
 
She doesn't wait for your reply. She reaches up and tugs you forward by your belt, draws you to her so you're standing right over her head. She undoes your belt buckle now, and its jangling sounds like nuclear bombs going off. You're acutely aware of being just a few feet and some hollow drywall away from Mom, and you definitely don't want her to overhear this.
 
Next comes your zipper, and Charlotte's practiced hands have already gotten your pants down to your knees before you even realize it.
 
"Step out of them, please... you'll be more comfortable."
 
This is a really compromising position. To get out of your jeans, you also have to get out of your shoes, and being mostly naked in here with Mrs. Mallory while your Mom waits outside... plus Amber... is just adding to the complications.
 
Yet you do exactly as she says. That's the thing about the elder Mallory. She commands the kind of authority over you that Rose only wishes she could. You find it impossible to tell her no. You kick your shoes off, one then the other, and step awkwardly from your jeans. Your boxers are tented obscenely, and Charlotte's eyes widen with unconcealed hunger.
 
"Oh my... you are..." She looks you in the eye. "May I? Oh, of course I can, what am I saying..."
 
She tugs your waistband down, and your cock springs up, nearly slapping her in the face. It actually nicks the rim of her glasses and jostles them. She grins like the cat who got the canary. Her eyes remain locked on it as you step out of your underwear now, too.
 
Her soft, warm hand wraps around it with a frustratingly -- calculatedly -- loose grip. She tugs you languidly back and forth. "Have you really been hiding this thing from Rose, baby? She's going to be so upset if you have been..."
 
"Are you fine with us -- like that?" You stutter. "Me and Rose."
 
"I'm fine with us like this. So why wouldn't I be fine with you and Rose enjoying one another? She loves you, you know. She would never say it, but she does... and she would definitely love THIS thing, too..." She squeezes your prick for effect. "At least, if she's anything like me. But maybe I don't need to speculate..."
 
You nod. "You-- you got me. Rose and I..."
 
"It's more obvious than either of you think. I hope she doesn't mind sharing. Have you ever fucked her tits?"
 
You can't help letting out a choked gasp of shock at hearing Charlotte speak so frankly -- and so lewdly. She's still jerking you off, increasingly faster. And now she adds a second hand. Even stacked one atop the other, she hardly covers half the length of your cock shaft. Her hands tighten as she jerks. They're becoming a blur, lubed up by your own precum, as she works you over. You just stand there as she masturbates you, your bouncing prick only inches from her beautiful face.
 
"I'm sorry if I'm shocking you with my language," she says. Her voice is rough and husky. "I get a little coarse, seeing a cock as nice as yours, I suppose..."
 
"Keep going," you mumble. "Ung--"
 
"Is that good for you, baby? A big, fat cock like this... it needs a little relief, doesn't it? It's fine. You can't help it. It must hurt so bad being all hard like this..."
 
"Yeah... it does..."
 
Her voice lilts and catches. "Let your mother relieve you, then... that's it, darling... just leave it allll to me. I'll make my boy's cock feel good..." The slick sounds of her handjob are bouncing off the low ceiling, but you don't care.
 
"I'm gonna--"
 
She lets go. Both hands at the same time. "Ah, ah--" she chides, holding her palms up. "I asked you a question, didn't I?"
 
You blink rapidly, vision going fuzzy, balls aching for relief. "W-what?"
 
"Have you ever fucked Rose's tits?"
 
"I don't -- I don't know. We've done a lot... but... but no, I don't think I have."
 
She tsks. "What a silly girl. She isn't using her best assets... she needs to learn better how to treat a nice big prick like yours... sit down, dear."
 
You can't but obey. She stands up, and you sit down. Turning, getting on her knees before you, Mrs. Mallory, the woman you really do think of as a second mother, gets your straining, leaking dick between the heart shaped window of her sweater. Instantly you feel the hot, damp, unbelievably soft confines of the space between her bare tits. It's a new feeling, one totally beyond description. Maybe better than fucking a cunt. And that delicious, perverted pleasure rippling down your prick only intensifies when Charlotte clamps her hands against the side of either breast, and forces them together. The heat and pressure enveloping your cockmeat is insane, wonderful... just the best.
 
"Fuck them, Alabaster... fuck mommy's tits."
 
There's something like rationality still in your mind: "The sweater, though..."
 
"Never mind that. I'll buy it. You can cum on it. You can cum on me, too... I know your poor, hard dick needs a pretty girl to cum on... doesn't it?"
 
You buck your hips, involuntarily. She thrills to this. "That's it... like that. Don't think, just fuck... get your cock off... get off for me, baby."
 
You begin to fuck her heavy cowtits in earnest now, hardly believing the way they ripple and undulate against you. Your bare ass is slapping against the benchtop and your dick is making sick squelching noises between her chest. She stares cross-eyed at your pistoning prick, directly at the piss slit every time it pokes up past her cleavage on the upstroke.
 
"I wish we had more time, and some space to stretch out..." she coos. "A dick like this deserves a pussy to cum in, doesn't it?"
 
"Unnn--" you moan.
 
"Do you like that? Do you want to use mommy's pussy, too?"
 
You glance down. One of her hands is traveling southward, towards her skirt, and then up underneath it. "Hold my other breast for me, dear... I need to play with myself... I hope you understand."
 
You do as instructed, to keep the even pressure on your dick. The sounds of Mrs. Mallory playing with her own cunt join the sounds of your cock sluicing back and forth in between her sweaty tit-meat. You idly grope her left breast as you hold it. It has such a nice, pillowy softness, even separated from your hand by the sweater's rough material.
 
A noise from outside grabs your attention. Another dressing room door opening, then closing. You go still and quiet.
 
"Alabaster?" Comes Mom's voice. "Where did you go?"
 
Charlotte smiles devilishly up at you. Then she starts slowly sliding up and down on your behalf, keeping the paizuri going even if you don't want to.
 
"Mrs. Mallory..." you whisper.
 
"Call me mom."
 
"She's--"
 
"Shhhh," she says. "Cum quickly, baby... okay?"
 
There's a loud knock on the door. You freeze in fear. Charlotte winks at you.
 
"Charlotte?" Mom says. "Are you in there?"
 
"Yes!" She calls, still fucking you with her breasts. You shudder in agonized lust.
 
"Did Alabaster leave?"
 
"Not sure. Is he missing?"
 
"Yes, he is... I hope he didn't run off on us..."
 
"Well, hold on. We'll be right out!"
 
There's a poignant pause on the other side. Charlotte quickly, and almost but not completely quietly, continues to bounce her chest up and down in your lap.
 
"We'll?" Mom questions.
 
"That's the royal we, Scarlett," Charlotte says. "We'll be coming soon. Okay?"
 
Her hand is still working at a frenzied pace inside her pussy. She's getting herself off while practically rubbing it in Mom's face.
 
You hear Mom's footsteps recede, and not a moment too soon, because you're going over the edge whether she's at the door or not. Your hips take a life of their own, again, and you ram repeatedly in and out of the tight, pussy-like crevice of Charlotte's enormous breasts. She eggs you on: "There we go... there we go... don't hold back, just let your dick cum for me... cum for me... cum for me, baby..."
 
You actually rise to your feet, bow-legged. You thrust madly up and down like a monkey. This is too good, this is WAY too good. Charlotte was 100% right, it's absurd that you never did this with Rose, and you know you'll be coming back for more -- from both women. You hump and hump her tits, and your depraved mind embraces the incest that Charlotte already did: "I'm cumming... I'm cumming, mom--!"
 
"Oooo--" She sighs when your horny cock begins to throb and spurt. She masturbates as she wrings your load out of you. The thick sperm sloshes up and pools around in her cleavage, and some errant squirts splash up even further, to her chin, and even across the right lens of her glasses. The fabric of the sweater becomes stained and smeared with fat white pearls of semen, too. You cum all over her. And she's perfectly happy to be your cum rag, to bring some much-needed relief to your dick. As far as she's concerned, it seems, it's her motherly duty.
 
When you're totally empty, Charlotte takes off the sweater completely, letting her giant tits flop out. They're even bigger than they seem, but somehow still perky, against all established laws of gravity. She uses the sweater as a cum tissue, wiping herself clean. Then wrapping it around your dick, too, she squeezes out those stubborn few dollops of cum from your urethra.
 
You think that's all, but she removes her glasses, and puts the sweater to her face, and inhales deeply.
 
"Your cum smells absolutely wonderful, Alabaster... it's heavenly... oh, I'm getting dizzy..."
 
You realize, then, that she hasn't cum yet. But she's about to. Huffing your sperm like an addict huffing paint, she finds her cunt again with her hands and masturbates openly. You watch with interest, and now she begins to suck on the soiled garment, to lick your jizz from the fabric of the sweater, even as she inhales its scent.
 
"I'm sorry..." she mutters, lost in debauchery, "I'm so terribly sorry you have a disgusting whore like me for a mother... I'm gonna need you to give me lots of cum from now on, okay? Lots of cum... lots and lots..."
 
And with that, she orgasms. It's wet and sloppy and it leaves a puddle on the tile floor. That doesn't matter to her in the slightest, you gather.

When you sneak out of the dressing room, going first, you rendezvous with mom on the opposite side of the store.

"Where were you?"

"Uh-- I was in the bathroom. That's all."

She squints. "Were you doing something funny?"

"What? No."

"I don't believe you."

Charlotte joins you now. She's still flushed and sweaty from earlier. No attempt whatsoever to hide the truth. "Are we all ready?"

Mom glances from her to you. "Revolting," she says.

"Don't be like that," Charlotte replies. "You never could admit your real feelings, could you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, never mind... shall we go?"

The cashier rings up your costume selections. Charlotte takes pains not to let her remove the soiled sweater from the bag she has it stowed in -- which makes both the cashier and Mom skeptical, to say the least -- but Charlotte is gently insistent, and prevails.

The next few trips are awkward. Mom is some strange combination of judgmental and jealous. At the BMW dealership, she takes you aside and whispers: "she's your cousin."

"Once re-- err, wait, no. Never mind. Look, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you really think she's that much..." Mom starts, then trails off. There's an awkward silence. Finally: "I'm not asking you to be attracted to me, of course. But... I'm not as ugly as she said I am... am I?"

"No," you whisper. "She's just a jealous old crone. Honestly -- she jumped me. I think it's because not even Saul will touch her."

"He wouldn't. Who would willingly sleep with a woman like her? I love her to death, but -- please! It's ridiculous."

"Oh, yeah. Totally."

"So... I'm not old and decrepit?"

"I mistake you for Cerise sometimes."

She smiles warmly. It's what she needed to hear.

A few hours later, Cerise is the unknowing new owner of a BMW -- and an absurdly overpowered PC. She's gonna flip. It's gonna be great. 

Amber was gone from Fōtsūwan by the time you were done with Charlotte, but you know you'll find her at North High all the same. In the gloom of a late summer California sunset, you stalk the empty halls, and go to the appointed room, the one you told her you'd be at hours ago.

Yep. There she is, sitting in a chair the wrong way, with her arms over the back-rest, reading a book. Fiction, surprisingly: Kundera's "The Unbearable Lightness of Being." She turns the page and continues reading without looking up. "There's the motherfucker," she says.

"Shut up. Are you ready?"

Amber repeats in a mocking tone. "'Are you ready?'" She tosses the book across the room. "Holy fuck. I've only been sitting here for about two thousand years. What kind of shitty thing is that to say to me? Am I ready. Are YOU ready, motherfucker?"

"I am, in fact. Check it out."

You pull your bag from your shoulder, produce your laptop, and open up a word document. Amber's curious eyes follow you. There on the screen is a list of questions -- the debate questions. The actual ones, the ones the candidates will be asked on the stage a couple days from now. 

"Oh my g--" Amber says. "--where did you get those?"

"Mr. Langley. He just about did cartwheels when he saw me come back to campus. Wants me to help coach the quiz team. I said maybe. That's all it took to get a little collusion going..."

"You rock. Oh my shit." But then a dark shadow passes over her face. "If it was this easy for you to get them... Raisin Brant definitely got them in advance, too."

"Well, duh. That's how it works. Rose and I both got our debate questions in advance too."

"Fucking corrupt as shit," she says. "What a farce... gotta cheat to win."

"A wise woman once told me -- if you're not getting ahead, you're falling behind. That's life."

"I don't need you quoting your side hos to me."

You regard her warily. "And how would you know that this little bon mot came from a 'side ho'?"

"It sure as shit didn't come from the likes of the dumb broads you'd call your main hos. And you don't know any women who you aren't also putting your dick in. So call that inductive reasoning. If A equals B and B equals C... you get the picture."

"Uh huh. Okay, so, tell me: North High's standardized test scores have declined over the past three years. From the student body's perspective, what is needed to improve the situation?"

"Destroy the College Board, the ACT center, and the California department of education. Hang the administrators high from the rafters. No more standardized tests -- no more low scores. Simple as that."

"Okay..." you drawl. "That's one possible answer. Maybe a bit less radical, though?"

"Fuck that."

"Amber, you have to remember something. You don't just need the students to vote for you. You need to make sure the administration doesn't put its fingers on the scale."

"Excuse me?"

"You need to make sure they don't rig it. If they think you're going to rock the boat too hard, they will... the key is to look at least a little reasonable before you get in. Then make waves once you do. Understand?"

"You're such a pussy. Wow."

You massage the bridge of your nose. This is going to be long and very painful. 

After an hour or two of back-and-forth, trying to bring Amber back from the edge of total batfuck insanity with her proposals, she's about at her wits' end herself.
 
"I'm telling you, plan B in the vending machines just won't fly. Condoms MAYBE, I mean this is California. But Plan B? It's not--"
 
"Oh come ONNNN," she groans. She throws her head back and tightly grips the headrest of the wood chair she's sitting in, shaking it. She rocks to and fro like this, as if riding a rocking-horse, her sandaled feet thwapping against the ground. The orange pall of sunset makes her hair look like it's aflame. And so fittingly, she suggests: "Forget about debate. It's such a drag. How about this: what if we set the school on fire and say that Raisin Brant did it? Tried and true tactic, right there."
 
"We can't burn the school down," you say. "Jesus."
 
"wE cAn'T bUrN tHe ScHoOl DoWn! Haha. Look at Mr. We-Can't-Burn-The-School-Down over here. Kind of a stones-in-glass-houses thing to say -- don't you think?"
 
You won't be deterred. "You brought me on as campaign manager for a reason, didn't you? Learn from my mistakes. Or don't, I don't care. But if you're going to ignore me, I'll just leave."
 
The chair Amber sits in has a gap between the seat and the head-rest, held on either side by two thin chrome rods. Amber draws her legs up and slides her entire body through this gap, all in one motion, pouring herself like a liquid through it. It's actually quite elegant, how she manages the maneuver. She lands squatting, but quickly unfurls and rises to her feet, and closes the gap between you. Then without warning, she's in your lap.
 
"What are you doing?" You demand.
 
"Sittin."
 
Whoever Amber Catachresis really is, the world at large sees her as exactly that: Amber Catachresis, a 17-year-old junior in high school. And you are Alabaster Soliloquy, a 22-year-old businessman. This, therefore, is a very dangerous situation. The word "statutory" rings like an alarm bell in your brain.
 
"Get off of me."
 
"Is this the first time you've ever said that to a girl? Honest question."
 
You try to push her away, but she surges forward, and loops her thin arms over your shoulders. She's a bit damp with sweat -- it's stuffy in this classroom.
 
"I don't get you," you say.
 
"Good."
 
"You said I was gross. Multiple times. Thought your sister was stupid for sleeping with me--"
 
"You are gross. And she is stupid."
 
"So..."
 
"So it's your lucky day. I'm into gross guys."
 
"Well, I'm not into you. You're too young."
 
She laughs. It's a real and gut-busting laugh. "I'm sorry," she manages between peals. "You're too funny sometimes."
 
"That's not a joke. You're too young."
 
"Not for you. I know what you're really like, Alabaster. Now you're fucking my older sister -- my mom, too, maybe -- and maybe even YOUR older sister -- but older chicks aren't really your bag. That's clear. You're a weeaboo. You've got a type."
 
Her body is very warm, and very close.
 
"What do you think?" She asks. "Did you like what I said earlier -- should I call you daddy?"
 
Your mouth is desert dry.
 
"That's kinda weird, isn't it. You like something else anyway... how about... nii-chan?"
 
"Cam-- Amber--"
 
Her voice goes higher, affectedly cutesy and pinched. "C'mon, nii-chan..." she enunciates each syllable of the Japanese, with a really hard "ch" sound for effect. "What do you wanna do with me... nii-chan? Are you gonna show me some fun things... nii-chan?"
 
She wags her hips back and forth, the crotch of her low-cut shorts rubbing against the crotch of your jeans. It's impossible to mask your hardness.
 
"Don't like that one either?" She prods. "Hmm. Should I just call you mister?"
 
"You should just get off of me, is what," you grunt.
 
"Why?" Amber asks, that annoyingly high pretend-innocent voice coming back. "I'm not in trouble, am I, mister?"
 
The heat and blood pressure are both rising within you. "This has gone on long enough. Stop it already. Or you'll regret it."
 
She puts a hand to her lips. "Oh -- oh no. You're not some kinda mean mister, are you? You're not gonna -- hurt me -- are you, mister?"
 
Your nostrils flare and you gaze at her menacingly.
 
She smiles. She puts her cheek to yours and whispers in your ear: "it's okay, mister... I don't mind if it hurts~"
 
She pulls back. Her eyes meet yours. She waits expectantly, and then -- her facial features collapse into a displeased frown. "Fucking hell, Alabaster. What more can I do. I'm pulling out all the stops here... are you going to fuck me or not?"
 
You grab her about her sides. She's so compact and thin and light. "Yes," you say. "I'm gonna fuck you."
 
"Hip hip hoo-fuckin-ray. Finally."
 
You hug her to your body, giving you the leverage to lift her up -- it only takes one arm -- and with your other hand, you anxiously unbutton and tug your jeans down. Amber's head is low, the crown almost touching your nose as she stares, as she watches you get your cock out right here at a desk in a random classroom at North High.
 
When she looks up, she's got a dopey smile on her face. "You're a pretty big guy."
 
"I definitely didn't need that."
 
"Heeheeh," she laughs. But then she's all serious. She fixes you with a stern glare. "Look, I've never done this before. I'm just trying to dip my toes in the water here, you know, sexually. So don't go all wild, okay? I'm not a dutch wife."
 
"You've gotta be kidding me," you say.
 
"I'm not fucking kidding you. I don't kid around. I'm a serious person, Alabaster. And I'm a virgin. So fuck me gentle."
 
As she says this, she undoes her own shorts too. She slides off your lap just long enough to discard them haphazardly on the ground, and then young little Amber is back in your lap, her clean bare pussy nestled up against your angry red cock.
 
"Okay, and for real," she breathes, gazing down at the size differential, "you really are big. So I want to just hammer home the whole 'gentle' thing here."
 
"I'm not making any promises," you tell her. "If I fuck someone... I really fuck them..."
 
Amber chews her lip, worried. "Gee, mister... you're kinda scary."
 
"Will you stop with that shit?"
 
"Why should I?" She pecks you on the lips. "Your dick twitched just now."
 
It's true. Amber's got you dead to rights.
 
You lean back, peering down the bridge of your nose at her. "Okay, then," you say, "okay, little girl. If you want to play with me, you have to do the next part yourself. Put it in."
 
"I don't get it," she pouts, playing dumb. "Put what in? Where?"
 
"Look down," you command.
 
"Okayyy..."
 
"See that big thing between my legs?"
 
"Uh huhhh..."
 
"That's Mr. Dick. And it feels really good when you put him inside your pussy -- right here." You reach down and touch Amber's already wet cunt.
 
"Oh geez... are you sure it'll fit?"
 
"There's only one way to find out, isn't there? You want to play like a big girl, don't you?"
 
She looks back up and nods excitedly, bouncing in your lap. "Yeah! I do! I really, really do!"
 
"Go on, then. Put it in."
 
She slides a bit up and down, her slimy pussy lips gripping the hot shaft of your prick like a bun. You can smell it, her arousal, and it's just like Camelia's was in the massage parlor last year. It's a pussy that's just begging for your cum.
 
After a few playful moments of this, she rises all the way up, getting herself over the tip. It's hard to overstate exactly how small Amber's pussy really is. She's similar to her sister in that regard, but being even younger, ostensibly, her fuckhole is yet smaller. It really doesn't look like you'll fit. But you're going to try. You're going to get your dick all the way up this hole no matter how much effort it takes.
 
Amber grits her teeth and tries to sink down. It's no use, the opening just won't budge, and she only succeeds in making your erect dick bend slightly towards your body, and then slide away from the hole, up the folds of her labia. She sighs in frustration. "You're too big, mister... you're way too big."
 
"Keep trying," you say. "It'll fit."
 
She hugs your neck and gives it another go. You give her some help this time, spreading the lovely lips of her pussy with both thumbs, as you flex your glutes and push up to meet her. You're gonna crack Amber's cunt open if it's the last thing you do.
 
"hhh-- hhh--" she breathes, pained, as you wedge and pry, to no avail.
 
"Relax, baby -- relax," you say, feeling like a dirty old pervert, and liking it.
 
"Is it okay if I kiss you, mister?"
 
She doesn't wait for you to answer, she just does it, leaning in and opening her mouth to yours. She tastes sweet, like cherry, and her little pink tongue is so warm in your mouth. She's a bit too eager, her teeth knock against yours, but that's okay. You like that, too.
 
The kissing does its magic and her little pussy loosens up just enough. With a palm gripping her coccyx, you force her down a couple millimeters and break the seal -- and then all at once, you can get the tip of your dick jammed up the tight chute of her cunt.
 
She inhales gaspingly against your lips, closing her eyes tight. She goes stiff and is clearly in pain. Glancing down, you see a trickle of blood down the shaft of your cock. Impossible. That can't be, this is some sort of trick. But it's not. Even though you've fucked her before, a year ago, you've taken her virginity just now, all the same. You popped this girl's cherry.
 
You roll with it. What else can you do? "Slow," you say, "slooow... like that. Get it in you. There you go."
 
With your tender guidance, she sinks her newly-spoiled cunny down the length of your dick. The lips bulge and strain and you can see a bump begin to form in the skin between her crotch and her belly button -- the outline of your dick expanding her to her very limits. There is nothing to compare this to, robbing a girl of her virginity, and one so tight, but so ready. She gazes lovingly down at the sight as well, for only a moment. She's too hungry for the attention of your mouth too, and soon she returns to kissing you desperately. She's a desperate girl. She's shaking like a leaf and still unused to being fucked, but she wants your attention, all of it: your kiss on her lips and your cock in her cunt. She's got the wind knocked from her, her breath coming out in those jagged little "hhhh--" noises, but she keeps going anyway. Such a darling, eager little fuck she is.
 
"Good," you groan. You pet her. "You're doing so good."
 
"W-will you-- w-will you... will you fuck me harder, mister?"
 
Her face is the perfect mix of childlike innocence and lust. You can't resist it. You grab her roughly and slam into her, the rest of the way -- pushing into her womb. Her jaw drops, her tongue hangs out, and her spine straightens up. She stares blankly at the ceiling, rigid, caught in a silent scream, like someone electrocuted. And that's when you begin to fuck her.
 
You fuck her quick, and hard, and filthy. Your lap slaps her thighs and makes her convulse. Her cunt hugs you so tight it actually begins to hurt, as if it's trying to spit you out, but you won't let it. In and out you saw, forceful to the point of merciless, raping her cunt raw. It's what she asked for.
 
"C-c-c-" she stutters, still staring at the ceiling. She's shivering as you screw her.
 
You pull her head towards you and kiss her -- first her delicate neck, then her flushing cheeks, and finally again her wet lips. She's half-lidded and mentally confused, seems to really believe the whole little girl act at this point, as she twirls a finger through her hair and says "c-cum...? M-mister, are you g-gonna cum in me now?"
 
"That's right," you grunt. "You're so smart. I'm gonna shoot my cum in you soon... it'll be messy... so get ready."
 
"O...okay... that's fine, mister... make a mess inside meeee..."
 
Your tongues mate with each other's as you do just that: you make a nasty mess inside her. It feels like squeezing toothpaste from the tube, your cum drawn out and made slow by the sheer vice-like tightens of Amber's too-young, unripe pussy. It's such a great fucking orgasm, one that seems to last for over a minute or longer, as you pull out -- and ram home, and lose another couple squirts up her womb -- then again, pulling out, ramming home, another satisfying squelchy squirt. It takes for fucking ever, and you're just happy for it to be that way. You kiss her cravenly and seed her right up. You cum over and over into Amber's baby cunt. And she cums against you, too. Her sweet pussy spasms and gets off on being spermed. She really is a desperate girl.

---

Cerise sucks hungrily on Galatea's pussy.
 
Cerise is lying on her back on Gal's bed with Gal is sitting on her face. As many times as they've done things like this, Gal is still somehow bashful and timid about it -- Cerise always has to initiate. It was Cerise who stripped Gal down to the nude and Cerise who commanded Gal to ride her face. Gal has her hands balled up against her chest with her chin resting on her fists. She rocks back and forth in an arrhythmic humping motion. Cerise keeps her hands pressed up to Gal's thighs to hold them apart; she never breaks eye contact with Gal, gazing devilishly up at her while her talented tongue works her over.
 
Renee, sitting on a stool in the kitchenette, tries in vain not to rubberneck. She is Cerise's designated babysitter tonight. Although Gal is still a little uncomfortable with her presence, she's been allowed in because Gal considers her to be Cerise's rescuer. Gal doesn't know about the Darkbloom situation, but she's easily persuadable anyway.
 
It's pretty hard for Renee to feign ignorance and not watch the show, for a couple reasons -- Gal's place has no proper bedrooms, so even from across the loft, she can plainly see and hear their passionate lovemaking. And also, of course, Renee finds it wonderfully tempting. Years in prison gave her a healthy appreciation of the female form, and Gal is simply a beauty. A slender, pale doll with just the most delicious-looking carnation pink pussy she's ever laid eyes on. And Cerise, devil she is, draws so many sexy noises out of the usually mute Gal with the ministrations of her broad wet tongue. Skill in oral sex must be a Soliloquy family special.
 
Gal's shy squeaks and moans are just the cutest. Renee wants to gobble the girl up... she's envious that Cerise gets to actually do it. Renee pretends to be reading but her eyes are 100% glued to the hot action happening on Gal's mattress. It's especially hot whenever Cerise gets a horny glint in her eye and snakes her tongue yet further back, past the wet hole of Gal's vag and into Gal's winking little asshole. Cerise makes servicing Gal seem almost like an act of domination. The way her mouth causes Gal to writhe and tremble is hypnotic. Even if she's on the bottom, even if Gal is sitting on top of her and riding her face, it's obvious who's in control. Renee squeezes her legs together in an attempt to surreptitiously soothe the building itch in her cunt. She really wishes she could just reach inside her pants and rub her clit a little -- just a little -- just to take the edge off... god, she wants to cum so bad...
 
"Like what you see?" Cerise pauses to ask, then goes right back to lapping Gal's tiny cunt.
 
Renee gulps, but doesn't respond. Although she's had something of a sexual awakening recently, this is unfamiliar territory. She didn't suspect until tonight that Cerise and Gal were lesbians... or that they would be so willing to fuck like a couple of bitches in heat even in her presence. Cerise has grown accustomed to having an audience, though, that much is clear -- and she's grown to like it, too.
 
Gal, not so much: "no..." she mumbles, "noooo... you said she wouldn't look... you promissssed..."
 
Even if she complains about Renee's voyeurism, she keeps grinding her mound against Cerise's tongue, lips, and nose. Renee can tell that the itch in Gal's own cunt is winning over her shyness, if only just. It's an ambivalence Renee knows all too well, and one she loves to see playing out in someone else, too.
 
"Oh she's looking, all right," Cerise says. "Why wouldn't she? You're too cute not to look at..."
 
"no... no..."
 
Cerise lightly slaps Gal's thigh, a love tap more than anything, just enough to assert a bit of authority. "Stop whining, now," she gently chides. "We both know you like being watched."
 
Gal shakes her head violently no.
 
"Hey Renee." Cerise turns her face and peers at Renee from in between Gal's creamy legs. "It's okay. I know you're watching. You can put the book down already. It was kind of dumb to think you wouldn't look, so... wanna help?"
 
Renee dispenses with pretense and closes the book and watches intently as Cerise sloooowly wags her tongue up and down the crease of Gal's cunt. Back and forth, like savoring an ice cream cone, Cerise scoops up droplets of Gal's juices that glint in the dim amber ceiling lights. It's a tempting invitation. Cerise is trying to seduce Renee into joining with this demonstration of exactly how fun it is to eat Gal out.
 
"Come on," Cerise says with a low voice, "come over here... help me bring the bitch off..."
 
It's too much to resist. Renee stands and goes to the bed, heart fluttering in her chest.
 
"cerise please," Gal begs. "don't make me--"
 
"Shh," Cerise says. "It'll be good, babe. You like my tongue, don't you?"
 
Gal nods eagerly. She tries to rub herself against Cerise again, to show just how much she likes it. But Cerise's hands on her legs stop her from moving -- frustrate her.
 
"Then you'll like Renee's tongue, too. Won't that be really nice? Two tongues at once..."
 
"um..." She chews the inside of one cheek.
 
"Get on your knees, babe... like that." Gal is putty in Cerise's hands as she steers her. Then, to Renee: "Which end do you want?"
 
Renee just lets the perversion run through her. "I want that pretty fucking ass of hers."
 
"Great choice," Cerise says with a grin. She gets on her stomach in front of Gal's pussy, propped on her elbows, tilts her head back and wastes no time getting to work. She feasts on Gal's cunt with wet, sloppy sucking noises, moaning in sensuous enjoyment.
 
Renee crawls onto the bed and takes the spot she claimed. Lying on her stomach as well, she spreads Gal's bubble butt with either hand. The way Gal's pristine-looking asshole trembles like the rest of her is too fucking adorable. It glistens with a thin layer of Cerise's saliva. Perfect. Renee lets out a lusty "ungg" that originates from deep within her diaphragm as she purses her lips and starts sucking Gal's anus. Somehow, just sucking this asshole is enough to help relieve some of the fiery lust inside her. She loves doing things like this, especially with the help of a partner in crime. Cerise, who hasn't come up for air even once, is shaking her face back and forth and up and down. She's absolutely reveling in the taste of Gal's cunt. And Gal, her entire weight resting on these two women's faces, trapped between them, is paralyzed with the overwhelming sensation. The sensation of two hungry pervs having their pervy way with her. They run their hands slowly up and down Gal's legs as they eat her out, petting her, comforting her. Even this otherwise chaste contact is somehow rendered lewd in the way they do it. There's something electric in their lust, which is translated in their every touch.
 
Their oral is rapid and haphazard. Occasionally their tongues miss the mark, meeting one another rather than Gal's dripping holes. It doesn't bother them, in fact they rather enjoy it; and they frequently kiss each other like that as they work. They make out with each other from either side of Gal, twirling their tongues around and swapping spit, savoring the taste of Gal on each other's lips.
 
Gal tries to keep it bottled up, and can't. She finally starts to cum on them. Her ejaculating juices rain down on their heads, making a sloppy mess. Neither woman pauses. They simply redouble their petting of Gal's thighs, to signal that Gal is doing great -- to encourage Gal to keep cumming as much as she wants. They suck down her fragrant cum as they tongue her inside and out. Drinking her cum is like ambrosia to them, Renee and Cerise alike, and this too helps quell their raging lust.
 
But soon Gal is all cummed out and woozy with exhaustion. She sways and nearly collapses. Cerise, finally pulling away, her face absolutely coated in drool and slime, helps Gal lie down. Renee won't be so easily deterred, though. With Gal lying prone, Renee circles her and dives in for a second time, attacking the half-conscious girl's asshole with renewed vigor, suckling on it with utter debauched contentment.
 
Cerise strokes Gal's cheek with the back of her palm. "I spoil you so much, don't I?"
 
"yes"
 
The rhythmic noises of Renee tonguing Gal fill the room; Cerise watches for just a few moments. "I love spoiling you, baby," she finally says.
 
"thank you..."
 
"Thank Renee, too."
 
"thank you ms. carte... thank you for licking me... thank you..."
 
"Feeling a little less tired yet?" Cerise asks.
 
Gal is still exhausted, but she doesn't want to disappoint. She nods weakly.
 
"We spoiled you, so now you should spoil us," Cerise says.
 
"yes"
 
Cerise crawls on all fours over to the headboard, kicks her sodden panties off. She rises to her butt and leans back. Renee, though reluctant to stop rimming Gal, gets the hint and joins her, also getting nude. Side by side they sit propped up against the back of the bed.
 
"I taught her how to eat cunt like a pro," Cerise says. "You'll love it."
 
"Oh yes I will," Renee grunts. "I'm sure of it."
 
Gal slithers over on her belly, obsequious, and waits for instruction. Cerise is is a bit selfish, and points down at her own pussy. But Renee is fine with that. She watches Gal get to work and rubs her own cunt idly while she does.
 
For some reason, it feels right to Renee, to reach over and link fingers with Cerise. They hold hands: Cerise getting her pussy eaten, Renee masturbating.
 
"Let me try now," Renee begs.
 
Cerise taps the top of Gal's head. "Lick her too, babe."
 
Gal obeys. She proves as shameless about eating ass as Renee was -- her tongue roams all over. Renee likes to be the one doing it, but is somewhat demure when it comes to receiving. She gasps at the slimy, slightly ticklish feeling whenever Gal's tongue strays all the way south. But no matter. It feels really good anyway. She eventually yields to it, the warmth and wetness of it, and just lets Gal's mouth do what it may.
 
Gal begins to alternate between Renee and Cerise's cunts at seeming random, trying to service both of them at once. They trust her to set the pace without issuing any more commands -- they just lie back and enjoy the use of her mouth.
 
Renee and Cerise lock dewy eyes with one another. Taken by a mutually sudden urge, they kiss -- full-on, open-mouthed -- a real and forceful kiss that lasts forever. They moan into each other's throats, suck the residue of Gal's cum from each other, and writhe in pleasure. Gal tongues their leaky cunts out and brings much-needed relief to their desperately itchy, horny holes. Renee loves nothing in the world more than having Alabaster's dick sperming her deep inside, but there's also something special, and almost as good, about having a talented girl's mouth to cum in. Renee makes out with Cerise and gets off, turning Gal's mouth into nothing more than a toilet for cum. There's something so nice, and so cute, but so demented and perverse, about squirting her cum all over the little redhead's face. This thought alone only makes her cum even harder. Gal, with no other option, gulps it down in gratitude.

Galatea, Cerise, and Dr. Carte are collapsed in a sweaty heap on the bed when you barge into Galatea's loft. All three girls are naked.

"Gal, we've got a prob-- oh. Ohhh."

Like a prairie dog, from the middle of the heap, Cerise pokes her head up: "Hey."

You frown. "I never, ever want to hear you call me a pervert again for as long as I live. Do you understand me?"

"There's nothing perverted about this," Cerise insists. "We were just pallin' around."

"Right. You have to be naked and on top of each other to pal around?"

"Pillow fight. Got out of hand."

"Are they awake? Did you suck out their souls?"

"Mmmmmaybe," Dr. Carte groans, groggy. She nuzzles her head against Galatea's thigh, and falls back into gentle snoring.

You go over and drag Galatea from the pile. She tries to rise to her hands and knees, but she's out of it, and plops back down to her stomach again as soon as you release her. Gazing up at you, she says: "i'm sorry, sir... i'm a bit too tired to play anymore..."

"This isn't about play. It's about work."

"too tired"

"Fazil got intercepted. We lost the emails."

Cerise is in the kitchenette, grabbing a beer from the fridge -- took to keeping a stash at Galatea's place since she's here so much. She cracks it open with a churchkey and takes a swig. "Is this that StuCo bullshit again? Do you and Rose ever get sick of these retarded fights?"

"Shut the fuck up, Cerise. This is important. You wouldn't understand."

She rolls her eyes. "I always thought you two would get less retarded if you just had sex. I was way off base."

"It's not about Rose! It's about getting to know Amber."

"And yet somehow, over the past few days, all you want to talk about is how Rose is trying to screw you over."

"Because she is! She actually-- you know what? Forget it. It's hopeless. It's like you don't even want to understand."

"Yep." She lazily strolls past you and sits at Gal's computer and pulls up Youtube. Recently she's been watching a lot of how-to videos on circuit modification -- getting ready for relaunching her stream. 

"it's ok," Galatea says. You glance down at her in confusion, and she continues: "auburn brantly fell for a spear phishing attack after all... i got his login credentials... i have all his emails."

"Holy shit. You're amazing." You lean in and kiss her on the cheek -- which tastes like Cerise's pussy. (On inspection, is a little weird to think that you can instantly identify the unique flavor of your sister's pussy, but you set that aside.) Galatea warms to the praise and the gentle contact, and snuggles up against her mattress, hugging herself happily. Still very tired.

Cerise notices this. "Damn," she says. "Forget what I said. If you'll keep treating Gal that nice, then I'm fine with you having retarded slap-fights with Rose forever."

"Where are they?" you ask Gal. "The emails."

"folder on the desktop..." She's quickly drifting out of consciousness.

You shove Cerise aside from Galatea's PC. "Asshole!" She shouts.

"Just hold on for two seconds," you say, leaning over the mouse and keyboard. "Jesus. Youtube will still exist when I'm done. I only need to grab these files..."

You transfer the pilfered documents to a spare junk drive from your bag.

"Did you read them? Find anything good?" You ask Gal, looking over your shoulder.

"cheater..." she murmurs. "he's a cheater..."

"Fucking knew it," you say to yourself.

"Oh, and this -- this isn't cheating at all," Cerise says.

"No it isn't. This is justice." 

The debate is the following afternoon, 12 PM in the North High auditorium. Students were given a half-day, and could optionally attend the debate or simply go home. Of course, most of them chose the latter, but attendance is far from sparse. Camelia's rambunctious campaign has drawn more attention than the average StuCo election -- which in other years, is usually more like a coronation of the administration's golden child.

You find Rose watching from a distant remove, along the far wall. You go and stand beside her. Neither of you look at the other, but rather stare straight ahead. It's an old tactic. If you're not looking at her, it's harder for her to get inside your head -- and vice versa, you suppose.

"Who was that you sent after Fazil?" You demand. On stage, the band is playing the school's fight song as the candidates, backstage, prepare.

"What are you implying?" Rose says. "My my. So paranoid. Fazil was mugged by a hoodlum. I hope they find the person who did it."

"He wasn't fucking mugged. They didn't even take his wallet --"

"Whoever did it must have panicked--"

"Will you just give it up, Rose? For once in your life. Whose idea was it? Not that fucking moron Auburn's, surely. This is all you -- isn't it."

She says nothing, but you can practically hear the smug grin. You don't want to look to confirm. It'll drive you up the wall.

"It's too bad for you, though," you say. "Allow me to go a bit Stackleford here. You activated my trap card."

"You've gone insane," Rose says. "How sad."

You quote one of the juicier emails to her, from memory: "'Here you go, Auburn. I received the debate questions from Principal Jackson last night. Review these in advance of our meeting tomorrow afternoon. Sincerely, Rose.'"

This time, you do look. The color drains from Rose's face. You love to see it.

"Your move," you tell her.

She seethes. The candidates are beginning to take the stage: from the right enters Auburn and from the left enters Amber. They shake hands. Amber grips the kid so hard that you can see his knuckles folding over themselves, and he grimaces -- but he gives as good as he gets -- Amber winces in pain, too.

"We should discuss this somewhere more private," Rose says. "You're not the only one with a trap card. I'd like to propose to you -- that we should arrange a detente before this gets ugly..."

>[x] Go with her.
>[x] Stay and watch. 

"You must really think I'm an idiot," you say. "You've got nothing. You lose. Like always. And now you're lashing out like a caged animal, trying to get me alone. So you can do something sick and twisted to me in retaliation. I know you, Rose. Cut it out with this amateur hour bullshit. I'm not falling for it."
 
She slowly shakes her head as you speak, but can't find a rebuttal.
 
"It's all right," you say. "There's no shame in losing. I mean -- okay, there is. There's actually a lot of shame in losing. But I know you secretly enjoy it. So just sit back and relax... watch my horse take your horse out to pasture..."
 
The first question was about school lunches, and Auburn is already midway through an interminable lecture about how there needs to be healthier options at the canteen. That's just what will get the students jazzed to vote him: steamed broccoli. Really in tune with his fellow kids right there. His nasally voice is like an aural Quaalude.
 
"So what was it?" You ask Rose. "Got your taser in your purse? The old pepper spray trick? Or did you just want to throw down mano-a-mano like old times?"
 
She says nothing. You chuff, and turn to face the stage again. Amber's speaking: "...just get rid of the pizza. It isn't fuc-- it isn't freaking pizza. It's tomato sauce on soggy bread. Everytime I see the menu is pizza for lunch, I gag. Don't you guys just gag when see that? You hate to see it. You really do. So replace pizza days with the taco bar, and lunch here is basically fine. The taco bar is tremendous. It's the best taco bar, maybe in any high school in the country. No need for lots of other changes. This is, like, the one thing I don't want to change too much... for real."
 
"She is so brilliant," you say approvingly. "I taught her everything she knows, of course."
 
You don't even notice it until it's happening. Rose's small hands are around your neck, latching something in place. You glance down in horror: it's some sort of collar, with a black metal box tight against your Adam's apple.
 
"Razzle dazzle~" she purrs.
 
You reach back to undo the collar, but as soon as you do, you're nearly bowled over by an agonizing jolt of electric pain. You let out a choked cough and lean on the wall for support -- a few students in the back rows glance over their shoulders at you.
 
You grab for the remote in Rose's hand, but she's quicker. She steps back and gives you another jolt, and this time you fall over. Amber's increasingly energetic Gish gallop on the topic of allowing students to conduct self-directed chemistry experiments keeps most eyes facing forward, but a few of the students notice this second mishap of yours as well. "Are you okay?" a girl nearby asks. You wave her off, standing weakly.
 
"They use these to train dogs..." Rose tells you airily.
 
"You are demented," you growl. "Take this thing off me right now and I MIGHT consider beating you just half to death tonight, rather than all the way..."
 
"His name was Fazil Çatalhöyük," Amber says into her microphone. "And he sacrificed everything trying to bring the truth of this corrupt system to you!"
 
"Uh -- Fazil is alive," Auburn cuts in impotently.
 
But Amber bulldozes right over him: "His name was Fazil Çatalhöyük! Never forget!"
 
"Give it to me," you repeat.
 
"Nope."
 
"Give it--" you reach out, try to corner her, but she's got the advantage. She shocks you every time you get near, and even when you know it's coming, the unspeakable pain still blows you back. It's all you can do not to scream every time it hits.
 
"Be quiet," Rose whispers. "You wouldn't want to make a scene, would you? Don't want everyone to see what a pathetic little piggy you are..."
 
You try to leave the auditorium, to deny Rose the pleasure of seeing you struggle, but she shocks you again as you head for the double doors. You fall to your knees involuntarily. Peering up at her, you say: "Fine. You fucking win. Happy? If you want to go somewhere private, we can--"
 
She shocks you. You fall prone, and feel foam develop at the corners of your mouth. When your vision uncrosses, Rose is gazing down at you like a mother over the crib of her newborn, an adoring hand to her cheek, blushing.
 
"I changed my mind," she says. "I think we're fine right here."
 
She puts the sole of one of her flats against the top of your head. She's conquered you.
 
The drone of Auburn's voice is in your ears, insult to injury: "--to support the radical, almost fascistic ideas of this crazy girl, is just absolute insanity -- what North High needs is a steady hand on the tiller --"
 
"Crazy!" Amber shrieks. "I'm not crazy! You're the crazy one! You!"
 
"I want you to lick my feet," Rose says.
 
"Fuck y-- ghhh--" Your body seizes as the amps flow through it.
 
"I should have been clearer. You WILL lick my feet."
 
She steps out of her shoes and stands before you where you lie, feet bare except for her pantyhose. You can see up her mid-length skirt and find that she isn't wearing panties, as usual. She's almost never worn underwear since the night you commanded her not to. Even in the darkened hall, you see the shimmer of her wetness running down her inner thighs.
 
You glance now towards the crowd. Only a couple yards separate the space between the wall and the back row of chairs. There can be no hiding what you're up to, if someone happens to glance back. You're right out in the open. Rose, the fucking cunt, is intent on humiliating you in as public a forum as possible.
 
The sour odor of her feet fills your nostrils. She rubs one right beneath your nose, the fabric of the pantyhose scraping against your skin. With no option but to bide your time, you swallow your pride, and comply. You wrap a hand delicately around the sole of her foot and hold it to your face. Repulsed, you do your duty, and dart your tongue out. It's a horrible, musky, earthy taste, a mixture of sweat and grime, that sticks tenaciously to your tongue and nearly makes you retch.
 
Rose balances on one leg, back propped against the wall, and watches you slather your tongue around. You run your flattened tongue along the heel, the arch, and then even up to the toes, sucking each in turn. "You do that so well," she says. "You were born for this, weren't you..."
 
As you run your tongue back down to the instep, she wiggles her toes, using them to poke and prod your face. She's getting wild and overheated and way too into it -- this is always one of her favorite games. "You are such a fucking pig for me," she grunts. She can't help herself: she reaches down and snakes a hand under her skirt and starts masturbating her cunt, openly, right here in the auditorium.
 
The white-hot rage within you is only a little palliated by the lovely sight of Rose frigging her pussy. Despite yourself, you do like seeing her get off. Her plump, soft mound is too inviting. And so you almost forget for a moment that you're on your belly worshiping her feet like a slave. In fact: the tart, nutty flavor of her feet begins to sort of turn you on. You shiver with sheer revulsion at that thought. There's no way you'd let yourself get turned on by this.
 
Rose cums. Her voice is quiet, and hoarse, as she hisses: "Yesss-- like that-- oh, fuck... so good..." Her fingers strum her clit and she wrings out spurt after spurt of cum all over the top of your head. The sound of it splashing against you is pretty loud -- to you -- but thankfully no one seems to notice.
 
This is your only opportunity to gain the upper hand again and you're going to take it. That is, after one last slow pass of your tongue in a lazy circle over the flexing sole of her foot -- just to make sure she's properly distracted, of course. She keeps cumming on you, adoringly, as you give her this final bit of service. And she doesn't notice until it's too late, you springing upright, taking her wrist, and wresting the remote from her grip.
 
Her frightened eyes meet yours. Post-cum clarity, and the evil sneer you give her, combine to make her realize just what a terrible mistake she's made.
 
"Oh shit," she says.
 
She wheels around and tries to flee, actually tries to run away -- dumb bitch. You keep hold of her wrist and pull her in for a very un-tender hug. "Where do you think you're going?" You whisper. "We're fine right here."
 
Still holding her close, you direct her clearly and simply. "Get my cock out for me."
 
"You WOULD be hard, wouldn't you," she hisses back. "Did being treated like the worm you are make your little pencil dick all--"
 
You reach up and cup a single hand around her chin, fingers pressing into her cheeks, forcing her to make a stupid fishy face that prevents her from speaking. "I didn't tell you to talk," you say. "I told you to get my cock out. Don't make me hit you."
 
She's the one who's out of options now. With your hand still holding her face, she unzips your pants and frees your throbbing dick. You hate the fact that Rose's treatment of you really is the reason you're in such a state of need right now. You have to make sure you pay her back.
 
"Turn around." Although you give her this direction, you simultaneously complete it for her -- turning her by the shoulder so she faces the wall.
 
"Alabaster -- don't --" she whispers. "This isn't--"
 
"Oh, you can masturbate right here in front of god and everyone but I can't fuck you? I don't think so. Lift your fucking skirt up."
 
She shudders and bows her head in despair. Then, reaching back, she lifts up her skirt. Her bare white ass and fat pussy mound are out in the open. With a heave of relief, you push your cock in. The way Rose's thick thighs are pressed together makes the channel of her vagina incredibly tight. Its inner walls grip you with a sucking persistence that doesn't want to let you go. You begin to fuck in and out of her without a care in the world of who might witness it. Her smooth, tight pussy makes lewd sucking noises as you pump it.
 
"Hang 'em high!" Amber's voice comes from behind you. "Hang 'em high! Hang 'em high!" She's got the crowd chanting and cheering, a perfect noisy distraction for you to cut loose and really rail Rose the way she deserves to be railed. You hold her hair with both hands, like handles. Rose's forehead bangs and rebounds off the wall repeatedly; her entire body shakes with the force of your jackhammer thrusts. She doesn't seem to know whether she's in pain or ecstasy. Either way, she's exhilarated. Her tongue hangs out and flops around and her eyes are blank. She smiles stupidly. She likes to call you a pig, but she's the real pig -- she's a pig for getting raped by your cock.
 
"This isn't as good as your mom's tits," you say.
 
"Wh-whuuh?"
 
"It's not as good as your mom's tits. She let me fuck her tits the other day, and I gotta say... it was much better than this loose, used up cunt..."
 
Her pussy spasms and she lets out a low wail. "Noooo..." she drawls. "Nooo... liarrr..."
 
"You know I'm not lying... I fucked her, Rose... she was better than you..."
 
"Unnnn--" She's cumming herself silly even as the despair chokes her.
 
"Maybe if I tried your tits--" you begin.
 
Rose straightens up, gets right off your cock and spins around. "My titsssh are better," she says, slurring her words, horny and desperate and eager to prove the point. She rips her shirt open, buttons flying. She tugs her breasts free of her too-small bra. The puffy nipples are hard and bright pink. She's already on her knees in front of you. "See?" She demands. "Seeeee?"
 
She mashes them together with balled fists and gets them over your cock. It slips right into the hot, wet crevice. Just like the older Mallory, Rose's obscenely large breasts have a tendency to trap sweat between them, providing a natural lubrication for fucking them. And unlike the older Mallory, Rose pulls out an extra trick. Each time your cock pokes up from the top of her cleavage, she drools over the tip of it, and licks it, and swirls her tongue around the foreskin.
 
"Oh fuck," you groan. Your knees almost buckle and you hold the wall, palms flat against it. Rose works with you frenzied eagerness.
 
"Seee?" She keeps saying. "My tits are better... my tits are beterrrr..." She slobbers and drools over your dick. You can't help humping her back. Maybe she's right. This feels so fucking good.
 
The hooting crowd masks your sexual perversion, and they're too rapt over Amber's performance to take notice. But, looking up to the stage yourself, you realize that there were two people in the auditorium who could see it, after all. Amber and Auburn were facing the crowd, of course, and therefore also you.
 
Amber grins at you as Rose fucks her tits up and down your leaking prick -- but keeps ranting, keeps the crowd distracted -- a perfect wingman.
 
Auburn is less pleased. Actually, he seems mortified. Maybe he thought that Rose helping his campaign meant he had some sort of chance with her, that she was interested in him. This would be a pretty rude wake-up call if that were the case.
 
You fuck Rose's tits viciously with that thought in mind. Yeah, that's definitely the heartbroken look of a man spurned on Auburn's face.
 
And then -- that awful zap. You grunt in pain. Rose has the remote in her hand again -- you stupidly left the collar in place around your neck. But even as she shocks you, she keeps fucking you with her tits. Her face is a broken, sneering, evil, desperate grin as she rubs your cock with the soft flesh of her breasts and sends what feels like millions of volts arcing through you.
 
"My tits are better," she says. "My tits are better... my tits are better! Admit it!!"
 
ZAP!
 
"Y--" you stammer. "Y-your tits--"
 
ZAP!  
 
"Your tits are better!!"
 
ZAP! ZAP!
 
Punishment or reward, you can't tell. All you know is that even as the pain saps you of all your energy, your turgid dick still feels wonderful pressed between the fleshy confines of Rose's fat cowtits. Your nuts tighten up, you gasp, and then you spray your cum all over her leering face. You cum and cum as she shocks you over and again.
 
You don't want to let her win like this, so in one last act of retaliation, while you sperm her tits and her face, while she shocks you -- you kick her. You kick her between her legs, right in her fucking cunt, and knock that stupid smug smile right off her face. She howls and throws her head back, in utter gut-wrenching agony, but she has enough mental fortitude to keep up the electric assault, and to keep smearing her cum-stained titties around your spurting dick.
 
It's an absolute trainwreck. Rose wringing your cum from you while you each abuse the other as viciously and as publicly as possible. But it feels absolutely divine, too. You've had very few orgasms as thunderous and satisfying as the one you have with Rose's shock collar, the tip of your loafers mashing her clit.

---

In an empty hallway after the debate, Amber has her fingers laced together behind her back, elbows locked, standing on tiptoes. She beams up at you. "That was wild. You're a madman."

You hand her the thumb drive with all of Auburn's emails on it. She pockets it. "Stick a fork in him," you say. "Win one for the Gipper."

"The who-per?"

"Never mind."

"You really threw Raisin Brant off his game back there. Banging your cousin-69-times-removed right in front of him was a real evil-genius-type move."

You play that one off and allow her to think it was all part of your plan, and not just a happy accident of Rose's own making. You turn to leave, but stop yourself, and decide that now is the time to ask:

"Are you Camelia?"

"You keep calling me Camelia, so I guess you already think I am." She hefts her small backpack up from the ground and throws it over one shoulder.

"You recognize that name--"

"Well duh. That crazy terrorist bitch you were so-sources-say involved with last year? She was all over the news. So of course I recognize the name. What she did to David Darkbloom is SUCH an inspiration--"

"That's not what I mean. You recognize that name, when I call you Camelia."

She eyes you warily.

"I helped you out," you say. "So I deserve to know." No reply to this, so you try again, adopting a gentle tone. "Amber... Camelia... what happened back then, happened -- I don't want to dredge up the past. I just want to know I'm not crazy."

"We're both crazy," she says.

"Well, fine. So you remember."

"Have you ever heard of confabulation, Mr. Quiz Champ?"

"Don't try to fuck with me. I know that what I remember is real."

She shrugs. "I'm happy you're so sure. But I'm not." She shifts her weight to one foot, cocks her head. "It's like trying to see something through TV static. I knew you from the moment I saw you... but..." she sighs and stretches lazily. "Man, I could go for a smoke right now. Would you buy me a pack of cigarettes?"

"I've contributed enough to your delinquency."

She motions with both hands. "Come on. Enough with the tsun tsun thing, you fucking dork. Let's go." 

Outside a Circle K, Amber sits on a grey cinderblock wall the height of your chest, and smokes the Camels you bought for her. She kicks her feet in the air a little.

"I want to live a normal life," she says. "That's all."

"Me too."

"If I don't remember much, you should just leave it. I saw that livestream video of what Camelia did. It was fucking crazy... I mean, even crazier than anything I'D do, and that's saying something."

You kick at some pebbles on the ground. "Where did that flash drive in your bedroom really come from?"

"As far as I know, it's like I said... I found it one day in a cafe. Scout's honor."

"Don't scout's honor me. I scout's honor people all the time and there's only rarely any actual honor in it."

"Cross my heart and hope to die?"

"You've already died once, I'm pretty sure."

"Stick a needle in my eye?"

"I don't want you to lose another eye."

"Fuck, man. You're such a hard-ass. Whatever..." She throws the cigarette down on the ground, heaves herself from her perch on the wall, and stamps the butt out. She plays a finger slowly up your wrist and lower arm.

"I had fun doing it with you," Amber says. "We should be fuckbuddies."

You frown.

"Are you gonna let me live a normal life, Alabaster Soliloquy?"

"As long as we're fuckbuddies, your life is probably going to be pretty weird."

"I guess I'll adjust. Your dick game is way too good to pass up. Just... stop calling me Camelia. It upsets me."

"...All right."

She pecks you on the cheek and hurries off before you can say anything further -- like a shy middle schooler who's uncertain about being intimate with a crush. Where she's headed, you have no idea. 

At work, Vivian reads the letter aloud to you and Dr. Carte:

"Dear R: I was happy to receive your correspondence of late, and even happier to read all the good news within. Where I am is quite isolated and I was unaware of all the momentous developments taking place over the past year. I am overjoyed that you have your freedom and are reunited with your daughter. She sounds like a handful. Good luck with her! This world is a better place with you and your daughter and brilliant young V. at the helm. I understand your concerns about Ms. C.S. and I do believe that I might be of some assistance. I will be in touch when I devise a way for more consistent, secure and speedy contact. Or perhaps you would like to come on vacation to my private island abode? Ha ha. Do not worry. It's joke. Your friend, G."

"It's joke?" You question.

"That is what is says, verbatim." Vivian holds the letter up. "It's joke. Sic."

You frown at her. She's frustratingly precise and literal with everything. Can't even correct someone's typo for them.

Vivian sets the letter aside now. "This is splendid news. I do rather miss Gustav."

"If he can get your father out of Cerise's head, he's all right in my book," you say.

Vivian appears a touch ambivalent about that. You hope she's still on board with the plan.

"The envelope is postmarked last Thursday," Dr. Carte says. "He must have some connection with the outside world, to get priority air shipment from the ass-end of Palau..."

"Island vacation, then?" You say.

"No thanks. The last thing anyone needs to see is me in a bikini."

"Actually, I'd love to," you say.

Dr. Carte blushes. "You--!"

"I am in complete accord," Vivian says. "You would look so becoming in a bikini." She puts her hand to her chin and ponders the image appreciatively, her hungry little eyes devouring the poor doctor.

Dr. Carte shakes her head and folds her arms angrily, still under the assumption that you're teasing her, apparently.

This feels like progress, though. Maybe you can give Cerise a birthday present way better than some car or PC or slutty cosplay outfit. Maybe you can give her freedom.

Your phone rings. You excuse yourself to answer it. 

"School's on fire," Amber says.

"...What?"

"School's on fire."

---

A few minutes later you and Rose stand outside the campus of North High among a gathering crowd of people watching the school burn down in a horrible, crackling inferno.

As firefighters try in vain to fight the blaze, police are leading a handcuffed young woman away from the scene -- one who matches the description of the girl who mugged Fazil.

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" She's shrieking. "IT'S NOT FAIR!! IT WAS AUBURN'S TURN!! HE DESERVES TO WIN!!!"

They put the girl into a police cruiser, who's still cracking up, and shrieking, and crying, and pleading her case. Auburn Brantly himself watches on, embarrassed and sullen.

"Wow," Amber says, approaching you on your other side. "That's fucked up."

"Yeah," you say.

"Terrible way to kick off my presidency."

"Yeah..." Rose agrees.

"Now I know how you feel, huh," Amber tells you.

"Don't worry," you offer. "I'll get Whitney to buy you guys a new school."

"Oh, sure. That's great. You're swell, Alabaster -- the bee's knees."

You stand side by side with her and watch the school burn.

"You didn't order this, right?" You ask Rose.

"I might have been involved with the laptop thing, but this -- no. No."

"What about you?" You ask Amber.

"Burning the school down is so 2014. Pretty lame if you ask me."

"Some people just don't know how to lose with grace..." Rose murmurs.

"Shut up."

She shuts up.

END OF EPISODE 9.

March 15, 2014

The Mallory household is blandly stately with its three car garage, with the little tree in its little circle of tiny gray stones in an off-center spot on the manicured lawn, with the attic's circular window, with a neat side path leading to a picket-fenced backyard complete with below-ground pool. The interior is just the same: brightly lit with a clean, predominantly white color palette and high living room overlooked by the second floor hall, alcoves near the ceiling decorated with fake plastic ferns that must surely be a nightmare to dust.

Mrs. Mallory leafs through some of the mail that she picked up on her way in the door, tossing the junk in a recycling bin under a side-table by the coat racks, keeping the spare few important items in hand. Now, picking up a letter opener and slicing into the first envelope, she pauses to tell you: "I smell onions -- Saul must be getting started!"

You sniff at the air. Yeah, there it is: the inviting scent of caramelizing onions, plus wine.

"We have spaghetti Friday every week," Mrs. Mallory explains. "Saul makes a sauce that's just divine! We skipped yesterday's--" she pauses, without explaining why, but of course it's because they were at the funeral. After a beat, she continues: "I told him to make it tonight instead, for you. I think you'll love it."

Mrs. Mallory unfurls the letter in her hands and scans it, frowning. "How many times can the humane society ask for a donation?" She grumbles. "We just gave them $1500!"

And yet, despite her grumbling, she grabs a gold pen from the marbled side-table, leans over it and begins to fill out the donation form included with the letter.

These are the Mallorys. Cooking wine-based marinara in their mansion and dropping thousands of dollars in charity to animal shelters the way a normal person would buy a candy bar on impulse at the checkout lane.

Mrs. Mallory puts her donation form in the postage-paid envelope included with the ask letter, licks the seal with her little pink tongue and closes it. She sets it in an outbox of sorts, a dark brown wicker basket on top of the side-table. She smiles at you. "Take off your shoes. Make yourself at home, Alabaster. Oh, and -- if you decide to move in, we'll convert the guest bedroom for your use--"

"Guest bedroom," you murmur, mostly to yourself.

She firmly rubs your shoulder. "You're not just a guest, of course. It'll be your bedroom, with all of your things in it. You're a member of this family, too. Remember that. No matter what."

"What about Cerise?"

"You're such a dear," she says. "Worrying about your sister first. Well, no need to. We have space for her as well. The basement is fully finished. We'll let her use it as a bedroom while she's trying to get herself started in a place of her own."

Your sister the basement dweller. In less dire times, you would have ribbed her endlessly about it. Now the thought brings you no joy at all. You only feel sorry. For her, for you.

As Mrs. Mallory leads you towards the stairs, you pass the arched entry to the kitchen, and see Mr. Mallory walking back and forth, busily cooking. He wears an apron and carries a wooden stirring spoon. He tastes a dollop of his sauce, considers it, and begins adding more spices to the steaming pot on the stove. His apron is pink and frilly -- talk about pussy-whipped.

Mrs. Mallory hollers up the stairs: "Rose, honey! Come out of your cave!"

A few moments later you hear a rustling sound and then out comes Rose Mallory, queen bitch of North High, a girl you've diligently avoided for the past couple school years. The politics and cliquey culture clashes of your school never interested you in the slightest, so she's been easy to duck all this time. You're quite well aware of her, of course, and her reputation as tyrant; she's also quite well aware of you, since you're captain of the school's most successful competitive team by far. You've even shared the stage at pep rallies a few times. But you don't recall ever having spoken to her directly, even once. Sadly, you won't be able to keep the streak going any longer. In a way, this is the first time you've ever met.

"Rose, this is Alabaster Soliloquy. He's Scarlett's son. He might be coming to live with us, so I wanted you two to be better acquainted."

She frowns down the stairs at you. This girl is maybe a few hairs over five foot, and nicely fills out her conservative blouse and midi skirt -- enough to make the frumpy secretary-core getup look almost indecent. You'd maybe find her attractive, if you didn't know what kind of person inhabited that body -- and also for the fact that she's your... cousin? Some flavor of cousin, anyway.

"You've met before, right?" Mrs. Mallory asks.

"Sort of," you reply. You don't break eye contact with Rose. She doesn't break eye contact with you. She regards you like an apex predator stalking a wounded gazelle that got separated from the pack. No sir, you don't like it.

"It's rather interesting," Rose says, still staring. "We've known each other for so long, but I had no idea that we were cousins all this time."

"You're one generation removed, actually," Mrs. Mallory corrects.

"First cousins, once removed -- I'll make a note of that," Rose muses.

"Why don't you show him around the house?"

She slowly descends the stairs, the royal highness deigning to mingle with a commoner. As she slinks down the final couple steps, her height draws level with yours, and then lower, and lower again, until she's at last her real size relative to you, the crown of her head coming barely past your chin.

"This way," she demands.

You already don't like that -- the bossy tone of her voice, and not even a hello, or a how are you, or a nice to see you. But you would rather not give Mrs. Mallory the impression that you're impolite. Too much aggravation lies that way. Better for now to go with the flow.

Rose leads you through the kitchen, where she stops to listlessly indicate its size. Unlike his bitchy daughter, Mr. Mallory does greet you hello and asks how you're holding up. You reply that you're doing fine. Although you hardly hear him, are hardly paying any attention, nor are you paying attention to room's opulence, its asymmetric travertine tiling, its cherry mahogany cabinets stacked with food, its smart fridge and granite countertops. Your focus is undivided, eyes squarely on Rose Mallory the entire time, who's making rather a show of her own disinterest -- who seems keen that you know exactly how little she wanted this task she's been handed.

Into the enormous garage now, through the entry connected to the kitchen. She shuts the door behind you, and it feels like being locked in a cell with an unhinged cellmate.

There's an African grey parrot in a large enclosure here, which Rose takes a moment to feed. It eats seed right from Rose's cupped palm as she ruffles the feathers on the side of its head.

The parrot throws its neck back, and swallows happily, and then steps a little forward on the twig serving as it perch. It nuzzles Rose's fingers through the cage's wires. And then it says: "Fuck patriarchy. Fuck patriarchy. Fuck-fuck."

Rose coos. "That's right, Myrna. You're so smart."

Heaven help you.

Rose fills Myrna's feeder and tops off its water bottle, too. Then, turning to face you, she says: "I don't really know what my mother wants... she's got it in her head that we're going to be friends or something, I guess. Wants us to have a play date."

You gaze back at her, wary, but say nothing in turn.

"I'm very sorry for everything you've been through," she says, and this actually seems sincere. "But you understand of course that we're not going to be friends."

"Of course," you repeat.

"Good. That's good."

A lingering silence encroaches. You awkwardly stand there staring at one another. You're not sure why, or what it means. Sizing one another up, you suppose.

Finally, Rose breaks the standoff: "this way."

"No," you tell her.

"Excuse me?"

"No. I'm not going to follow you around like a dog on a leash. 'This way' -- Jesus. I'm not your pet. Show me the upstairs. I want to see this guest bedroom your mom wants me to stay in."

Rose folds her arms, pokes the side of her cheek out with her tongue. She obviously isn't used to people refusing her -- to not getting her way. No sir, she doesn't like it.

"After you," you say, with faux-graciousness. You motion towards the door that leads back to the kitchen.

"Let's get one thing clear," Rose says, standing her ground. "Now I'm going to do my very best to be understanding, of the trauma you've been through. I can't imagine the pain and suffering you're experiencing. But I won't let you bark orders at me, either. You're not my fucking owner."

"But it's perfectly fine for you to bark orders at me--"

"I'm not ordering you around. You're imagining things. I'm simply trying to be a good host, and show you my home. If you don't want me to do that, then I'm perfectly happy to let you show yourself around--"

"--and another thing, Rose. I don't need your quote-unquote understanding. Your fake compassion. Not from you, of all people."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"You're a phony. Everything about you is phony. You might fool the other morons at North High but you don't fool me. So you can drop the bleeding heart act."

"You're in pain. You're lashing out. I understand, Alabaster--" she reaches for you, to touch your hand. But you jerk back, and step away from her.

"Don't touch me."

"Are you going to make this harder than it has to be?"

You narrow your eyes at her. Just what is that supposed to mean? Her pursed lips betray only the slightest hint of a grin at their edges. She suppresses it, but you get the sinking sense that she wanted you to glimpse it all along.

You give as good as you get, though: "I'd still like to see the upstairs. If I come to stay here, I'll be sleeping just a short walk down the hall from your bedroom. I want to get a look at what our new living arrangement might look like, before I decide."

A shadow passes over her face. There's nothing wrong in what you said, on the surface. But a worried mental calculation is clacking away inside her skull as she processes the possible implications. It's only brief, blink-and-you'll-miss it. She smooths her skirt and composes herself right away, and on again comes the mask, a bright sun-shiny smile: "That's fine. I was going to take you upstairs next, anyway, so no need to argue back and forth like this. Please, Alabaster --" she pauses. "This way..."

You follow her. It's hard to say who came out on top here.

Upstairs, Rose points you to the door to what is apparently the guest bedroom, the one that may belong to you for the next year or so. Of course, you were clear about where the two of you stand, and now it's time to make your point. You don't open the door she directs you to, but rather the one right beside, which leads to her bedroom.

You cast an appraising glance up and down. It's different from what you expected: cherry-pink walls, a dresser lined with lace and stacked with stuffed animals. A four-post bed with a gossamer veil over it, fit for a fairy-tale princess. And on top of the sheets, still buzzing, a Hitachi magic wand. Mrs. Mallory dragged Rose away from something quite important, it seems.

You have but a moment to take this in before Rose is physically removing you, grabbing you from behind and tugging you away from the threshold with strength that surprises and, frankly, frightens you. "What are you doing?!" She wails. She slams her door shut.

The cub is in danger and mama bear is on high alert: Mrs. Mallory is at the foot of the stairs in a millisecond. "Is everything all right?" She asks up at you.

Rose turns and smiles down at her mom. "It's fine. Alabaster accidentally went into the wrong bedroom... that's all."

Mrs. Mallory laughs. "It takes some getting used to."

"Of course," Rose agrees.

Mrs. Mallory goes away again. Rose meets your eyes -- she's far from happy. "I didn't give you permission to go into my bedroom."

"No, you didn't."

"I'm going to tell my mother that you're dangerous. You won't be living with us."

"You had a chance to tell her, just now. You didn't take it. Why?"

Rose says nothing, so you turn again for her room, and reach again for the door handle. Rose, much quieter than her first outburst, but still forceful, tries to tug you back a second time. You're prepared for it now, and you use the momentum to reverse things, to spin around with her and get her up against the wall separating the two bedrooms. You lay your palms flat against the drywall on either side of her and lean in, leering down at her. The size difference is acutely apparent to her all of a sudden, and she begins to tremble before your penetrating gaze.

"I told you not to touch me," you say.

"I told you not to go into my room," she says, trying at fearless, but her voice quavers.

"Are you going to make this harder than it has to be?" Unlike Rose when she used this line on you, you let her see your grin.

"I knew it. You're a creep. A nerdy, anime-watching, know-it-all, quiz-virgin loser--"

You lean in even closer -- your lips are practically touching. "I've had a rough week, Rose. I'm not in my right mind at the moment. You'd better watch what you say to a boy who's in pain, and lashing out..."

Her breath catches. You let the fear percolate through her for a brief moment. And then you step back, freeing her.

"You think you scare me?" Rose says, already forgetting herself. "You're pathetic. A little freak like you is nothing to me. For your own sake, you'd better not come to stay here. I'll make your life a living hell, Alabaster, I swear to god. Go live in a group home with the other rejects where you belong."

You adopt a chipper tone. "No, I think I've already decided. I'll come to live here after all."

Rose searches your face, trying to gauge it for a hint of sarcasm, or some kind of tell, and comes away empty-handed.

"You're not used to it, are you," you say.

"Used to what?" She spits.

"You know what. A person who doesn't buy the bullshit. A person who isn't afraid of you. A person who you can't control."

She shakes her head. "You think you know everything about me, don't you? But you know really very little."

"No. I know your type. Rah-rah social justice hypocrites, out to be the fucking fun police because it's the only way you can feel like you've got a little power over someone else."

"Is that so?" Rose asks with a smirk, the way a mother might humor a child describing an outlandish daydream.

"It is."

She folds her arms underneath her breasts -- as if to purposely accentuate them. "I'm not opposed to fun at all, Alabaster. You'll find that out. But you're right on one account -- yes, I seek success and influence. There's absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to win in life. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean--"

"How fucking stupid. What's the point of trying to win if you don't even care what it is you're achieving?"

"And here is where you're wrong, again. There's something very important I want to achieve."

"Which is what," you say flatly.

"Not just to win. To make sure everyone else loses."

You can't help wincing at such a nakedly brutal admission of the inner workings of her mind. A beat passes, then without anything further Rose turns, and goes back to her bedroom. She slams the door behind you. It's hard to tell, maybe your mind just playing tricks, but the thin buzz of that magic wand doesn't seem to stop.

This situation may be even more difficult than you expected.

---

Mr. Mallory's spaghetti sauce is fucking delectable, 10/10, a savory treat, a scrumptious feast. If you hadn't already decided on it, the promise of having this as your weekly dinner fare, free-of-charge, would have decided it for you. This motherfucker can cook.

Unfortunately, it's accompanied by the bitter after-taste: Rose sitting directly across from you at the table. Between her presence, and the persistent nausea that's been dogging you all week long, you can only poke at your food, and you end up eating very little, as amazing as the cooking is. This in turn gives Mr. and Mrs. Mallory the impression that you're depressed. Which you are, but for the time being you're less focused on your inner demons and more focused on Rose, on how quickly you're growing to hate her, in a very real and visceral way. It's honestly all you can focus on at the moment. She thinks she's so fucking great... you'll show her.

She made a point of bringing a book to the table, and has it propped open in front of her, rather than eating. You keep reading and rereading the subtitle on the cover, trying to make sense of it: an intersectional critique of video games through the lens of gender politics, race and class? What?

Mrs. Mallory tries to distract you from what she thinks is brooding over your recent loss. "Cerise tells me that you're on a quiz bowl team, is that so? You made the state championship this year?"

"Yeah," you say, twirling your fork through the pasta, gaze still fixed on Rose, who's still reading -- although she hasn't turned the page in quite some time, you notice. Is she really reading after all?

"Will you be on the team again next year?" Mrs. Mallory prompts.

"Probably."

Now Mr. Mallory's turn to try getting more than one-word responses out of you. "We'll keep you trained through the summer. You know -- I'm something of a trivia hound myself. Hey, I've got one for you."

You wait.

"Who's buried in Grant's Tomb?"

You begin to reply, but Rose cuts you off. "No one is buried in Grant's Tomb. It's above ground -- a mausoleum."

She finally turns her page, but pauses for just a moment to look up, and grin slyly at you.

"Rose..." Mrs. Mallory chides.

"What?" She says, defensive. "If Alabaster knows the answer, he still has to say it first. That's how the quiz bowl works, isn't it?"

"Uh-oh," Mr. Mallory says. He nudges you. "You've got trouble, Alabaster. I don't know what you did -- but Rose must think you're a threat."

"He's no threat," Rose says, airy. She turns another page -- way too quickly for the pace she was on before -- she's definitely faking. Is there a single genuine thing about this cunt?

"I wish you would be less rude," Mrs. Mallory says. "Like it or not, he's family."

"It's fine," you say. "I don't mind a little competition. I'll win, anyway."

Rose pulls a face.

Mr. Mallory quirks an eyebrow at you, but doesn't say whatever is on his mind. Mrs. Mallory puts a hand on yours: "Have you given any more thought -- you know -- to the living situation?"

"Yes," you say. You tear your eyes away from Rose for the first time, long enough to give Mrs. Mallory a warm smile, false as it may be. You can be just as phony as Rose. Here's a demonstration for her: "I'll stay here... if you're okay with it... I don't want to be a burden."

Mrs. Mallory hugs you tight. A little too tight -- your air is somewhat restricted. Rose rolls her eyes at you while her mother can't see.

"That's wonderful, just wonderful," Mrs. Mallory says. "We'll get a moving crew right away -- tomorrow! Of course we're okay with it! Alabaster, you're no burden! You and your sister are always welcome in this house!"

Your turn to grin slyly at Rose.

August 16, 2014
 
Rose was supposed to be grounded. Charlotte was quite clear about it. The things that girl says and does to Alabaster honestly horrify Charlotte sometimes -- Rose can be so cruel towards him. And Alabaster is such a sensitive soul, one who really can't handle the bullying. He came to Charlotte in tears about it, and that cinched it. She had had enough. She laid down the law and revoked all of Rose's privileges for two weeks.
 
Unfortunately, Saul has exactly the opposite take on things. He's got it in his head that Alabaster is some sort of master manipulator and that Rose is the real victim here. It's easy to see why. Rose has Saul wrapped around her pinky finger, commands the kind of authority over him that Charlotte only wishes she could. He seems almost constitutionally incapable of saying the word no to her. All Rose ever has to do is turn on the waterworks, tell a distorted version of events, and call him "daddy" gratuitously, and all of a sudden she magically gets whatever she wants. Charlotte could almost respect the con if she wasn't at least a little bit jealous of it too. Saul isn't 1/1000th as yielding to her over anything.
 
So rather than being confined to the house this Saturday, Rose is at the shooting range with Saul. He claims that giving them time apart from one another will cool the tensions between Rose and Alabaster, but Charlotte is peeved all the same. Saul didn't discuss it with her beforehand. Just texted her when he was already on his way to the range with Rose. The nerve of that man. She could honestly throttle him.
 
Alabaster said that he was going to a friend's house today, which means that Charlotte is facing another lonely Saturday, stranded at home with nothing much to do. She hates taking up all the domestic duties when she could be doing much more stimulating things, but the rates for maid services are absurd nowadays. With the extra expenses of having another dependent to care for, something had to give. So, bored, and knowing that none of the slovenly pigs sharing this roof with her will do it themselves, Charlotte resigns herself to laundry duty.
 
She goes room to room, gathering clothes into hampers. It always makes her marvel. Rose is so meticulously organized in nearly every aspect of her life, but as soon as she's in her en-suite bathroom at the end of the day, she just tosses her underwear on the ground like a litterbug tossing away a candy wrapper. It's disgusting, and indecent, especially now that she has to share the bathroom with Alabaster. Not that Alabaster is any better -- Charlotte once discovered a sock dangling from the blade of his bedroom's ceiling fan. That level of dedication to being a slob almost loops back around to admirable. Almost.
 
This afternoon, when Charlotte leaves Rose's bedroom with a hamper-full of laundry on her hip and turns now towards Alabaster's room, she unexpectedly hears noise from within. Alabaster hasn't left yet after all. She raises a hand to tap on his door, to warn him that she's coming in. But she stops herself and considers what sort of noise it is she hears in there. It's a wet, rhythmic slapping, like someone tenderizing meat. She puts her fingers to her lips in sudden realization. Oh my. That's precisely what it is she hears.
 
Blushing deeply, she turns for the stairs. Alabaster is a red-blooded young man, so this sort of thing is perfectly normal -- and stumbling across it is an occupational hazard of raising a teenage boy. He deserves a little bit of privacy. At least, Charlotte reasons, he isn't sleeping around with loose girls. She'll give him the space he needs for his fun.
 
At the top of the staircase, Charlotte sets the laundry down, wheels back around, and walks to Alabster's door again.
 
What is wrong with you, Charlotte? She doesn't know. It's true that she has stolen some very unmotherly glances in Alabaster's direction before, and has harbored some very unchaste thoughts. She has appreciated the view through the kitchen window when Alabaster swims in the pool, the way his wet swim trunks adhere to the obviously sizable package he's blessed with. She has enjoyed seeing him lick an ice cream cone and imagined what else that tongue might be capable of. But idle passing fantasies are one thing. To stand outside his door and listen to him play with himself is entirely another. That crosses a line, surely, yes? She's supposed to be a mother to him. Here she is eavesdropping on how he beats off -- acting like a horny teenager herself.
 
It's so wrong. She can't tear herself away. She wants to. But the increasing volume of Alabaster's self-abuse transfixes her. Charlotte has seen the rubber masturbation device he keeps stowed under his bed and thinks he must be using it right now. The slick wet sloshing and squishing isn't at all like the noise merely jerking off would create. The idea sends a nasty shiver down Charlotte's spine and makes her tingle between her legs. Alabaster is fucking a synthetic pussy... right now... he's not just masturbating, he's trying to mate...
 
Charlotte thinks about that. The youthful desperation Alabaster must be going through. The indiscriminate need to fuck something and cum inside it, whatever or whoever it is. That need has to be especially strong for a boy like him, with a penis like his, so big, and meaty, and throbbing with manliness beyond his years. It must cause him such terrible pain and discomfort when it gets erect. The poor thing. She hates to think of Alabaster in pain, of course... she'd dearly like to help him through it in any way she can... she'd be very good at it.
 
Charlotte feels her breath hitch and is keenly aware of how wet she's getting. What a shameless whore you are, she thinks to herself, to lust after your adopted son. But she can't help it. The wild sound of Alabaster relieving that ache in his big dick, is just too alluring: the squeak of the chair he's sitting in, the thudding of his ass bouncing up and down as he humps his plastic pussy. Come out of your room, Alabaster, she thinks deliriously... come out of there and I'll give you a nice, warm, real pussy to use... to relieve that achey dick inside of. You won't be truly relieved until you cum inside a real woman, will you? Your big dick will just keep hurting and throbbing and pulsing and looking for a cunt to fuck. Mommy understands... of course she does...
 
Alabaster starts to grunt and groan a little. He's really getting into it! What a virile young man. She wonders whether she'd be able to withstand the full brunt of his animal lust. If he pinned her down and fucked her like that... would it hurt? She definitely wouldn't be able to stop him, not when he's like this. But that's okay, she thinks. She doesn't mind if it hurts her a little, as long as it takes some of the stress off his shoulders. He deserves it for everything he's been through. Though there are also other ways to take proper care of a boy like him. She rubs her massive breasts through her sweater, her own genetic blessing... these would give Alabaster some much-needed pleasure, too. And as a bonus -- she'd get to see that big fucking cock thrusting up and down right in front of her face. She licks her lips. That would be such a wonderful sight.
 
Charlotte runs a hand down between her legs, and lewdly rubs the crotch of her jeans. She's so hot right now. Alabaster isn't the only one who needs a little relief; she wants to enjoy herself, too. As Alabaster's primal lust carries him to higher heights, Charlotte presses her eardrum right up against the door, listens in. She unbuttons her pants and finds her clit through her panties.
 
"Ungh... ungh..." she hears Alabaster grunt. His exhalations are muffled, he's trying to suppress them. But she can tell he's close to orgasm. Her hand against her cunt quickens. And then all of a sudden it arrives; she can hear the masculine forcefulness of his climax even though he keeps it barely more audible than a hissed whisper. "Ungh... oh, fuu-uuck... oooh..."
 
That's it, baby, she thinks. Cum for me. Get it all out. I hope it feels really good for you... it feels really good for me, too...
 
She loses herself in her own lustful thoughts. She stands there with her jeans half undone and continues to masturbate in front of Alabaster's door. But a few moments later, she hears movement from within, and startled, she makes herself decent again. She picks the laundry hamper up and hurries downstairs, still in a state of terrible need, her head filled with obscene and incestuous images.
 
From the downstairs hallway, dropping clothes into the washing machine, Charlotte spies Alabaster heading for the front door. "Back later," he says to her, when he notices her staring at him. Even though he just came, he looks so energized, vital -- male. A boy like him is going to be horny again in about five minutes, she just knows it. It's all she can do not to grab him and pin him down and demand that he blow his next load directly inside her.
 
She waits a little over a minute after he leaves before she runs upstairs and straight into his room.
 
It stinks like teenage boy, that unfortunate combination of hormonal sweat and stale cum. She's in heaven. Or more like a pig at a trough. Atop Alabaster's desk, glistening, is his rubber cum-sleeve... and on the floor in front of his computer chair, discarded without a thought, are his soiled boxers. He must have used them to wipe his cum on. The blue fabric is stained a pearly white and stuck together in places. She falls to her knees and grabs the sticky underwear, and she no longer cares about anything like dignity. She mashes the boxers right against her face and inhales deeply, and adores the way his musky dick-reek overloads her brain. She needs to taste it, too.
 
Frustrated and needing to get off now more than ever, she tugs her pants and panties down, and tosses them aside. She sits on her plump butt spread-eagle on the floor of the bedroom, huffing and licking Alabaster's cum straight off his underwear while she diddles her oozing cunt. His load is still warm. It's salty and bitter the way cum should taste, and so incredibly thick. It sticks to the back of her throat and fries anything left of her rationality. She begins to grunt, voice muffled by the material: "that's right baby, inside... cum inside me, please... you need my pussy, don't you? You need my pussy... you need my pussy so fucking bad."
 
Faster and faster her fingers work -- harder and harder she cums. Awash in her own perversion, she rants. "Feel good with mommy... feel good with my body... oh I'm so sorry I'm such a slut, baby... get your dick wet in Mommy's slut pussy... cum inside it... feel good..."
 
She hears thudding, approaching footsteps, but she doesn't care. She's close to getting off, and Alabaster's cum is too delicious to stop. She keeps playing with her horny cunt as the steps draw closer. It's only by Charlotte's blind luck that on his way up the stairs, Alabaster coughs, and Charlotte recognizes the voice. It pulls her back from the brink but only long enough to panic. There's no time to get decent. Alabaster is about to walk in on her masturbating, right there in the open on his bedroom floor. He's about to see his adoptive mother using his discarded cum rag to get off with.
 
She does the only thing she can do: she rolls onto her back and slides under his bed. From her position, she sees the door creaking open and Alabaster's tennis shoes coming in. She's naked from the waist down and her bottoms are still lying out in plain view. Fear battles with lust in her brain. He's going to see her clothes there and get suspicious. He'll know what she's doing.
 
In her hands, she still clasps his messy underwear -- despite the fear, she needs to get off, and now she presses the cum-stained thing directly against her pulsating cunt lips. She rubs the rough, slimy, sticky cotton against her clit like a madwoman. The texture of it is so nasty and dirty and wonderful. She pulls the collar of her sweater up and chews it like a horse's bit to keep from wailing in ecstasy.
 
Alabaster walks around his room, looking for something. He apparently finds it and leaves again. He didn't notice Charlotte's clothes on the floor, or at least gave no indication he did. Charlotte shudders, full of adrenaline, and ready for the best climax of her life. Alabaster's cum is warm and wet against her pussy. She paws her tits, tweaking the nipples, as she rubs Alabaster's hot fertile sperm into her hot fertile cunt-hole. She actually screams when the orgasm hits; can't help it. The debauchery and disgusting awfulness of what she's doing only accentuates how fucking good it feels. God does she want Alabaster to blow his fucking nuts inside her. She needs it so bad.
 
Breathless, spent, she sprawls out in the narrow space under his bed and just basks in the afterglow. For many long minutes, she idly sucks his cum-smeared underwear like a lollipop. It's the best thing she's ever tasted. She sucks on it, her tongue swirling around and savoring the smelly load, until all of it is gone and the underwear is clean. She smiles to herself. Just doing her baby boy's laundry for him. That's all.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, billionaire bishonen and campaign manager.

Cerise sits at the center of the long dining room table, staring at a three-tiered cake baked personally by you and Mom. The number 26 burns atop it. You and the rest of the partygoers are crowded around, finishing off a rendition of "Happy Birthday" by performing the requisite encore, Rose harmonizing in a surprisingly skilled mezzo-soprano:

"For she's a jolly good fellllow" -- "(Fellow~)" -- "For she's a jolly good fellllow" -- "(Fellow~)" -- "For she's a jolly good fell-ell-oow---"

A pause from the revelers now, as you all regard the birthday girl; but Cerise's eyes are fixed firmly on the cake, her face a deepening red.

"Which nobody can deny!" -- "(Deny~)" -- "Which nobody can deny!" -- "(Deny~)" -- "Which nobody can deny!"

Cerise sighs, a look on her face like someone who has entered their garage only to find their car sitting up on blocks and the water heater leaking and the pet lizards all dead in the terrarium.

Mom prods her shoulder. "Make a wish, dear."

Cerise thinks. She draws a deep breath as if to blow the candles out, but then stops, and thinks some more instead.

Then she springs to her feet and flees from the room, sobbing. The wake of her exit ironically snuffs the candles out anyway, and the after-scent of singed wax fills your nostrils.

"Cerise -- wait!" Dr. Carte calls. She follows her out. Can never stop babysitting her, for any reason, even now.

"This is as I warned," Fazil says solemnly. "It is true across all cultures. Women are sensitive about aging. We should have used a 0 rather than a 6, as a gentle joke to defuse the tension."

"Goddamn it," you mutter. To occupy your hands, you pull the burnt-out candles from the fluffy whipped icing and set them on a nearby napkin. The rest of the guests are various mixtures of perplexed, embarrassed, and saddened. Only Amber, in the back of the room towards the walls, is anything like unfazed; she plays on her phone without paying attention to the outburst. Contrast this against Alex who vacillates between following Cerise as well or not, and settles instead on nervously fidgeting with his shirt sleeves. Or Mom, who's actually tearing up, Charlotte trying to console her with a borrowed tissue. Or Vivian who glumly turns from the table and towards the tall windows facing the patio, to peer out at the bright late-summer morning and contemplate something, probably along the lines of life's essential futility.

Saul clasps a hand on your shoulder: "You should go make sure she's okay," he whispers.

You hate to admit when he's right, but he is.

"Uh..." Whitney begins, clearing her throat, catching everyone's attention. "Is anyone going to dive into this cake or what?"

When she receives nothing but awkward murmurs and diverted gazes, she picks up a pie knife. 

"Fine," she says. She cuts a big slice from the top tier. "I'll do it myself, then. Can't let a perfectly good cake to go to waste, can we?"

---

You can hear, thinly, the conversation inside Cerise's room from the other side of her door.

"It's not like that. You're still young. You're in your 20s for goodness sake. You want to feel old? Just wait until you get to my age!"

"I'm so fucking ancient -- Jeeesus. Where did my life go?" Cerise has a frog in her throat from the tears that continue to flow.

"Come on, now. Let's get you out of here. We can go do something fun!"

"Like what?"

"Anything. What do you want to do?"

"Die. I just want to die..."

You've had about all you can take of Cerise's woe-is-me act. You barge in, stride to where she's sitting on her bed, and grab her by the arm. She clutches at your wrist with her free hand and tries to wriggle free. But you're much stronger, so you win out -- you haul her up from the bed and drag her bodily from her bedroom. She stumbles and stomps to keep up with your brisk pace.

"Let go of me, Alabaster! What the fuck!" Her eyes are still red and rheumy. She sniffles back her snot.

Dr. Carte is following the two of you out into the hallway. She's smiling. At least someone here is amused.

"Let's go," you say. "We're gonna have a good day today. You're gonna open birthday presents, eat birthday cake, and do birthday things."

You let Cerise struggle free of you for now. She steps back and stands up straight, facing off against you at the top of the staircase. "Who the fuck made you king shit of birthday mountain?" She snarls.

"I did. Boo hoo, Cerise, you're 26. Are you gonna mope about it until you're 27?"

She throws her hands up. "So what if I do? What business of it is yours?"

"He just cares about you, Cerise," Dr. Carte offers.

"He's got some way of showing it!" Cerise rubs at her shoulder, apparently sore from the rough treatment. "Dragging me around like a sack of potatoes. So brotherly."

"I spent over $100,000 on your birthday presents this year," you say. "The least you can do is act like you care."

Cerise is momentarily cowed by this. She glances away and her hard expression disappears. But then she tries: "We're billionaires... $100,000 is nothing to us."

"What's the matter with you? Nothing is different today. Everything is just the same today, as it was yesterday. Age is nothing but an arbitrary number--"

"Oh! Now there's an argument you're used to making, huh?"

"It's true! It's emphatically true!"

"I'm just so sick..." Cerise says. "I'm sick of being a ticking time bomb. I'm sick of being this burden you guys keep having to babysit... I'm sick of this thing inside my eyeball."

You study her face. She's on the verge of tears again, her lips quivering, and she can't meet your gaze. You turn to Dr. Carte: "When are we going to hear back from Gustav?"

"It should be soon, but your guess is as good as mine. I sent a priority envelope with Gal's suggestion in it, but no word yet."

You frown. "Gal? Since when did you and Galatea get that chummy?"

"Never mind that," Dr. Carte says. "I'm sure it'll be soon."

Cerise shakes her head. "It's a hail Mary. What if this Gustav person can't help me, either? I'm just stuck being half a person for the rest of my life?"

You pull her close, both hands on her shoulders. "Stop it. I can't have you doing this 'I want to die' thing. Do you understand?"

"But--"

"I'm not good at this shit..." you grouse. "But... look. I already know what it's like to lose you. I lost you once already. I lived without you in my life for more than a year. And..." You gulp, trying to find your words. "Even though you can be such a pain in my ass... such a bitchy, shit-taste-having fujo of a sister -- you're my sister. I -- I need you around. What the fuck good is Alabaster Soliloquy without Cerise Soliloquy?"

"Well," Cerise says, voice soft. "Alabaster Soliloquy is already a pretentious asshole who never grew out of moeshit and still thinks he's got the right to criticize other people's taste. So."

"So," you say, "just imagine what he would be like if he didn't have his older sister to bitch at him sometimes."

She looks up suddenly, and lurches forward, and kisses you deeply. It's a kiss that tastes of toothpaste and mouthwash, that almost but not quite masks the taste of last night's stale beer. Despite that, you return it, squeezing her shoulders, and inhaling deeply. She's lovely and warm against you. Dr. Carte can't be too surprised -- and she can't judge you either, given her own exploits. So you don't care that you've got an audience.

Except now the audience of one becomes an audience of two.

"I just wanted to check on Cerise," comes Mom's voice as she ascends the stairs. "Is she all r--"

You and Cerise pull away from one another and quickly try to assume a nonchalant stance -- but it's far too late for that. Mom's eyes are saucers as she stands frozen on the top step.

"O-oh..." she finally stammers. "Excuse me..."

She turns and practically runs down the stairs.

"Fucking stupendous..." Cerise grumbles.

You shrug. "Okay then... plan B. Suicide pact?"

Downstairs, Cerise opens the small mountain of presents. Mom sits in the corner, avoiding eye contact. Cerise is glum, but for reasons the rest of the guests couldn't possibly suspect.

"I'll help you set it up, iff'n you want," Ken tells Cerise as she puzzles over the drone he got her.

"I think I'll be able to figure it out," she says, trying to force a smile.

"Ayup," he agrees. "I reckon you've got the aptitude for it."

---

"Lifetime free lunch buffets at Sizzler... thank you, Tyrus..."

"Don't mention it. -- Uh. For real though. Don't mention it to anyone else. And only use it at the ones here in town."

---

"Oh my gosh -- all 23 volumes?" Cerise's smile here is genuine as she unwraps the first-run tankōbon collection, every single volume of Fruits Basket in the original Japanese. The anime was one of Cerise's first (yours, too, since you had a habit of sneaking her VHS tapes).

"Open the inside cover of volume 1," Nelson says, proud of himself.

"Signed, too!" Cerise marvels. "Holy shit."

She hugs him. He winces at this; not a very touchy-feely person. Stepping back and pushing his glasses up his nose, he says: "it's the least I can do for one of my best employees. Happy birthday, Cerise."

---

"Uh. Thanks." Cerise glances back at you, unsure what to do with what Stackleford has just handed her: a cellophane-wrapped collection of hot sauce bottles with names like "Colon Blow" and "Ass-Blastin Ghost Pepper Sauce." Cerise has never indicated a particular love of spicy food, so how he got it in his head that she would want this is beyond you.

"Yo, no need to thank me. Stacks has you covered."

"He sure does," Cerise says. She purses her lips.

"But, uh. You can hug me too. If you want." He holds his arms wide.

"I think I'm good."

"Oh."

"Thanks anyway."

He lets his hands fall to his side.

Amber glances up from her phone for the first time all day. "Is that Colon Blow?"

Cerise nods.

"Love that shit," Amber says.

"Amber!" Mom chides. "Language."

"Can I have it? I'll pay you back."

"Amber!" Mom says again. "You can't ask for someone's birthday presents--"

But Cerise is just fine with that. She hands the whole package to her. Stackleford looks somewhat aghast and heartbroken, but says nothing.

Rose2 makes a sour face. "You better not put that in my contact solution like last time," she says.

Amber sticks her tongue out at her older sister. Then, looking down at the hot sauces, she laughs: "Heeheeh. So good. I'm gonna be pooping fire for the next year. Awesome..."

You grimace.

---

"For the girl who has everything!" Alex says.

"You cheeky little bitch!" Cerise laughs. "This is so cool..."

She marvels at the new coffee table that Whitney just crowbarred free of its enormous shipping crate. It's a big sleek metal thing with a glass inlay on the top, showing the periodic table of the elements -- each square containing an actual sample (that explains the radiation stickers on the crate).

Cerise might rib you for being a dork, but this is precisely the kind of dorky shit she loves, too.

"Do you like it?" Alex says.

"Of course I do. Come here--"

She grabs him before he can get away, and gives him a noogie. He protests, but seems to enjoy it.

---

"Wait a second. Comiket is in America now?"

"Oh goodness," Rose says. "I should cherish this. I know something more than this house's resident weeaboo #2."

Cerise examines the confirmation slips. Rose bought three VIP passes to winter Comiket in LA, and Cerise's first question is the same as yours: "Why three?"

"One for you, one for Alabaster, and one for me."

"Since when do you care about anime conventions?" You demand.

"The VIP pass guarantees you get first priority at a lot of special events," Rose says. "And rumor has it that ZUN is going to be there. Naturally, I'd like to meet him."

You roll your eyes. The day Rose saw you trying to play one of those games will forever live in your memory as one of your worst mistakes. The chain of events it set off almost led to your downfall as President of the NHS StuCo...

---

"It's really quite something," Charlotte says, "They have so many different troupes that come through. You can see everything from Shakespeare, to Cirque du Soleil, to standup comedy, to opera... it's fully worth the money."

Cerise hugs her. She may not get much actual use out of a season pass to the local theater, but she appreciates the sentiment all the same.

"By the way," you ask. "How was court?"

Charlotte sighs sadly. "The judge didn't like us. We'll have to appeal... the FBI investigation will continue, for now..."

"Don't worry. I've got another idea," Saul says. "If Uncle Sam wants to keep pushing us over this -- there's a great Third Amendment argument to be made against granting the US Military access to the Sand Reckoner platform. We can do a little tit for tat and force the government to back off if they want to keep using our tech."

"This again?" Charlotte says. "Saul. Please. Let's focus on less specious avenues of attack."

Saul addresses you rather than his wife: "It makes perfect sense. If soldiers are allowed to instantly trawl our personal data, then are we not, in some sense, being forced to quarter soldiers? It's a clear violation of the constitution--"

Charlotte isn't buying it. "It's honestly a sickness at this point with you, Saul. I'm serious. Why are you so obsessed with getting the first landmark case on the Third Amendment?"

"It has nothing to do with that!" Saul insists. "Alabaster, forgive her. We both know that Charlotte isn't exactly a titanic legal mind. So of course she doesn't understand the essential point--"

"Oh!" Charlotte shouts. "I'm sorry. How many times have you argued before the Supreme Court again? Refresh my memory. Because I'm pretty sure the score there is 2-0!"

"You're perfectly correct, dear," Saul says. "And the score on cases lost at the Supreme Court is also 2-0..."

"You didn't seem so goddamn smarmy about it when you were asking whether I could get Anthony Kennedy's autograph -- BOTH times I went..."

Oh, would you look at the time. It's noon. Must be time for Saul and Charlotte to spend a few hours bickering. Saul tries to be the bigger man, and walk away, but Charlotte won't let him. She follows him right out of the dining room and into the living room, and the muffled sounds of their shouting underpin the rest of the festivities.

---

The guests are thinning out and going home. Cerise hasn't opened your presents yet, but that's by design.

Amber and Rose2 are hanging out by the front door, bored and antsy to get going. Mom hugs Cerise goodbye -- things are still a bit awkward.

"Are you -- feeling any better now?" Mom asks her as she steps back from the embrace.

Cerise struggles with how to answer. "Yeah... it wasn't -- I mean --" She trails off and rubs her elbow. "I'm fine."

"Good. That's good."

Mom glances between you and Cerise. "I--" she begins. She seems conflicted. But then something seems to settle in her mind. She smiles wanly, but warmly: "be safe, you two."

"Mom?" Cerise says.

She hugs Cerise again, more tightly, and emphatically. Then you. She puts a hand on either of your shoulders. "I just want the both of you to be happy. As long as you're happy... well. You're adults."

You look away, abashed. Mom lets go of you. "Happy birthday, Cerise."

She kisses Cerise on the cheek, hugs her again for good measure, and leaves.

You turn and watch Whitney as she struggles to lug the new coffee table into the living room. Alex tries to help, but it's clear who's doing the heavy lifting here.

"Pivot!" Whitney howls.

"I'm trying, Ms. Whitney--"

"Goddamn it, you bitch-ass twink! Hold your end!"

"Sorry! So -- sorry-- agh--"

"What now?" Cerise asks.

[ ] Let's go to Gal's.
[ ] Let's hang out with Dr. Carte.
[ ] Let's go to Mom's place.
>[x] Let's talk with Alex about getting your livestream going again.

Alex collapses on the living room couch, arms flopping uselessly to the cushions as he leans back. "I'm wiped," he groans.

Whitney finishes getting the table set up on her own. "You seriously need to work on your core strength," she says. "Pathetic."

"Uh huh..."

You stand over him. Your shadow falling across his face catches his attention, and he looks up.

"Are you still a patron of the fine arts?" You ask.

"Right about now? I'm a patron of sitting on my butt."

You scoop him into your arms.

"Geez, Ally~" he coos.

You unceremoniously drop him to his feet.

"Ooof-- what the heck. Warn me!"

"Come upstairs with me," you say.

Whitney arches an eyebrow. This is too inviting a setup not to shoehorn herself into -- so you warn her off. "Unless you like the nitty-gritty details of starting an internet livestream dedicated to circuit modification, you might as well find something better to do."

Whitney laughs. "I sort of zoned out in the middle there, but okay... if you fuck him, though, let me know."

Alex blushes. But his excitement wins over his embarrassment: "Really? Cerise is ready to do her circuit bending stream again?"

"She better be. I didn't buy her a top-line PC and brand new wardrobe for it to go to waste."

This is news to Cerise. "You... nooo. Oh my God, Alabaster. Why didn't you ask me first?"

"Forget about that!" Alex says. He takes Cerise's hand. "We definitely have to do it now that Ally went to all this trouble, don't we?"

"You motherfucker," Cerise growls at you. "You set this up so I can't say no."

"Yep," you agree.

Alex is unyielding. "C'mon, Cerise... you already said you'd do your old show again... so what's wrong with right now? Carpe diem, right?"

"Oh, and by the way," you cut in. "I got a wardrobe for you too, Alex. Since you said you'd co-host."

He suddenly looks somewhat more hesitant.

"How did you find a costume that would fit me so-- so well?" Cerise asks, marveling at herself in the mirror. She fills out the bunnygirl costume perfectly. Just as you suspected, an outfit that was way too tight for Charlotte is just perfect for your dear sister. Her choker completes the pseudo-slutty look. You feel a bit weird knowing strangers from all around the globe will be ogling her, but you're fast developing an exhibitionist streak of your own.
 
Alex has finished hooking up the new PC, getting Cerise's new Twitch account ready to go, and arranging a couple webcams. Now he prepares a green screen backdrop and some cheap lights. Cerise's old gear from her prior livestream is finally getting its first use in over five years.
 
"Your turn," you tell Alex. You hold a bag aloft, the one with the outfit you've selected for him.
 
With shaky hands, he takes the bag. He opens it and looks inside. He shuts it again.
 
"I can't wear that!" He chirps.
 
"Why not?" You ask.
 
"That's a succubus costume!"
 
"So?"
 
"I can't be a succubus! I'm a boy!"
 
"Cerise is a human being, but she's dressed as a bunny," you counter. "And you've dressed as a maid plenty of times. What's the difference?"
 
Cerise takes the bag and looks inside for herself. She whistles. "I like it," she affirms.
 
"I-I'm not sure about this!" Alex says. "Maybe we should do a little advertising and outreach and stuff before getting our first stream going--"
 
"Take the arms," you tell Cerise.
 
"Wha--" Alex begins. He loses his wind as Cerise grabs him under the arms and restrains him. You strip him to his skivvies as he writhes and resists. His lithe body is flushed all over, but there's a tent in his boxer-briefs. "Should he wear panties too?" You ask Cerise.
 
"Absolutely. Verisimilitude demands it."
 
"Nice vocab. But I was thinking he should go nopan. That's more true to the succubus aesthetic, isn't it?"
 
"Ohhh," Cerise breathes. "I like the way you think."
 
"Guys--" Alex says.
 
But no use trying to protest. You peel Alex's underwear off, leaving him naked and ashamed before you. His leaky cock tells the truth. He likes this kind of treatment, the slut. Cerise hands him the costume and commands him: "put it on." The tone of her voice leaves no room for backtalk. She isn't fucking around. That's the way you have to be with Alex, sometimes. He struggles to get himself into the too-small outfit, the latex hugging his body tight. It puts what looks like a lot of uncomfortable pressure on his straining dick. He regards himself uncertainly in the mirror, poking his index fingers together. His cock throbs through the material, and it makes his tail with its heart-shaped end bob a little bit in the air.
 
Your own cock is getting hard, too. The sight of Alex in that whorish costume, not to mention your bunnygirl sister with her cleavage showing and pale thighs contrasting against the dark pantyhose, makes your heart swell with contentment. You made some good selections. You've got great taste.
 
"How are we going to get viewers?" Cerise asks. She affixes the surgical mask to her face that is supposed to preserve the patina of anonymity. She does the same for Alex next.
 
"You've got a built-in base of subscribers, don't you?" You say.
 
"Who-- oh. Oh, no. No fucking way."
 
"I mean. We won't say it's you. We'll just imply it. And then let word of mouth build your subscriber count after that."
 
Cerise rubs her forehead. She doesn't like the prospect of it, but it's definitely the best method for getting eyeballs on the new show, fast.
 
---
 
You stand off to the side and watch as Cerise and Alex sit silent and motionless in front of the cameras. You've just put the word out on /csg/ -- a single anonymous post of "holy shit... is Cerise on stream again?" -- plus a link.
 
The view count is rolling up and up. 20, 30, 50, 100... it always blows your mind how many losers are obsessed with her. Hopefully the sudden surge in popularity right out of the gate will slingshot Cerise into a position of prominence on the platform.
 
"Good afternoon. Sakura Dokuhaku here. Let's get started, hmm?"
 
The screen-in-screen setup shows the desktop as well, the tools arrayed and ready, and tonight's surgery victim -- a Tickle-Me-Elmo.
 
"My assistant Besuto will help," Cerise says. "Today we'll demonstrate some basics of how to interface an audio jack into a toy like Elmo here, so you can directly control the soundboard... a very elementary operation, but quite painful for the poor subject, I'm afraid..."
 
"Muahaha~" Alex laughs, playing up the demonic angle. He's slid into his role as succubus quite nicely.
 
/csg/ is going nuts.
 
>WHAT THE FUCK. IT'S REALLY HER. WHO THE FUCK IS THAT NEXT TO HER?!
>Are we sure it's her, guys. It's so suspicious that some anon just suddenly dropped the link as soon as she started...
>Shut the fuck up fag. Of course it's her. Are you blind? You can't even recognize the Goddess?
>This is the best day of my life.
>I want to circuit bend with Cerise! I really want to!
 
"Scalpel," Cerise says.
 
Alex hands her a scalpel. She uses it cut the fur from the Elmo's back and peel it open, like vivisecting a frog.
 
"That tickles!" Elmo shouts. "HAHAHA!"
 
This is, as always, horrifying.
 
"Phillips head," Cerise commands. Alex hands her a jeweler's screwdriver, and she begins to remove the back half of the hard plastic case of the toy's body. Though Alex is wearing a surgical mask, you can tell how broadly he's smiling. This is like a dream come true for him.
 
>Besuto. Alex Best. She's streaming with DBA's CTO.
>You've got to be shitting me.
>Are they together? They look awfully, uh, friendly...
>(Alex_Best.jpg) Oh my god. Pack it in, boys. This is the man who just cucked us.
>Don't care! This is hot as hell.
>Literally fapping and shaking and cumming and shitting right now.
 
Cerise is soldering new connections onto the toy's circuit-board and Alex pulls out a small synthesizer that will somehow play a part, too. But you're hardly paying attention, you're more focused on the comments in /csg/ and the Twitch chat. They're flying by so quickly that you can't keep up. The leering, the gnashing of teeth, the sheer level of thirst, makes you simultaneously smug and mad. Smug, because they're all losing their shit over her, and mad, because /csg/ always pisses you off with their graphic descriptions of what exactly they'd like to do to Cerise.
 
Right around the time the insufferable tripfag known as TCG starts going on a diatribe about how the girl on stream could not possibly be "the Goddess" and how anyone who says she is, is a shill who should be banned, and how Cerise is obviously a pure and untainted girl who would never even hang out with a man, let alone have a relationship with one, you've had about all you can stomach. It's time to exact a little revenge on the denizens of /csg/.
 
You stroll into frame.
 
"Ala-- what are you doing?" Cerise hisses.
 
You rub her shoulders. "Let's give them a show, Sakura. Introduce me, huh?"
 
Due to the positioning of the webcams, you're only visible from the waist down, but that's just fine for what you want to do.
 
Cerise squints at you. "You're gonna get me banned from Twitch, asshole."
 
"We can start our own website. Just call this a preview of what's to come..."
 
Cerise turns towards the blinking red light of the main webcam again. She clears her throat. "This is Shiro Dokuhaku. He knows absolutely nothing about circuit bending, so you'll have to forgive his presence..."
 
You stand there watching from over Cerise's shoulder as she diligently continues to work. Alex casts a few frightened glances back at you -- he has an inkling of what might be brewing here, too.
 
You scroll the thread on your phone.
 
>IS THAT
>Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
>AAAAAAAAAA
>PURITYFAGS BTFO
>It's not Cerise, you fucking morons. Holy shit. The bridge of her nose is completely different. Her ears don't match. The haircut isn't the same. You people are LITERALLY retarded. Holy shit.
>Is that her brother? Is her brother giving her a fucking shoulder rub in a bunny costume?
>[INCEST INTENSIFIES]
 
You pocket your phone with a smile. They haven't seen anything yet.
 
You reach down and cup one of Cerise's breasts. The material of the bunny costume, the way it forces her tits together, has made them perkier and firmer than usual -- but the skin has a nice, supple give to it all the same. Cerise draws a sharp breath, but she doesn't tell you to stop. She just keeps working. Taking that as permission, you run your hand around the curve of her breast now and get your fingers underneath the fabric concealing it. You grope her shamelessly.
 
"Ala-- Shiro--" She whispers. She wriggles a little in your grip and forces your hand out of her bustier. "I'm sorry, everyone," she says. "My little brother is a pervert."
 
This is already lewd enough to get the channel booted from the site, so you're just waiting for the moment it happens. Growing bolder in light of that, you try to entice Cerise by groping Alex now instead. Alex mewls and whines as you run your hands along his flat chest and tweak his nipples through the thin material of the succubus costume's top. Despite your molestation, the two are as industrious as ever and now Alex is connecting audio jacks to the splayed-open Elmo doll. Cerise, eyes half on the workbench and half on the liberties you're taking with Alex's body, begins to fiddle with some knobs, and the toy starts to make random, high-pitched warbling noises.
 
"I think this demonstration should be more than good enough," Cerise says to the camera. "As you can see, the operation is a success and the patient is transformed..."
 
"Nnn~" Alex mumbles as you get your hand into his costume now, too. You squeeze his bare chest and he arches his back in his chair appreciatively.
 
"I think that's enough for today's stream," Cerise says.
 
"Do your patented sign off, then," you tell her.
 
"Which is what?" She says skeptically.
 
"The one with my cock in your mouth."
 
Cerise's eyes bulge as you unzip your fly and pull out your throbbing cock for all the world to see. You give her no time to react any further, as you push it behind her surgical mask. Her lips are wet and feel nice against your achingly hard cockmeat. Though she isn't totally pleased at what you've done with her stream, she can't resist the sight, smell, and taste of your dick. Her eyes droop as she stares down her nose at the bulge it makes in her mask. Alex's eyes droop too, as he watches on, jealous.
 
Cerise decides to roll with it. She plants a loud wet kiss on your cock. "Thish is Shakura Dokuhaku," she says, muffled. "Shigning off!" She winks and holds up twin peace signs as she kisses and suckles on your dick, and you thrust your hips a little to help her along.
 
She doesn't have to kill the stream because Twitch does it for her. The feed goes dead and the channel closes with a message from the site saying that it has violated their ToS.
 
No matter. You've got your dick between your older sister's lips and that's what counts. Cerise is still holding her hands up for the cameras, unaware that she's no longer broadcasting. She flicks her tongue repeatedly against the sensitive underside of your prick as she continues with the double peace sign schtick.
 
Alex has a bit more situational awareness. He takes his face mask off and gazes longingly up at you. "Ally... let me suck your cock too, please..."
 
Cerise blinks in surprise. "You're off the air," you inform her.
 
She laughs through her nose, and the little bursts of cool air against your dick feel really nice in their own right. She peels away her mask, too.
 
"Help me out," she tells Alex. "Let's suck him off together."
 
You sink down onto her bed. Cerise and Alex sit on their knees before you -- bunny and succubus, a perfect combination. You ruffle Cerise's hair appreciatively and grip one of the kinked ears, as the two of them get to work now in earnest. They make such an adorable pair with your shaft between their lips. They slide up and down in an alternating rhythm, so one is at the head while the other is at the base, then vice-versa. Their wet, slobbery tongues totally coat your dick in viscous drool that seeps down its length, over your heavy nuts. There can be no better relief than this. Occasionally, Alex stops to flicker his tongue lightly against your balls, then to suckle on them, and smile up at you.
 
You glance down and see that Cerise has both hands between her legs, pawing at the tight crease of her costume's crotch.
 
"Naughty bunny," you chide.
 
"Mmm," Cerise moans, low and sensual, a murmur of agreement. She pulls away from your cock with a wet plop. "Will you help my bunny pussy feel good, then?"
 
Alex traps your cock against his lips, his hand wrapped around the other side, and licks it with increasing vigor. He's so greedy with your dick. You curl your toes and groan.
 
Cerise stands, and grabs the back of your head, and pulls you into a desperate French kiss. You taste her mouth for the second time today and enjoy just as much as the first. As you make out, Cerise takes your hand, guides it between her legs, and beckons you to play with her. You rub Cerise's cunt through the material of her outfit. Even from outside, you feel its raw heat.
 
Alex, between your legs, starts to suck you off. He gets the head of your cock inside his mouth and then sinks down, down, down, gagging himself. You and your sister make out wetly as you enjoy the feeling of Alex's expert fellatio. He's such good little cocksucker. The best. You can feel the bubbles of his saliva popping at the corners of his lips as he slides up and down on you. He's practically gargling your cock.
 
"I wanna fuck you," you whisper into Cerise's ear. "I wanna fuck you so bad."
 
She caresses your hair. "I do too, Alabaster... I really do..."
 
You slip your hand under the hem of her costume and run your fingertips along her naked cunt lips. She shivers.
 
"I'm sorry..." she whispers. "But... but I..."
 
Alex is choking hard on your dick, but keeps sucking. What a doll he is. Anything to make you feel good.
 
You kiss her again. "We have permission, you know... Mom said it's okay, right?"
 
You fingers in her pussy are quickly dismantling the last of her resistance. She shifts her healthy thighs back and forth, tensing them, and increasing the pressure of your hand against her genitals. She moans.
 
"We've done everything else... why not let your little brother cum inside you, too?"
 
"Ungh..." she moans. That image definitely does something to her, something she likes.
 
"Besides -- you don't want to be a virgin at 26, do you?"
 
Cerise narrows her eyes. Even as you molest her, she disputes the accusation: "I'm not technically 26, you know... my time of birth was 4:21 PM..."
 
You crane your neck and look around Cerise, at her PC monitor. The current time is 4:10 PM.
 
"You've got about 10 minutes before you're officially a Christmas Cake, then," you say.
 
"Fuck you... oooh~" She tries to be hostile, but you tickle her clit, and that's all it takes to tame her again.
 
You nuzzle the side of her face. "If we're quick about it... I could blow my load in you before you turn 26... just saying."
 
She searches your eyes for a moment. You play with her clit some more and smile at her, nodding. There's no way she can say no to this... you've got her totally worked up now.
 
"You would cum inside your own sister?" She says.
 
"Fuck yes I would. There's no place I'd rather cum."
 
She kisses you all over your neck, your face, your lips. "You are such a fucking pervert..." she sighs.
 
"You are too."
 
She climbs onto the bed. Alex, taking his cue, releases your cock from the back of his throat with a wet gurgle. He smiles warmly, blushing, and watches from the floor at the foot of the bed as you join Cerise.
 
You get on top of her. The passion and force of your mutual kissing knocks her bunny ears askew and finally off her head entirely. You grab them and toss them aside. Enough of the costume. You just want to fuck your older sister.
 
"Are you... sure about this..." she asks.
 
"As sure as I've ever been," you reply. "God I want to fuck you."
 
She shudders. "Okay... okay, Alabaster..." With a kiss, she stutter: "f-fuck me..."
 
You tug the one-piece off of her, starting at the shoulders, and pulling down, like unwrapping a piece of candy. Alex is ever-helpful, and pulls the garment from off her legs for you, as you and Cerise passionately mingle your tongues and sigh into each other's mouths. You quickly strip free of your shirt and pants now too. And then there you are, Alabaster and Cerise Soliloquy, two siblings naked in each other's arms on the bed, ready to mate.
 
You line up at the entrance to Cerise's sticky pussy and enjoy the sensation of your cockhead spreading her engorged labia apart. They cling to your dick as if kissing it. You link hands with Cerise and stare deeply into her eyes. This is it: you push. And then you're inside -- you feel, for the first time, the divine sensation of your sister's pussy walls engulfing you.
 
"Ohhh" you grunt. "Oh fuck, Cerise... you're so tight..."
 
"No," she says, shaking her head. "It's just that... oh my god... you're so big..."
 
She wraps her ankles around your butt and draws you deeper. You lay your head against her collar bone, pressing your full weight against her body. Still linking hands, you begin to rut. It's fast and hard and needful, almost primal, but somehow tender all the same. This is 20-some years of pent-up energy releasing in one glorious explosion. You're fucking your older sister -- you're fucking her raw, lying on top of her in her bed, pounding her cunt into oblivion. And she loves it. You do too. Why did it take so long? You should have been fucking her for years. This is way too good to have missed out on. Her creaming pussy is the perfect shape for your dick, like two corresponding pieces tailored just for one other. Cerise's pussy was made to get fucked by you.
 
"Fuck me!" she breathes. She throws her neck back and her muscles tense. "Yes! Cum inside me!"
 
That's exactly what you needed to hear. Full permission from Cerise to get off inside her cunt. Permission to drop an incestuous load in her. Permission to sperm your older sister.
 
Your hips become a blur as they bounce up and down. Your fat prick saws in and out of her, and her squelching insides cling so sweetly to you as you stroke. Cerise's little pussy is so beautiful, and the inside of it is just as soft and delicate and warm and wet as the outside. She might be as dirty and hopeless a pervert as you are, but she's got the sweetest cunt you've ever had the pleasure of mating with. It only heightens your enjoyment. As do the soles of Cerise's feet pressing insistently against your backside, trying to force your cock ever deeper inside her, beckoning you to jizz directly in her womb.
 
Your unprotected dick is about to cum inside your sister's body and you couldn't be happier.
 
"Ohhhhh," she screams. "Ohhh, I feel it... I feel it, Alabaster... are you gonna--"
 
"Yes," you gulp.
 
"It's getting bigger... oh, fuck... it's getting so big... you're really gonna do it--"
 
Your neck muscles strain and you pound extra forcefully into her: full strokes, bottoming out completely each time, coaxing out your sperm. Cerise's orgasming pussy helps it along, milking you off as it shudders and spasms around you. You feel lightheaded and see stars, as you force your cock fully into that clamping pussy of hers and surrender yourself to the greatest orgasm you've ever had. Your entire body tingles and your balls almost hurt as they fire pulse after searing pulse of thick, hot semen into Cerise's deepest parts. Again and again your cock blasts those sticky spurts of cum against her inner walls, into her suckling womb. You hose your older sister's cunt with what feels like gallons of your fertile seed. She wails in delight at the way your throbbing dick gets off in her. It's a cum that seems to last for minutes on end, a simultaneous release better than anything you've ever felt.
 
As you slowly pull out, your cock, still oozing cum, adds to the messy creampie. It trickles lewdly from her glistening fuckhole. She's leaking your cum all over the sheets, and her cunt is totally full. Her breaths are ragged and she's smiling broadly, staring down at the same sight -- staring down at the way her little brother's dick milk coats her pussy inside and out. Glancing over your shoulder, you check the time: 4:21 PM.

GIRLS FUCKED: 12/12
FULL CLEAR
RANK: A
Now try for the true ending!!

---

You lie curled up on the living room couch with Cerise, watching trashy TV, but not paying too much attention. You spend more time just lazily kissing her. Alex is on the recliner, still in his succubus getup -- he seems to have warmed to it.

"Alabaster..." Cerise breathes. Her voice is dreamy. "I lov--"

The doorbell rings.

You extricate yourself from her grip and get up, reluctantly. Cerise is equally reluctant to let you go. You answer the door: it's Tyrus.

"Forget something, or what?" You say.

He peers around you, into the living room, seeing that Cerise and Alex are here too. "Shit," he says. "Perfect timing."

"What's going on?" You say. You feel a sinking sensation in your gut, an instinct that things are not all right.

"We four need to take a drive," he says. "Let's go."

You step to the side, blocking his view of Cerise and Alex: "now hold on just a second. What's going on?"

"We can do this easy or hard," he says. "Choice is yours." He straightens his belt, drawing your eyes down, and you see his gun in his waistband.

"I trusted you," you glower.

"And you were fucking right to. You don't understand shit, do you?"

"I'll go. Okay? Just leave them out of this, whatever it is--"

"No can do, friendo. This is an all or nothing package. And it's for your own good."

You look back at Cerise and Alex. Their expressions are severe -- confused and frightened.

"It's gonna be okay," you tell them.

Tyrus puts a hand on your shoulder.

Time to go.

Tyrus leads the three of you past a sneering bouncer. It's barely after 6 in the evening but the Sapphire Club is jam-packed with hooting customers. A DJ pounds electronic music; on stage, women strip for dollar bills.

But you're not relegated to mingling with the hoi polloi. Tyrus owns this establishment, and leads you up a winding staircase, through sequined curtains, and into a lush VIP section.

A dark, half-naked woman rounds a corner, bangles jangling, tits jiggling. She sets her hungry eyes on Alex and draws him into a hug, mashing her breasts right into his blushing face. "Oh baby," she says, "aren't you just the sweetest. You're not one of Tyrus's boytoys are you? You wanna have a good time?"

"A-Ally--" Alex mumbles, scared out of his wits.

"Fuck off, Jade," Tyrus says. "We're here on business. Make yourself useful and get us some vodka."

She clicks her tongue against her palate in anger, stepping back. "Geez, Tyrus. You're such an asshole."

"And you're a dumb fuckin' whore. Don't you see you're bothering the poor kid? Just go get us some drinks. Shit."

She scurries away. Tyrus beckons for you, Cerise and Alex to file into a plush booth. It's red and white, and zirconium-studded around the edges. He sits on the end, basically trapping you -- oh, and of course, the multiple armed thugs at the exits. The seats across the table from you are empty. Are you waiting for someone?

"What is this?" You demand. "Why here?"

"We're on friendly turf here," Tyrus says.

The stripper, Jade, returns with the drinks Tyrus ordered her to fetch. She sets shot glasses down in front of you and a skull-shaped bottle of fine vodka at the table's center. Hardly a welcoming sight. Tyrus unscrews the cap, pours shots for you all, and a couple more for the putative guests you're awaiting. Tyrus drinks his, and Cerise drinks hers, but you and Alex aren't really in the mood.

Alex's hiss of fright alerts you before you see it: in now comes walking Stasi Lebedev.

She's flanked by a small retinue of stern, besuited men with uzis, each more vicious-looking than the last.

And they've brought someone else, too: Sable Guiteau.

They force Sable to sit across from you at the booth, and Stasi joins her, hedging her in the same way Tyrus has done with you. Sable looks reproachfully up at her captors, and shrieks: "You are going to pay for this! You've crossed the wrong woman!"

Alex has both hands to his mouth, trembling. You can hardly believe it yourself. All this time, you thought Sable was dead. It's a rude shock to see her being carted in by the Russian mafia -- by the woman who came so close to killing you last year.

Stasi clacks her fingernails against the table. "Let's begin," she says. "Our terms are simple. Hand over Alexander Best and both the Soliloquy siblings, and we can consider ourselves even."

Tyrus smiles. "Fuck you."

"You are making such a mistake, Mr. Kang. I have played so nicely with you."

"I ought to dome you right here and now," he says. He stands up, pulls his pistol out, and even as the men all around him go into a commotion of raised guns and shouts, his glare is fixed squarely on Stasi. "You played nice with me? You killed my husband! You fucking cunt. Whatever the fuck it is you want, you get the opposite. I'm gonna fuck you up. You, your organization, all your cronies back in Moscow. I'll kill every single one of you motherfuckers."

Stasi frowns at him. "This again? Tyrus... you poor, dumb ape. I didn't kill your faggot husband. His killer is on your side of the table."

Your heart skips a beat. Alex winces and stares at his lap. He's crying. Cerise holds your hand under the table, equally terrified, her eyes also welling with tears.

"Bullshit," Tyrus says. "You think I was born yesterday?"

"You're being played for a fool," Stasi tells him. "No matter. We'll get what we want in the end anyway. What's to stop us from massacring you all, right here and now?"

"You know what. You can steal all the Sand Reckoner implants you want. As long as I've got eyes on Darkbloom Analytics, you can't take over the data centers, can you. The second you make a move you're gonna have a fucking army coming for you. A whole fucking squadron of strapped-down niggers who dropped out of middle school and learned out of history books from the 1980s. They still think the Soviet Union exists. The only thing they love more than shooting people is hating Russians."

Stasi regards him, fist on cheek. "Do you see this woman beside me? This woman negates the need for taking over any existing infrastructure. She'll create a newer, better framework... without the need for David Darkbloom's old servers. All we need now is that implant inside Cerise Soliloquy's head..."

Tyrus considers his position. He glances down at the three of you, then over to Sable.

"If you cooperate, Mr. Kang, you can come out of this ahead. There is room in the new world for you. Set aside old grudges... it's the civilized thing to do. Or -- you can die."

It all happens so fast: Tyrus whistles, sharp and hard, and that's apparently the cue. His men turn on Stasi's men, and fire. He's declined the bargain.

Tyrus fires at Stasi. But Stasi's reaction time is almost superhuman. She grabs his arm and wrenches it up, into the air, and Tyrus misses.

Seething, he dives across the booth for her. And that's the last you see of either of them because you're grabbing both Cerise and Alex and ducking beneath the cover of the table as the room dissolves into a horrible cacophony of gunfire.

There were more, many more men than the few you saw around the room's perimeter. They're swarming the place by the dozen, seemingly coming from the rafters, like roaches to a garbage pile -- Russians and gangsters alike. It's a fucking bloodbath.

You hug Cerise tight and try to bodily shield her from any stray bullets that might come her way. She's trembling like a bird in your arms. Bodies pile up in front of the booth -- one dying man, a fat Russian, lurches forward and thuds against the tabletop, bent at the waist, his lower half like a curtain obscuring your view of the room beyond.

The gunfire and senseless screaming becomes an incessant drone in your ears. Your nostrils fill with the smell of phosphorus and iron and the voiding bowels of dead men. This is hell made real.

And then suddenly, the body draped over the table falls away -- tugged down by an interloper. You shield your face with both hands as they point a shotgun at you.

"--Rose?" You sputter. Her face is blank, but severe. You lock eyes, staring at one another for a split moment. But something catches her attention. She wheels, and fires, and another Russian falls dead at her feet.

She looks back down at you.

"Run," she says.

With that, and nothing more, she steps past your field of vision, pumping her shotgun, and you hear her fire join the chorus.

You crawl forward on hands and knees and peer out. Rose followed the action through another set of curtains, into another VIP booth, where shots continue to ring out, and gunsmoke peters through the sequins. The path in the opposite direction, to the exit, down the stairs, is clear of everything save for corpses. You usher Alex and Cerise -- Sable, too -- out, and point them down the stairs. But you linger behind.

"...Alabaster?" Cerise says. "Come on! Let's go!"

"I'll -- I'll be right back."

"What?!"

"Go! Get out of here."

"I--" Cerise begins, but Alex is tugging her by the wrist. "Let's go! You won't convince him -- let's go!"

You meet Cerise's frightened eyes, and nod. She doesn't want to go, but Alex's insistence practically drags her down the stairs with him.

You turn, and squat over the body of one of Tyrus's men, and pick up his pistol. It's cold, heavy in your hands. You're not used to holding a gun like Rose is. You should have let her teach you a little more.

Too late now. You take it and stride purposefully forward, through the curtains of the adjoining booth, to help Rose however you can.

END OF EPISODE 10.

November 21, 2014

It's 5 PM on a Friday, so that means it's time for Rose to barge into your bedroom unannounced and without permission. You've given up on locking the door anymore -- she just uses a hairpin to pick it whenever she decides she wants to come in.

"We need to start putting our plans together for the spring culture festival."

"Our plans?" You say, without even looking back -- too focused on stopping the suspicious incident that has befallen Gensokyo. "What do you mean 'our plans'? My plans. I'm the President. Not you."

"Go to hell, Alabaster."

"Please. That's President Soliloquy to you."

"You cheated. You stuffed the ballot box--"

"Bitch bitch bitch. You just can't accept the fact that people didn't want to vote for you, huh?"

Rose calms herself by smoothing her skirt and swiping a strand of hair behind her ear. It's one of her tics that she falls into whenever you make her frustrated and anxious -- you enjoy inciting it.

"What is this? One of your ridiculous, over-sexualized anime games?"

"It's not sexualized. It's cute. Something you would know nothing about. Get the fuck out of my bedroom, Rose."

"You have work to do! Stop wasting time on your stupid, misogynistic video games and be productive for once."

All this arguing has distracted you, and now the danmaku nails Reimu right in the face. Your reaction time isn't quick enough to trigger the life-saving counter-attack and so your game ends ignominiously on level 5. "Fuck," you mutter.

"Great," Rose says. "So the first thing we need to figure out is how the booth layout should be-- oh what the hell!" Rose interrupts herself to nag at you some more, as you begin another attempt in the game.

"I told you to get out," you say. "President Soliloquy keeps a tight schedule. Right now, this is my schedule. Not planning for the culture festival."

"You are such a--"

"And let me tell you the next item on my agenda. After I get a game over this time, I'm gonna take off my pants and shake hands with my vice president. So for the last time, and for your own good, get out."

Rose talks right over you: "Your friends in the anime club want to have a booth at the festival, but I really don't think such an unseemly group--"

"That's low. Even for you. My friends in the anime club? I don't associate with those people. They're not my friends."

"Oh really? You don't walk to school every day with Stacklefreak?"

"HE walks with ME. I-- fuck!" Reimu dies to a random enemy on the first level, how embarrassing. "The more you distract me, the closer I get to my summit with the vice president. Just saying."

Instead of leaving, though, Rose sits down on your bed. "The Turkish Cultural Appreciation Club wants to show a movie in the auditorium during the first day, but that's probably going to conflict with the diversity seminar I scheduled last year... We Are One is booked out to 2016, and they won't be willing to change the date of their stop at North High -- Alabaster!!"

"I stopped listening to you halfway through the word Turkish."

"Do you get how important this is? You have to present your plan for the festival on the Monday after Thanksgiving break! You don't have time to play this stupid..." she pauses, watching the game for several moments. Then, catching herself, she adds: "If this proposal doesn't go over, the administration could force you out of the presidency. They already don't like you, especially after that business with the FBI."

The bullet pattern of the first boss is really easy once you understand it, but it requires some precise control during the survival spell card. Rose's prattle is far from helpful.

"Don't you care, Alabaster?"

"No. But you do. So why don't you go plan your precious festival, and leave me alone."

"It's not my ass on the line. I could give a shit if you get kicked off StuCo. I'm just trying to be ... to be... what is this game? Why are you flying around? Are you playing as a fairy or something?"

"Shrine maiden."

"What on earth is a shrine maiden?"

"Such shocking ignorance like that is exactly why we need the culture festival. I trust you to plan it."

"Aren't those energy balls hurting you? It's like they're just passing right through you."

"Do you see that little dot at the center of my character? That's the only part of her that can-- why am I talking to you about this? Get out of my room."

Rose doesn't leave. Instead she just gets up and stands directly over your shoulder, and watches in her typically creepy, Rose-ish way. She seriously gives you the heebie jeebies sometimes.

"What's this game called?" She asks.

"It's called Five Seconds Until Alabaster Jerks Off. Really fun. Very apt title."

Reimu explodes.

"God fucking damn it," you snarl. You're down to your final life and you haven't even cleared stage 2. "I can't play with you standing there -- looming over my shoulder. Get a life. Jesus."

She's not listening. "What's this game called again?"

"Fuck's sake, Rose... it's a Touhou game."

"How's that spelled?"

"F, U, C..."

"You're such a fucking prick. Can't ever have a normal conversation with you, can I? This is what I get for trying to take an interest in your asinine hobbies--"

Game over. You're almost breathless with frustration.

"You are absolutely terrible at this game," Rose tells you.

Now you really are breathless with frustration. You close your eyes, slump your shoulders, and shake your head. If you batter her into a coma, you can't be faulted, right? No jury would convict you.

"You should have moved like this," Rose says. She puts her finger to your monitor and traces a hypothetical path, zig-zagging down towards the left corner, then back up towards the center -- showing you a strategy you could have used to save yourself. This despite the fact that the boss, your character, and the danmaku are all long gone from the screen.

"Gee, thanks," you say. "I'll just remember to do that next time."

Rose squints at the screen. "You were playing on easy? That was easy mode?"

"I'm taking off my pants. This is me undoing my belt buckle. I'm about to have a heated exchange with the vice president here."

"What's it called again? Touhou?"

"That's the series. The one I'm playing is called Perfect Cherry Blos-- Jesus Christ. Get out. Do you want to see me masturbate?"

Rose stands there and stares back at you as you rise to your feet and hook your fingers in the waistband of your jeans. She folds her arms -- as if to call your bluff. You freeze in place, staring her down, willing her to just fucking leave you alone already. But she won't relent. So, left with no other option, you call her calling of your bluff. You tug down your jeans.

"Ugh," she purrs. "Weirdo!"

She storms out -- but only after a moment's hesitation. She slams the door as she goes, and you hear her out in the hall as she stomps away: "enjoy your hand, you pig! It's all you'll ever have!"

Whatever. As if that hurts coming from a girl like her. If you have to choose between your hand and Rose's diseased beartrap of a pussy, your hand is going to win 10 times out of 10. No contest.

November 27, 2014

"Thank you so much again for all your help, Alabaster," Mrs. Mallory says as you gingerly set the pumpkin pie on the stovetop and pull your oven mitts back from the tin. "I can cook most anything but I simply cannot bake to save my life. Most holidays I go with store-bought desserts... this will be a nice change of pace."

You can't help blushing. You hope Mrs. Mallory doesn't notice. She bends over the countertop and fishes through a utensil drawer for some whisks. Finding them, she attaches them to the electric beater and plugs it in.

"Can you be a dear and pour that milk into the pot for me?" She asks. You slowly pour the warm milk as instructed, while Mrs. Mallory whips it together with the butter and potatoes. Without being bidden, you add salt and pepper, too.

"You're going to make a wonderful husband to some very lucky girl someday," Mrs. Mallory says.

You huff. "Yeah right."

"Or to some very lucky man," she adds. "We don't judge in this household."

You choke and stammer. "I -- I'm not gay--"

Mrs. Mallory laughs. "That's good to hear. It would be such a waste if you were. Don't tell Rose I said such a thing, now..."

"Where is she, anyway? You kept going on and on about how you're this unstoppable Thanksgiving duo. How did I end up doing all her work for her?"

"I've texted her about a dozen times today. She won't come out of her cave. Too busy for us common people, I suppose."

Come to think of it, you haven't seen much of Rose all break long. It's been a blessed respite from her naggy, bitchy, overbearing, absolutely insufferable, heinous, two-faced, smug, obnoxious--

"I'll go check on her," you offer.

---

You walk through Rose's bedroom door.

"Dinner's almost ready. No thanks to you."

She's at her computer, transfixed, face like a ghost in the monitor's light. She doesn't even acknowledge your presence. Her desktop is piled high with mostly-empty bottles of Mountain Dew.

She's playing Touhou.

Instead of the bog standard Rose outfit of mini skirt and blouse, she's wearing a tee she pilfered from you a few months ago, which is comically over-large and baggy on her. Her legs are bare and you suspect she may not have on much else underneath. That thought makes your temples throb for some reason, but you're not sure why.

"...Rose?"

On-screen, Marisa gets smacked with a laser, and dies. "FUCK!" Rose shrieks. "Oh my fu-- Alabaster!! I didn't give you permission to come waltzing into my bedroom! What the fuck! Don't you know how to knock? Creep!"

"Are you seriously playing a Touhou game? Is this what you've been doing all day? ... All -- week?"

"What business of it is yours?" Rose is back in the saddle, resuming her run from stage 1. Usually if you saw her in such a state of dress, she'd spend the next ten minutes haranguing you for being a pervert, but she's too focused on the game to care right now. You didn't get a good look because you were so surprised to discover this situation, but the density of bullets on screen leaves little doubt that she's playing on Lunatic. Even more shocking, she's acquitting herself quite well.

"While you were trying to save Gensokyo, some of us were busy cooking..." you begin. Then idly picking up a half-full bottle of Mountain Dew that's been sitting out so long it's warm to the touch, you say: "gamer fuel? Where are your Dortios? Tsk tsk."

Rose dies to the mid-boss of stage 1. She's not happy. "Get out! Go annoy someone else!"

"It stinks in here. Have you taken a shower this century? Starting a moldy dinner plate collection in your spare time? I sure hope it's just Mountain Dew in these bottles, Rose..."

This time, when Rose dies, she spins in her chair and kicks you in the shins. You howl and stumble back, only managing to avoid falling by bracing yourself against the mattress of her bed. "Bitch! What's wrong with you?"

You caught only the briefest glimpse when she reared back to kick you, enough to confirm your suspicion that she's using your shirt as a sort of nightgown, with no underwear beneath. You swallow hard.

"Get out of my fucking room! I'm busy!"

Instead of leaving, you stand behind her and watch her play. You'd never admit it to her, but the level of skill she's risen to in the span of a few short days is nothing less than sincerely impressive. She gets to stage 3 before she has to use a bomb, and doesn't outright lose a life until the boss of stage 4. With more practice, she'll be capable of a perfect CC.

Unfortunately, something else is on your mind. You assess the scene before you: Rose, half naked, hair mussed, eyes dark and baggy, glued to the game, and sitting surrounded by a virtual nest of garbage -- discarded soda bottles, dirty plates, empty packages of chips. It's the most disorganized, undignified and un-Rose state you've ever seen her in. Her sudden, total obsession with Touhou can only mean...

Oh, no. No, no, no. Your entire gambit to procrastinate planning for the spring culture festival so that she would be forced to do it for you --

"Rose... have you worked at all on our proposal?"

"Huh?" She's weaving in and out of danmaku barrages, jaw slack.

"For the festival. Our proposal due on Monday. President Soliloquy needs a status update."

"Our proposal? What do you mean 'our proposal'? Your proposal. It's not my problem anymore. I lost the election, remember?"

"Oh my god. You have got to be kidding right n--"

"I offered you my help. You turned me down. It's not my job to make the proposal anymore, Alabaster. You have to propose-- FUCK." She dies again. "Why are you still here? Out! Out out out!"

You turn in a tight circle, hands on your head, like a hiker who suddenly realized that he's far astray from the trail and without cell reception. Rose is too absorbed to help you -- and with only a few days to plan, without any idea of where to even begin... you're boned. You're not going to have a complete presentation for the StuCo and the NHS administration. Your presidency is going to go down in flames after only a couple short months of your term. All because Rose picked now, of all times, to develop her otaku side.

---

At dinner, Mrs. Mallory tells everyone to say what they're thankful for.

"I'm thankful for Miranda v State of Arizona and cops who are too stupid to remember to read people their rights," Mr. Mallory says.

"I can definitely agree with that," you say. It's what saved you from federal lockup, after all.

"What else?" Mrs. Mallory asks you.

"Uh... pie. I'm thankful for pie..." You're terrible at moments of reflection and givings of thanks.

"Well I'm thankful for you, Alabaster," Mrs. Mallory says. "And Cerise -- Rose and Saul, too. I'm thankful we're all here together tonight. I'm thankful we're all safe and healthy... and I'm thankful for... all the wonderful times we have together..." she's getting misty eyed and fast developing a lump in her throat.

"What am I, chopped liver?" Whitney says.

Mrs. Mallory lays a hand on hers. "I'm thankful for you, too. You're such an... interesting girl, Whitney."

"How about you, Cerise?" Mr. Mallory asks.

Cerise is sullen and staring at her plate. She's obviously drunk, too; her cheeks and the tip of her nose are pink. She's quiet for an excruciatingly long turn, before finally slurring: "I'm thankful for a job..."

She doesn't have a job yet. What she has is an interview at some tech firm in Palo Alto, Dark-something, scheduled for mid-December. If it goes well, she might get the chance to work for just above minimum wage as a data entry monkey or some similar low-skill job. And if she doesn't sound thrilled at that prospect, it's because she isn't. The only reason she's even trying to get this job is because, despite Mrs. Mallory's insistence that it's not the case, Cerise feels as if she's fast wearing out her welcome living rent-free in this house, and wants to leave.

"You'll knock them dead," Mrs. Mallory tells her.

"Just remember the STAR method," Mr. Mallory adds. He's been coaching Cerise on how to do well in interviews -- although it hasn't given her any better luck so far.

"Will you help me some more?" Cerise asks him. Her voice is quavering. Even this far out, the prospect of the interview terrifies her.

"You bet," Mr. Mallory says, "anything you need." He's always liked Cerise much more than you.

"I'm thankful for these bitch-ass potatoes," Whitney says. "Whoa."

"Bitch-ass?" You question.

"Like one step above bitchin'. Y'know. Even more bitchin' than bitchin'."

"Watch your language, please," Mrs. Mallory gently chides. "And please don't eat until we're all served." Whitney is the only one who's dug in to the bounty of food on the table, having served herself; and she already wolfed down several forkfuls of potatoes, yams, and cranberry sauce.

"Sorry, Mrs. Mallory! I can't resist!"

Mrs. Mallory is more tolerant of Whitney's poor manners than most people would be. She's developed a mostly-implicit understanding of Whitney's meager upbringing and home life. And as her husband carves the turkey and she doles out plates to the rest of you, she doesn't chastise Whitney for sneaking a couple more bites.

"What are you thankful for, Rose?" You prod. No way you can let her get away without having to contribute to this saccharine tradition.

She made herself minimally presentable by at least dressing herself, but she didn't wash or brush her hair, and her face bears the clear evidence of her exhaustion. She isn't looking at anyone or anything else in the room -- her mind is clearly elsewhere. Her eyes, though tired, are nonetheless darting around with the speed of someone in the REM stage of sleep. You know she's charting invisible paths through invisible danmaku fields.

"Wow," Whitney says, "I think you finally cracked her up for real, Ally. Nice job."

Mr. Mallory waves a palm up and down in front of Rose's face.

"Did you say something?" She asks, coming out of her fugue.

"Preoccupied?" Mr. Mallory responds wryly.

"Sorry, daddy. What were we talking about?"

"Shit you're thankful for," Whitney tells her. When Mrs. Mallory casts a displeased look Whitney's way, she corrects herself: "schtuff you're thankful for."

Rose ponders the question, although she looks about ready to pass out. Finally she comes back with: "I'm rather thankful for cultural exchange."

---

After dinner, when you're alone with her upstairs, and the panic is beginning to truly set in, you come clean with her. It's humiliating, but there's no other way.

"I could really use a little bit of help with my proposal. If you've got some time tonight--"

"I'm busy."

"You're playing a video game."

"So?"

"So this is more important! This is about cultural exchange, remember? That thing you're thankful for?"

"I trust you, Alabaster. Do your best."

She shuts her door behind her and locks it, the cunt. Unlike her, you don't know how to pick locks. You pound uselessly on her door. "Goddamn it, Rose! You have all the booth applications and guest confirmations! How am I supposed to propose a festival that you've been planning! Open this door! Open it right now!"

A few moments later comes her response: A USB stick slid underneath her door. All the files you'll need to spend the next few days working on the proposal, by yourself.

You pick it up, and glare at it bitterly. You fantasize about climbing on top of Rose and strangling her unconscious.

It's all up to you now. You're going to have to plan everything yourself. The future of your presidency is at stake.

December 1, 2014

You practice a couple more times in front of the mirror in the boys' bathroom before heading into the StuCo meeting. You're physically, mentally and emotionally enervated, but you don't show it. In fact, you're more respectably dressed than you've ever been. You wear pressed khakis and a conservative, pearl-white button-down; your hair is neatly combed, and you've even donned thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses, all the better to blend in and mollify the natives.

You stride purposefully into the meeting, standing tall, to command a presence. A stark contrast to your usual way of just slinking in, slouchy and apathetic.

Most of the student council is here. Over the course of several minutes, the administration starts showing up, too: Principal Jackson, and his immediate underlings, as well as some faculty advisers.

Rose is also here. She looks shabby, her clothes rumpled, her hair messy. She has deep, dark bags under her eyes, so severe that she looks like a raccoon. She listlessly browses her phone at a seat in the far corner, away from everyone else.

While you wait for the faculty to filter in, you stand before Rose and peer over the top of her screen. She's looking at fucking Touhou fanart. Some of it is pretty risque. Some of it is more than risque. Her addiction is pathetic, and total; it's consuming every aspect of her life.

"What are you doing?" You hiss, so only she can hear.

This catches her attention. She pulls her phone's screen close to her chest. "Are you spying on me? Jesus. You creep me out."

"That isn't StuCo-appropriate material, Rose..."

"Go fuck yourself. I don't need to listen to this bullshit. Not from you, of all people."

"Those drawings are obscene -- not to mention horribly objectifying. Not that I would expect you to care about that. But such lurid depictions could trigger people who see them... don't make me confiscate your phone, Rose."

"'Ooooh, it's obsceeeeeene'," Rose repeats mockingly. She laughs at you. "You're the biggest hypocrite in the world. Go peddle your fake concern to people who buy it. You Chris Hayes looking asshole. Fucking prick..."

You sigh and return to the front of the room to set up your Powerpoint presentation. You have more important things to focus on than a degenerate like her. You'll have plenty of time to punish Rose for her insolence later.

---

You use your laser pointer to indicate the next part of the festival's floorplan that you've created. "...and allow the Turkish Cultural Appreciation Club to use the gymnasium as a screening facility for their mini cinema marathon. Showtimes would be scheduled in such a way so as not to conflict with their prayer times. ... And if you direct your attention here, to the quad -- you can see the designated safe-space tents for LGBT and minority students --"

In the corner, where she sits, Rose's head droops to a critical point; and a with a loud snore, she snaps awake again.

"Am I bothering you?" You ask her sarcastically.

"Yeah you are," she replies, unafraid to get snitty with you while everyone can hear. She pulls out her phone and starts browsing it again.

"This is tremendous work, Alabaster," Principal Jackson says. "I'm honestly impressed. I didn't expect such a stellar proposal... you've really turned yourself around, I can tell."

"Thank you--" you begin.

But one of Rose's orbiters, some toady named Brock, cuts in: "This obviously isn't his work. It has Rose written all over it. She's the one who deserves the credit."

"Excuse me?" You snap.

"Just look!" Brock continues. "She obviously stayed up all night doing the proposal for him. She's exhausted." He nods in her direction, and everyone turns; in the space of just a few moments, Rose has curled up with her head on the desktop, and fallen soundly asleep. "I'd be shocked if Alabaster contributed anything at all to the planning. She probably had to do it all for him, like usual..."

There are murmurs of assent to this and the mood in the room is somehow souring against you. "I wish we had her back as president..." whines your own treasurer, Lucy, another of Rose's entourage.

"Rose! Rose! Rose!" begins Brock in a chant that consumes the rest of the StuCo.

This wakes her up, and she looks from face to chanting face, befuddled. "Whuuh?"

"Great work!" a girl, Kaylee, cheers for her. "We love your proposal!"

"Rose! Rose! Rose!"

"Thank you," Rose says, smiling smugly. "I did my best."

She takes out her phone again and goes back to the Touhou fanart even as her suck-ups and lickspittles cheer her.

You swipe at your hair and smooth your khakis. This is absurd... impossible... you've done all the work, put in all the effort, made sure to be conscientious and sensitive in a way that you NEVER are... but somehow Rose got all the credit... it's not fair... it's completely, uterrly not fair.

You feel a dark, all-encompassing rage grip you as you watch her staring at her perverted anime game, as you watch her eat up the unearned praise being heaped on her. Oh, yes. She definitely needs to be punished... a disgusting, useless pervert like her deserves it.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, siscon and mega tsundere.

Benjamin Gurlick, 47, of Diablo Grande, CA sits in his office reading yesterday's Sunday funnies. They never fail to put a smile on his rotund face. With a high-pitched belly laugh, he says to himself: "Oh, Marmaduke. You crazy dog."

His opposite number, Cynthia Strupple, 30, the team lead who covers the night shift, packs up her lunchbox and backpack. "Got it all covered from here, Ben?" She asks. Same question, every day, and now the same answer:

"Sure thing," he says, sipping coffee. But he almost spits it out again when he sees the hijinks Garfield got up to this week. Garfield, you crazy cat.

"Have a good one, Ben. See you in 12."

Alone again in his office, Ben folds the paper up and looks around. He checks his watch. 6:03 AM. He's three minutes into his 12 hour shift.

He sighs.

And then he spends the next twenty minutes sobbing.

It's a Monday morning ritual.

After he composes himself, he does his morning rounds through the server towers, performing his routine diagnostics, plus some additional checks instituted in the wake of the 3/10 hack. Aside from keeping the place tidy, this is all his life amounts to, and all it ever will. He's been maintaining this facility for 10-odd years, his life like a boat passing through a dark tunnel and picking up speed, like that infamous scene from Willy Wonka. There's no knowing, where it is we're rowing...

The most interesting thing to happen in the past few months was a surprise inspection by the company's CTO, Alex Best, who showed up to quiz him on the security protocols here. He thinks he pleased him. At least he assumes so; he hasn't been terminated yet. Ben, who is gay, was instantly attracted to Alex -- the young man's fit, slender body, his boyish smile, his delicate scent. His youth. He was a vision of Adonis, a Greek statue Ben could have happily fallen to his knees and worshiped. Ben found himself pining for Alex desperately. So it hurt all the worse when Alex said those words to him: "you are such a waste." Those words have been keeping Ben awake nights, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, playing them back. You are such a waste.

As pathetic as Ben knows it is, he still pines for Alex anyway; a beauty so far removed that reaching for it is like reaching for a distant star.

Back to reality. Ben is startled by the toot of the on-duty guard's golf cart's horn. "Got a delivery out at the docks they need you to sign for," the guard tells him.

Anything to break this monotony is welcome, as far as Ben is concerned. He treks to the docks, a walk so long it leaves him winded. A FedEx delivery man presents him with a tall crate on a dolly. It stands a couple inches taller than Ben, about the size of a small refrigerator. A shipping label lists the net weight -- 210.5 lbs -- but not the contents. Another sticker below it reads:

>DO NOT OPEN/HOLD FOR ALEX BEST

As Ben signs, the delivery man asks: "Where do you want it?"

"This way," Ben directs him, and leads him towards his office.

When the delivery man is gone, Ben anxiously sits at his office chair and stares at the crate for a long time, internally debating his course of action.

Why did Mr. Alex Best send such a package here? Why does he want it held? Surely this is why he was checking up on this place's security so recently.

After agonizing minutes of vacillation, minutes that drag into hours, he finally decides. He wants to get ahead of the game. He wants to look like he knows what's going on inside this company. He wants to please Alex Best, to show Alex Best that he isn't a waste. He finds a crowbar in a maintenance closet down the hallway, returns, and pries open the box.

As the nails securing the top of the crate pull loose, Ben sweeps packing peanuts away to find a nondescript server tower inside. Emblazoned on one side is the word DIOGENES.

A secret project, huh? Probably a continuation of Sand Reckoner. Alex clearly trusted this special piece of equipment to the Diablo Grande facility because he knew that it would be in capable hands with Ben.

Ben smiles to himself. But this isn't enough. He wants to know what's stored on this server. Sure, it's not ready to go online yet. But he can at least hook it up to an isolated network, in a secured environment, and take a peek inside. What's the harm? He's going to show Alex Best that he's no waste.

---

Rose is pinned down behind the tall back of a VIP booth, gripping her shotgun tightly, and breathing ragged. It's fortunate you notice her there, to your left, because she grabs your ankles as soon as you step through the beaded curtain, and drags you down. If you hadn't realized it was her, you could have easily shot her.

There are corpses littering the ground, and the small room reeks of gore.

"What the fuck!" Rose hisses. "Why are you still here?"

"Why are YOU still here? Let's go! Do you have a death wish or something? It's not worth chasing after Stasi--"

"You're an idiot! You let Rose bug your phone, didn't you?"

"Will you stop talking about yourself in the third person already? Jesus Christ."

"Not me. You fucking moron. The other Rose. Fake-Rose."

You peek around the corner of the booth, just barely -- and glimpse Stasi Lebedev tucked behind another VIP booth on the opposite side of the room catty-corner from you. She's huddled up, with a gun in her hand, pointing its muzzle at a bubblegum pink tuft of hair. You don't have long to assess that scene before one of her mooks, cowering beside her, fires blindly around the corner, and forces you back.

It's a standoff -- there is no exit on their side, so they're trapped -- but they have a hostage. Rose2.

"Let me go!" Comes her distinctively shrill voice now. "You'll be sorry you messed with me! I have ESP! I -- oof--"

There's a loud thwack, of flesh against flesh; Stasi slapping Rose2 quiet.

"She followed me here?" You breathe.

"As she likes to say: a-durr."

"So there's one more thing you have in common besides a name. You can't fucking stay away from danger, can you?"

"If it weren't for me, you'd be dead right now! You should thank your lucky fucking st--" Rose's incipient tirade is interrupted by a hail of gunfire that she returns, falling to her belly and spraying buckshot at the opposite wall, forcing the would-be assassin to retreat. You can't help yelping in surprise and fear at the sudden miniature firefight.

As Rose pulls herself back to a sitting position again, you glance towards the room's center. Among the bodies is that of Tyrus Kang -- but the shallow rise and fall of his chest shows that although he's wounded, and unconscious, he's very much alive. For now.

"How many are there?" You ask.

"It doesn't matter. I'll take care of Stasi and her men. Go back to Gal's with your sister and wait for me!"

"Fuck that. You expect me to up and abandon you? I'm not leaving. So let's you and me come up with a strategy here--"

"Asshole. Idiot! You're just going to get in my way."

"Don't you start nagging at me now. I won't go."

"God fucking damn it," she growls. "Why can't you just listen to me for once in your worthless life?"

"Because--" you begin. You swallow hard. How can you make her understand?

"Out with it!"

There's no helping it. You have to tell the truth. "It's because -- I'm in love w--"

"God, you're pathetic."

You furrow your brow. "W-what?"

"You're such a weak-willed fucking loser. I hate you."

"Rose, this isn't the time. You don't mean that." You try to pull her close, but she swats you away.

Her voice drips real hatred off every syllable: "Just looking at you makes me sick. What does it take to get that across to you? How many times do I have to say it? Are you that delusional? You think I care about you? You creepy, orbiting weirdo. Alt-right piece of shit. Disgusting trash."

"For god's sake--"

"Awww. Is the baby gonna cry? You make me puke. You're an ugly, unlovable, noodle-armed beta male. You think you're some biiig, scaaaary dom but you can barely lift a jug of milk over your head. You need a girl's help just to hold someone down. It's pathetic."

You shake your head, feel your nostrils flare and your face twitch. Rose keeps going:

"All you've ever been good for is bossing around. Just like the spineless wimp you are. Fucking with your head. But you're too stupid to understand that you never meant anything to me. How obvious do I have to make it? You think all that abuse somehow means I care about you?... god. Now you're all clingy and lovestruck."

She laughs cruelly at you: "It'd be funny if it wasn't so fucked up and sad. Well I'm bored of playing with you now. I think I should go find a real man. One who isn't such a sniveling little girl. Just about any guy on earth would be better than you. Maybe I'd actually cum for once in my life if I got a real man's dick in me. Just leave me alone already, you stupid prick."

A maelstrom of conflicting thoughts whirls around your skull. You know Rose can't possibly mean this -- but the way she says it, the force she puts behind it, is heartbreakingly convincing. There must be the shadow of truth hidden in it. Not even Rose is that good of an actress. But then again -- you know her. You know how she thinks. You've been in this situation before, on the other side of it, even though she doesn't, or refuses to remember.

It hurts all the same. That's the awful thing about Rose, in the end: she knows how to hurt you worse than anyone on the planet.

You absorb her words like a sponge soaking up water. You let them pass through you. You close your misty eyes and take a couple deep breaths. Then, steeling yourself, forcing your voice not to tremble, you say: "I won't go."

Rose is appalled. She grimaces with her lips wrapped around her teeth and her tongue poking out in frustration. "You're a like a mangy dog that won't go away."

"Yeah. Sure. You got it. I'm a dog. A clingy beta orbiter. Blah, blah, Rose. Now that you know I won't go away, you have to deal with me."

Stasi's voice rings out: "You are outnumbered! Surrender yourselves or die!"

"Go to hell!" Rose shouts.

"We will kill the girl!" Stasi threatens. "If you do not turn yourselves over on the count of three -- we will shoot her!"

"Kill her and you'll be dead in two seconds flat!" Rose says. Call her a hardline negotiator.

"How many?" you ask Rose again, whispering.

Rose considers her options, and, realizing she is never going to get rid of you, she answers. "I counted three, including Stasi."

"Does Tyrus have any guys left?"

"I don't think so--"

While you're distracted by your strategizing, one of Stasi's men bounds towards you. He barrels into a diving skid, like a baseball player stealing second, and gets a vicious-looking Uzi pointed directly at Rose's face. Rose's eyes go wide. The report of gunfire rings in your ears. The phosphoric after-image of the blast blinds you.

And it all happens so quickly that he's dead before you even know it.

He falls back, supine, the gun rebounding off the tile floor beside him, unused. All that's left is a tinny echo in your eardrums, half drowning out the electronic music from the abandoned club below still vibrating the floor.

You assume that Rose's crack aim is to thank for saving her life just now. You've seen her win quick-draw with Russian mobsters once before. But looking down at the man's body now, the small, clean hole in the center of his forehead, you realize he wasn't killed by a shotgun blast. And that's what Rose holds: a shotgun.

So, then -- it had to be you. You killed him.

You examine the glock in your hand. It's warm. Your fingers still tingle with the force of the recoil. There's no mistaking it. You fired your gun just now. You took that man's life with such little hesitation that you didn't even realize it had happened until it was over.

"Alabaster..." Rose breathes.

You gawk at your gun, then at the corpse you created, then back at Rose.

Rose presses her advantage. She shouts across the room: "You're next if you don't let her go!"

There is a long, tense silence before Stasi finally replies. "The police are sure to arrive soon. None of us wants that. We can all leave this place alive, and free."

"Yeah? How?"

"We will hand the girl over. We will let you leave unscathed if you do not attack us."

Rose casts you an uncertain look.

[ ] Take the deal.
>[x] Now or never. Kill Stasi.

Locking eyes with Rose, you wordlessly reach a common understanding of what has to happen. You nod; she nods. It's a skill honed over the course of many interminable board meetings at Darkbloom Analytics. Maybe Rose2 was wrong about which Rose has ESP.

"Okay," Rose calls out. "Hand her over -- and we'll go."

"Your weapons first."

"No," Rose says. "Fake-Rose first."

"...Who? Oh. The girl... no. You must show that you are not aggressive."

"Stop fucking around. Unless you want to live in an American prison for the rest of your life?"

There's a brief sound of tussle, then girly grunts, and heavy footsteps. Rose2 is being led out by Stasi herself, who holds a gun to her back.

"Come out," Stasi says.

"Where's your other man?" Rose demands.

"For God's love--" Stasi sighs. She turns, and without a thought, she shoots her own man in the head, right where he sits in waiting. "Are you happy?"

You go first, and Rose follows. You keep your guns at the ready as you meet Stasi in the room's center.

"Ally--! I -- I'm so sorry--!"

"I'll deal with you later," you say.

"Your guns now, please," Stasi says.

Rose stands her ground.

"You are not in a negotiating position. I am quick enough to kill all of you before you can pull the trigger once. But let us be civilized, yes?"

You and Rose are simpatico, again. She knows as well as you do that you're the one with the gun for the job. It's going to come down to how good your aim is. Can you hit Stasi in the tiny portion of her head visible from behind Rose2's body? You're no William Tell.

Rose kneels haltingly and sets her shotgun on the ground. Stasi watches, pleased. You begin now to do the same -- but at the last second, you fall to your knees, raise your gun, and fire.

"OWWWW!" Rose2 squeals. A mist of blood explodes from her shoulder.

The bullet passes through her, and hits Stasi too, somewhere by her collarbone. She jerks back. Rose2 falls to the ground, shrieking.

Rose isn't frozen by shock the way you are. She grabs her shotgun again, steadies it, and blasts Stasi in the chest.

Stasi collapses. She gurgles, her lungs aspirating her own blood. But her eyes are aglow with sheer hatred. It's at this moment that Tyrus, crawling forward on his belly like a WWI soldier in a trench, clambers atop her.

"This is for Marquis," he snarls. He puts his glock underneath Stasi's chin, meets her hateful glare with one of his own, and fires. Stasi's head explodes.

You help Rose2 to her feet and pull her back. "Let's go."

"Ally-- Ally--!!"

"Don't look," you say, shielding her face with your own body.

"It hurts so bad! Owww..."

Rose takes the lead, sweeping her shotgun side to side, scanning for threats, as you exit the bloody scene. The last thing you see of it is Tyrus, lying atop the mess that used to be Stasi Lebedev. He pinches his thumb and forefinger together, and pulls a long, thin wire from what used to be Stasi's right eye socket. Could it be?

Stasi had men in waiting in the club below. One of them swings around the corner at the bottom of the stairs, leveling a gun on you, but Rose dispatches him immediately. She's gotten good at killing without remorse.

Rose2 yells incoherently. More or less carrying her, as she bleeds profusely against you, you can't help defend yourselves, and so it's all up to Rose -- to protect you all as you make your way out of the mostly-dark, empty club. You can already hear sirens on the distance.

"This is crazy! Oh my god -- oh my god!!" Rose2 wails.

"Shut the fuck up," Rose says. "Christ..."

It's enough distraction that she almost doesn't see the man crouching behind the bar on the other side of the dancefloor.

Rose blocks your path with an outstretched arm and forces you backwards with her, behind a column, at the last moment. The man rises to his feet and fires. Rose returns fire, but the distance is too much for the buckshot's spread to hit him. Another man, flanking you, approaches from your right -- Rose wheels in a beautiful 90 degree arc and blasts him away, but you know there's going to be more. You need to get the hell out of here.

"Run for it?" You suggest.

"Fuck... we have to," Rose says. "Count of three--"

"I can't run... I can't... it hurts..." Rose2 whines.

"You useless sack of shit!" Rose shrieks. "Get it together. Fucking cunt! Let's go!"

Rose2 cries pathetically.

"I--" you begin, but stop when you hear a horrible wail from the bar, and low animal growls. When you peek around the column, you see a rottweiler on top of the man who was waiting for you behind the bar. The rottweiler is busy chewing on the man's neck.

"Lady! Back!"

Lady obeys, and circles his master's legs, on the lookout for any further threats. His tawny mouth is dripping red with human blood. In the low multicolored lighting here, he looks like a hound from hell.

"Just like old times, huh?" Kay says, approaching. "Killing Russians together -- it's nostalgic."

"How the fuck--" you sputter.

"I know where all the best stories are! It's my job! Hey, hate to bother you, but we've got cops. We gotta go."

She leads you behind the bar, and over the corpse of the man Lady killed, then through a deserted kitchen, and out swinging double doors to a small, dilapidated back parking lot. A chain link fence leads to a storm tunnel.

"Can Hubba Bubba climb?" Kay asks.

"I can't... I totally can't..."

"Up and at 'em, then," Kay says. She squats behind Rose2. Getting the cue, you join her. Together, you haul her up like a sack of potatoes.

"Catch her on the other side," Kay instructs Rose.

"Ow! Ow, ow, ow!" Rose2 cries.

Rose struggles to get over the fence, herself -- she was never athletic. When she finally does, she topples to the gravel abutment with a soft grunt, badly scraping her knees and wrists as she lands doggy style in the rocks. She quickly rises to her feet and holds out her arms. You and Kay heave Rose2 over the top.

Rose tries to catch the poor girl, but the weight is too much and Rose is too weak. They stumble backwards together, then go rolling down the pebbly slope, and land splayed out on the damp concrete ground leading to the storm tunnels.

"Lady! Climb!" Kay shouts, snapping her fingers. Lady bounds and jumps and almost clears the fence. Kicking his hind legs wildly, he gets himself over the top. He runs down to where the Roses lie crumpled in a heap. He sniffs them curiously, and then licks Rose's face, smearing it with human blood.

"FUCK!" Rose yells.

"Ow ow ow ow ow ow--"

You and Kay get over and hurry down, just as the approaching sirens arrive in the club's front parking lot. You and your ragtag group scurry into the shelter of the tunnels and escape.

You use a pocket knife to rip the left sleeve of your shirt and use it as a makeshift bandage for Rose2. The entry and exit wounds are small, and clean, but continue to bleed profusely. She's going pale from the blood loss.

"Fucking wild, huh?" Kay says as you slowly walk through the dark tunnels, southward, looking for a good place to cut back to the surface streets. "Where to now?"

Her eyes gleam with raw excitement. Seeing this, it's at this moment you realize something about Kay Vera. "You don't care about the story," you say.

"What?"

"You're not in this to get a really good story, are you... you never have been. You're a thrill seeker. You enjoy being in dangerous situations. You keep purposely putting yourself in danger -- because you get off on it --"

She rolls her eyes. "Spare me the armchair psychoanalysis, Alabaster."

"Cerise has to be at Gal's right about now," Rose cuts in. "I'm sure that's where she went. Alex and Sable, too."

You nod. "What about Whitney? We've got the fucking Russians after all of us now--"

"She's probably at work -- she should be safe there. Dr. Carte and Vivian, too."

"I have to stop..." Rose2 groans, her breathing labored.

"We're almost there," you tell her, although you're not sure whether that's really true. "Listen -- why did you follow me, huh?"

"I... saw you were going into a strip club... and I thought to myself -- well, that's so silly -- why would he do something like that?..."

You shake your head. Rose is more blunt, though: "you stupid bitch."

"I'm sorry... I'm really sorry..."

How are you going to explain this to Mom? And, oh god, Amber -- this kind of thing is sure to tickle her curiosity in the worst way.

Kay snaps her fingers, halting you, and points to a branching path in the tunnel that leads to daylight, an exit. "This should be good -- I can make sure Pinky gets home safe, if you want to take The Brain back to Gal's with you."

[ ] Ok. (Head to Gal's with Rose.)
>[x] I should be the one to explain this to Mom. (Let Kay and Rose go to Gal's, take Rose2 home.)

You load the woozy Rose2 into the back of the Uber and climb inside with her. Poking your head out the window, you instruct Rose: "Wait for me."

"Of course," she says.

You roll the window up as the car pulls away.

The driver gazes suspiciously at you in the rearview. Kay's peacoat, over-large on Rose2, conceals her bullet wound. It doesn't conceal that you're missing one of your sleeves, though. The driver understands implicitly that he shouldn't ask.

Rose2 rests her head against you. The pain is passing, it seems, at least enough that she isn't crying. But she gazes forlornly up at you.

"You don't love me, do you," she says.

You clear your throat awkwardly.

"You love your cousin after all."

"It's complicated," you tell her.

"There's nothing complicated about it," Rose2 says. After a long pause, she adds: "It's okay. I understand. I'm not smart... I'm not useful... I don't have anything... and I almost got us killed. Why would you love me?"

Tears are streaming down her face.

"But -- I love you so much, Ally -- I really, really do..."

You put your arm around her good shoulder and hug her close.

"Amber said you'd do this to me," she says.

"I didn't mean to make you--"

"It's okay. I don't mind. If I can be close to you, it's all okay."

The car pulls up outside Mom's house. Time to break the news.

---

"Russians! I can't -- the nerve of those people! I knew it!"

"Sure. You knew it..." You mutter.

Amber is busily disinfecting Rose2's wound and applying gauze. She works with the speed and alacrity of a field medic. You decline to ask how on earth she's so good at cleaning bullet wounds. You're not sure whether it's rotten luck or great luck that she's here right now, home from school due to the inferno that destroyed North High last week.

Rose2 hisses in pain at various points, but takes it like a champ.

"Ronald Reagan was a pansy! He should have nuked that country back to the stone age while we had the chance!"

"Always with the nukes, mom, geez," Amber says. "Nuke this, nuke that. There are other geopolitical solutions, you know."

"Ow! Amber -- not so rough--"

"Buck up, buttercup." Amber glances back at you. "The good news is it should heal on its own. No need to get docs involved. Docs see a gunshot wound, they call the pigs -- then it's game over. So we dodged a bullet here... uh, no pun intended."

"That's good," you say. "But you might catch some blowback. You should all come live at Whitney's for a little while -- at least until this all blows over -- we'll have security."

Amber laughs: "Pfft. When I told you to let me live a normal life, I didn't mean for you to move me in with the rest of the Beverly Hillbillies. I'm fine right here, thanks."

Mom purses her lips. "I don't know. If they're willing to kill so brazenly -- if any of those Russians made it out of that club, and they know Rose was there -- we could all be in danger..."

"You blasted 'em all away, right?" Amber says. "Pow pow. Problem solved."

"I don't know. I think? I mean, maybe? But-- oof--"

You get cut off by Mom hugging you tight. "You poor thing! Having to risk life and limb like that --"

"Jesus H. Christ," Amber says. "You'd think he was your son, the way you treat him sometimes..."

Mom lets you go with an awkward glance away to the side.

"You can all go live lifestyles of the rich and famous, if you want. But I'm not about that. Those Russian bitches can come find me if they want to die like their buddies did."

[ ] Force the matter.
[ ] Let them stay at the Catachresis house. (But give them security detail too, of course.)

"What do you think?" You ask Mom.

Mom frowns. "I know my daughter. If she doesn't want to go somewhere -- there's no forcing it."

You know Amber perfectly well too, and that's the truth. So, then:

>[X] Let them stay at the Catachresis house. (But give them security detail too, of course.)

"I'll get you guys some security," you tell Mom. "So your life isn't disrupted too badly-- you and Amber can stay here for now."

Rose2 sniffles. "If they want anyone, they want me, right? As long as I'm at Whitney's, you guys should be safe."

Amber arches her eyebrow. "You wanna move into the fuckhouse? Wow. You're one horny broad, sis."

"Amber!" Mom shouts.

"Just saying."

"I'd stay out of your way..." Rose2 insists. "Really."

Rose2 has an apartment in Palo Alto that she resides in during the work week. Keeping her there is almost out of the question -- you can't trust her alone. She'd be easier to keep an eye on at Whitney's place. But at Mom's, with security, the situation might be less difficult.

>[x] Let Rose2 move in with you.
[ ] Keep her here as well.

Rose2, still wincing in pain, climbs into the back of Mom's SUV. Mom is going to chaperone her to Whitney's place. As you approach the car to join her, Amber pulls you aside.

"Break my sister's heart, and I break your spine."

"Since when do you care so much about Rose2?"

"You're a real dumb asshole, you know that? Anyway, she's Rose1. Rose2 is that fat SJW whore you call a cousin -- I'm sorry. First cousin once removed."

"She's had a rough time. I'll try to be gentle with her -- but she's got this puppy love, you know?"

"Uh huh. I'm telling you, Alabaster. Broken heart, broken spine. Fucking bet."

You frown. "Got it."

She puts on a chipper expression. "Great! Then have a pleasant day."

At home, you lug the duffel bag with Rose2's personal effects inside, and drop them with a soft plop on the floor in the foyer. Rose2 wanders around, in awe at the opulence of her temporary new home. It's enough to make her forget the wound in her shoulder.

"We can set you up in a guest bedroom," you tell her.

"Holy crud. This place is even bigger than I thought. So sugoi. The last time I was here it didn't seem so big!"

"That's because there were a bunch of people here -- never mind. For the time being, until I can get the security detail here, you'll be safest at work. I'll drive you back."

Rose2 turns around. She saunters up and gives you a coquettish smile. "Ally... everything we said earlier... I know how it is... but you still think I'm cute -- don't you?"

You frown.

"Will you show me my bedroom?" She asks.

[ ] Show her the bedroom.
>[X] Best not to send mixed signals. Take her back to work, and return to Gal's.

"There's plenty of time for the grand tour. But later. Let's get you safe, yeah?"

Rose2 pouts. "Yeah. Safety first, huh."

She glances around, and spies an arcade cabinet in the living room. "Whoa -- Metal Slug? Can we play later?"

You almost wish you had a head as empty as Rose2's.

---

The rest of them are back at Galatea's as expected. Gal herself is cowering in one corner, hugging her legs, staring at her feet. She doesn't like visitors, and she especially doesn't like these visitors. When you enter the loft, Sable is in the midst of a full-on freakout:

"It's over!" She shrieks. "It's all over!"

"What's over?" You demand, stepping up to where she sits on Gal's bed.

"Humanity! We were at the cusp of greatness but we gave it all up! Sand Reckoner... Diogenes... virus and antibody -- the mind phage --" You recoil in confusion and cast a bewildered glance to Cerise, who's equally lost and unsettled, ditto Rose. "--useless useless useless USELESS -- we cast our lot in with the bringers of the plague!! The only POSSIBLE hope is -- IF the lighthouse --"

Alex, totally calm and placid, approaches Sable now. He kneels down in front of her as she rants and clutches her face.

"Ms. Guiteau," he says, "I'm very sorry."

This interrupts her incoherent rambling just long enough for her to make eye contact with Alex, before he reels back and slaps her hard across the face. The sound of it echoes through the loft.

"You!!" She shrieks, even shriller than before, "YOU LITTLE CUNT!! YOU FAGGOT, COCK SUCKING--"

Alex slaps her again. She bows her head, slumping forward, and goes silent for several long moments. Then she starts to cry pitifully. Gasping, heaving, ugly sobs.

Alex slaps her a third time. Again she goes quiet and still. Then: "death death death death death" she mutters over and over, like a zombie.

Cerise and Rose are absolutely horrified. So are you. Alex, abashed, glances back: "I know how this must look. But she's like a fritzy router sometimes. You gotta smack it back into working order..."

He tries again. And this time, it actually works. Sable, face red and streaked with tears, blinks dazedly, but then finally seems to compose herself. Her muscles loosen and she sighs -- so does Alex.

"Thank you," she tells him.

This woman was never the paragon of mental health, but the past year or so of living underground hasn't done her any favors. She must be totally unmedicated.

You sit, feeling your heartbeat return to normal. "Where has she been all this time?" You ask.

Rose explains the conversation that took place in your absence. "She's been hiding. From everyone. And -- in her words -- building an army."

You breathe hard through your nose, half-laughing -- "an army?"

Rose nods at Gal's monitor. You wheel around in the chair and look at it. Displayed in a browser window is a Soundcloud podcast: Sofia Sant-Elizabeth's Illuminati Report. Helpfully, now, Kay leans over your shoulder and clicks play.

"You're all being hoodwinked!" That's Sable, all right, voice tremulous but somehow silken, and perpetually on edge. "Big Data has you in their clutches. Everything you do and say, is logged, and monitored, and dissected for dissent! And the dissenters are murdered! All you Facebook-using, meme-liking, upvoting lackeys -- you can't see the truth. The real, unbelievable truth right in front of you--"

You click the stop button.

"Well she's probably right about all that," you admit. You turn to her: "Can you tell us now, with words, what the problem is?"

"Darkbloom Analytics must be destroyed," Sable says.

"Ms. Guiteau--" Alex begins.

"What?" Cerise snaps. "What on earth is that supposed to-- why?"

"There is so much about this world you don't understand. David Darkbloom didn't understand -- not even I fully understand -- and I'm one of the most intelligent people in human history--"

Yep. Same old Sable, all right.

"If we don't act now, we'll lose everything. You understand? World-changing technology like this cannot be kept under the bell jar. Someone is going to get their hands on it. Better that it's the people than whoever is about to kill us all and take it for themselves."

"Stasi is dead," you say. "We can fend off whoever else comes to fill that vacuum. And we can get rid of Mara, too, eventually -- once our investors get comfortable enough with the idea of Whitney actually running things. It won't be long. She's losing her grip on power."

"No, she isn't. She will never go quietly. Don't you see? Her venality, and lust for power for its own sake, and petty-minded, short-sighted... smallness... she will ruin us all! This whole world! We've got a choice, of what kind of future we have... hers is the future of a cartel, or -- warring cartels -- fighting over the keys to this technology. If not Mara, then someone else. The Russians. The Chinese. The CIA! And all the rest of us, the common people, in their thrall. That's... that's a dystopia! I didn't set out to make a cyberpunk dystopia, Alabaster. I'm here to bring us utopia!" She looks frantically from face to face. "Utopia! A new era for humankind! Age of Aquarius! Come on!"

"Christ," you mutter.

She calms herself. "We're at an inflection point, as a species. And it came as a result of our collective actions." She touches her chest: "I had a hand in it--" she begins to point, now: "you had a hand in it. And Alex. And your sister, and David Darkbloom, and, and-- Rose..." she gives Rose a confused look. "I'm not sure what it is you do, exactly, Rose."

"Good," she says.

"Well anyway, even Rose. We all took part. So we all own it: which way the inflection point turns." She uses her index finger to trace invisible paths through the air: "does it all turn down... or... back up? You took calculus, right, Alabaster?"

"I got a C... minus."

"That's fine. Close enough. C's get degrees, yes? You understand the metaphor."

"He doesn't," Rose says.

"Yes I fucking do, Rose--" you turn to Sable. "I understand the metaphor."

"He doesn't."

"I will spank you, Rose. I will pull down your skirt and spank you right fucking now."

"We're through the looking glass," Sable tells you. "Something about this world changed on the night of June 1st. You know it. You see it, too. It's in your eyes. Plain as day. You see the dark silhouette of truth behind this distorted reality, don't you? It must be your implant... but you don't see it fully -- you can't -- you can't even let yourself--"

"Do you need to slap her again?" Kay asks Alex.

"Let's let her finish," he says.

Kay shrugs.

Sable looks at her. "You were in the service, yes, Ms. Vera?"

"Sure."

"Then have you heard of Albert Stubblebine?"

"Oh hell yeah," Kay says. "The guy who thought he could walk through walls?"

"Tell them."

Kay explains: "He was this army guy who got into psyops shit back in the 70s and 80s. He had all sorts of cockamamie schemes... turning soldiers invisible, ESP, you name it. Back then, you could get easy funding for anything, as long as you said it could stop communism."

You've had about enough of crackpots who think they've got ESP.

"Well, he legitimately believed he could walk through walls. People would go to see him in his office and he'd be butting his nose up against the wall, trying to pass through it. And no one in the chain of command ever thought to say, hey, perhaps this guy is a little bit nuts. You know? A little bit cuckoo. The military is run by undiagnosed schizophrenics... all the way up to the top. It's quite a sad state of affairs."

"He was right," Sable says.

Kay motions at Sable with her palm. "Case in point. This was Major General Stubblebine's kindred spirit."

"The space between atoms is more than 99% empty," Sable says. "More than 99.9% empty, even. It's 99 and twelve 9's percent empty... then a 6. Stubblebine reasoned that if you could line up all those empty spaces, just so -- you could phase through solid matter. But of course, that's a naive understanding of physics. The law of averages means that in bulk matter, you could never line things up that perfectly. And in any case, intramolecular forces are far too powerful to allow the nuclei of atoms to intermesh like that. So actually, of course, the whole theory was impossible."

"but it wasn't..."

Gal, for the first time, speaks up.

"That's right," Sable tells her, looking at her as if noticing her for the first time. "That's exactly right. It's not impossible after all."

"Don't encourage her," you tell Gal.

"no... no, you know it too. when we linked our implants together... and we saw so much... you felt it, didn't you?"

You shake your head. "I don't know what I felt--"

"like you could change something... like you could change something if you just had the strength to do it..."

"Knowledge is power," Sable says. "Saturday morning cartoons were right all along. What if the power of Sand Reckoner is more than knowing? What if by knowing, you can act? What if you can act upon -- reality itself?"

---

You're alone with Alex on the landing outside Gal's loft. This veranda-covered walkway has a beautiful view out to the bay. You and he lean against the railing, admiring the ocean, side by side.

"How long have you been in contact with her?"

"Huh? Ally... I don't know what you're--"

"Don't bullshit me, Alex. I'm not in the mood. You and Sable are a regular Watson and Holmes. You've been keeping in touch. How long."

He dithers. Then finally: "a little over a month," he admits, shamefaced.

"What kind of plan did you come up with, then?"

"She wants to destroy the company. She's not joking. And... and to be honest, I kind of agree with her."

"You've been plotting against me, behind my back."

"It's not like that, Ally--"

"Yes it fucking is." You wheel on him. He looks suddenly frightened as your shadow falls over him. "If this company goes down, if those servers go down -- I die. Gal dies. Vivian. Cerise. I won't let you kill my sister, you piece of shit."

Alex, rather than falling to his knees and begging forgiveness, instead steels himself, cocks his head up at you, and laughs bitterly. "Talk about tables turning, huh? A year ago it was me and Sable calling you the saboteur..."

"I ought to turn you both over to Noelle. You fucking traitor."

"You should be thanking me," Alex says. "Nothing is going to happen except when I say so. I talked Sable out of her first idea. She just wanted to blow it all up. That's such a very Alabaster move -- don't you think?"

You glower at him.

He continues. "I said I would help her, only if we can get this mess with the implants sorted out. That's what Diogenes is. If Sand Reckoner is a mind-virus, Diogenes is the antibody. Together, they relieve your brain of needing any connection to any servers -- you can interface with the minds of other Sand Reckoner users, directly..."

"So..." you drawl.

"So we fix your head, and get rid of this awful company, and maybe we save the world in the process, too. Whitney's got money anyway, it's not like you need to run Darkbloom Analytics to make a living. Wouldn't the world be better off? Isn't that what you want? You've been stuck with this company, but you'd be so much happier without it... we all would."

You think about that. Would you be?

>[x] I'll help you.
[ ] I won't let you destroy this company.

"For the sake of sticking it to David and Mara Darkbloom, if for nothing else," you say.

Alex has no idea how to respond to that.

"What happens after you perfect Diogenes, then?"

"We disseminate instructions on how to produce the new generation of implant -- it'll be a model simple enough to be compatible with a 3D printer. The codebase will be totally open source. No putting the cat back in the bag after that... Sand Reckoner and Diogenes will belong to the public. Anyone who wants the implant will be able to get one. And no one will control it."

Sounds suspiciously like communism, but okay. At least Amber will be happy.

"Where is Sable staying?" You ask.

"Nowhere. I told her to come live in my apartment with me -- but she won't. She just kind of... putters around in her van. Moves from place to place at random to avoid detection. I guess she's always been sort of a nomad at heart."

"Nomad. That's a romantic way of saying hobo. She's a hobo who lives in her van."

"Erm..."

"Why didn't you come to me right away?"

Alex can't meet your eyes. "I don't know, Ally. I knew you wouldn't -- or, that is to say, that you'd think -- oh, never mind. Why do I always need to explain myself? You never explain yourself to me." Now he forces himself to establish eye contact, and he's upset, and his voice quakes: "I made a choice, just like you did, to hide something. We all have secrets, Alabaster... if you can't trust that I've been keeping you in my heart..." he trails off, sighing. "Sable was right about you, after all. You still don't understand anything about what people mean to you."

"Sable..." you mutter.

"Hmm?"

"You keep calling her Sable... not Ms. Guiteau. I'm just surprised."

Alex spins and leans against the railing with both elbows. "I guess I didn't notice. Huh..." He leans his head way back and basks in the glimmer of the low-hanging sun. "Maybe she'll be Mrs. Best someday soon..."

So it's like that. You wonder how much the putative Mrs. Best knows about her co-conspirator's true feelings. She's one to talk about not understanding people -- she never did realize how hopeless Alex really is about her.

At home that evening, Rose2 and Whitney struggle their way through Metal Slug 3. Whitney plays as Tarma and Rose2 as Eri. Even with unlimited credits, it's a long slog for the pair.

"Ugh," Rose2 grunts, furiously firing at the boss, "this baka robot is impossible--"

"Watch out--!" Whitney shouts. But too late; poor Eri takes a ballistic missile to the face.

"Aghh! Piece of kuso!"

You have something like peace of mind knowing that there's a security detail with the firepower of a small nation outside your mansion. They're a firm Tyrus recommended to you in the past -- and if there's one thing you're sure of, it's that Tyrus Kang hates the Russians from the bottom of his heart -- so you can trust this firm is legitimate. You've given similar resources to Mom, as well as Alex, and Gal, and Dr. Carte, and even Vivian -- who was none too pleased to hear that Russian mafia had tried to kidnap you.

"If you don't want them threatening me, take it up with your mother," you told her.

To which Vivian replied with nothing but a blank stare. Such a talker, Vivian.

Still, this night feels like the brief period of calm between the opening salvo of the war, and the first real battle.

Cerise is at Gal's, for some much needed gal-pal time, being babysat by Dr. Carte. Which leaves you with not much to do but wait, and be simultaneously anxious and bored.

"Alabaster."

Great. Just what you need right now. Rose.

"Can we talk somewhere private?" She asks.

"I don't know. Are you going to hit me? I can't take much more of this abuse... I'm such a wimp, you know."

Rose isn't pleased by the clown act.

"Fine," you say. "Lead the way, mistress."

You don't like the way that makes her smile despite the sarcasm you layered onto it.

Inside Rose's bedroom, you sit on her bed and shrug. "All right. What's so important that we needed to have a private pow-wow? I'm a busy man, you kn--"

Rose climbs into your lap, swinging her thick legs over you so that she's straddling you, and clutches your face with both hands. She opens her mouth wide and kisses you forcefully, wetly. It's really more like she's sucking on you, to be honest -- you weren't prepared for this. It's a kiss brimming with uncharacteristic passion and need.

"I didn't mean it," she moans against you. Her voice is soft and tinged with that rarest of her emotions: remorse.

"W-what?" You try to push her back a little, to get some breathing room so you can talk it out, but she just dives in for another assault, kissing you, and running her hands all across your chest. Her weight presses down on you and you feel powerless to resist.

"I didn't mean any of it, okay? Don't gloat -- and don't make make me say it again -- this is all you're getting, Alabaster..."

But you have to gloat at least a little. It wouldn't be fun, otherwise. "I know you didn't mean that shit," you tell her. "You're a shitty actress."

You kiss her back.

"Fuck you," she growls. She wraps her hand around the back of your head and twirls her tongue inside your mouth. She tastes so sweet and warm. Her breaths are tiny and hot against you. She's already pawing at the buttons on your shirt.

"Well fuck you, too, then," you tell her between kisses.

"Fuck me yourself."

You reach for her blouse.

There's a knock on the door.

Rose2 -- of course. "Ally! You guys in there? I was hoping you'd give me that grand tour of the house you promised~"

Rose gives you a severe look. "Just ignore her," she tells you.

[ ] Ignore her.
>[x] Make love, not war.

"I think you and the other Rose need to learn how to get along better," you tell her.

"Oh, fuck you, Alabaster," Rose says. "But -- for real, this time. You deranged ape."

You pull her into another kiss that she's powerless to resist. 

"I shot the poor girl in her shoulder. I bet her rotator cuff is never going to be the same. The least I can do is show a little contrition -- right?"

Rose is hurt. "But... I risked my life-- what about me? I want you. I... god, don't make me say it... I NEED you..."

She pounds a fist against your chest, but weakly, more to emphasize the point.

"I know," you tell her. "But... think of it like this..." you lean in and whisper, breathing directly into her ear, making her shiver: "you can show her that you're better..."

Knock-knock. "Ally? I hear your voice in there, silly! You can't hide from me~... haha. That's a joke. Open up!"

"Am I..." Rose begins, gulping. She pulls back a little to regard you. "...You think I'm better?"

"Don't flatter yourself. It's a low bar to clear."

She pounds your chest again. You reach down and get your hand up her skirt, and feel the soft cleft of her naked cunt. Always naked, and always wet for you. Her body is honest even if she is not. "Show that girl what this pussy can do..." you tell her, and tickle her clit. She shudders.

Rose hauls herself up now, raising one leg like a bitch to climb off you -- not ladylike at all. She's all hot and bothered and worse, her competitive streak is flaring up. 

You walk over and answer the door. Rose2's pink hair is ruffled by the breeze it creates. Her face is still somewhat more pale than usual from everything that happened earlier.

"Ally! Why the heck were you hiding from me--"

She notices now, peeking around you, that Rose is here, and more: she's sitting on her bed with her legs spread wide and her skirt hiked up and her bare cunt on full display. Rose2's dumb, pretty eyes bug out. "Oh my gosh!"

Her face now cycles through a panoply of emotions: anger, sadness, disgust, and chiefly, confusion. "I... I didn't..." 

She tries to turn and go, but you stop her, holding her in place by the wrist.

"You interrupted us on purpose, didn't you? What were you expecting? Why else would I be in her room? Use your head."

Rose2 glances back, and sees Rose idly playing with herself. She has two fingers in her pussy and an evil grin on her face -- she likes seeing you get a bit rough with other girls. Rose2 looks away again, knuckles to her lips, blushing. "I'm sorry... never mind..."

"You can go, if you want," you allow. "But we've got room for a third."

"Th-th-th-third..." Rose2 stammers. "Thr-threesome?!"

"What's with the shy schoolgirl act? That's hardly new to you."

Rose, behind you, is a little miffed. "Wait. You had a threesome with her and some other bitch?"

"Not now, Rose," you tell her without looking back. "Let me work."

"Ugh. I'll deal with you later, then."

You whisper to Rose2 so that only she can hear. "That's the thing you should understand, okay? We can all have fun together... there's nothing wrong with it. Why fight -- why be rivals -- make love, not war, right?"

Rose2's dewy eyes are still swimming with uncertainty, so you seal the deal with physical affection. Notch this as another similarity between the two Roses: their resistance crumbles if you kiss them.

"Your decision, of course," you tell her gently. You swipe some hair from her face. "But you're more than welcome to share our bed tonight... and it'll feel really good."

"O... okay..."

You reel her into the room and close the door. 

"Lick my cunt, you bitch," Rose growls. She leans back on one elbow and spreads her sticky pussy lips, awaiting obedience.

Rose2 squeaks in fear.

"Will you cut the domme shit out?" You tell Rose. "You'll scare her to death."

Rose pouts. You pet Rose2 on the top of the head to soothe her. She clutches your shirt sleeve and circles around you and hides her face against your back, as if to shield herself from her rival. 

"We'll be nice," you tell her. "...Won't we?"

"Hmmph," Rose says.

"You like being with girls?" You ask Rose2.

Her face still nestled close to your body, she mumbles: "I... I dunno... I want YOU, Ally..." Her eyes are bright as she looks up at you: "You smell so nice."

"Come here," you tell her. You guide her to Rose's bed, and sit down in front of her. You unzip your jeans and nod -- she gets the message. She reaches a tiny hand into your fly, finds your already erect cock. 

"You... you're so big, Ally~"

Despite her trepidation, the heat and firmness of your cock in her hand is enough to keep her going. 

"Take it out," you instruct. As she does so, Rose climbs down to the carpet and joins her. From opposite sides of your cock, the two Roses share a momentary, reproachful gaze. 

Rose2 actually makes the first move: she smiles at you, so broadly it forces her eyes shut, and says, "can I suck your cock, Ally?"

You grunt a yes in response, and immediately, she gets to work. Her pink lips engulf the mushroom head of your dick. Her impossibly small tongue snakes under the foreskin, flickering against the frenulum. How did she get so good at this? It takes your breath away. The way her mouth suckles on your cock like she needs your cum to live... it's almost enough to make you pop off, right now.

You steal a glance at Rose, to see how she's dealing with this. It's a mixed bag. She loathes to see you with another woman, and especially this one -- but she's a dirty little bitch, too, and being up close and personal to a pretty girl sucking a hard cock is obviously doing things to her. Her eyes simmer. Lust and hate battle within her. 

Rose2 sinks lower on your meaty dick, and her slimy tongue tickles the underside of it in such a painfully pleasurable way. Rose rubs your knees to catch your attention and asks you, in a voice that sounds like begging: "She's no good, is she? She doesn't know how to do that at all..."

Rose2 tries to rebut, but with her mouth stuffed full of cockmeat, all she can do is gag. Which feels really fucking good, too. She sputters and drools on you.

"If you think she isn't any good -- help her," you say.

"H-help her--"

"Lick my nuts."

This steals Rose's breath. The domineering way you say it, and the substance of the command itself. She hesitates, so you repeat yourself, even more firmly than the first time: "Lick my fucking nuts."

And to make sure there is no last-second resistance to the prospect of helping her love-rival, you lace your fingers through Rose's hair and tug her face towards your crotch. Her button nose rests against your cum-filled balls, and the stink of your manly cock invades her nostrils. Her eyes roll back -- it's making her stupid. It always does. Of course, after that, she'll have to obey. And she does. Her tongue darts out, at first reluctant, but slowly growing more eager, as she swabs it around and pleasures you. Even if she has to work with someone she hates, she can't help how much she loves to lick and suckle your balls. The two Roses are working in tandem now, one nursing on your dick, the other servicing your heavy nuts. You pet them both appreciatively. They can be good girls, after all.

It isn't to last. Rose2 always plays like she's innocent, but she's a terrible instigator. She pulls off your spit-slick dick and says, her voice hoarse: "I'm better than her, right? You like my cocksuck better..."

Rose pulls back from your balls. Strands of spit, hers and her rival's, cling to her. It forms a bridge between her face and your genitals. She's in such an undignified, nasty state; but she's full of pride as she insists to Rose2: "you're horrible. I'm way better at this..." She grabs your dick, curling her soft fingers around it. She nuzzles it like a kitten, and drags her tongue in a long, slow motion all the way up the shaft. You can't suppress the groan it causes. "Right, Alabaster?"

"You--!" Rose2 shouts. She presses one of your thighs, to spread your legs wider and create some space for her. She butts her good shoulder up against Rose and tries to force her back, but Rose won't budge -- she's an immovable object when she's got her lips around your dick. Forced now to compromise, Rose2 cups your slobbery nuts and massages them gently, while she puckers her mouth and starts to kiss your shaft. Two girls share your cock, blowing you, but each has a different strategy. Rose uses her wonderfully skilled, wet tongue to swirl around and hit all the spots she knows you're weak to. Rose2 uses her pouty lips to plant kisses almost at random all over your horny cock and balls. Make no mistake about it, this is a fierce competition, but neither one is prevailing.

As they suck you off, their mouths occasionally meet -- Rose licks Rose2, or Rose2 kisses Rose -- it's a hot fucking sight, especially the way they refuse to stop going, even as their eyes fill with loathing for one another. 

You throw your head back and moan. This is too much... you need to feel the snug confines of a cunt around you. So you say so: "I need to fuck someone..."

Rose grins smugly. She strokes your thigh and adopts a seductive tone. "Of course. Her amateur technique just frustrated you. It's okay, Alabaster... I'm here for you... you can cum in my pussy, if you want." 

"Nnn-!" Rose2 sighs in frustration around your cock. She looks up at you desperately. "A-Ally-- d-didn't you say that MY pussy was the tightest you ever had?"

"You--" Rose begins.

But Rose2 stammers over her. "And Ally, I'm all -- all wet for you... so please... PLEASE cum inside me, okay?"

These girls are trying to kill you. You just know it.

"Both of you get on the bed." 

They obey, climbing up as you step off. They sit there on their knees, fists pressing into the mattress between their legs, peering up at you, awaiting instruction -- like puppies at the pound trying to claim a new owner.

"On your backs."

They obey, again. Their eyes are fixed on your dripping, drooling cock. Rose chews her lip; Rose2 breathes hard and seems halfway scared, even now. 

To entice you, Rose hooks a hand under either of her knees, calves in the air, and spreads her legs as wide as they'll go. Her skirt is pulled all the way back, almost as if she's wearing it upside-down. She's on full display to you, totally vulnerable, and willingly so. It's enough to make your heart melt. 

Rose2 is not to be outdone. She quickly removes her frilly pink panties. They're stained with her wetness, so much that they actually drip. She says: "I know I make a lot of noise... and I wouldn't want to bother you like that... so..." With that, she balls the panties up, and shoves them in her own mouth, as a gag. Though the wadded-up cotton prevents her from smiling, her glinting eyes tell the story -- she's happy.

"I'm gonna fuck you both," you tell them.

Their reaction is half joy and half despair, as expected.

Eeenie-meenie... you settle on the original Rose, first. You climb atop the bed and replace her hands under her knees with your own. She lets her arms fall back to the mattress, splaying out, savoring a momentary victory. You mount her like the bitch she is, pull her lower half up toward you and slam your cock into her without mercy. 

"Unnghh--" Rose gasps when you break her cunt open around you. "Ohhhh... oh, fuuu-uuuck... therrrre you go. See? You wanted my pussy after all..."

You rut, holding her plump ass in the air while you saw your cock in and out of her. Rose is just along for the ride, but she loves it. "That's it... that's it, Alabaster... you can just keep going... just keep going and cum inside me... forget about her..."

Rose2's eyes intently watch the place where you're mating with her most hated opponent. It seems like she wants to stop watching, but she can't force herself to. And it seems like she can't decide whether this is a dream or a nightmare. The thwacking of your crotch against Rose's as you bottom out repeatedly, is the only sound in the room. That, and Rose's theatrical cries of ecstasy. 

Unfortunately for Rose, you're a man of your word, and now it's time for the other Rose's turn. You pull out of Rose and drop her like a sack of rocks. She barely registers it before you're already between Rose2's legs. 

"Alabaster--" Rose says. "Wait--" 

Too late. Rose2's face beams with adoration as you lie atop her and plunge yourself into her tight pink pussy. She loops an arm around your neck to pull you in. At such a close distance, you can smell her sodden panties in her mouth, that weirdly sweet and feminine scent unique to her. Her hips wag, and help your wet cock find purchase in her vicelike insides. It's enough to make you want to cum. 

"You-- you don't want her," Rose insists, mostly to convince herself, it seems. "You want me! Not this dirty, used-up, dumb fucking cunt--"

Rose2 is a little bit of an M, you've learned, and this abuse, despite the source, makes her shiver. You pound her extra hard now, to reinforce the association of pleasure with verbal degradation in her brain. She's easy enough to train. Her pretty little cunthole juices around you. 

"She's just some dumb slut... you want ME--"

"Will you shut up already?" You snarl. "Don't make me gag you, too." 

That association of pleasure and humiliation is already strong in Rose's mind; she takes a ragged breath and tries to calm herself, but no avail. She's way too hot for you to do anything that might make you refuse her. A bit more obsequious, she holds her legs apart for you, and sweetly pleads: "don't make me wait..."

If she wants it that bad, then fine. You switch girls again, and mount Rose, and fuck her raw. Her pussy might not be as tight, but it's probably softer -- nice and wet, hot and squelchy, like a living onahole. It's hard to say which feels better. The lewd sounds of fucking Rose's fleshy cunt are definitely a point in favor, though. You can't get enough of those nasty, wet noises. 

When Rose2 begins to whine, even through her gag, you switch again -- back and forth you go, fucking them both in equal measure. It's a delirious, debauched experience. 

"But -- but you'll cum inside me, right?" Rose begs.

Rose2 sucks her panties like a pacifier and wordlessly pleads with you to choose her instead.

With your cock planted as deep as it can go inside Rose2's bubblegum pussy, you grab Rose's wrist, and pull it to the side, and force her to link hands with the girl she hates so much. "Will you fucking sluts just get along already?" You say. "Jesus... I'll cum inside both of you too, if that's what it takes..."

You surrender yourself to the pleasure, staring down at these two girls who are physically so similar, but who could not be more different otherwise. With their palms clasped together, you direct their faces now, turning them to the side, and forcing them to peer into one another's eyes. Make love, not war, indeed: "Kiss," you command them.

They shake their heads emphatically no, and Rose says: "you have got to be kidding--"

"If you want my cum inside you -- kiss."

Rose reaches up, begrudgingly, and removes Rose2's makeshift gag. Mutely, they consider their situation -- the impulse to spite each other, and the much stronger impulse warring with the first, their primal need to get spermed.

You press their faces together to decide the contest for them. They need no more prodding. They kiss, their tongues battling for dominance as they link both of hands together.

That sight, of these two beautiful, healthy girls making out despite their mutual hatred, sets you off. You feel the jizz surging through your nuts, up your shaft, and you can't hold back any longer.

The first two spurts go deep inside Rose2, right into her womb. The bed squeaks beneath as you rut and breed her out. Rose2's eyelids flutter and she inhales deeply around Rose's tongue as she feels those warm, gooey blasts inside her. 

It's such an awesomely pleasurable sensation that your reptile brain almost forces you to stay seated inside, and waste your entire load in her twat. But you have to be kind. Against millions of years of evolutionary instinct, you pull out. Your spurting cock can't be stopped; one, two blasts of hot cum spray the kissing girls, landing on their skirts and blouses, staining them. You see stars and feel about ready to pass out, but you quickly find Rose's steamy pussy, and get yourself shoved up it. You groan in agonized delight. You've fucked so much at this point, that NOT blowing your cum where it belongs -- inside some lucky girl's orifices -- is horribly frustrating. The final two sticky, searing squirts of your seed land in Rose's fertile pussy. You hose her down and secretly hope she gets pregnant. You want to knock Rose up. 

That thought alone coaxes out another couple, smaller blasts that you didn't know were in there. Rose's over-full cunt leaks your pearly jism from around the seal it forms with your cock. 

As you pull back with a satisfied heave, totally empty, you note with approval that the girls are still kissing, of their own volition. Their legs are spread wide and their leaking pussies stain the mattress. They revel in the sensation of being full of your hot cum, and this has defeated their animosity, for now, as they share in that joy, and make out lovingly.

You and the two Roses sleep together that night. They take up position on either side of you, curled around you, hugging you. It's simultaneously oppressive and enjoyable.

You hope against hope that you'll have more peaceful nights like this one.

---

At work the following morning, you and the Roses, and Whitney, blearily step past the FBI security cordon. But this time, something different. The blue-jacketed mook checking you in asks you to step into the mobile field office's interior.

"Why?" You demand, heart quickening. "I want my lawyer present."

"They won't be able to stop this," the man, whose name badge identifies him as Hugh, tells you. "You've heard about the incident at the Sapphire Club, I assume?"

You say nothing.

"Well, your CPO is in trouble. And we have probable cause to think you might know something. We're going to administer a test for gunshot residue."

"Gunshot--" you stammer.

"This way, please."

You turn. "Let's go," you tell the girls, "We don't need to deal with this. We have rights."

But Hugh grabs you roughly. "If you try to leave, you'll catch a charge for resisting arrest. This way -- please."

---

An agent swabs your hand with a waxy strip of paper adhered to a futuristic looking black plastic backing. On either side of you in uncomfortable plastic chairs sit the Roses; and two seats down is Whitney. All three girls have the same sunken, demoralized expression you wear, too. Down the line the agent goes, swabbing your hands. Noelle watches, arms folded.

"You can still help yourselves," she says. "We can begin with this. Where is Tyrus Kang?"

You try not to betray surprise at the question. You say nothing.

"I don't--" Rose2 begins, but Rose hisses at her: "shut up. Say nothing. Say absolutely nothing, do you understand? You have constitutional rights -- and your attorney will answer for you..."

"Tyrus's club got shot up by the Russians last night," Noelle says. "We already know you were there, so cut the shit."

Rose2 stares at her feet and fiddles with the hem of her skirt, but she keeps quiet -- good.

"Have it your way," Noelle says.

A tech sticks the samples in a machine that is designed to analyze them, one by one. You wait grimly for the result you already know is going to come.

"These two," the tech says, pointing at you and Rose.

"Figures the kissing cousins were hot and heavy in all that action," Noelle murmurs.

Against her own advice, Rose says: "There's nothing illegal about firing a gun. This is still America, last I checked."

"You're going to have to come with me," Noelle says.

"Am I being detained?"

"Fucking hell. Yes. You're both being detained."

Whitney rolls her eyes. "Oh boy, here we go." She looks at you. "I'll let Saul and Charlotte know. They'll be thrilled..."

---

"I tried to help you."

Noelle stands across from where you sit at the interrogation table. You've really grown to hate FBI interrogation rooms. You've also grown to hate how familiar you are with them.

She clacks her fingernails against the chrome tabletop. "This is your last chance, now. Stasi Lebedev is dead. Heads are going to roll, Alabaster. Do you actually understand -- it's now or never. The last lifeboat is leaving the Titanic... you have to decide whether you're getting aboard or not."

"You suck at metaphors," you tell her.

"You stupid, obstinate monkey of a person... goddamn you, Alabaster. How much farther can I stick my neck out for you? Help me help you!"

You sip your water and say nothing.

"We have enough to charge you. We can prove you were there."

"If you could prove it," comes Charlotte's voice as an agent opens the door for her, "you would have charged him already."

Finally. It took her more than three hours to get here.

Noelle doesn't break eye contact. "Alabaster, for fuck's sake. Don't turn this chance away! Your life -- the lives of everyone you care about -- are at stake! This isn't a fucking GAME!"

"You have nothing," Charlotte sneers. "You awful woman. Trying to bully my client into waiving his rights -- again. You should honestly lose your badge."

"Alabaster..." Noelle says. "Please. Please."

Another agent is trying to lead her away, hand on her shoulder. She desperately holds eye contact with you. But the way the agent booms: "Keki. Let's go." -- leaves no mistake. She's being shooed by a superior.

Noelle steps out of the interrogation room, reluctantly. This other agent uncuffs you now, and gruffly says: "You're free to go, sir."

Sir. Wow. The VIP treatment. You wonder what the occasion is.

When you and Charlotte leave down the long white hallway, joined now by Rose, you catch a glimpse of Noelle getting a dressing-down from her boss. She watches you miserably as you depart.

"You should be all right for now," Charlotte tells you as she drives you both back to work. "The FBI might let up on us, after all. The entire investigation, I mean -- everything."

"How come?" You ask.

She hates to admit this, clearly, but she does: "Saul went all out, hail Mary... when he heard you two were arrested, he filed an emergency brief in appellate court alleging that the military's interest in using Sand Reckoner would violate third amendment protections... lo and behold... you're both free to go."

You laugh.

"Don't get too confident," Charlotte warns you. "The FBI and the military don't always see eye to eye. A woman like that horrible, skanky Noelle Keki... isn't going to let up... so, then... tell me truthfully, both of you, exactly what happened last night. Because if there's any evidence, any evidence at all -- she will probably find it..."

You and Rose take turns coming clean. Charlotte listens, growing paler and paler, utterly aghast. She had some idea, of course, that you two had been involved in dirty business before. But hearing directly that you helped slaughter Russian mobsters does a number on her. She looks ready to faint by the time you're through.

"Well then," she says, clearing her throat and trying to process her new reality. "Well... well. I guess we're going to have to take drastic measures."

It's one thing after another today. At work, in the lobby of Darkbloom Analytics, Dr. Carte meets you and Rose.

She's blunt and to the point: "Cerise is missing."

Your gut does somersaults.

"She went to the bathroom this morning... " Dr. Carte says. "She was taking a long time... so I went to check on her. The window was open... she was gone. She ran away."

You quake with anger. "*She* didn't run away. Goddamn it-- this cannot be happening... not now, not now..."

"I'm so sorry, Alabaster," Dr. Carte says. She lays a hand on yours; you swat it back. But you're a hypocrite, after all. You've let Cerise have bathroom breaks unaccompanied, too. She deserves that dignity, at least.

Still... still...

"We'll find her," Dr. Carte says.

"Go away. Fuck you. Useless..."

You push past her. Rose casts her an apologetic glance over her shoulder, but follows you to the elevators.

---

Rose paces around the office, back and forth, and then in circles.

"Would you cut that out?" You say. "It's making me anxious by proxy."

She ignores you. "I just called up to her office. Vivian didn't show to work this morning."

"I can only process one missing person case at a time," you tell her.

"This... this whole thing..." Rose says. "It's Vivian. Vivian did this."

"How the hell could Vivian have engineered this? She wasn't even there."

Rose shakes her head. "When was the last time we saw Darkbloom? When was the last time he came out?"

"I don't know. A few days ago, I guess. I saw him in the morning when Cerise woke up. Which is an awful way to wake up. You think you're spooning a cute girl, and it's actually a man--"

"Oh, and spooning a man, that's unusual for you--"

"Go screw y--" You stop, massage the bridge of your nose. "Anyway, he was gone again not long after that."

"Did he ever leave your sight during that time frame?"

"I... I mean, I let him use the bathroom."

Rose gives you a stern look. She doesn't need to tell you what she's thinking, after the way you berated Dr. Carte.

"He was locked in there -- and that bathroom has no windows to the outside. So it's not like he could have done anything tricky."

"I thought you were following him literally everywhere."

"Excuse the hell out of me if I got tired of watching my sister take her morning shit. What does this have to do with anything, anyway? And how is Vivian of all people responsible?"

Rose quits pacing and puts a forefinger to her lips. She ponders for a long while. Then: "We stopped seeing him as often right after the night he spoke with Vivian. He basically disappeared after that."

"So what? Vivian kicked his shit in, verbally. It ruined the poor guy. Even I felt bad for him. Which is saying something. Maybe the psychological trauma is keeping him sequestered away. What else is the explanation here?"

"Vermont Coma Genetics."

"What?"

"He passed a list of shell companies to Whitney, and she passed them to Vivian. I got a copy of that list... and decided to check on those companies..."

"I don't know whether to call you genius or deranged."

"I've told you a million times, Alabaster. I make it my business to know things. Well, every company on that list was an actual tax haven -- fraudulent LLCs based out of the Canary Islands, Vanuatu, Palau, Nauru, Luxembourg, San Marino, Delaware..."

"...Delaware?"

"I found all of them except Vermont Coma Genetics. I assumed it was simply well hidden, but -- it always bugged me -- like an ingrown hair, but I wasn't sure why..."

You groan. "Thanks for the mental image."

Rose pulls a wheeled whiteboard towards her and uncaps a pen. She writes on the board: VERMONT COMA GENETICS. It always annoyed you how neat her handwriting is, even when writing quickly.

Her eyes scan it for thirty seconds, a minute, two -- you're growing impatient, but you know better than to interrupt.

"VT..." she breathes. "Not Vermont. VT."

She erases the word "VERMONT" and replaces it with "VT." Then she starts drawing lines underneath the letters -- rearranging them:

VT COMA GENETICS
GIVE ME CONTACTS

Bile rises in your throat. You stand and approach the whiteboard. You're shivering.

"Vivian..." you say. The lines are connecting inside your memory, now, too. "After that night with Darkbloom. She all of a sudden got real handsy with everyone for a few days. Kept hugging people."

"Yeah, she was a regular Joe Biden. I remember that."

"Cerise, too -- she hugged Cerise at that quiz bowl in the bar... did she... reverse pickpocket colored contact lenses into Cerise's jeans pocket?" Even as you say it, you want to disbelieve.

"That's it," Rose says. "That's exactly it. It must be."

"No... no, no. Goddamn it. Why? Vivian hates Darkbloom."

"No she doesn't. Darkbloom is her father. After everything -- he's her father. And if your father commands you to do something... no matter how distateful you find it... it's hard to say no..."

How long has Darkbloom been posing as Cerise? Hours, days -- weeks?

"What are we going to do?" You say, growing panicky.

Rose gazes at the ceiling. She's much more composed than you are, contemplative. "Tell our boss, I guess."

---

"Ayep," Whitney says. You and Rose sit across from her in her office. "That's no surprise. You know what my superfans in /wdbg/ always say?"

You feign ignorance.

"Can't zoom the Darkbloom," Whitney tells you. "Guess that goes double for bio dad."

"Do you know what they could be up to?" Rose asks.

"Fuck, no. Maybe they just went out for a father-daughter ice cream cone. We can be optimistic and assume that's it. Best case scenario, right there."

"What did Darkbloom tell you that he didn't want anyone else to know?" You say.

Whitney still seems uncertain about telling you, but finally she comes out with it. "Bio dad had an implant of his own -- called it 'Diagonally' or something."

"We suspected that," you say. "That's no revelation. Is it the one Tyrus got his hands on, then?"

She frowns. "No... it's inside Vivian's head now."

"How does he know that?" Rose asks.

"He got suspicious about how she kept getting migraines around him." Whitney whips the fingers of her flattened hands up and down like the flippers of a pinball machine. "It's some sort of... interference. With his old implant. Kinda sad when you think about it... even if they could get along, she'd be in pain the whole time." She sighs and rests her cheek on the heel of her palm. "But I guess being in pain is just part for the course of being his daughter..."

"Par for the course," you correct.

"Go fuck yourself."

"What were you going to do about that?" You demand. "Just... nothing? Not tell anyone? Does Dr. Carte even know?"

"Nope. I'll tell you what I did about it, Ally. I talked to Vivian. Like a normal human being. You know how humans do that? That thing with the moving of your lips to make sounds that communicate thoughts? That thing?"

You lean back and give her a look that wordlessly communicates just as well as your lips could, "get on with it."

"She flat out refused to admit that it's true. Still... I could tell. She's got that motherfucker's implant in her eyeball. But I knew that until I could get her to come clean... helping her would be impossible."

"So -- you did nothing."

"It's called patience, assface. I swear to god. When I'm more patient that you, you're doing something wrong." She slaps her desk. "This is why I didn't want to tell you! Bio dad was actually right for once in his life. The second you get a new piece of information, you want to go running off like -- what's his name, the windmill guy."

"Don Quixote."

"Yeah, Donkey Hotay."

"I appreciate the strategy," Rose says, "but the fact remains that we've got a serious problem now. Vivian and David Darkbloom are together somewhere, doing god only knows what. This is the worst possible time--"

"We have to find them," you add.

Whitney shakes her head. "Nah."

"What?" You and Rose exclaim at once.

Whitney's voice is calm and level. "I trust my sister. Whatever she's doing is important. She'll come back soon -- and until then, I'm sure it's useless trying to find her."

Rose2 pokes her head in. "Uh... is this a bad time?"

"Yes. Yes it is," Rose says. "Fuck off."

"I have some important papers here from Mr. Mallory, is the thing... they are-- what did he say-- note-ar-ized..."

You sigh and beckon her to deliver them to you. The foul look Rose shoots her, scares her out of the office just as soon as the envelope is in your hand.

"I wish you two would get along better," you say when Rose2 is gone.

"Don't press your luck, asshole."

You open the envelope, unfold the papers and scan them quickly.

"Well?" Rose says.

"...Your dad is disowning me."

"What!" Rose snatches the papers from you. She scans them now herself, to confirm, clutching the sides so hard they crinkle and deform. As she reads, she grows visibly angry.

"Pursuant to California family law... hereby notifying Alabaster Soliloquy, the dependent... severing guardianship and all parental responsibilities, next of kin rights, powers of attorney, tax credits, inheritance -- to be effective immediately -- what the fuck!"

"I didn't even know that was possible," Whitney says. "What a shitty day..."

"Unbelievable," Rose mutters. "The nerve -- after everything you've -- this is absolutely absurd..."

"It's really not a big deal," you say. "I know your dad doesn't like me. And it's not like I'm Oliver Twist, getting kicked to an orphanage somewhere."

"That's not the point!" Rose hollers. She springs to her feet. "The fucking gall of that man... and he didn't even tell you to your face? I'm gonna go give him a piece of my mind."

"Since when do you care so much about whether I've got a place in your family?"

"Fuck you!" She storms out.

You pick up the legal papers that Rose discarded, fold them back up, and -- more to give your hands something to do than anything -- move to place them back inside the envelope. But doing so, you notice a yellow sticky note inside that you hadn't at first. You pull it out and hold it up for Whitney to see, the adhesive side sticking to your forefinger.

"Saul's handwriting," you explain. "It must have fallen off the notice inside the envelope."

"What's it say?" Whitney asks.

You turn it over in your hand and read aloud.

Your heart sinks.

"A... a husband and wife cannot be compelled to testify against one another. While it is illegal for adopted siblings to marry... under California state law... first cousins can."

You look up. Whitney is wearing a broad, silly grin. She might have a jealous streak, but she appreciates the irony of the situation all the same, and she must especially appreciate the miserable look on your face right now.

You begin to say something, but you're not sure what, and quickly stop yourself.

"Can I be the best man?" Whitney says.

END OF EPISODE 11.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, human tank and quickshot. 

"Thank you, Damon, for picking us up."

"Aye."

Vivian steps into the limo's spacious backseat, lifting her dress to give her feet clearance, and Cerise follows. Drawing the plexiglass privacy window shut, the curtains too, Vivian turns to Cerise and says: "I am giving you three hours. And not a single second longer."

"Sable Guiteau is alive. She is plotting against this company. And--"

"That hardly comes as a surprise. Next I suppose you will tell me that Alabaster Soliloquy is intimately involved."

"Yes. Vivian, I made such a terrible mistake of judgment with Alabaster. He is a madman. A reckless, sadistic pervert -- a myopic, unstable -- for heaven's sake, he's involved in an incestuous relationship with his own sister!"

Vivian frowns. She appears totally unmoved by such a sordid revelation.

David continues. "He cannot be relied upon. Nor Whitney, I'm sorry to report, until we can isolate her from his influence. If left unchecked, he will be the death knell of our family legacy."

"Why do you suppose that matters to me?" Vivian asks, cocking her head.

He stammers. "Because this company... because, for all these years..." But David trails off. He can't even bring himself to contemplate that Vivian wouldn't want to save the family business.

Vivian says, "Alabaster Soliloquy is a madman. Is he madder than someone who performs medical experiments on young children?"

David scowls. "Vivian. Be reasonable. I never--"

"Shall we alert our security detail to help us locate Sable Guiteau?" Vivian asks.

"No -- no! We must do this in secret. There is no telling who might be compromised. Between Sable, and Alabaster, and your mother -- we are hedged in by enemies on all sides. Vivian... you are the only person I can trust. I beg of you, please help me."

"Why do you trust me?" Vivian asks him.

"I -- I have to. I have to trust you. You're the only thing I have left in this godforsaken world. If I cannot even trust you..."

"Spare me the melodramatic self-pity," Vivian tells him. "What would you have me do? How shall we stain our hands with blood today, father?"

"What comes next will not be on your head. You need not do a thing. But as for me -- I must kill Sable Guiteau. And Mara. You understand, of course. They are not merely threats to our company, and our legacy, but also to this young man Alabaster who you are so suicidally attracted to."

"Killing people comes as naturally to you as breathing, it seems."

David has no response.

"Did you murder Alabaster Soliloquy's parents?" Vivian asks.

David has no response to this, either.

"Your silence speaks volumes," Vivian says.

"I regret my choices bitterly," David replies. "I was also myopic... I was also mad... I want to make things right."

"There can be no making it right," Vivian says.

"At least I can make you safe, then -- the man you love, too. And once it's over, I suppose you will want to get in touch again with Gustav, and have me removed from Cerise's head. My life will be in your hands at that point, Vivian."

"In other words, I would be free to do what Alabaster Soliloquy failed to, and destroy you."

"You could do that... I would not blame you." He pauses, and then: "But I should at least give you a full understanding of what it is, exactly, I've let loose upon the world."

"Sand Reckoner?"

"Have you ever heard the name Albert Stubblebine?" David asks.

---

You take the elevator down to Rose's office, hoping that you can intercept her before she has a chance to speak with Saul.

When you get there, Rose is at the window, staring out, her expression like that of a shell-shocked soldier just back from the trenches. She tenses when you come in, but doesn't acknowledge your presence -- just keeps watching the quad below.

She definitely knows already.

You wait awkwardly for a brief moment, trying to think of what to say. Your lips part and close several times but no words come out. Finally, you find the wherewithal to begin: "I didn't--"

Rose turns quickly, snapping to, standing straight. She cuts you off: "Fuck what Whitney says. We need to find Cerise."

You blink, and then nod. "Right," you agree. First things are first, of course. You can figure out the future of the Soliloquy family once every Soliloquy is safe again.

"Where would Darkbloom have gone?" Rose asks.

"If you're right, then he was awake at least as far back as yesterday afternoon. He would have heard us talking with Sable. So I guess he would want to find her. Either her or Mara. Or..." you gulp. "Or us."

Rose rubs her chin. "Sable first," she says. "She's the one who's the biggest direct threat to the things he values. If there's one fact I've learned about David Darkbloom, it's that he tackles things as efficiently and logically as possible..."

"How the hell are we going to find her? Or Cerise for that matter?"

"Alex would be our best lead. Err. Pardon the pun."

She's right. "I'll go talk to him," you say, and turn to hurry out. But Rose stops you.

"Alabaster--" she says anxiously. You glance back and lock eyes with her. She fiddles with the buttons of her blouse. "We... should talk later," she finishes.

You take your exit, and let that hang in the air.

Down in the R&D dungeon where you spent so long last year as an intern, the place is abuzz with activity. A veritable army of coders sit at their workstations, puzzling away, constructing by bits and pieces the codebase for what will become Diogenes. Alex, as manager, is far more exacting and organized than Sable ever was. Kanban boards and Gantt charts line the walls, littered with sticky notes, and the office space is divided into subsections with clear labels -- 'Data Stream Compression and Decompression' -- 'Video Analysis' -- 'Blockchain Fingerprinting' -- 'Sand Reckoner Reintegration' -- and others.
 
Alex, forced by the lack of real estate to overcome his superstition against claiming Sable's old, vacant office, is in there. The name plaque on the door no longer reads "S. Guiteau, R&D Lead" but "A. Best, R&D Lead."
 
You don't bother knocking when you enter.
 
Inside, you find Alex's desk empty, the room dark and quiet. You gently close the door behind you. "Alex?" You call out. It's rare that he isn't in his office.
 
"Back here," answers a voice -- Whitney's. She must have come down while you were speaking with Rose.
 
That's when you notice that the miniature gadget lab at the far end of the cramped office, somewhat hidden behind a mountain of PCs and spare parts, is lit by the overhead fluorescent bulbs back there.
 
And now also you hear a gentle, rhythmic squelching sound, like the last of water glugging down a sink drain.
 
As you round the corner, you see something half-expected, and half-surprising.
 
Whitney is busily raping Alex -- a cherished pastime of hers -- but she isn't the only one. Joining her today is Makoto.
 
Alex is sitting on his knees on the white tile floor. He's naked save for a pair of lace panties, the front bulging obscenely with his erection, and slimy with his precum. Whitney has his arms restrained behind his back, holding them in place. She is also naked, and wears a truly vicious-looking strap-on attached by a harness to her waist. Using her grip on his arms for leverage, she buggers him with fast, deep thrusts. Her small but supple tits jiggle with the effort.
 
Alex would surely be crying out in his feminine mixture of agony and pleasure, but his mouth is occupied. Makoto, in front of the pair, holds a second dildo. She uses it to violate Alex's little throat, pumping it in and out with merciless focus. Alex's head is all the way back, allowing the pink sex toy total access to his tight esophagus. That's where the low, guttural squelching comes from; it's the sound of this ersatz dick sliding in and out of his cock-dump of a mouth.
 
"I do not understand," Makoto says. She is the only one of the three wearing clothes, although she isn't exactly decent. Her free hand is snaked up under her miniskirt and she is obviously masturbating as she debauches the boy in front of her. "How does raping a boy pertain to the tastes of Whitney Darkbloom?"
 
Whitney laughs, even as she continues to hump Alex's tight bubble butt. "Alex is a sissy little gay boy. He's basically a girl. So raping him is just as fun as raping a girl... or maybe even more..."
 
Alex shivers, and closes his eyes. He loves it when people degrade him, especially Whitney.
 
Makoto makes a mental note of Whitney's explanation, nodding, and her fingers quicken against her cunt. For her, as always, learning is fun.
 
"Besides, he needs to be punished for his dishonesty," Whitney murmurs. "He's been a naughty little faggot lately... haven't you?" She punctuates this with a few especially hard strokes up his asshole that Alex clearly feels way up inside his guts. He begins to quake all over and his little cock squirts a few fat dollops of semen in his panties. Makoto licks her lips -- she enjoys seeing that reaction.
 
You know time is of the essence, but seeing this has flipped a switch in your head too. You can spare a couple minutes to use Alex as a cumdumpster -- it'll take the edge off, and maybe make him more pliant after the fact.
 
Whitney already can tell. "I think Ally's getting all hard~" She coos. She rests her chin on Alex's shoulder and asks him: "Should he blow a load in your ass or down your throat? What do you think, faggot?"
 
Makoto is quick on the uptake. She removes the dildo from Alex's throat just long enough for him to answer. She slides it out, eliciting a lewd, wet sucking noise. She keeps it clasped in the air right above his face, strands of spittle suspended between. Alex stares stupidly, vacantly up at the smooth pink plastic dick as he tries to conceive an answer. Unbelievably, the dildo Makoto was using on him is also a vibrator, and she had it set to max. You wonder what that felt like for poor Alex, a vibrating cock getting rammed all the way down his gullet. The thing buzzes loudly as Alex stares at it. Whitney is still railing him hard, getting her own cunt off with the force of her jackhammer thrusts. She cums, spraying the tile floor of the lab, but she doesn't relent. There are few things she gets more enjoyment out of than raping Alex.
 
"Answer me," Whitney growls between climaxes.
 
"My..." he gasps, hardly able to speak from all the abuse. "My... ass..."
 
"Ungrateful little slut," Whitney snaps. She grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head way back. She hocks up a wad of spit, right in his face. "If you want him to fuck your ass, say please."
 
Alex's jaw parts slightly and he stares up at Whitney's evil eyes as the spit runs in a little rivulet down his girly face. He seems caught between despair and ecstasy. He wells up with tears. And then his voice comes, small, hoarse, and stuttery. "P... please... p-please use my ass..."
 
Whitney lets go of Alex's arms and pushes him off her pistoning cock. Like a heap of garbage, she tosses him to the ground, where he falls on his stomach. Weakened and defeated, he can't rise, and just lies there prone and trembling. Makoto sits on her butt right in front of him, gets her legs spread wide, hikes up her plaid skirt, and masturbates her naked cunt with abandon. She repeats her vocab words to him: "Slut. Whore. Faggot." -- and her own cruel obscenity brings her to ever higher plateaus of pleasure as she plays with herself.
 
"Go ahead," Whitney tells you. "I warmed him up for you."
 
You quickly discard your clothes and, fully naked, you mount Alex. Since he's totally sapped and cannot even summon the strength to rise to a doggy position, you have to lie atop him. You get your cock lined up with the stretched pucker of his pale asshole, and plunge inside. He seethes in renewed pain, your cock being both longer and thicker than the one Whitney was using on him. Settling down, your belly to his back, you get your arms looped under his armpits. Your weight is fully pressing down on him and your cock is all the way up him. Like this, you begin to hump him with a one-track mind. Your goal is to cum as quickly and as hard as possible inside him. He's nothing but a cum-rag right now.
 
Unprompted, Alex reaches out and begins to kiss Makoto's bare feet. Whitney, circling them, watches from over Makoto's shoulder with a smile. "He's a submissive little cunt, isn't he?" Whitney says.
 
"Mm," Makoto agrees. She wiggles her toes and enjoys the way Alex plants a trail of kisses up and down her soles. Taking advantage of the opportunity to learn new angles to her sadism, she begins to press both her feet firmly against his face. It practically crushes his nose, and distorts his features. She rubs her feet back and forth, treading on Alex's face, a pantomime of walking on him.
 
By way of rewarding her star pupil, Whitney throws her arms over Makoto's shoulders, and kisses her. The two women make out lewdly, like a couple of horny teenagers, and Makoto continues to rub her dainty feet all over Alex's face. Whitney, in a giving mood it seems, reaches further down and replaces Makoto's hand against her cunt. She gets her fingers inside Makoto and pleasures the tiny idol singer with expert ministrations.
 
"Seeing-- two men mate like dogs -- is so -- fun--" Makoto breathes. But she's staring less at the sight of you ramming into Alex's deliciously slippery boypussy, and more into the depths of Whitney's eyes.
 
Whitney kisses Makoto again, and then slyly, she intones: "Making him lick your feet is cool, but his mouth can do so much more..."
 
You can barely pay attention as you hammer in and out of Alex's anus and feel your nut coming on fast. Alex tries so hard to be a big man these days, but there's no doubt about it, he's got the soul of a girl, one who was made to get fucked hard. Alex lives for servicing cock. The wet, clamping glove of his ass is just as good as any woman's cunt.
 
"That's it... see?" Whitney purrs. Looking up, you catch sight of Alex's lips latching onto Makoto's neatly trimmed pussy. He envelops her labia with his mouth and suckles on the girl's genitals like a nursing infant. Makoto writhes in delight, staring down at him. To add to her cum, Whitney uses the digits of a flattened palm to roughly strum Makoto's clit. The small, soft bed of pubic hair above Makoto's pussy becomes creamy with her own cum as Whitney jills her off and Alex sucks on her.
 
"Kiss me, again..." Makoto breathes. And Whitney can never resist an invitation to lez out with a pretty girl, so she does. This whole thing might be just a little gay.
 
Never mind. You don't care; all you want to do right now is blast Alex's insides with a thick load of jizz. Up and down you hump, pounding Alex directly into the cold tile floor. He can't complain, not with his mouth full of a pop star's juicing pussy, so you have free rein to use him as hard as you want -- as hard as this boy-whore deserves.
 
"This is what you get," you snarl in his ear. "This is what you get for lying to me..."
 
"Nnn--" he mumbles, muffled by Makoto's vulva. She bucks her hips against his face, an eager participant in Alex's punishment, even if she doesn't know the reasons why. Makoto doesn't need a reason to rape someone. She just enjoys doing it. Her tongue probes Whitney's mouth as she rides out her orgasm. Alex's face becomes wet and slimy with her fragrant cum.
 
"I'm gonna cum in you," you tell him, "I'm gonna blow my fucking load in you. Thank me."
 
"Thnnnk nnuuu," Alex tries gamely. Makoto isn't willing to give him the air to do it properly, too intently focused on her own enjoyment of Alex's body. Her slender frame trembles all over and she redoubles the efforts of her curious tongue in Whitney's mouth. Whitney seems a bit taken aback by just how ravenous and rapacious Makoto is, and clearly isn't running the show anymore in their makeout session. But that's fine, too. Her eyes are smiling; she likes the monster she's brought out in the prim and proper Makoto.
 
Alex's ass begins to spasm around your cock, hugging and kissing it from the inside. As your horny dick saws in and out, your balls slap against his, and you feel them become sticky. Alex, his cock pinned against the hard tile, his ass and mouth getting raped at the same time, is cumming. You thrust especially deep now, making sure the mushroom tip of your dick rubs his prostate, knowing he's particularly sensitive and vulnerable now. And that, plus the sensual grip of his cunt, makes you cum. You squirt your steamy load all the way inside him, making sure that he really feels it. And despite being half-suffocated by Makoto's pussy, he cries out. His voice is shrill and lilting. The vibration of it makes Makoto cum, too, extra hard this time. She clamps her lithe thighs around Alex's ears and rides his face without reservations. At the same time, she runs her hands through Whitney's short-cropped hair and practically fucks her mouth with her tongue. Man, does she get violent when she's cumming. When she's done, and she pulls off the ruined little boy, she mirrors her teacher and spits on Alex, too. This just makes him mewl and squirt one last trickle of cum from his still erect cock.

Whitney and Makoto get themselves presentable again. On her way out, Whitney winks, and whispers to you: "That was fun. I figure you'll probably want to go looking for Cerise, huh? Maybe he'll be more willing to help you, now..."

She's smarter than she seems sometimes.

She kisses you. You're a bit upset at her right now for how cavalier she's been about Cerise's disappearance, but the softness of her lips is difficult to resist.

She steps back. "I have a meeting to get to," she says. "You can sit in if you want, of course. That cunt Mara's gonna be there... could get ugly."

Whitney goes. Alone with Alex again, he's still a bit worse for the wear. You're fine with that -- and you're especially fine watching him, still naked, your seed still leaking out of him, as he licks up the mess you all made on the tile floor. So submissive when you apply a little force. And Whitney is right: this is the perfect time to broach the topic.

You get him upright, on weak and wobbly legs, and sit him down in a wheeled office chair. He's flushed and swooning.

"I need to speak with Sable," you tell him. "Where is she?"

"...Sable...?" He murmurs. "Why?"

"What the hell do you mean, 'why'? I have about a billion questions for her, that's why. Your girl Friday hasn't been exactly forthcoming, has she. I need some answers if I'm going to take part in -- whatever the hell it is she's cooking up."

"I don't know where she is..." he says, back of his palm to his forehead. He's still basking in the afterglow. But you need his head in the game here.

"Liar," you accuse.

"I'm not lying, Ally!" He's suddenly much more lucid, and his eyes are full of recrimination. "I -- never mind. If you want to arrange a meeting..." he leans forward, gropes for his crumpled jeans where they lie on the floor. "I can text her. Usually she can make it within an hour or two of contact."

He begins to type up a text to Sable.

[ ] Demand that you'll see Sable alone.
>[x] Let Alex play it his way.

After a few moments, Alex glances up from the screen. "She'll be at the Rutabaga Cafe on Middlefield... 8 PM."

You nod. You consider telling him that there might be an unwanted guest, or two, but you decide against it.

Unexpectedly, Dr. Carte rounds the corner and enters the small lab. She quickly appraises the scene -- the wet mess on the floor, you and Alex both still naked.

"I always miss all the fun," she grouses.

You begin to get dressed again. You're still angry at her -- especially as she lights up a cigarette in your vicinity. It stinks.

"What are you doing here?" You demand.

"I'm a faithful employee," Dr. Carte avers. "Attached to the Diogenes project."

"I need Ms. Carte's input on how to make her implant design more easily mass-produced," Alex explains. "She's critical to our success..."

"Of course, the job comes with its perks, too," Dr. Carte says. She pokes Alex in his side, and he jolts.

"H-hey," he whines. "Don't just poke me without any--"

"Shut it!" Dr. Carte booms.

Alex shuts it. As always, he's easily bossed around by an even halfway dominant woman.

Dr. Carte lays a hand on your shoulder and leans in close. "I'm..." she murmurs, "I'm so sorry about what happened."

"Forget it," you say gruffly.

"Any leads?" She asks hopefully.

>[x] Invite her along to the meeting with Sable.
[ ] Don't tell her.

"I'm meeting Sable Guiteau at 8 PM tonight," you tell her.

"Ally--" Alex begins, upset, but you shush him.

"You said Dr. Carte is critical to this project, right? Well then, she deserves to be in the loop as much as anyone."

Alex shakes his head. He might be kinky in the bedroom, but he doesn't like not being in control where it counts.

"I'll be there," Dr. Carte tells you.

You whisper: "Darkbloom might be there too. And Vivian."

Dr. Carte's eyes shimmer. "Then I'll definitely be there," she says.

The executive board meeting doesn't actually start for another 20 minutes -- so even if you're going to go, you've got some time to do something else. You need to speak with Saul.

It being not long after lunch, you know precisely where to find him: the employee gym. You scope it out from the safety of the employee cafeteria, first -- watching in through the tall glass walls that separate the eaters from the exercisers. Yep, Saul is there all right -- in a plain white tee and nylon shorts, working out, his usual routine. He's at an exercise machine doing bench presses. You read off where he has the pin in the weight stack: 250 lbs. You're not sure, but that's probably impressive. He does work out religiously.

However, between sets, wiping his forehead with a small towel, he takes notice of a woman doing some sort of cardiovascular balance exercises on a giant, striated, inflatable grey ball.

Saul stands now, goes over, and strikes up a conversation. The woman smiles brightly and allows Saul to touch her -- one hand on her shoulder, another on her taut butt accentuated by form-fitting yoga pants. He's helping her with her form, of course. Nothing lurid or sexual about that... yeah, right.

Saul has a type, it seems. And you respect the hell out of his taste. The woman whose form he's helping on her balance ball is a MILFy little piece with nice thick thighs and an hourglass shape, not fat, but definitely no question about her ability to bear a child...

You shudder. If you had seen this a few weeks ago, you would have simply assumed that Saul is being his usual solicitous, gregarious, type-A self and just helping out another gym rat. After your encounter with Charlotte, of course, you know the truth. She wasn't lying; she's not the only one to stray from the vows of marriage. You can swear you see Saul's hand give that woman's ass a little squeeze.

When Saul moves on to the treadmills for a little wind-down, you decide to go in too. You feel awkward in gym clothes, but you're trying to play it nonchalant -- just a fellow exerciser happening to bump in to him during your routine.

Quickly, and feeling self-conscious, you walk up to the treadmill next to Saul's. You get on and fiddle with the front panel. You don't do this often -- as in ever -- and you realize right away that these machines are much more complicated than you guessed. Saul, maintaining a nice cruising pace of 8 MPH with his fists pumping in time to his jogging feet, glances over at you, wryly, but says nothing.

You startle when the treads come to life, and start jogging to keep up. But it's hopeless: you're quickly outpaced by the machine. You grab onto the side rails for dear life, still kicking your feet madly, but too late. You fall ass over elbow and get ejected off the treadmill in a moment of pure slapstick. You hope no one saw.

You hear Saul's machine slow to a stop and beep when it turns off. He steps down and helps you to your feet. You dust yourself off, ashamed, unable to meet his eyes.

"I see you heard the good news," he says.

You grumble.

"I've got one for you," he says. "You know, they say the shortest complete sentence in the English language is 'I am.' And you know what the longest sentence is? 'I do'! Haha. That's a joke. Learn to laugh a little."

You finally look up at him. "Are you really... okay with me marrying your daughter?"

"Oh my god. Oh Jesus, no. Hell, no." He puts his hands on his hips. "Beyond the fact that you're cousins--"

"Once--"

"I will punch you in the jaw. You will be eating liquid food through a straw for the next three months. I swear to all that's holy, Alabaster."

You shut up.

"Beyond the fact that you're cousins... I don't approve of you anyway. If you want to know the honest truth, you've been a horrible influence on my girl and led her down a path of violence, greed, and perversion. Taking you into my home was the worst mistake of my life."

That sounds more like the Saul you know. You nod. "So why are you doing this?"

"A, because there's no other way. B, because despite how I feel about you, Rose loves you. You're the one and only thing I've never been able to convince her about. So, congratulations. She's her mother's daughter after all."

"She's not going to agree -- I don't want to get -- Jesus fuck, Saul. You could have asked first."

He chuckles. "Yeah, sure. You and Rose, oil and water, definitely nothing there. It's a marriage purely for show, of course..." He tilts his head. "Shouldn't you be discussing this with her, though?"

He nods towards the windows that look in on the cafeteria. You feel a jolt of panic, turn, and glance over. A flash of yellow hair disappearing around a corner and out the doors is all you glimpse. Rose was spying, of course... so naturally that means she saw your little incident on the treadmill. Great.

You grab a slice of pizza from the canteen on your way back down to the lockers to get dressed in your work clothes again. Naturally, Rose intercepts you in the stairwell. How does she always find you? You don't even have your phone on you right now.

"Do you ever get tired of stalking me?" You ask.

"No. How did it go with Alex?"

"It went. I'm meeting Sable at 8. Rutabaga Cafe. If Darkbloom somehow manages to find her, I'll be with her from that point forward."

"Naturally, I'll come too."

"Naturally. I guess you won't wait for me to invite you --"

"No. Is that barbecue chicken?" She reaches out and grabs your pizza from you before you have a chance to stop her. She takes a couple bites. Then she hands it back as if she's doing you a favor.

"Don't start taking liberties, Rose. Nothing's changed."

She swallows. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Uh huh." You eat your pizza sullenly.

"Whitney's meeting with the board. So here's something I actually will defer to you on. Are you going too, or should one of us go to the Rutabaga Cafe?"

[ ] Go to the board meeting together.
>[x] Send Rose to the meeting, head directly to the cafe.
[ ] Go to the meeting, send Rose to the cafe.

The trappings of this cutesy little cafe are anything but nostalgic. Just the unique aroma of their specialty coffee being brewed is enough to make you queasy with the memory of how it all began -- a meeting with Camelia that marked the beginning of your life's rapid descent into mayhem.

You check the time: you're a couple hours early. But it's best to catch Sable early than to get here too late. She's going to be here for sure, so maybe she'll arrive sooner than scheduled, too; and if Darkbloom is going after her, it's best to maximize your odds of intercepting him.

You're so mad at Vivian that you can hardly put it into words. The more you think about it, the worse the betrayal stings. You know you'll never trust her again.

The steel of one of Rose's pistols is cool against your skin, tucked into your waistband and concealed by your shirt. Hopefully you don't need to use it.

You jostle your legs and down cup after cup of coffee, anxious. They were right: the waiting is the hardest part. Patrons come and go, the sun begins to droop in the sky, and still you wait. After a while you begin to worry that you made a mistake not being present at the board meeting. The silence from both Whitney and Rose is deafening. You could easily picture Mara staging something terrible in a moment of retributive rage.

"Early..."

You look up. Wearing a hood and big square sunglasses, but unmistakable anyway, is Sable.

She sits across from you.

"I'll cut to the chase," you say. "You're in danger. Someone wants to kill you."

"Many people want to kill me, Alabaster. At this point, I'm accustomed to it."

"Well, one of them might be closer to it than the others. David Darkbloom is after you."

"David Darkbloom is dead."

You rest your cheek on your fist. "No, he isn't. But that doesn't surprise you, does it?"

Sable is inscrutable behind her ridiculous domestic-terrorist cosplay.

"Partly thanks to your work," you explain, "David Darkbloom lives on inside my sister."

"It isn't David Darkbloom," Sable says. "It's some reconstruction of his consciousness... an echo... like the ripples in a pond after you drop a rock in. David Darkbloom is dead."

"Well whatever it is, it sure as hell acts a lot like him. And so it considers you enemy #1. He heard you talking to us yesterday -- and I'm sure he's not happy."

"Just don't go taking after his strange ideas," Sable says.

"His strange ideas? You're one to talk."

"What I mean to say is -- the map is not the territory. Sand Reckoner can change, but it can also simulate. Don't conflate the two. The thing in your sister's brain is a simulation. Just like that silly VR game. That's all."

"I honestly don't care. I want it out of Cerise. Can you help me with that?"

"Unfortunately not. Ask your friend Renee Carte."

"She'll be here, too. Congratulations, Sable. The whole band's getting together, and you're the conductor. Care to clue me in on what we're actually doing now?"

"I brought a visual aid," she says. "Do you mind if I go get it?"

"From your van? Oh no you don't. I'm not letting you run away. We go together."

"I would never dream of running. Not from such an important meeting. But be my guest. The van is more private anyway."

Sable's van is the same as ever. Same mattress in the back, same miniature appliances, same cozy furnishings and amber-colored lighting. She chooses to live like this, and you guess you can see the appeal if you squint, but you'd take Whitney's mansion any day.

Sitting cross-legged opposite Sable on her bed, you watch as she places a strange contraption between the two of you. It's a thin rectangular device made of balsa wood, maybe 12 inches tall, with glass windows on either side to peer at its inner workings. A series of tiny, identical ball bearings lie in a line at the very top, and beneath this is a series of ridges slanting in alternating directions for them to roll down. The device is filled with liquid, which is separated top to bottom in clearly demarcated, colored layers -- a rainbow -- from red to violet. Sable pulls a little lever on the side and the bearings slowly sink down, rolling from layer to layer. Occasionally one of the bearings falls out of the procession, though -- instead of dropping to the next ridge down, it stays suspended on the current layer of liquid, neutrally buoyant. And like this, the bearings, which looked identical, are shown not to be -- they are sorted by density from lightest to heaviest.

"Cute," you muse.

"The bearings began together, and then got sorted."

"I understand high school physics. Give me a little credit here. Did you make this thing yourself? You look super proud of it."

Sable points at the window, to where the bearings float in suspension. "Sand Reckoner is the fluid. Diogenes is the framework. You need both to sort people into their ideal state. Without Diogenes, we become muddled and mixed up, conflicting realities battle with each other for dominance and the world becomes crazy. That's our world currently, by the way. And without Sand Reckoner, of course, Diogenes is pointless. All the people stay together in one reality. Which is ideal for some, but not for all. That was our world before Sand Reckoner."

You begin to grasp the contours of what she's trying to tell you. "That sounds basically identical to what Darkbloom wanted, though -- isn't it?"

"No! No, absolutely not!" (Christ, she gets shrill when she's mad.) "David Darkbloom was a moron. He thought he could half-ass it and just give the people a nice simulation. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My vision takes it one step further. We can all be sorted properly, and enjoy our most ideal world -- and it will all be real."

You pick up Sable's device and examine it. "How do you get the bearings back up to the top?" You ask.
 
"You don't. It's an irreversible process."
 
"Uh huh. Or you could just break the window open--"
 
Sable grabs it back from you. "Some people would want to do that. But that doesn't apply to the analogy." She scowls at you. "You've had sex recently."
 
"Uh. What."
 
"You come into my abode stinking of sex and misunderstanding simple analogies. It's absurd. Did you fuck Alex? I can smell his cologne on you. He told me that the two of you were through. Was that a lie?"
 
"Are you jealous?"
 
"Why would I be jealous. Alex is a colleague. Sure, we've fooled around, but..."
 
"You are jealous."
 
Sable slaps you.
 
"Oh, fuck you. You crazy bitch."
 
She slaps you again.
 
You grab her by the wrists and pin her hands to the mattress. "You play nice, now," you say. "I don't want to rough you up like Alex did."
 
She spits at you. And then, as you groan in disgust and anger, she lurches forward and kisses you. Unstable Sable at her finest.
 
You force her backwards, getting her up against the wall of her van, and kiss her forecfully back. Despite her aggression, she's shaking. Your kiss only makes it worse.
 
"I missed that," Sable says, an insane lilt to her voice. "You kiss much better than Alex does."
 
"Has he been fucking you?"
 
"Who's jealous now?" Sable says. "Are you angry, Alabaster? Upset your two playmates played without you?"
 
"Just curious," you claim. "You honestly mean nothing to me."
 
"Liar," Sable says.
 
You kiss her again, and this time, you grip her face with both hands. You hold her roughly, almost violently. And Sable, her wrists no longer pinned, beats against your shoulders. This feels something like an oncoming rape. But when you pull away, Sable is all of a sudden docile. She looks up at you with big doe eyes and says: "Will you... play with me, Alabaster?"
 
You sneer at her. "Play with you how?"
 
"Play with... my genitals..."
 
That oddly anatomical request is also somehow oddly lewd. You can't but comply. You grab the waistband of Sable's pants and tug them down. As you do so, you find a gun, which falls to the mattress with a soft 'pwah'.
 
"Jesus," you exclaim. "Fucking warn me-- I could have shot one of us."
 
But as you sweep the gun aside, Sable is tugging at your belt, and now she discovers the gun that you yourself brought along. Your heart seizes in raw panic as she curls her slender fingers around the grip. You jolt and steal the gun back from her.
 
"Hypocrite," she laughs huskily.
 
"I brought it for your own good," you tell her. "To protect both of us."
 
"It's dangerous these days, isn't it? Isn't that fun?"
 
"You're fucking nuts. God."
 
Sable rises to her knees. Her pantied crotch, with the cleft of her pussy plainly visible through the thin white cotton, is directly in your face. She tenderly grasps your shoulders and then squats a little lower, towards your hand, where you hold your pistol. Unbelievably, she rubs her cunt against it. She rubs herself on your gun.
 
"What the FUCK, Sable--"
 
"It's so dangerous -- and so, so fun..."
 
Even with proper trigger discipline as inculcated by Rose, you're terrified that you're going to make a fatal mistake as Sable uses your weapon for a sex toy. But then, you suppose, that's what gets her off. The risk, the insane, needless risk. Her crotch gets wetter and wetter as she rises languidly up and down the steel barrel of the semi-automatic pistol. Her panties become transluscent and you can clearly see her cunt lips, the dark vulva, the bald mound. Despite being mentally unbalanced and living on the run, she still keeps her pussy shaven clean. You dutifully hold the gun for her, unable to do much else but gawk.
 
She clasps a hand around your wrist and uses it to direct your hand back and forth, digging the gun's muzzle right into her clit. Then she rises a little higher and gets the gun partially wedged up the canal of her pussy. The barrier of her sodden panties is the only thing preventing the barrel from slipping in completely. She fucks herself up and down on it.
 
"You can shoot me if the mood strikes," Sable tells you.
 
"Fuck," you sputter.
 
"Or that. I'm fine with either. It's about time I got a real dick in me."
 
You lock eyes with her. "You are the craziest person I've ever met."
 
She laughs and laughs -- and humps your gun. There's something weirdly erotic about it, and despite yourself, your cock is getting hard. Sable's insanity might be contagious. Regardless, you know you want to get off.
 
"Lie down," you tell her.
 
She obeys. She dismounts your pistol, a little ooze of her pussy cream dripping from her panties, and sinks to her butt. She lies back with her neck propped up against the wall and spreads her legs wide. "Fuck me raw," she says. "Cum inside me."
 
You put your pistol back in your waistband for safekeeping. You unzip your fly. Your turgid dick springs out practically on its own, a little streamer of precum suspended from the tip and glinting in the ambient light. Sable eyes it hungrily. "It's a fucking monster," she gulps. "God, I missed it..."
 
"You like it up your ass, don't you?" You say.
 
She gulps. Her voice is shaky. "Yeah... up my ass..."
 
"That's too bad. I like it better up your cunt."
 
Her eyes bulge. You reach down and tear her panties off, ripping them, and force her legs even wider apart. She tries to get up, but you're already bearing down on her, and she can't get away. With a sigh of sheer satisfaction, you get your prick shoved into the hot wet confines of Sable's pussy.
 
"Fuck you! Fuck you!" Sable shrieks. "You fucking asshole!"
 
"Shut the fuck up," you tell her. "You love it."
 
And she does. Despite berating you, she humps back against you, and her little cunt sucks your prick-leak out of you like a mouth. She shudders with every thrust. But she's still ranting and raving, calling you names, and it's getting annoying.
 
"Cocksucker! Faggot! You dumb piece of--"
 
With a grunt, you slap her -- at the same time as you get your cock as deep as it can go. She draws a sharp breath. Then she begins to cry.
 
Crying is better than yelling at you, at least. Actually, fucking a crying girl feels pretty good. You let her cry for a few moments as you fuck her silly. Even as she sobs, her pussy cums and gets the denim crotch of your jeans wet with her fluids.
 
It's getting a little pitiful, though, so you decide to give in to her desires. You reach between the union of your bodies and find the dark pucker of Sable's anus. It takes no more lubrication than her own juices running down her thigh to get a couple fingers wedged inside. Sable closes her eyes and sighs a sigh of deep, contented pleasure. She really is obsessed with anal.
 
"That feels so good, Alabaster," she coos, her voice dreamy. "I could fuck with you like this forever..."
 
"Uh huh. Is that your ideal universe?"
 
"Hmm... maybe~ or maybe I'd like a third... now THAT would be ideal..."
 
You pump in and out of her without responding. The silky smooth sensation of Sable's wet cunt is bringing you some much needed pleasure. The heat of it against your straining prick is such a nice relief. You could honestly fuck her forever like this, too. You play with her rubbbery, pliant asshole while you screw her. Pretty soon you'll be cumming in her just like she asked. You're not going to warn her. A woman like her doesn't deserve it, and wouldn't want it.
 
"Fuck... fuck... fuuuu-uuuck..." Sable pants. She might be one of the smartest people in history, true, but she goes stupid for your dick like all the rest. Her eyes are distant as she gazes up at you. "You're so nice to me... thank you... thank you for playing with me..."
 
"Shut up already."
 
She draws a shuddering breath. But she follows your orders.
 
The van falling silent again, you press harder down on her and just enjoy the raw sensation of fucking her. Soon, your nuts are tightening, getting ready to drop their load. Sable can sense you're about to cum, even if you don't let her know. She reaches down and fondles your balls. "There you go..." she mewls. "Shoot it all inside..."
 
"Oh, fuck," you can't help moaning.
 
Suddenly, she reaches behind you and grabs your gun.
 
"Sable--!!"
 
She laughs insanely. Time slows to a crawl as your worst nightmare comes to pass -- Sable is going to murder you right as you cum inside her.
 
But that's not what this is. With a crazy glint in her eyes, she takes the gun and puts it in her mouth instead. Both hands wrapped around the muzzle, she sucks it -- like a cock. She sucks on the business end of your pistol, grinning up at you, as you fuck her. And like this, you pop off. Your cum rockets out of your piss slit and paints Sable's insides as you watch her fellate your gun. She fucks herself back against your cock and your sodomizing fingers, and swirls her pink tongue around the gunmetal. You fire rope after sticky rope inside her. The heat and tightness is unbelievable, so too the volume of her own ejaculation. She cums all over you. And she never stops sucking. This horrible, crazy woman... all you can do is empty your balls inside her. It feels like you cum ten gallons. And her hungry pussy takes it all.

Back inside the cafe, at 8 PM, come Rose, Alex, and Dr. Carte on schedule.

Rose takes you aside. "We have a problem. Well, a couple problems. A couple catastrophes, is more like it..."

"Start from the top."

"China."

"A nation of 1.2 billion or so people, headed by President Xi Jinping -- or are you trying to do another NMNB run of Touhou 6?"

"A Chinese company bought Google today. $1 trillion. Just like that, out of the blue." She snaps her fingers. "Well, Mara is right about one thing. That company has the backing of the Chinese government. And they're not moving into the valley for fun. They want our tech."

"They can have it, honestly."

"Don't be flippant. This is end-of-the-world shit here, Alabaster."

"Tell Whitney to talk to the President. They're friends, right? I'm sure an executive order could stop the deal from going through..."

"You are unbelievable -- do you honestly think that some silly slip of paper signed by a doddering idiot can stop China from coming after us?"

You frown at her.

"Catastrophe two," Rose continues. "One of our server farms blew up."

You glance over Rose's shoulder, towards the table where Alex and Sable are conferring with Dr. Carte.

"Yep," Rose says.

"Alex--"

"He's got bombs, disguised as new server equipment, at every single server farm we own. Mara thinks the Chinese are behind this, thank goodness for good timing -- but the truth is, this was a botch job by the boy wonder over there."

"That lying little--"

"This is good news," Rose says. "If we can speed up getting that fucking implant out of your skull and Cerise's, we can destroy this entire company. Fuck Sand Reckoner, fuck Diogenes, fuck the Russians, fuck the Chinese, fuck the FBI. We can end this. You and me."

You regard her.

"Alabaster."

"I feel like I'm making a key decision here..."

She takes your hand. "You already made it, didn't you?"

You nod. "Let's do it."

Sable is busy explaining her density-sorting device to a wild-eyed Dr. Carte.

"You're... as interesting as I remember," Dr. Carte finally says.

"You understand, then, the need to make sure this reaches an acceptable end-point," Sable says. "If we don't complete Diogenes, the very fabric of reality itself could come undone. One Sand Reckoner is fine, but once someone else gets their hands on this tech... Russians, CIA, whoever... things will become untenable. We must act with haste."

"Of course," Dr. Carte says. She looks over at you, arching her eyebrows, as if to silently communicate: bitch be crazy.

You shrug.

"Ms. Carte and I are working on a new generation of 3D-printable implant, that could be easily disseminated to the public," Alex says. He's trying to put on his genki, all-smiles act, but he's shaken. The wages of death hang heavy on his shoulders. Because of his mistake with the server farm, more people have died -- and he's perfectly well aware of it. Could you ever forgive him for everything he's done?

"You have been such an inspiration to me," Sable tells Dr. Carte. "Your breakthroughs were the foundation of -- well, of everything."

"I'm going to try to be flattered by that."

"You should be. It's all thanks to you. You're a role model."

Dr. Carte closes her eyes and shakes her head. For her, you can tell it's like finding out Dahmer's a big fan.

The bell above the cafe's door chimes. You all look up: in comes walking Vivian and Cerise.

You stand, pushing your chair back from the table. The chair legs squeal against the slick concrete floor. Surreptitiously, you reach behind your back, for your gun -- but what an impotent threat that really would be anyway. You could never shoot Cerise, and despite everything she's done -- you could never shoot Vivian either. If they attack Sable, you can't stop them. And in all honesty... it might be for the best. The only thing you could possibly do is try to talk them down from the edge.

Rose is standing with you. Together, you flank Sable.

"It is done," Vivian announces.

"Done..." you repeat. "Done how?"

"Alabaster," Cerise says, her voice catching. She holds her arms wide. "It's me."

"I don't believe you. You're wearing contacts."

"No -- no, I swear... listen--"

You step forward, getting closer. You loom over her.

"Alabaster," she repeats. "Vivian got in touch with--"

You reach up and poke her eye.

"Ow! FUCK!" She jerks back, cupping a hand over her face. Then she slugs you in the shoulder. "ASSHOLE! Way to ruin a fucking moment! Jesus FUCK! Can't just let us explain something, huh?"

You look down at your forefinger. No contact lens there -- and your finger definitely found only the squishy membrane of Cerise's eyeball. Her eyes are the proper color, so...

Vivian gives you a wan smile. "Maybe we should have waited for Ms. Healy to catch up..."

Into the cafe now, peeking her head demurely in, comes a face you never expected -- Galatea. She's obviously terrified to be out in public, and trembles and startles as she slowly approaches. She casts her eyes uncertainly this way and that, as if being pursued or watched by the other patrons -- but it's all in her head, of course.

Dangling from Gal's clenched fist is a thin wire, the a tiny white grain on the end of it. Cerise's implant has been removed.

You look at Cerise. She nods.

You feel a convulsion of grief, joy, and anger all at once -- the bottled-up emotions of these long weeks of terror finally bursting forth in one tangled confusion. You wrap your arms around her and hug her tighter than you've ever hugged her. "Cerise..." you say, voice muffled by her shoulder. She hugs you back. And when you pull away from that warm, seemingly never-ending embrace, you kiss her -- on the lips, with tongue, damn who sees it. You love your sister. You love her like a sister, and you also love her like that. Who cares, anyway? She loves you like that too. And now she's back, fully -- in her own body, under her own control, permanently.

"You should keep ahold of that implant," Sable tells you. "You never know when you might need it again."

"Fuck you," you tell her without looking back. You gaze into your sister's loving eyes. She smiles at you.

Sable slurps on a straw. "Well, I warned you."

"How did this happen?" you ask -- of Vivian, or Gal, or Cerise -- whoever cares to answer first.

It's Vivian, of course. "I put Ms. Healy in touch with our friend Gustav through the video conferencing application she suggested. Gustav walked us through a simple procedure based on the work Ms. Carte had already done."

"Us?" You repeat. "Us as in -- both of you?"

"I am a quick study," Vivian says. "Yes. I assisted."

But, of course, there's more to it than that. Vivian didn't naturally learn an advanced neurosurgical procedure by remote instruction. She's a genius but she isn't superhuman. She had the benefit of something else, you know: an implant of her own.

Cerise holds Gal close. Gal, though sitting in a separate chair, is wrapped around Cerise like a frightened kitten, practically curled up in Cerise's lap, her face to Cerise's bosom -- cowering away from all the conversation around her. Sable regards her strangely, and Gal clearly doesn't like it. You reach over and gently pry Cerise's old implant from Gal's palm, and examine it. A small bit of circuitry inside the grain still glows a steady white -- and you get the nauseous feeling that David Darkbloom is in there even now, looking back at you.

"You may do with that what you wish," Vivian tells you.

You glance up at her. "You mean--"

"It serves no more purpose," is her curt response.

"Can the procedure be repeated?" Dr. Carte asks. "For Alabaster -- for yourselves?"

"It should be easy to replicate," Vivian says. "Alabaster and Anna could have their implants out as early as this evening -- if they so desire."

"And you?" Dr. Carte presses.

"Yes, of course," Vivian says. "I would be happy to assist the operation once again."

"That isn't what I mean." Dr. Carte's face is grimly serious.

"Then I am not quite certain what you do mean," Vivian says.

"Your implant. We should take it out, too."

"I have no implant."

Dr. Carte grimaces. "Vivian--"

"I do not know what you're talking about. Please, do not pester me about such silly things."

Oh man. This is a problem.

Something doesn't add up. For Vivian to break David Darkbloom free of his virtual imprisonment -- only to return to Gal's loft, and remove him from Cerise's head -- why?

You demand to know.

Vivian is surprisingly forthcoming about this, even if she wasn't about her implant:

"I gave father the tools of his escape several weeks ago -- it was a terrible moment of subterfuge, and an awful breach of trust, born of my own weakness. I suppose you already figured this out based on your reaction to our return."

"He didn't figure it out," Rose cuts in. "It was me. I figured it out."

"Congratulations. You are slightly less moronic than I had previously ascertained."

Rose makes a sour face.

"Father chose today to leave his confinement because he was frightened of Sable Guiteau, and mother -- and you, Alabaster. He felt things had come to a crisis point. So he sought to murder the former two, and isolate me from your influence."

"But... you refused?" Rose says.

"Not to begin with. I agreed to help him. It was only later in the evening when I realized something. Letting father follow through with this attempt on the lives of others endangered Cerise, too. And in the end -- I could not abide it -- it -- would have made me as low and selfish as father himself. If something happened to your sister, Alabaster, or his actions implicated her in a crime... I would not have been able to forgive myself of my own role in it."

A last moment change of heart. That's it. All this drama, all this heartache, stopped dead in its tracks by a young girl deciding to be a better person than her father was.

"Thank you for not murdering me," Sable says. She treats the fact of the plot against her life as dispassionately as she might treat discussion of a math problem. "But you all understand that Mara Darkbloom needs to die, correct?"

"Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. "You can take or leave my advice as you see fit. I know I have not done much to earn your trust of late. Nonetheless I strongly advise you to keep your implant. And for the time being to keep my mother alive, also."

"Why?" You ask.

"Because -- should the world ever come to an end, you might need what's inside your head -- and you might need mother's help."

"That is absurd," Sable says. "When the new age dawns, people like Mara who stand in its way will need to be--"

"You," Vivian booms -- there's the spark of David Darkbloom within this soft-spoken little girl, after all -- "You stupid, haughty bitch. You know nothing of what you do and yet you press forward, for what? You have doomed the world. Do not speak to me."

Alex is equally vicious when he retorts: "Be careful what you say. You might regret it."

"And now your lickspittle too, to defend your insanity." Vivian fixes Alex with a hateful glare. She pinches her fingers together repeatedly: "Yip yip yip yip yip, goes the dog. Pathetic. I know it was you behind the recent wanton destruction -- no -- do not even waste breath on denying it. Blood drips from your hands even as we speak. You can go to hell with Sable Guiteau, where you belong, Alexander. But since you are so hopeless over a man who uses you for a walking semen receptacle, just keep your head down, and complete your work on Project Diogenes. And make sure the fruits of it go to Alabaster when you're through. If you have any brain cells left to rub together, you may be of use to the world yet still."

She clasps the handle of a cup of coffee that isn't even hers and takes a sip. And then, rising to her feet, she announces: "I will speak with you again in private, Alabaster. There is much to discuss. Cerise, I am sorry for all the trouble. Ms. Healy, thank you for your help today."

"y-you're welcome," Gal says, ironically the only person courageous enough to break the awkward silence.

Vivian turns and leaves the cafe. Between Alex and Sable, it's hard to tell whose gaze at Vivian's retreating backside is more recriminating. Dr. Carte shoots you a worried look; you nod, and she rises, to chase after Vivian, and leave with her.

"She knows nothing," Sable says. "Nothing... nothing. Useless."

Just when it seems the Gordian knot of your life was finally coming untangled without collateral damage, now comes this. Vivian won't remove her implant, or even admit she has it -- and for reasons she insists are very important, she wants you to keep yours, too -- wants you to allow your hated enemy to live -- wants to allow her own hated enemy to live. For what? She discussed something else with David Darkbloom before that surgery. Something that changed everything.

"What do you want to do, Ally?"

Alex is timid and uncertain.

"I don't know," you answer truthfully.

"I'll finish the project," he says. "Until you tell me otherwise--"

"I guess you have to now," you reply. "Do your best." Your voice is monotone, affectless. It's impossible to take everything in, and it's hard to even speak to Alex at the moment.

"With Ms. Guiteau to help me, it won't be long."

You stand -- Cerise, Gal, and Rose follow suit.

"Ally..." he says. "I... I love you. I'm sorry."

You leave Alex alone in the cafe with Sable, to hash out whatever details they need to -- whether they're going to be your death or your salvation, you have no idea.

You return to the Darkbloom Analytics campus, where Whitney has stayed late to deal with the recent crisis of the server farm explosion -- it's a PR nightmare for the scandal-plagued company. In her office, you fill her in on the recent events.

"Told ya," she says. "Viv is solid. Best kid sister in the world."

You put the implant on the desk between you and her. Whitney regards it severely. Then she picks up a paperweight and moves as if to smash it.

"Wait--" you say.

"Wait, my ass. That fucking prick is the reason for all of this. He deserves to be dead." She puts her face close to the desktop. "You in there, fucker? You listening to me? Fuck you."

"How would Vivian feel about that?" You ask.

Whitney shrugs. "All conflicted and shit, probably. What else is new? But she knows deep down that it has to be this way. That's why she got this thing out of Cerise's head in the first place. It's why she let you take it."

[ ] Let Whitney destroy it.
>[x] Keep possession of it for now.
[ ] Give it to Vivian.

You pick the implant up and put it in your pocket.

"I made the man a promise, is the thing," you tell her.

"What? Who gives a shit what you promised that--"

"I promised him that I'd keep him alive in a jar on my mantle, forever... to watch us live a happy life without him."

"I'm not gonna fuck you in front of my bio-dad."

You frown. "Well -- okay. I mean... I mean, it would be a pretty fitting--"

"No. You fucking freak."

"Oh, I'm a freak. Ms. Motherfucker thinks I'm a freak--" you sigh and trail off. "In any case, it's a useful tool to keep in our back pocket. Literally or figuratively. If things get any crazier, who knows... maybe David Darkbloom has something left to offer the world, too."

"I highly doubt that. But all right, Ally. I trust you."

"...Just like that?"

"Why wouldn't I? Just promise me... that when you're sure we don't need him anymore, you'll give that thing a nice hard stomp for me."

You nod. "I promise."

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling, considering the day. You've had zero time to decompress. It's been one insane incident after another.

"So. When's the wedding?"

You let your chairback drift back to a position perpendicular with the ground again, and squint at her. "Wedding's canceled."

"Pfft. Says who? Says you?"

"I don't know. I'm not exactly looking forward to marrying Rose Mallory, of all people."

"Suuuuure. Okay. We're doing that thing again."

"What thing."

"The 'oh no, oh nooooo, I hate Rose, I haaaaate her' thing. That thing."

"I don't know what you're--"

"I gotcha. Don't worry."

"You're not trying to encourage me to do this, are you? You hate her too."

"Rose is fine. And she's a great fuck, too. But well, lemme ask you this. If you marry Rose, are you gonna all of a sudden start living a life of monotony?"

This is a rare case of one of Whitney eggcorns that retains its proper meaning despite the mistake. You shake your head. "No. I mean -- I doubt Rose would want to stop fucking you after we get married. She'd hardly have a leg to stand on if she said that I couldn't too."

Whitney laughs. "Oh, that's reassuring. Do you think double standards ever scared Rose Mallory before?"

"So what? I'll throw it right back at you. Do you think Rose Mallory ever scared Alabaster Soliloquy before?"

"Yes. Plenty of times. Like, even within the past 48 hours."

You roll your eyes. "Fact is, it's just a show-marriage. If it even happens. I'd still be with you, too -- just as much as with the putative Mrs. Soliloquy."

"Putative. I love it. I gotta start using that one. Rose really is one putative bitch, huh?"

"Are you gonna be okay with that, then?"

Whitney fiddles with a pen, staring at her desk in a moment of uncharacteristic dithering. But then she looks up, bright again: "I never figured on getting married, so it's fine. But... only if I get to throw your bachelor party."

Oh boy.

Down in the lobby, Whitney is preparing to leave, and Makoto is in tow. It's one of her sleepover nights at Whitney's house, which the two have every week or so -- for "intensive personal interviews." Recently those personal interviews have been very personal indeed.

"Coming too?" Whitney asks you.

"In a little bit. I think Saul and Charlotte are still upstairs... and Rose. I think I should talk to them."

"Gotcha. Say no more!" She gives you a tender kiss goodbye and then nods at Makoto. "C'mon. I wanna get your cunt in my mouth, so let's hurry it up."

Such a charmer. But Makoto is more than pleased to follow.

The only problem is Noelle. At the security cordon, she stops the pair.

"Ms. Kikuchi," Noelle says. "I'm going to need you to empty your pockets."

"--Pardon?" Makoto says.

"Lay off, bitch," Whitney tells Noelle. "Haven't you had enough of pushing us around?"

"Ms. Darkbloom," Makoto stammers, "please let's go."

"Your badge showed some suspicious swipes this afternoon," Noelle tells Makoto. "You were in the R&D labs."

"She was with me," Whitney snarls. "Personal business. You never get laid, do you?"

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way," Noelle says. "Empty your pockets, Ms. Kikuchi."

Makoto steps back, glancing this way and that, frightened.

"Make her happy," Whitney says with a yawn. "Empty 'em and let's just get out of here. I'm too horny to fight her right now."

"I..." Makoto stammers.

Whitney suddenly becomes much more serious. She takes a step towards Makoto. "What's the matter? Just empty your pockets. It's fine."

"I..."

"Makoto." Whitney never calls her by her proper first name. She's more than serious now -- she's as grim as death.

Noelle also takes a step closer. Makoto now finds herself surrounded by a room full of unfriendly faces. Whitney, Noelle, you, and a few other FBI agents. There is no talking her way out of this and no getting out without showing whatever she has in her pockets.

"I am a patriot!" Makoto hollers.

"You're a--" Whitney starts.

"Hold her down!" Noelle shouts -- and there's a sudden commotion as blue-jacketed agents surround the girl, but they can't stop what happens. Makoto Kikuchi bites down, hard, and you hear a sickening crunch.

"Get it out of her mouth!" Noelle shrieks. An agent gets his hands around Makoto's face and pries her jaw open -- but too late.

"I am a patriot! I love my country!" Makoto yells. These are her last words.

She begins to convulse and foam at the mouth -- lets out a horrible, heart-rending death rattle as her poison pill takes effect. Whitney, hands cupped over her mouth, watches with wild eyes. Like you, she is beyond horrified, and has no words for what just happened.

Noelle is barking orders, calling for medics, demanding that Makoto's pockets be searched by a gloved agent. The agent produces a number of flash drives from her jean shorts. Another is performing CPR but Makoto is unresponsive, and already blue in the face. She's dead.

---

"Crisis point delta fuckin' zero!" Armstrong exclaims. "Jesus!"

"I don't know what that means," you tell him.

"I don't either. I don't know what the fuck anything means anymore. Fuck! This goddamn company is going to bring me to an early grave." He clutches his chest and grits his teeth. Then he takes out a pill bottle and pops a handful down.

You're in the board room with Armstrong, Whitney, Nelson -- and Mara.

Whitney stares sullenly at the long oak table. She's shell-shocked, traumatized -- and speechless.

"For once, the feds did something useful," Mara says. "No thanks to you, Whitney."

"Go to hell."

"Your caprice with that oriental whore almost brought the company to ruin -- but then, it's just another Thursday for you, isn't it?"

"We vetted her," Nelson says. "In and out -- she's just a... just a pop star, for heaven's sake."

"Was a pop star," Mara corrects.

"Who the fuck was she working for?" Armstrong demands. "The fucking Chinese?"

"Japanese, of course," Mara says. "Can't you tell your ching chongs apart, Steven?"

She's correct. Noelle briefly explained it to you. Makoto Kikuchi really was just a pop star... until you invited her stateside. Then she was secretly given a mission by Japanese intelligence to steal Sand Reckoner project files and materials.

"Japan understands that we're in the midst of an opening battle -- to the most important war ever waged," Mara says. "When will you realize that, Whitney?"

"Go to hell."

"Go to hell, go to hell," Mara repeats mockingly. "What a joke you are. I'll see you dead yet. You can enjoy some more time with that lesbian slut then."

She stands and goes.

"Alabaster," Armstrong says, "my life is public relations. I'm pretty fucking good at it. But I don't know how the fuck I spin Japan's favorite pop singer dying on company property."

"You won't have to," you tell him.

"It's a diplomatic incident," Whitney repeats -- by rote, from the explanation proffered to her by Noelle. "It's in everyone's best interest to just say that... she was an addict... who suffered an overdose at home in her apartment..."

"Uncle Sam doesn't want to go after the Japanese for this?" Nelson says. "Trying to steal military tech is an act of war, isn't it?"

"Exactly," you say.

He huffs. "Jesus."

"Don't you use his name in vain, you fuckin' Jew."

"Screw yourself, Steven."

"Yadda yadda," Armstrong says. "God I need a fucking drink. You're paying."

They leave together. You never quite understood their frenemy relationship.

"I did this," Whitney says, when you're alone again.

"What?"

"I did this. I'm the one who's responsible."

"You're not the one who's responsible for a Japanese spy--"

"No." She cuts you off with a bark. "It's my fault. I let her go downstairs... let her distract me with sex... let her steal from us. I almost let her walk out the door with our secrets. I let her walk in the door to begin with. It's my fault."

You rub her shoulder, but she isn't any happier for it.

"I read this book on leadership," Whitney begins after a long silence.

You squint at her.

"Okay, I skimmed a book on leadership--"

You frown.

"Okay, I watched a Youtube summary about a book on leadership--"

You purse your lips.

"I skipped around in the video a bit. All right? Fuck. But I got the point. The leader is responsible. No matter what, the leader is responsible. If something goes wrong... at the end, you as the leader should have done something to stop it..."

Whitney looks up at the tall portrait of David Darkbloom still hanging in the conference room with the word "ASSHOLE" scrawled across it. She stares at it for a long time.

"Mara Darkbloom is right," Whitney says grimly. "We're at war. We need to start acting like it."

You see Whitney out, again. Cerise offered to drive her home when you told her what happened, and comes back to work to pick her up now.

It's a good opportunity to let Cerise enjoy freedom, anyway -- the freedom to leave home on her own, the freedom to drive around town on her own. Even if it's for such a somber reason.

A janitor is mopping up the caked-on foam from the tile floor of the lobby where Makoto seized up and died. FBI agents observe, cracking snide remarks to one another, but there won't be an investigation of the scene of Makoto's death. The real, and deeper, investigation will focus on other things. The fact of Makoto having died here will be swept under the rug.

Out front, by the enormous fountain at the front gates, Cerise hugs Whitney tenderly. "Doing okay?" She asks.

"Fuck no." And she isn't. She's crying. The weight of this is beginning to really hit her.

"Let's go home and watch some trashy TV, huh?"

You walk with them towards the parking garage.

[ ] Talk with Cerise about the prospect of your marriage with Rose.
>[x] Don't discuss it with her until you decide.

Charlotte and Saul are with Rose in her office.

"Late night, huh," you say as you enter.

"Momentous things are happening, Alabaster," Saul tells you. "We need to make sure our defenses are airtight -- if you're ever brought in again for questioning on what happened in that club."

Charlotte, for her part, is more worried over the immediate concerns: "Is Whitney doing all right?"

"Heck no," is your sanitized version of Whitney's own response to that question.

"Poor thing," Charlotte says. "I'm sorry you two had to see that. Such ugly business."

"I'm just... surprised, is all," you say. "Still reeling. You know?"

Charlotte nods sympathetically.

"We can mourn our dearly departed double agents later," Saul says. "Time is of the essence here. I need a straight answer from you two. Insofar as -- legal strategy is concerned."

Rose, at her desk, can't hold eye contact with anyone. Especially not you. She's unusually demure and mute.

"I think the two of us need to talk first," you tell your adoptive parents.

"Of course," Charlotte says warmly. "Take all the time you need."

You and Rose walk together towards the elevators. Saul and Charlotte see you out.
 
"Call us, when you know what you want to do," Charlotte says.
 
"Yes," Rose replies.
 
"Don't take TOO long," Saul says.
 
"No," you reply.
 
The elevator chimes and the doors slide open. You step in with Rose. Turning with her, shoulder to shoulder, you watch Saul and Charlotte's faces disappear as the doors slide shut again.
 
The down arrow above the panel of buttons comes to life with a steady golden glow, and the elevator begins its smooth descent.
 
You stand there with Rose in silence, both of you staring straight ahead at nothing.
 
About halfway down to the lobby, without a word, Rose pounds a fist on the emergency stop. The elevator lurches to a standstill.
 
You wheel on each other. Instantly you're a whirlwind of legs and arms, pushes and shoves -- she slaps you -- you bite her on the shoulder. Punches get thrown and returned. There are headbutts and scratches. Your flesh becomes bruised and abraded. Then, even as you hurl physical aggression at each other, she's tugging at your shirt, and you're pawing at her miniskirt.
 
"Fuck you," Rose pants over and over, "fuck you."
 
"You stupid bitch," you growl. You get her skirt off, with her assistance, and you dutifully raise your arms above your head so she can pull off your shirt. You've got her pinned up against the corner, on her butt. Just perfect to take advantage of. But she rears back and kicks you hard, the flat of her shoe hitting you in your shin. You howl in shock.
 
"I hate you," Rose spits, "go to hell."
 
You give her an open handed slap across the face. Her cheek glows red in the outline of your palm. As she composes herself from that sudden blow, her breaths come jagged in some mixture of rage, pain, and lust. Her fingers snake across the denim of your pants and curl around your belt buckle. She gets it undone with expert nimbleness.
 
"That's right," you say, "help me rape you--"
 
"GRAAHHH--" Rose bellows, and surges forward, tackling you. You bang your head against the opposite wall as you topple to your back. Already you can feel the welt it leaves behind. She's atop you now, pulling your waistband down with savage strength.
 
Suddenly, this feels more like she's the one raping you.
 
"No you don't," you say, sneering. You try to lift yourself up, but her soft palms are bearing down on your sweaty chest. You have a hard time getting upright again in this confined space, with Rose straddling you.
 
"I'm gonna fuck you up, Alabaster."
 
"Oh, you fucking wish. Get off me, you dumb--"
 
Rose cuts you off with a desperate, hungry kiss. At the same time, she reaches down, into the fly of your boxers, and finds your dick. It's hard, just like she knew it would be. Why does your body never cooperate with you? Your pants still hanging halfway off your butt and your dick poking out from your underwear, Rose gyrates against you, rubbing her pantied mound up and down your crotch. She's all wet and sticky for you. Of course she chose to wear underwear today, of all days... but even if she did, there's no denying that her little pussy is always messy, always leaking at the thought of getting fucked by you. The fabric of her panties is rough, though, and tickles your horny prick in a frustratingly pleasurable way. That's Rose, always such a fucking cocktease.
 
You tug her panties to one side to give you clearance. Rose goes rigid when you jab your prick into her without warning. So despite being trapped underneath her, you claim the initiative -- you hump up against her delicate, fleshy, grippy cunt. She sways and swoons and breathes hard through her gaping jaw while you fuck her. Her exhalations are hot on your face and you can smell her minty breath. Beads of sweat run down her matted hair and mingle with the ones pearling all over your torso. You hold her by hips, pound up and down. All the way into her, without any inhibitions. The channel of her vagina spreads open with every inward thrust, inviting you inside and hugging you, milking out your precum.
 
"Fuck me, you bastard! Fuck me!"
 
"You stupid little cunt! Guhh-- oh, fuck--" You gulp as Rose's soft interior swallows your hot prickmeat and conforms so deliciously to its shape. Rose takes the opportunity of this distraction to seize back control. She splays her palms against your chest again and hunches herself forward, oppressively putting all her weight on you solar plexus. It robs you of your air and makes you see stars. Rose, moaning like an animal, bounces up and down on your slippery cock and cums herself silly.
 
"Fuck me! Fuck me!" She wails, incoherent.
 
Her head is bowed low. She's sweating all over you. She does all the work and uses you for a living dildo. Rose, with her swampy cunt, and her brutal lust, drives you to the brink of insanity. These nearly-frictionless, rapid, lewd fucking motions are unbelievable. And the aroma of her sex tinges what little air you can swallow, invades your nostrils and your lungs. She's marking you -- inside and out -- primally claiming some kind of dominion over you.
 
You summon the last of your energy and pull yourself up. In an instant, a reversal -- Rose is on the floor of the tiny elevator, and you're flipping her over onto her stomach. She tries to crawl away, but where? There's nowhere to go.
 
Your discarded garments are the only thing for cushioning. She gets somewhat tangled in them as you corral her and force her to be still. Her face is half wrapped-up in your shirt, the armpit of it against her nose, although she doesn't seem to mind. You lie atop her back, curling up around her. Your frame is much larger than Rose's, and you totally envelop her soft body. You curl your lower half around her butt, raising your own butt high in the air, and fuck into her again. Viciously, deeply, you mate with her. You hold her about the head and neck, and bury your face in her golden curls. You blow air through your nose like a rutting bull, right against the crown of her head. You take your pleasure from her body as you may. Rose's tongue wags and lolls from her mouth and her expression is one of sheer, unparalleled ecstasy.
 
There are no sounds left in the elevator but you and Rose grunting and groaning, heaving and gasping -- accompanied also by the steady, moist slapping of you giving her the hardest fuck you ever have. Even still, there's communication, albeit a wordless form: Your "unnnghh--" warns her that you're about to blow your load in her pussy, and her "mmmmnnn-- mnnnn~~" tells you that inside her pussy is precisely where she wants it.
 
So that's where she gets it; you seat yourself inside her and let your cum surge directly into her womb. You feel warmth all over, so powerful you shiver. It's a pleasure you've rarely ever glimpsed. And you feel something else too, a... rightness, if you had to call it something, but you don't want to name what it really is. Right now, your orgasm is all that really matters anyway. You cum, and cum, and cum -- Rose cums against you, too. Her face goes all droopy and her mouth hangs open in an agonized, reveling scream. Her fists ball up and clench the fabric of your discarded shirt. You saw in and out, spreading your cum all over her insides, pushing it in. Marking her right back. And she lets you. She lets you inseminate her.

---

You sip a beer in the backyard, seated in the most luxurious patio chair you've ever laid eyes on, and watch the azure ripples of the lighted, heated pool. Whitney lies curled up in your lap, sharing that beer -- Cerise and Rose sit in chairs of their own on either side. Cerise also with a beer, but Rose, ever the contrarian, sipping wine.

"It's a sham marriage, of course," Rose says.

Cerise is unmoved. She scowls at you. "I go away for one day and you decide to marry satan's living avatar on Earth. Fucking stupendous."

Whitney takes the bottle from you and downs a few deep drinks. She's still shaken by witnessing Makoto's death, but she's trying to enjoy the moment, and the good news. She laughs. "Satan? That's no way to talk about your future sister-cousin-lover-once-removed-in-law, Cerise."

"Oh, I wanted to ask you--" you tell Cerise. You awkwardly clear your throat. "I wasn't sure when Darkbloom really first woke up, so, uh... that day on your circuit bending stream, with Alex... when we... was that...?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Cerise says, confused. She tilts her head to one side. "What circuit bending stream with Alex? I don't remember that."

You feel the blood drain from your face.

Cerise laughs. She tosses the cap of her beer bottle at you. "Oh man. I need to burn that one into my memory banks. No, Alabaster, don't worry. You didn't fuck David Darkbloom. It was me."

You feel your heartbeat return to normal. "Fuck you," you snarl.

"Hey, it's only fair," Cerise says with a shrug. "I need to give as good as I get, don't I?"

"Well anyway, Rose is right," you say. "This whole -- marriage -- if you even really can call it that, it's just a legal fiction. It really changes nothing..."

"Uh huh," Cerise says. "You know... growing up, I never figured that you would get married before me. Actually, scratch that. I never figured you would get married. Full stop."

Whitney reaches over and pokes Cerise's tit, apropos of nothing.

"Alabaster, put your lesbian on a leash already," Cerise says.

"Oooh," Whitney says. "Could be fun."

"Gag me."

"If you want~"

You watch the pale blue light reflected against Cerise's face, as she sips her drink and stares into the pool.

>[x] "If you're so concerned about being unmarried... why not marry Gal?"
[ ] Don't suggest this.

"Because I'm not gay," Cerise says flatly.

Your shock is genuine, and almost takes your breath away. "You're... joking," you breathe. "That's a joke? That's a joke. It has to be a joke."

"I'm not!" Cerise snaps, half-shouting. "How many times do I have to suck your dick to prove it?"

"Oh my..." Rose murmurs. She's getting a bit wine drunk.

"Gal's just a pal," Cerise says. "A gal pal. We're pals... who help each other out sometimes. That doesn't make us gay. We like penises, so. I mean. We can't be wives, for godsakes."

"What's Gal's real name again?" Whitney asks, peering up at you from where her head lies against your chest. "Anna, right?"

You nod.

"Ooh. Anna Soliloquy. That would be so cool." She holds her hands out like framing a picture. "Two times the sisters to fuck. I know how you think, Ally. I like it."

"Well, I'm not gonna tell you how to handle your, uh, gal pal situation," you say. "But it might give her something to live for. It's a thought, anyway."

"Oh, thank you so much, sir," Cerise says. "I'll be sure to consider it."

"Just trying to give you an out here," you say. "Geez. If you want to stay as a Christmas cake -- no skin off my back."

Cerise dithers. "Well -- just understand that even if I did do something so... so weird... that it would only be because of that."

"Right."

"I'm not gay."

"Of course not."

You sip your beer and stare at the pool for a little while.

"I'm not gay either," you tell her.

Whitney snickers and takes the beer back from you.

The four of you sit out there for a long time after that, drinking in silence, and then you go to bed together. And as if you didn't have enough on your platter like that, Whitney even retrieves Rose2 from where she sleeps in bed and brings her along for the ride, too.

END OF EPISODE 12.

You sit propped up against the headboard of Whitney's bed and jerk off while you watch Cerise riding Rose's face. Your big sister's bare cunt and asshole grind against Rose's puckered lips and nose. It isn't long before Rose's face becomes slick and sticky with Cerise's cream. Your sister's overheated pussy always makes a big mess when it's sliding up and down on another girl's tongue.
 
With a hiss of pleasure, Cerise bears down even harder and wags her hips even faster. The effort sends her huge tits to jiggling through the thin fabric of the black tee she still has on. She arches her back, runs her hands sensuously across her own body and then up through her long raven hair, reveling in her own perversion. She humps your cousin's face with abandon.
 
"Not a lesbian, huh?" You say.
 
"Unngh-- oh, fuck," Cerise gasps. "No -- nooo -- because -- Rose isn't a girl... she's just a fucking cunt... she's just a cum toilet..."
 
"That's my future wife you're talking about," you say wryly.
 
But Rose doesn't mind the verbal abuse. In fact, she warms to it. Her naked body glistening with sweat, she reaches down with both hands and masturbates the wet pussy between her spread-eagle legs. By doing this, her upper arms mash her ample tit-meat together, the fat pink nipples poking up like little erasers. Cerise can't resist such temptation, and begins to abuse Rose's jugs, slapping them with flattened palms: first one, then the other. The supple flesh quickly turns red, and then bruises blue, but Rose's groans of pain are muffled by Cerise's genitals. It makes your cock twitch with pleasure to see your sister beating on your soon-to-be-wife's body like that; you're a pervert, after all.
 
Whitney, butt naked, kicks in her own bedroom door. She princess carries Rose2 across the threshold. Rose2 is wearing a silky pink nightie and is still groggy from being rudely awakened, her arms looped around Whitney's neck for support.
 
"I told you to wait!" Whitney whines, but she can't complain too hard. Yes, Cerise might have been impatient, but you've been dutifully keeping yourself free for Whitney's personal use. She desperately needs your dick up her cunt tonight -- said so herself.
 
She dumps Rose2 to the floor like a sack of potatoes. "Take your PJs off," she orders the dazed girl. "You're on cleanup duty."
 
With that, Whitney saunters over to the bed and climbs onto it. Rivulets of her own arousal trickle down her bronzed inner thighs. On her knees, she waddles across the soft mattress to you. Cerise's hungry eyes follow her transit, the way her thin body sashays as she approaches you. Her cunt rubbing against Rose's half-suffocated face begins to make obscene slurping sounds from the sheer volume of her juices seeping out, as she gets herself off.
 
Whitney makes good on her demand to get your dick up her. She straddles you, still on her knees, then sinks her horny pussy down on you with one fluid thrust. She gets it all the way inside, and you feel your fat prick's piss slit kiss the opening of her cervix. Then, with your cock so nicely embedded in her wonderful sucking pussy, she begins to gyrate. The circular wagging of her hips is so good it almost hurts. You feel the pleasure deep in your balls as Whitney fucks herself against you -- not bouncing up and down, but keeping your dick deep inside where it belongs, just grinding on top of it.
 
Rose2 is at the bedside now, watching in a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Her nightie comes down only a few inches above her knees, and leaves her thick, milky thighs on display. Bizarrely, she wears cat ears. As she watches you, she shifts her legs back and forth, rubbing her thighs together. One hand grips the hem of her nightie so hard the knuckles go white, the heel of the palm pressing into her crotch. There's no doubt about it. What she's seeing is turning her on.
 
"Ally..." she says. "Do you... do this kind of thing with your friends a lot?"
 
You're too busy sucking on Whitney's left tit, groping it with one hand and enjoying the slightly salty taste of her skin, to give a verbal response. Instead, peering at Rose2 from the corner of your eye, you just nod.
 
Cerise is more talkative. "What the fuck, Rose2? Are you wearing cat ears?"
 
Rose2 holds her hands limp-wristedly in front of her. "Nyan nyan~" she says.
 
"Stop meowing and lick my asshole," Whitney says.
 
Rose2 is still unused to seeing such depravity, much less taking part in it, and her momentary lapse into weeb-y play-acting now becomes a frozen expression of trepidation. Her hands hang limply in front of her as she gazes back at you with frightened eyes. You pull off Whitney's nipple, briefly admiring the circular welt your suckling left behind, and tell Rose2: "You heard her. Get up here and eat her out."
 
"A-Ally--"
 
"Are you dumb?" You say tauntingly. "Stop fucking around. Come up on the bed with us so we can use your mouth."
 
Whitney's pussy heats up around your cock. She loves it when you boss another girl around. You make rather a show of fucking her back for Rose2's sake, grinding your hips in the opposite direction to hers, so that your leaky prick corkscrews around inside her body. The violence of your union makes vacuumy sucking noises. "Lick us down here," you say through gritted teeth. "Make us feel good, slut."
 
"S-slut--" Rose2 stammers.
 
"Yeah, you fucking slut," Whitney parrots. "Lick us."
 
"Nnn--" Rose2 moans through trembling lips. She's ambivalent about being so roughly spoken to.
 
Whitney rolls her eyes, reaches out, and tugs Rose2 bodily towards the bed. She totters and falls forward, and her momentum forces her to get up on the mattress. Now, almost eye to eye with the point where you and Whitney are mated, Rose2 watches your sloppy fucking, transfixed.
 
"Just pretend you're a kitty cat," Whitney encourages. She wraps her arms around your shoulders and presses herself against your chest so her ass and pussy spread nice and wide for Rose2 to access. "Come get your milk..."
 
Rose2 nods. She gets on hands and knees in between your splayed out legs, hunching herself up. Swiping a strand of candy pink hair behind her ear, she closes her eyes and leans forward towards her prize. Her breaths come hot against your balls and the base of your cock. After a couple moments of just breathing teasingly hot breaths against your mated genitals, she finally darts her tongue out and sets to work.
 
The way she laps at you is erratic, but enthusiastic. She gets her wet little tongue underneath your heavy nuts and swabs your taint, and suckles lovingly on each of your testicles in turn. She swirls her tongue hungrily around the bottom of your cock, all around its fat circumference. She even tries several times to get it wedged up inside Whitney's cunt, in between her vulva and your pulsing prick-shaft, and finally succeeds at the attempt. Her slimy tongue licking you from inside Whitney's body is a new pleasure you relish with a groan. It makes Whitney hiss in pleasure too. She reaches behind herself and spreads her ass with one hand. Rose2 gets the message, moves her efforts higher still, and begins to rim Whitney out. Whitney fucks herself roughly back and forth, mashing her cunt against your deeply embedded cock, then her puckered asshole against Rose2's wagging tongue, in an alternating rhythm. Her jaw hangs slack and her tongue rolls out. She loves nothing more than being worked over from both ends.
 
"Finally found a good use for that stupid bitch," Cerise says, admiring the show. "I wanna use her next."
 
"You've got a Rose already," you say. "Don't be greedy."
 
Beneath Cerise's creamy thighs, Rose struggles to keep up with the volume of pussy juice that Cerise is leaking directly into her mouth. She gulps and guzzles it, still frigging her slit with both hands. She's in masochistic bliss right now, being used as nothing more than a toilet, exactly as Cerise described her. Under this hard use, getting smothered and raped by your sister's pussy, Rose begins to cum. She screams incoherently and ejaculates all over Whitney's bedsheets, staining them.
 
Rose2's voice is much huskier than usual, as, sucking on Whitney's asshole, and making the occasional trip south to twirl her tongue around your horny dick, she moans: "nyan, nyan... nyan nyan..." She mutters this in between deep, shuddering breaths, and her voice drips with lust.
 
"God, that dizzy cunt is ridiculous," Cerise says, even as she watches the lewd show with hunger in her eyes. Bouncing her shapely ass up and down on Rose's cum-coated face, she brings herself off. She hugs her massive tits through her shirt and splatters Rose with even more of her fluids -- no warning, and no respite. Rose, nearly drowning, cums and cums too.
 
Unfortunately for Cerise, Rose is something of a sexual apex predator, and a moment of distraction can lead to stunning reversals. Rose heaves Cerise off her with incredible strength. Cerise topples to the mattress and, aghast, can't react quickly enough to fight back. Rose quickly gets her pinned on her back.
 
Cerise struggles, kicking and twisting in Rose's iron grip. "Uff-- what the f-- Rose--!" She looks frantically to you for assistance, but you're too busy enjoying the twin sensations of Whitney's tight cunt and Rose2's curious kitty-cat tongue. Besides: turnabout is fair play. Cerise can deal with being the bottom for a change. She's a big girl, she can take it.
 
Rose's face looming and leering above Cerise must be a terrifying sight. Her features are blurred, runny with clumped-up eyeliner and makeup, smeared with cum and drool. But her broken grin is pointy, shiny and sadistic all the same. "I'm gonna *fuck* you," she sneers.
 
Cerise shivers beneath her.
 
Reaching quickly over to the nightstand, Rose's small hand finds one of Whitney's punishment toys -- a big fat strap-on. She rises to her knees and secures the harness around her fat butt without a moment's hesitation. It's a little disturbing how fast she can switch from sub to domme and back again. The rubbery prong juts out from her crotch, 8 or 9 inches long and almost as thick as a coke can. She pokes the tip lovingly with her forefinger, testing it. Her other forefinger to her lips, she smiles down at Cerise and says: "get ready, now~"
 
"I-- I--" Cerise stammers.
 
But there can be no resisting this. Rose forces Cerise's legs apart with two flattened palms against her thighs, rears her pear-shaped hips back, and shoves the fake cock up Cerise's oozing cunt with one swift thrust. Cerise goes rigid and her eyes go wide at the violation. She tries to say something through her chattering teeth, but nothing intelligible forms. Just repeated exhalations of "Ghhh-- ghh-- unnn---"
 
Your fiancée begins to fuck your older sister mercilessly. Though Rose is a much smaller girl than Cerise, she bears down on her oppressively and keeps her firmly trapped. Cerise's limbs are spread out on the mattress like someone making a snow angel; Rose has her arms wrapped under Cerise's armpits and holds Cerise's shoulders from underneath while she ruts inside her. Rose almost looks like a humping dog, the way she moves atop Cerise, fucking her with fast, deep strokes. Rose's head rests against Cerise's pillowy tits, getting her tee all messy with slime and spit. A big, dopey, drooly grin is plastered on her face as she lies atop Cerise and fucks her out. Cerise's tits undulate and jiggle against Rose's head, and Rose hugs her tight for extra leverage.
 
Paired with Rose2's roaming tongue, and the pressure of Whitney's womb milking your prickhead, the sight of Cerise getting railed by Rose is enough to make your nuts ache. And now this: not content with just fucking her, Rose has to molest your big sister, too. She tugs Cerise's shirt up and bares your sister's giant, pale white breasts. Then, with a leering sigh of contentment, she latches her lips around one of Cerise's puffy nipples. She begins to suckle it like a nursing baby. Her lower half still pumping back and forth, Rose orally violates Cerise. The runny mixture of cum and makeup and other fluids drips sloppily from off her nose, lips, and cheeks, and gets smeared all around Cerise's otherwise pristine, smooth tit-meat.
 
You hold Whitney firmly by the hips and begin to pound in and out, feeling your load about drop. Rose2 might be a moron but you've taught her well the signs of a man who's about to squirt his semen out. She begins to massage your balls and redoubles her tongue's ministrations against your pistoning shaft.
 
Whitney is delirious with perverted enjoyment. "This fffffucking cunt is gonna bring me off--" she gasps. "Oh fuck, Ally... she's such a good kitty..."
 
You kiss Whitney deeply and give her the hard fucking she was aching for. As always, Whitney's lips against yours are almost as lewd as sex itself, the way she probes your mouth and tries to lap at your tonsils. She's so unrestrained and adoring in everything she does with you.
 
Next to you, Cerise is overwhelmed with the sensation of getting ravished. It's the hardest she's ever been fucked -- Rose is far less gentle than you are with her. She just takes her pleasure from Cerise without a second thought about whether or not Cerise likes it. Sucking Cerise's tit, she reams her pussy out and enjoys the vibrations the ersatz dick sends up her own fat clit.
 
Rose2 meows shyly beneath you: "C-cum -- c-cum for me p-please -- nyan nyan~"
 
You set your jaw, stare deeply into Whitney's loving eyes, and let loose with your cum load.
 
"Thaaat's it--" Whitney coos gently, stroking your face, when she feels the pulsing blasts hosing her down. "Riiight inside... ah fuck... so hot..." Her little pussy spasms and shudders against your cumming dick, sweetly squeezing out every last drop. She's always so greedy for it. You could cum in Whitney's pussy forever, you think. "I love how hot your cum is, Ally..." she whispers in your ear, as she rubs her warm belly with one hand.
 
"Mmm-- mmm--" Rose2 gasps gulpingly, trying to get her share, even if it means eating it out of another girl's cunt. Whitney's in a sharing mood, and shifts herself forward atop you so Rose2 has better access. Your cock is extra sensitive right now, but you don't mind letting Rose2 clean you up with her tongue.
 
"Milk for kitty," Whitney giggles, while Rose2 slurps your cum from out of her cock-stuffed, oozing fuckhole. She reaches back and scritches Rose2 behind her ear, just like a pet cat. And Rose2, smiling, blushing, still licking, laughs throatily: "Mmmm~" She warms to being treated as the family pet, it seems.
 
Original Rose is also having fun. "Oooh -- ooooh fuuuuck," she moans. She looks over, locks eyes with you. And she tells you simply: "I just adore raping your sister, Alabaster..."
 
You know you'll have to punish her for this. But later. For now you just let her have her fun. Not that Cerise is exactly a victim here anyway. She's got that distant, glazed-over, fuck-stupid look in her eyes as she stares at the ceiling and takes Rose's cock. She climaxes, her hands clutching the stained sheets, and lets Rose use her. For all the times she's done this to Galatea, now she's learning the pleasure of being on the receiving end.
 
Rose2 swallows your salty jizz with nothing but smiles, and when she finally runs out of cock milk to suck from Whitney's twat, she pouts. She paws at you -- your thighs and Whitney's ass.
 
"More, more~" she chants in an affectedly childish voice, bouncing up and down on the mattress. "C'mon, more milk~ more milk for kitty~"
 
"Get it from that cock over there," you say gently, pointing her towards where Rose is pounding Cerise.
 
Rose2 is displeased at the implication of sucking on Rose's slit. "Mou~"
 
"Don't whine," Whitney chides. "Go drink it up."
 
Having been commanded to do so, and too into her role as pet to resist, she crawls on all fours over to her hated rival. Rose draws a sharp inhalation of breath and smiles smugly, enjoying the added depravity of this. And Rose2, like a good kitty, goes to work a second time -- begins to lick the spot where Rose and Cerise are joined together, drinking down the milk.
 
You and Whitney watch, lazily kissing. You're still hard and although you're empty of cum, you fuck her a little bit, slowly, enjoying the feeling of her insides against your still over-sensitive prick.
 
Rose2's cunt mouth is becoming quickly skilled at servicing genitals, male or female, and she brings the two girls to a series of wailing orgasms that make the sodden bedsheets even wetter. Ironically, when it's all over, Rose is worse for the wear than Cerise. She collapses atop your sister, totally cummed out and exhausted, woozy, close to unconsciousness -- the rubber dildo still wedged inside Cerise's steamy pussy. Rose2 still laps at them.
 
Cerise struggles to push Rose off of her, but Rose is dead weight, and Cerise was never athletic. Eventually, with a disgruntled purr, she submits to this, and allows Rose to snooze with her as the pillow.
 
Rose2 crawls over to you. She rises to her knees and paws at your shoulder. "M-master..." she stutters, poking her fingers together and looking up at you, abashed. "W-would you -- w-would you p-please lick me too? K-kitty is so... s-so hot..."
 
She lifts her nightie to reveal her juicy little pussy, bubblegum pink as always, engorged with lust, dripping on the sheets below.
 
She's been so good for you, and she's in such need, that you can't say no. You slide with Whitney down the headboard so you're lying flat on the bed, and beckon Rose2 to sit on your face. She truly has the most delicious pussy you've ever tasted. It's sweet and tangy like cherry candy. She writhes atop you, and your nostrils fill with her bubblegum scent as you eat her out. Whitney rises to a cowgirl position and lets Rose2 nuzzle her for support. Rose2 purrs and meows, as Whitney pets her tenderly, and your skillful tongue sucks out her cum.
 
"Thank you-- thank you-- thank you!!" she gasps hoarsely, cumming on your face, and rubbing her cheeks against Whitney's perky little tits.
 
And in the end, although Whitney has an absurdly large California king mattress, Rose2 is so enamored with the idea of being your dutiful kitty that she doesn't lie beside you and the other girls when she sleeps. She chooses instead to curl up at the foot of the bed -- even makes an exaggerated spectacle of prancing around in a tight little circle and kneading the mattress before settling in.
 
"We'll have to get her a tail..." Whitney murmurs as you drift off.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, harem master and grooming victim.

You go down to Rose's office to get her for the meeting you're about to have with Vivian.

Rose is deep in focus, consumed by whatever it is she's working on, and only notices that you're here as you circle her desk. She chokes and sputters and rushes to minimize her browser window.

"Were you looking at wedding dresses just now?"

"What? No. Noooo."

"You were. You were shopping for fucking wedding dresses."

"This whole scenario has made your neurosis even worse. How sad."

"Pull that window back up, then. Show me what you were looking at."

"Poor thing's hallucinating now. I understand. I'm not happy about this either. But try to keep your head screwed on, all right?"

"This is a sham marriage, Rose. We go down to the courthouse and sign a slip of paper, that's all. The last thing we need right now is for you to turn into Bridezilla, okay? Get over it already."

Rose chews her lip.

"I'm serious," you say. "We're not going to have some giant, useless ceremony--"

"But shouldn't we?"

She says it all at once, blurting it out, like a coke bottle shaken up and uncapped.

"No! No we should not."

"I'm just saying..." she trails off, thinks for a turn, then avers: "Yes. This is a sham marriage. Of course. We agree. The marriage is a sham. 100%, for sure, a sham."

"Right. It's all a sham."

"Total sham. But this whole thing has to look legitimate, right? It has to look real. If the feds have a reason to suspect we only got married to invoke privilege, they can take it away. That's law. You can look that up."

You make a face. "...Is it?"

"Absolutely."

"You know that I can just walk a few feet down the hall and ask your dad about this, right?"

"Go ahead."

You massage the bridge of your nose. "Do you really want a wedding that bad--"

"No! It's a sham marriage. I get that. You're not listening to me, Alabaster. I'm telling you. This is a matter of law. You can look that up. If they have a reasonable doubt--"

"Forget it. Vivian's waiting for us."

"Of course." She right-clicks the browser window's taskbar icon, and closes it from the context menu. She stands. "But -- about the ceremony --"

"Will it shut you up if I agree to it?"

"What part of this don't you understand? This isn't what I want. It's what we need. It's a matter of law. Look it up."

"For fuck's sake--"

"You're not listening to me! The federal statutes--"

"I'll do it. Jesus Christ."

Rose sits again and pulls up some documents. Actually, many documents. Invitation templates. An agenda. A list of catering choices, and a menu for guests... wine menu separate. Venue selections. A seating chart. Music playlist. And more.

"Oh my god..." you mutter.

"...nondenominational of course, and the Bauhaus architecture really speaks to me. I think it would be perfect for a church wedding. There's a lot of room in the nave for the buffet table, too, which we'll need, especially for the fondue fountain--"

"How long have you been planning this?"

"Huh? Only since dad told me--"

"Bullshit. You didn't do this all in a day."

"Some people are productive, Alabaster. Unlike you."

"Have you been... planning our wedding? How fucking long have you been planning this?"

"There it is again. Your neurosis. Manifesting as malignant narcissism, verbal abuse, gaslighting--"

"Oh my GOD. You have this timed down to the fucking minute? 4:03 PM -- father walks bride down aisle... 4:05 PM, ring bearer approaches... holy shit."

"Why shouldn't we have a plan, Alabaster? Tell me. Tell me why we shouldn't have a plan in place. Are you so psychopathically obsessed with procrastination? Are you honestly so--"

"Hold on." You scan your eyes over the list of potential venue selections again. "Why are you only looking at churches back home?"

"Uh? Because it's where we grew up? Because that makes it the most logical place to have our wedding? Because it's what we would do if we were really high school sweethearts getting for-real married? Are you just pretending to be stupid? This is all about making it look real. So why should we not get married back home?"

"Other than the fact that Gilroy, California is a shithole? Gee, I don't know, Rose. It's also nearly an hour drive each way. I'm sure Palo has plenty of places we could--" you suddenly stop, and shake your head. "Fuck. Why am I arguing about this? Look at what you've done. Now you're trying to rope me into your stupid bullshit."

"You're roping yourself into it! If you don't want to plan, don't sit here and plan with me!"

"I'm leaving. I'm leaving, Rose, goodbye. I'm not talking about this sham wedding for one second longer. So come with me to Vivian's office or don't, I don't care."

"Hold on--"

You sigh a sigh of deep tiredness.

"I just need to know one detail. Do you have anyone in mind for groomsmen? And a best man?"

She's really serious about this crap. For as long as you've been alive, you never thought you'd have to fret over the details of a wedding. What does a best man even do? You're sure Rose knows, but you haven't a clue. Who would you even bestow such a dubious honor upon?

[ ] Whitney
[ ] Alex
>[x] Fazil
[ ] Stackleford
[ ] Custom?

"Well," you drawl, "I guess Whitney did ask to be the best man--"

"No," Rose says.

"Uh. What?"

"I already have Whitney down for maid of honor. She can't be the best man, too."

"Oh my f-- what the fuck, Rose? You and Whitney hate each other."

"Are you stupid? Just because we say we hate each other, doesn't mean we do. Why do you take everything so goddamn seriously? Whitney is great. She'll make a fine maid of honor. Besides, I want to see what she looks like in a dress. Pick someone else."

You rub your forehead. Who else is there? With a sinking feeling in your stomach, you realize a strange fact... you don't have many close male friends.

"Well, fine," you say. "I'll ask Stackleford."

Rose picks a pen holder off her desk and chucks it at your head. It rebounds off your skull and leaves an indentation in your brow.

"I'm gonna fuck you up for that," you snarl.

"Do it. I'll fuck you up if you try to bring that greasy creep within ten feet of my wedding."

"YOUR wedding? This is OUR wedding. I'll bring whoever I goddamn want--" you stop, and try to calm yourself. You're not going to play Rose's game, or let her make you care about the details of this stupid, pointless ceremony.

Just then, like a serendipitous bolt of lightning striking, in walks Fazil. "Ms. Mallory!" He says. "I am pleased to be alerting you of my update to the employee database. It is done."

"What is done?" You say suspiciously.

Rose grins at you. "I'm going to receive an hourly report by email, of every single badge swipe that every single employee makes from now on. An algorithm will flag suspicious ones, too."

You can only nod. You don't want to say so, but it's a great idea.

"Thank you, Fazil, for all your hard work," Rose says.

Looking at him and his bashful smile, you get the flash of an idea. "Hey -- do you want to be my best man?"

"I am your best man!" Fazil insists. "We are best mans forever!" He sticks out his tongue and makes a hang-10 signal with one hand. "Waaaazuuuuup!"

"No--" you say, but when Fazil looks dejected, you quickly add, "I mean, yeah, we're best buds. What I meant to say is, do you want to be the best man at my wedding?"

"Oh!" He says. "You are getting married, Ala-bast-or?"

"To her." You nod at Rose.

"Oh my goodness! Congratulations! Oh! My heart is filling with warmth and glad tidings. And--" he is honestly getting choked up here -- "to permit me such an honor! Yes, Ala-bast-or, yes! I will stand at your side during the wedding! You may count upon me, entirely! I will go to shop for a tuxedo at once! Thank you! Thank you, thank you!"

When you're alone again with Rose, you smirk at her. "That should fill the diversity quota, yeah?"

"Sure. I think Fazil is a great choice." She curls her lips to one side of her face, thinking. Then she adds: "...Just don't let him get drunk."

A rare point where you can agree with Rose.

You meet Vivian in her office, softly shutting the door behind you as you enter. She thanks you for coming and invites you both to sit.

"You can convey what I tell you, to interested parties. Whitney and Ms. Carte have already been informed... it would not do to bring you all in here at once, with mother's office just across the hall -- she might be suspicious of that."

As far as anyone else knows -- you, Rose, and Vivian are simply discussing the details of an upcoming television interview right now. Nothing more.

"Having said this..." Vivian casts her gaze upon Rose, and frowns. "This is a sensitive matter. Is it actually necessary for her to be present?"

You look from Rose, back to Vivian, thinking.

Then you say: "Yeah. It is."

"But of course. You wish to keep your bride in the know. And congratulations, Alabaster Soliloquy, on your upcoming nuptials. My warmest regards and well-wishes to both of you." She smiles wanly, then adds: "and to you, Alabaster, also my deepest condolences."

Rose flips her off.

But despite the sarcasm of that last jibe, Vivian's congratulatory message overall comes off as real. You must be regarding her strangely, because, ever the straightforward and frank girl she is, she goes on: "Of course I expect you not to fall into a life of monotony following the vows. Marriage vows are quaint things and would only tend to get in the way of all the fun."

Unlike her big sister, "monotony" was precisely the word Vivian wanted, but the message is just the same. She wants to keep seeing you. Wants to keep seeing Rose too, now that you think of it. Vivian is equally the bohemian her sister is, or perhaps moreso, even if she dresses her perversions up with high-vaunted language.

"I'll let you suck his dick on Tuesdays and Thursdays, with advance notice," Rose says.

Vivian rests her cheek on her fist and smirks at Rose. "As well as Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays... and no need for prior notification, that would simply be a mood killer. I am not a selfish girl, though -- far from it. Perhaps I'll be gracious and permit you to retain full custody on alternating Sundays."

"Could you two not talk about me like I'm a piece of meat?" You say. "I'm a human being, you know."

"Shut up," Rose tells you.

Vivian pushes her seat back from her desk and stands. "This discussion has made me amorous. I trust, Alabaster, that you are agreeable to letting me fellate you?"

"Now hold on--" Rose begins.

"Sure," you say.

"Excellent. Will you ejaculate inside me?"

Rose is appalled. "This is absolutely--"

"Of course," you say. "Where do you want it?"

"My vagina, preferably. But I know you will ejaculate wherever you please, so there is no point lodging requests. I am yours to use."

"This is not why we're here!" Rose complains. "My goodness, you two. You're like animals--"

Vivian swivels her head to coldly regard Rose. "Why must you prattle and protest so? Take off your clothes and join us. It is obvious you want to." For her part, she's already stripping out of her ostentatious black dress.

Rose makes a disgusted face. You shrug at her. And then Vivian, now wearing only a tiny pair of satin panties and a matching bra that's definitely unnecessary, is on her knees before you. The contrast of her obsidian black underwear with her nearly albino white skin tone is as alluring as always. 

She's tugging weakly at your belt buckle. You help her get it undone and unzip your pants for her too. Soon her small, searching fingers find your hardening cock and pull it through your fly. The soft flesh of her hands is cool against your prick. It points proudly up from between your slightly spread legs, curved, already producing precum. Vivian licks her lips. The thing is almost as big as her entire head, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think fucking her with it would be physically impossible. But while Vivian may be frail, she's a surprisingly resilient little slut when it comes to getting your big fat prick inside her. 

She lazily masturbates you with both hands corkscrewing, and just enjoys the sight of your dick from up close, underneath it. It's one of her favorite places to be, in a position of total submission to your cock. She pauses a couple times to get its leaky tip under her nose and sniff it -- smearing your cock juice all over her upper lip in the process.

"You two are disgusting -- absolute pigs."

"That is quite right," Vivian coos, still playing with your now fully erect cock. She stares longingly into your eyes and says: "I am a pig... I am a sow for cock... yes." She breaks eye contact with you now, glances up at Rose. "Please don't be jealous. A massive penis like this cannot be satisfied with just one partner, but needs multiple women to pleasure it. Doesn't it? It is no one's fault. Alabaster's penis needs to inseminate as many orifices as it can find... and we helpless to do anything other than offer ours up for his personal use. Please, now, come here and assist me... I rather enjoy working on him in pairs..."

Rose is an open book to Vivian. She was right: your fiancée can protest against your degeneracy all she wants, but that degeneracy is mutual. Vivian's little speech has Rose shifting uncomfortably in her chair, rubbing her fat thighs together, and chewing her lip.

You prod her another way. "I'm gonna fuck Vivian. You can get fucked too if you want, but you won't stop us either way -- why not be part of it, then?"

Tremblingly, Rose slides out of her chair and gets on her knees on the carpeted floor. Vivian is more than accommodating, and scoots a bit to the side to make room for her new partner. 

"Rose, do you like kissing girls?" Vivian asks.

Rose sort of half shrugs, half shakes her head.

"Excellent. Do you want to kiss me between Alabaster's cock?"

Rose is mute but her eyes are half-lidded and glimmering with lust. Vivian, taking that as a yes, grabs your dick by the base and pulls it down towards her lips. And though her lips are very small, they're nice and wet and hot against your shaft when she kisses it. Clasping Rose behind her head, she pulls her into a passionate kiss that makes you moan in sheer delight. Your dick is too fat for their lips to meet from opposite sides, but their tongues snake out and mingle with one another, coating the sensitive underside with their collective drool as they lewdly make out and suckle on you. To add to your pleasure, they each lay a hand around the base, and work together to jerk you off too. Their wonderful technique squeezes out a few thick, transparent streams of fuckslop from your piss slit, that trickle down by gravity and mix with their saliva. They don't seem to care about this added humiliation. 

Vivian is bolder still, and reaches out for Rose's chest as they kiss. She molests Rose's tits through the material of her blouse, causing her to whine and squirm. But neither girl breaks the kiss. Their tongues lick and swab your cock all over, and soon the two girls have you almost ready to cum on their faces. 

But Vivian won't let the proceedings end so quickly. She pulls away from servicing you. Rose, who's a bigger sow for cock than Vivian could ever hope to be, uses the opportunity to claim you all for herself. She clutches your shaft to her face and rubs it all over herself, her forehead, cheeks, nose, and lips, basking in the slimy degradation. She would keep going until you pop off and hose her down with a creamy load, but Vivian grabs her by the collar, and rips her blouse open. Buttons go flying. Rose recoils, howling in protest: "What the fuck!"

"Keep sucking his cock," Vivian instructs. "I want to play with your breasts."

"You horrible little--" Rose begins, but you grab a fistful of hair and roughly force her back towards your waiting prick. Her anger over a ruined blouse can wait -- you need to cum. You push yourself past her pink lips and into her warm, moist, cunt-hole of a mouth. Such a nice sensation. 

Vivian reaches behind Rose and undoes her bra. Rose always has trouble getting bras in her size and usually wears ones that are uncomfortably small. So when Vivian gets the clasp undone, Rose's already humongous tits seem to grow even bigger, springing free and expanding, practically shooting the bra off her body. 

"Oh my~" Vivian says haughtily. "Such indecent things. You really are a whore, Rose."

Roses gasps but cannot say anything in response, not with your prickhead scraping against her tonsils. Vivian falls to all fours and gets underneath her. With both hands, she tests the heft of Rose's udders. Her dainty fingers seem to disappear into the flesh as she presses up on them from the underside and feels how heavy they truly are. There's a bit of jealousy in the way she handles them and marvels at them. For Vivian, jealousy always leads to anger, and anger to a desire to punish. She wraps her lips around one of Rose's big pink nipples and suckles on it, but after a few moments, this playful little bit of oral stimulation turns violent. She purposely begins to scrape her teeth against it, back and forth, turning it raw and bright red. Rose hisses and tries to pull back, her shoulders wriggling. But you grasp her by the hair with both hands, down at the roots, and keep her firmly planted on your sawing cock. You really don't give a shit what Vivian does to her. The wet hole of her mouth is bringing you off, and that's all that matters right now.

Vivian's abusive treatment of Rose's tit-meat gets even more vicious. Turning to the other nipple now, Vivian bites down on it, and lightly grinds it between her incisors. Tauntingly, to mix some pleasure with the agony, she also flicks it with the tip of her tongue. Rose has no idea what to do with these conflicting stimulations, and begins to shiver as you fuck her face. Her throat filled with fuckmeat, her squeals are nothing more than pleasant vibrations against your genitals that only serve to make you feel even better. 

Rose isn't in a mood to tolerate this kind of hard use for much longer. She finally pushes herself off your horny cock, and gets away from Vivian's curious mouth. Enraged, she hauls off, and punches Vivian -- hard, right in the tummy, making Vivian fall to her back with a shocked, agonized gurgle. Rose wasn't fucking around with that blow. The force of it has made Vivian foam at the mouth a little, and a trickle of urine escapes her little pussy as she lies on the ground. But when Vivian rises again to her butt, despite the foam and drool at the corners of her mouth, and the mess she made of her panties, she's grinning happily. "That was fun. Hit me more."

This catches Rose so off-guard that it totally defuses her anger. She just huffs and stares in awe at this pale little girl who doesn't care, whatsoever, who is doing what to who -- just as long as it feels good. 

Vivian scooches herself forward now, takes your prick in hand, and stares up at you. "Would you like the use of my mouth again, Alabaster?"

You nod. She immediately swallows your cock in her hungry maw. Her tiny jaw looks almost ready to dislocate as she gapes it open and forces your fleshy pole into the back of her throat. Though she has plenty of experience sucking you off, the physical reality of your size difference means she still gags horribly when she deepthroats you. Her retching and heaving against your dick feel great, especially how it brings up rivers of slimy drool from her gullet that hotly coat your shaft. All that saliva makes pretty little bubbles around the edges of her thinly-stretched lips. It messes up her makeup and runs down her chin. She bounces her throat up and down on your prick like she's fucking you with her cunt, and doesn't let her gagging slow her down.

Rose stands and pulls your face towards hers, kissing you sweetly. "At least she knows her place," she whispers. 

"I don't think she even has a concept of place," you reply. "You could learn a thing or two from her..."

Rose frowns at you. But then she can't stop herself, and kisses you again. You make out with her for long, wonderful minutes while the noises of Vivian's retching mouth fill the room, and you enjoy the rivulets of her drool running down your cock. You can hardly believe how sexy it feels, her little tongue's wagging, the tightness of her esophagus. Rose reaches down into her skirt, and plays with her pussy while you kiss. The aroma of female arousal hangs heavy in the air, Rose's and Vivian's both, two girls whose pussies get all hot and wet and horny from servicing your dick. 

"Why don't you help me fuck her?" You ask Rose.

"Hmm?" She doesn't want to talk, she just wants to run her tongue through your mouth and jill herself off. She tenaciously keeps kissing you even as you try to suggest the next thing.

"Help me punish her," you say. 

"Hmm hmm~" she laughs, still kissing you, but finally she manages: "How?"

"Hold her while I rape her..."

Rose's eyes glint. Her hand against her pussy moves even faster.

You gently beckon Vivian to her feet. You're not sure how much of that conversation she overheard, so you politely inform her: "I'm going to rape you now."

A bubble of spit pops between her lips, and the delicate features of her face are messily blurred beneath a thick coating of slime. She replies hoarsely: "yes, of course. Rape me to your heart's content."

"Rose is going to help."

"She should. The more people you get to rape me, the better."

Rose tugs Vivian's panties to her feet and Vivian obediently steps out of them. Rose gets her bra off next. And now Vivian, petite little Vivian, barely more developed than a prepubescent girl, stands naked but entirely unashamed before you.

Rose rubs her chest from behind, and remarks: "fucking pathetic. You don't even have tits. No wonder Alabaster likes fucking me more."

With her other hand, she reaches down between Vivian's legs and plays with her sloppy pussy. Vivian shudders and bows her head. She loves being verbally assaulted, and she loves being physically assaulted even more.

"Get her in my lap," you instruct. 

Rose does as ordered and forces Vivian up into your chair with you. 

"Get my dick in her."

Rose reaches into your lap from between Vivian's knees, takes your cock-shaft in hand and steers it back towards the slightly parted opening of her vulva. Vivian lightly clutches your shoulders for support. But then you snap: "no hands," so Rose, an eager assistant in Vivian's total debasement, roughly takes Vivian's wrists and pins them behind her back. Now, pressing down on the little girl's shoulders, Rose gets your cock stuffed into Vivian's pussy.

Vivian's flat body goes stiff. You lean back, hands interlaced behind your head, and enjoy the tight confines of her child-sized vagina. Rose, bearing down on Vivian with all her weight, gets you bottomed out inside her. Your prick juts up against, and then pops right through, the opening of her cervix. You're all the way inside Vivian's sucking womb. Its walls wrap around the tip of your dick like a form-fitting onahole. Fucking a girl straight up to her uterus is a rare and deliciously perverted pleasure, and Vivian is among your favorite to do it to. Seeding her up, right in her baby-room, always gives you some of your most powerful orgasms. But of course Vivian was right; you need all the orifices you can get for your horny prick to cum inside of.

"Move her up and down," you growl.

"Of course," Rose purrs. 

She holds Vivian about the waist and tugs her body up and down. Vivian is so small and light that even unathletic Rose has no trouble with it. It's as if Rose is just jerking you off with a particularly realistic cocksleeve. You sigh deeply in contentment. Vivian, overwhelmed by your size, stares blankly and brokenly back at you. Whether she even registers anymore what is happening to her is anyone's guess. But somehow she's enjoying herself -- if her clamping, juicing little cuntlet is any indication. You buck your hips, half involuntarily, and fuck back against her. 

"I need to cum," Rose grunts. "Fuck, I need to cum..."

You roll your eyes. "Fine. I'll do all the work." You take over for her, grabbing Vivian's thin hips, and masturbate yourself inside her body. Rose, gulping down air, stumbles backward and leans her tailbone against Vivian's desktop. She hikes up her skirt, baring her naked innie of a pussy, and starts rubbing her clit frantically.

She grunts as she masturbates: "Rape her... rape her... rape that fucking cunt..." 

Not that Rose should get all the enjoyment. You clasp Vivian's chin and pull her into a sweet kiss as you pound her. Rose never particularly likes seeing you kiss another girl, even after all you've done together, but right now her mind is so fucked up and high on sexual pleasure that she can't stop playing with herself. Rose squirts her girl-cum all over the floor of the office, wailing, as you rape Vivian's mouth with your tongue and rape her twat with your cock. 

Gritting your teeth, you feel a surge of adrenaline and then that wonderful rush of semen up your urethra. You cock pulses, throbs, and then squirts -- right against the back wall of Vivian's too-small womb. The volume of your jism quickly fills her tiny fuckhole and seeps out all around you, staining your pants, and smearing her bald cunt lips with pearly white cream. Rose throws her head back, eyes tightly closed, and surrenders to a rolling orgasm of her own. She mashes her clitoris and digs her fingers through her quim and gyrates her hips, cumming and cumming and cumming. It's such a nice sight to accompany dropping a load up this elegant billionaire's cunt.

Vivian retrieves a fresh pair of pants for you, and a fresh blouse for Rose. After so long working at Darkbloom Analytics, you've all learned to keep a few sets of clean clothes on-campus -- just in case.

Rose is still flushed and sweaty, but she gets down to business right away. "What did you want to tell Alabaster about?"

Vivian is also still composing herself after that spectacularly hard use, but she manages an answer. "Before I excised my father from Cerise's head... he revealed to me a few more details about this technology I think are pertinent to the current situation."

You raise an eyebrow.

"We are not the only people -- or I should say, Sable Guiteau is not the only person -- to have worked on technology similar to Sand Reckoner. The USSR, as far back as the 1980s, also theorized that a mind sufficiently enhanced could unlock the power to alter reality. That a properly coordinated mind-machine interface could slide between worlds..."

"Fucking wonderful," you say. "So Stasi Lebedev -- and your mother --"

"As far as father knew, Soviet research into this area faltered when the cold war ended. It came to be seen as the realm of cranks and crackpots, much like contemporaneous US research into psychological warfare and parascience. Stasi Lebedev was in the Soviet military during that time, though, and is likely to have known of the project... if indeed she had an implant of her own as you say, then I daresay it's a certainty."

"In other words, the Russians have their own Sand Reckoner," Rose summarizes.

"Not quite. If they are so insistent on taking ours, then clearly their version is deficient, lacking in some way... but now, with the Chinese also showing interest, and even US allies as well -- Alabaster, Rose... we are entering into conditions that could spark a world war. This is not an exaggeration."

You massage your face and stare down at your lap.

"Father was aware of rumors," Vivian says, "nothing concrete, but... the Soviets had a different conception of world-lines than Sable does. They believed that as realities can be separated, so too can they be merged. Supposedly, there is a rogue facility continuing their research into these matters... somewhere deep in Russia's interior. If such is the case..."

"I understand," you say. "That's why I shouldn't get this thing taken out of my head just yet."

"The more aces we have and the more sleeves to stow them in, the better," Vivian says. "Yes."

"I still think we should take it out," Rose says. "I'm sick of being tethered to this company... of having your life depend on us staying in business."

"Mr. Best will fix that," Vivian says.

"You trust him?" You say.

"Not in the slightest. But I know he adores you, so he will take the course of action he sees as likeliest to help you."

"He is sort of crazy for you," Rose says.

You nod. You guess they're right. Alex Best is a lot of things -- but he's definitely in love with you. You wish you could say how you feel about him.

---

"My little boy is getting married! How -- how wonderful!"

Mom reaches for you, and before you can stop her, it's happening: she's squeezing your cheeks, pulling at them like taffy.

You fight her off and step back, away from her clutches. You sit down on Mom's living room couch again. "Geez," you groan. "You're awfully touchy-feely all of sudden."

She stands straight and clears her throat, a fist to her lips. "Ahem. Well. I-it's not that I'm overjoyed to see my son about to have -- to have the best, most important day of his life -- or -- or anything. I'm just glad to know you won't be a shiftless unmarried loser for the rest of your life -- like I thought you would be!"

Beside you on the couch, Cerise pipes up. "Uh... I guess this is a good time to mention it, huh? I'm -- ahem -- I'm getting married too."

Mom's eyelids flutter. She puts a hand to her chest. "No! Oh -- oh, my -- this is --" She can't contain her broad, silly smile. She hugs Cerise so tight you worry she'll suffocate her. When she finally pulls away, still holding Cerise by the shoulders, she asks: "who's the lucky man?"

Cerise coughs.

"Come on, now -- don't be shy! What's his name?"

"A-Anna."

Mom's mouth hangs partway open, her smile frozen there on her face, while she considers this. "His name is Anna?"

"Her name is Anna."

A long, awkward beat passes, with Mom's mental faculties ground entirely to a halt, her expression once again frozen, and Cerise cringing back at her.

But finally, she hugs Cerise again, just as tight as the first time, and says, "this is absolutely wonderful news! I'm so glad you found someone!" She stands tall again and tells you both: "Wait here." With that, she turns, and hurries upstairs.

You look at Cerise. "You proposed to Gal?"

"Yeah."

"How did she take it? I mean, she said yes, so I guess she took it well."

"She never saw it coming... but yeah... you were right. She flipped her shit. She's... she's happy."

"How about you?"

Cerise looks at her lap. She smiles to herself. "Yeah. Me too."

Mom comes thudding back down the stairs, and she's in such a rush she almost takes a pratfall at the bottom step. Still unbalanced, she skids into the living room and shouts: "Here, here!"

She thrusts a slightly tarnished silver band into your palm, and a gold band into Cerise's.

"Wedding rings?" Cerise says.

"Your father's and mine... they may need to be resized, but... well... I have no more use for them. You should keep them. Both of you."

You look at Cerise and shrug. Hey, at least that's one detail knocked out -- no need to go shopping for a ring. Rose will need one, but at least you've got yours now.

---

Things are moving at a breakneck pace. Only yesterday you made it official, and the wedding is scheduled for Sunday. Saul and Charlotte want to get it done as quickly as possible, since of course the main object is legal protection for both you and Rose. Actually -- the only object is legal protection for you and Rose. Why else would you get married?

So, as you return to work for an awful Saturday spent in crisis management, you're more than a bit taken aback to see Noelle carrying a box full of personal effects out of the FBI security cordon.

When she sees you, she startles, but then her expression relaxes and she sighs.

"Sayonara," she says.

"...Thanks, Stackleford."

Noelle hefts the box to one arm and gives you the finger. She could get along with Rose if their stations in life didn't force them into conflict.

"What do you mean sayonara? Where are you going?"

"Letting Makoto Kikuchi die on my watch was the last straw. I'm off the investigation. Or at least, that's the official excuse. The truth is that your adoptive father twisted the government's arm hard enough that they're backing off. So..." She shifts her weight to her other foot. "You'll like my replacement. His name is Hugh, and he's a moron, and he'll do whatever the higher ups tell him to. You're free and clear, basically. Everything from this point forward is just for show..."

"...Just like that?"

"I was hoping to sneak out of here without you seeing me. But you sure know how to show up at the worst places and the worst times, don't you? It was nice knowing you, Alabaster."

You look at the bobblehead in her box, the one of Mugi from K-On, and the figma of devil Homura beside it. Then upwards, you direct your gaze to her weary, hardened face. She was just doing her job -- and now she's out of it.

"They're reassigning you?"

"They fired me."

"Oh."

"I'm thinking I could join a local PD as a homicide cop. Or maybe follow Kay's lead and join the fourth estate... I have connections, and I'm sure I'd get a lot of juicy scoops -- or whatever the fuck. Well. The world is my oyster now, I guess."

She steps past you, on her way out the door.

>[x] We should get coffee sometime.
[ ] Sayonara.

"Oh?" Noelle says. "And why is that?"

"Because -- well, because why not?"

"Other than the fact that you completely destroyed my life?"

You clear your throat and shuffle your feet. Noelle has an awful way of cutting to the chase. "I'm -- I'm sorry," you manage.

"It's fine. I guess I wreaked a little havoc in your life too. Tit for tat."

"Yeah."

"Sure. I'll get coffee with you... but let's get this out of the way right off the bat. I'm not going to fuck you again."

You frown. "Do you honestly think I'm that single-minded?"

"Yes. Yes I do." She looks up at the tall ceiling of the lobby, and considers her options. She says: "There's this cute little cafe on Middlefield, near Hoov--"

"Pick somewhere else. Please."

"Coffee Bean?"

"That sounds great."

She puts the box on the tile floor, takes a sharpie and a pad from it, and scrawls her phone number down. She tears the strip of paper, folds it up, and sticks it in your pocket. "Call me up sometime... sometime soon."

You stand there staring at her for a moment. And then, fuck it, why not: you lean in and kiss her on the lips.

"You are such an ass," Noelle says, after spending a moment returning it.

"So are you."

"I'll see you around. I'm bringing a rape whistle next time, so don't get any big ideas."

She collects her things and leaves. You watch her go, feeling melancholy. And then a realization strikes you: if the FBI is backing off, and won't pursue you over your involvement with the nightclub shooting or anything else...

There's no more reason to marry Rose.

>[x] Tell her.
[ ] Keep this to yourself.

You step into Rose's office. She's uncharacteristically shy and demure, little over 24 hours away from the big moment, and can hardly meet your gaze. Instead, she stares madly at her desktop. She's blushing.

"Hello Rose."

"Hello Alabaster."

Her reply is meek and mild.

"Listen, uh... I just saw Noelle--"

No more meekness. "That cunt! Oh, she's really pushing us. Did she try to drag you back in for interrogation? This is bad. Oh goodness. There's nothing we can do, then. We'll have to get married tonight instead. This is a critical situation!"

You squint and wince. And then you explain to Rose the truth.

"...Oh," she says, when you're through.

"I mean, this is great news, right? You're -- you're happy. You're happy about that."

"Yes... oh, yes, obviously. It's... wonderful... just amazing news. I'm -- beside myself with relief. To think we almost got married!" She forces a bitter laugh. "What a disaster that would have been. Marrying you. How absurd. But now we don't have to do something so awful and ridiculous. Just in the nick of time, too... I mean... phew. Right?" She fiddles with a paperweight on her desk. "We were hardly... one day away... one day away from having our fates sealed... forever..."

"It's great," you insist. "I'm really glad too. I'll go let everyone know -- that the wedding is -- canceled. That we're cancelling the wedding."

"Of course."

"No more wedding."

"What a relief!"

An awkward silence descends that seems to last an eternity.

"You know--" you begin.

"This has all the makings of a trap," Rose interjects.

"Yeah! That's exactly what I was thinking--"

"--they're trying to trick us--"

"--somehow, the FBI found out about our plan, and--"

"--and they think they can make us go back on it, and then--"

"--boom! In they swoop, and we would have absolutely no recourse--"

"--no recourse whatsoever--"

"--without spousal privilege--"

"--we'd be totally exposed, in a legal sense... they could do anything they wanted to us--"

"--so of course--"

"--of course--"

"--and not that I want to--"

"--I mean, neither do I, don't be ridiculous--"

"--but it can't be helped--"

"--literally, it can't be. It cannot be helped--"

"--no helping it--"

"--no helping it at all--"

"--I can't believe they thought we were that stupid--"

"--to fall for such an obvious ploy--"

"--as if we would!--"

Rose springs to her feet, leaning with her fists balled up against the desktop. "--we should get married twice! Just to spite them!"

You narrow your eyes at her. "Don't get carried away, Rose."

She purses her lips and bows her head and stares at her desk again.

Whitney bursts in. "There you are! Fuck!"

"What's wrong?" You say, feeling a surge of adrenaline. Whitney is rarely so serious.

"Look at the time!" Whitney yells.

You glance at the clock on the wall. 2:37 PM. Absolutely nothing special about the time whatsoever. You look back at Whitney, bewildered.

"It's almost 24 hours before the thing!" Whitney says.

"...The wedding?" Rose says.

Whitney is already behind you, palms against the back, trying to push you from the office. "The groom isn't supposed to see the bride for 24 hours before the wedding! It's bad luck."

You bounce Whitney back a step with your butt and then wheel on her. "What a bunch of superstitious bullshit. What is this, the 1800s? That's ridiculous."

"Eat my whole entire ass, Ally. Eat it."

"I mean -- if you're offering."

She sticks her tongue out at you. "Anyway, we've got a big night ahead of us. A Rose-free night."

"I don't like where this is going," you say.

"Bachelor party! Woot woot!" She tugs at an invisible something in the air, as if blaring the horn of a semi truck.

"That's what I was worried about."

"You're the maid of honor!" Rose protests. "You're not supposed to arrange the bachelor party!"

Whitney grins, wide and toothy. "Don't worry, Rose. I've got only the best talent on top of the bachelorette party, too."

"...Who?" Rose demands.

"My mom, of course!"

Rose turns a shade of pale green as she considers the prospect of what might be in store.

Whitney smiles up at you. "C'mon, Ally! Let's go! We'll get all this work bullshit out of the way as quick as possible. Then we'll hit the fucking town!"

Oh boy.

You're standing at a urinal in the executive bathroom after a long meeting, relieving your bladder, when someone takes the stall beside you. You're a courteous and discreet user of public restrooms, so you don't even glance over. Until this other person speaks:

"Man, I don't think the geometry of this is going to work out."

Your spine goes rigid and you cut your stream off prematurely. You gasp: "What the fuck! Dr. Carte?"

"Talk about penis envy," she says, looking down at the toilet bowl. She has her hands pressed to her trousers, thumbs and forefingers making a diamond centered over where a penis would be, considering it. "I always wished I could pee standing." She looks at you now. "Guess I'll have to come back on my own time and try again."

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed to get you someplace private -- what better place than a bathroom, right?"

"The men's bathroom?"

"They should really make a law against that, huh? Listen. I heard through the grapevine that you've got -- a special something in your pocket." You glance down at your crotch, where your penis is still protruding from your zipper. "No, not that. I already know about that one. I mean something that came out of our mutual friend."

Oh. That.

"I could really use it," she says. "If all this shit about crazy Soviet psyops projects is true -- I think if I could get that thing in an... interrogation-type setting, if you will..."

"You want to interrogate the ghost of David Darkbloom."

"Shh! Yes. We need more information. And who knows how much of what he told Vivian is a lie..."

"But how?"

"Circuit bending, of course. Your sister is all for it." She pulls her purse from her shoulder and opens it for you to look inside. "Meet the new corporeal housing of the worst person to ever live -- a Tiger Electronics brand Furby toy -- uh, imagine a trademark symbol there. Well. You get the picture."

There's something darkly comical about that. David Darkbloom trapped inside a children's toy, forever. You can picture it now: "Me hungry. Achoo. Worry."

>[x] Do it.
[ ] Don't do it.

"Furbytize the fucker," you say, handing the implant over. Dr. Carte takes it with all the clandestine shifty-eyed nervousness of a first-time buyer getting a baggie of weed. She shoves it in her purse and hooks the straps back over her shoulder.

Then she punches you in the chest.

"Oof-- what the hell!"

"Why are you marrying such a fucking harpy, Alabaster? What's wrong with my daughter? Is she not good enough for you?"

You move to stuff your dick back in your pants, rather than stand here arguing with Dr. Carte while it hangs out in the open. But she stops with a hand held up. "Oh no you don't. I'm not through with that thing yet."

You feel a twinge of mixed fear and interest.

"Your daughter encouraged me to do this," you huff. "Go bitch at her."

"I did. And I will again! You two are perfect for each other!"

"Don't you have a bachelorette party to get to?" You say.

"Yes, I do." She winks at you. "I'll be sure to take my penis envy out on your blushing bride. Hopefully I don't leave her too wrecked for the honeymoon..."

"For your sake, I hope you don't."

She steps closer, and with a sultry laugh she rubs the tip of her nose against yours. Simultaneously, she cups your exposed genitals. "Of course, you can always soothe the savage beast inside me a bit... and then I might go easier on the poor bitch."

>[x] Soothe the savage beast.
[ ] Later.

You relax and allow Dr. Carte to do as she wishes. You figure she's going to anyway. She's a lot like her two daughters. She can get a little scary, and a lot pushy, when she's horny.

Still showering you with Eskimo kisses, she rubs her palm in slow circles around your crotch, bringing your soft dick to life in no time. 

"You're making a terrible mistake with this Rose person," Dr. Carte whispers. "One of us Carte girls would be a much better choice. We know how to treat this thing between your legs..."

You cut her off with a deep and tender kiss. Her mouth tastes of menthol, but it's not unpleasant -- just different. You actually kind of like it. You buck your hips and whinny a bit, as Dr. Carte's smooth rubbing motions turn into a loose grip around your cock, and she begins to jerk you off.

You reach down, your arm crossing with hers, and undo her trousers. She allows you to, and soon she's shimmying her hips to get them off her shapely butt. But with her shoes still on, it's no use taking the time to pull her pants completely off -- so she just stands there in the middle of the bathroom with her pants around her ankles, wet panties on display, playing with your dick. You make out with her like she's the one you're marrying tomorrow.

"This is really dirty," she says. "Fucking me right here in the men's bathroom."

"You're the one who wanted it."

"Mm hmm. I did." She swirls her tongue around with yours and your saliva mingles sweetly. "I'm really dirty, Alabaster... will you fuck my dirty pussy for me?"

Your dick throbs in her soft palm. She knows how to get to you. When she wants to turn you on, every word of hers is calculated to bring you to your knees and make you think with your little head. You love it.

"Hey, Dr. Carte--"

"Renee."

"--do you think Darkbloom is aware right now? Do you think he's experiencing the world?"

"Hmm. Maybe."

You reach for her purse, and pull the implant out. You take it and set it on the rim of the urinal, the glowing blue grain facing out, pointed at the two of you.

Dr. Carte laughs evilly. "You're terrible," she chides.

"Jerk me off some more." 

She does, with both hands, and makes a spectacle of it. She twists her palms around as and masturbates you with fast, passionate strokes. She winks at the implant. "Sorry, David..." she says. "But now you can tell why I would choose him over you, right? It's obvious..."

She gets down on her knees on the tile floor, and, staring adoringly up at you, she swallows your cock into her mouth. She bobs up and down on it, her hands clutching your knees, and lets the head of your prick scrape the back of her throat. 

Her technique has improved so markedly over time that whenever she blows you, she hardly gags at all. But this time -- again, for show -- she gags and sputters quite a lot. She coughs and chokes on your pulsing cock. Her spit runs in thick strands to the dirty ground. She gropes blindly to her side now, curls her fingers around the rim of the urinal for leverage, and works like hell to get your entire prick down her throat.

"You are such a good little cocksucker," you groan.

Dr. Carte pulls you out of her mouth. It makes a lewd little 'plop' when she does. She massages the slick underside of your cock with a flattened palm. She drags her tongue along the circumference of your mushroom head, and breathes huskily: "You made me into a good little cocksucker... thank you for that, Alabaster... I love sucking you off."

You lace your fingers through her hair and tug her back to your groin. She reaches into your pants and pulls out your nutsack out too. Then, still gripping the urinal, she buries her nose against your testicles at the point where they join your shaft, and inhales deeply. She huffs your masculine scent, like an addict huffing paint, hugging your ass with her other hand to push you even harder against her. When she pulls back, her face is wet and red, and her eyes are dark with hunger. "God. I love your dick. It's so fucking perfect."

She licks your cock-shaft up and down, chin tilted upwards, staring into your eyes the whole time. You know if she keeps going like this, you'll cum. And plastering her face with jizz sounds really nice, but you need to make this special. You've got an audience, after all.

"Dr. Carte -- Renee. Are you on birth control?"

"Hmm? No." She flicks her tongue back and forth, lapping at your dick-leak like a kitten.

"Do you wanna get pregnant today?"

She giggles. "That would be so fun. Do you want to knock my pussy up, Alabaster?"

"Fuck yes I do."

"Go right ahead... make a baby in me..."

You tug her to to her feet, and roughly pull her panties down, just far enough to expose her mature little pussy. Then you wheel her around, and get her against the tiled wall -- her legs astride the urinal where the implant sits. Her body is pressed uncomfortably up against the chrome handle and pipework, her cheek mashed against the wall, but her pussy is creaming right up. She loves it. She really is a dirty girl.

"Here it comes, bitch. Get pregnant."

"Okay, Alabaster... okay... I'll get pregnant for you."

You unceremoniously shove your cock into her and fuck her with rapid upward thrusts. The force of your mating pushes her even harder against the wall, and your crotch slaps wetly against her plump ass. You pull her ass cheeks apart and admire the dark brown hole there. You probe a couple fingers in her mouth, which she sucks and licks without question. With the lubrication of her drool, you push your digits into her anus and molest her while you fuck her out. You enjoy the rubbery give of her ass and the silky texture of her cunt. Dr. Carte shivers in pleasure. She crooks an arm and runs her palm sensuously through her hair. She looks back over her shoulder at you. "Oh yes," she moans. "Play with my ass while you fuck me pregnant..."

In and out you pump, your mingled fluids dripping down, all over the urinal, and all over the thing sitting atop it too. You fuck Dr. Carte mercilessly, as if she's nothing to you but a hole, and she plays right along -- this is getting her off powerfully. 

"Fuck me! Fuck me! Get your fucking cum up inside me!"

You wiggle your fingers around in her asshole and hold her by the shoulder. You stuff her full of that cock of yours, that she loves more than anything else. The cock she'd happily let get her pregnant if only to have a few more minutes of it inside her, if only to feel just one more hot, gooey load sloshing around in her belly. The cock she she's totally addicted to.

"Fuck," you grunt, "I'm gonna do it... I'm gonna blow my fucking nuts in you."

"Yes! Don't stop!"

You jab your cock madly in, as far as you can get it, your balls mashing up almost painfully against the cushion of her butt. And then it comes. Your messy load spurts out, over the course of ten or eleven agonizingly pleasurable seconds -- pulse after pulse. You fill her completely, and then some. 

"Oh fuck -- I feel it! You're cumming in me! Do it! FUCK yes!"

She blows a load of her own, her pussy spraying all over the urinal, as you ejaculate in her fertile cunt. All that talk of pregnancy is just bedroom talk, of course, but as you feel her filling up with your seed, as you feel it oozing and shooting from the tip of your dick, you think to yourself that it wouldn't be so bad. For you, anyway. It must surely be hell for the man sitting beneath you, getting sprayed with your sloppy seconds.

---

Armstrong approaches you, fluted champagne glass in hand. You stand in the lavish expanse of the hotel's conference room, that Whitney has rented out and turned practically into a brothel. Half naked -- and, in a couple cases, fully naked -- bunny girls skitter to and fro with platters, serving the guests. The fact that Whitney settled on a theme like this is hardly surprising. Both her biological parents share the same proclivity towards slutty bunnies. Hell, you're beginning to acquire the taste yourself.

"Latching yourself down to the ol' ball and chain, eh?" Armstrong says. He slaps your back so hard it knocks the wind from you. "Dumb fuckin' move if you ask me, but hey -- the heart wants what it wants, right?"

"Uh... yeah."

"I thought for sure you'd marry Whitney, if for no other reason than the financial security. Now Nelson, he had his money on Cerise, thought you two had some kinda Jaime-Cersei thing going. The weirdo. Tyrus was convinced you'd end up with Vivian in the end since he thinks you're both on the spectrum and figures it would fit. Y'know, compatibility-wise."

"Wait. Help me understand. You were all actively debating over who I was going to marry?"

"But now I can't blame you for the choice you did make! That Rose is one sexy fucking dimepiece. I'd fuck her even if her pussy is lined with barbed wire. Hey, just between you and me -- is it? She sure acts like it sometimes."

You leer back at him, grinning smugly. "It isn't. Just the opposite, actually."

"Haha! Now I get it. She hypnotized you with her vagina. All makes sense now. Jesus Christ, Alabaster, how does a dorky kid like you fuck so much? Life just isn't fucking fair. I swear to heaven."

"Mazel Tov!" Nelson says. He approaches you from behind, laying a surprisingly firm hand on your shoulder. "I have to say, I don't always agree with Whitney's decisions as CEO, but she chose a GREAT theme for the party."

"Did she say whether these girls are free to fuck?" Armstrong adds.

You shrug. "I assume, since it's Whitney, that yes they are."

Armstrong tugs at his tie. "Goddamn. Boss of the year 2019."

Speak of the devil, up comes one of the skimpily dressed girls now. Only a microbikini conceals her treasures, and her chest is considerable so it doesn't do a great job. From the side you can see her pussy. "Snacks?" She asks.

Armstrong pokes her tummy, and she jumps back, skittish. "You're a snack," he growls.

She giggles stupidly.

He takes a bite-sized sandwich from her platter and eats it. Nelson partakes too, but you decline. They gawk at her totally exposed backside as she walks off to serve others. You can tell how the cottontail is secured to her, and it isn't with tape. The two men lick their lips.

You, though -- you've got enough girls to fuck already, and you're not too interested in screwing some random stripper. But at least your guests are happy, right?

You sit on an ottoman in the corner, accompanying an Ottoman. Fazil.

"This is not a chaste gathering," he says.

"No. It sure isn't."

"These proceedings are testing my willpower."

You sip at your glass of bubbly. "And how's that willpower holding up?"

"Terribly."

"Good man." You reach into your pocket and produce two black felt boxes. You hand them over. "Wikipedia says one of the things a best man does is hold on to the rings until we tie the knot. So, uh, here."

"Thank you, Alabaster. I will cherish and protect them." Even as he says this, his eyes aren't on the ring boxes, but rather following one of the nakeder girls wandering around.

"I'll pray for you," you tell him.

"Please do. I think I shall need it."

Your moment of relative peace shatters when Stackleford approaches. "This is amaaaa-aaazing," he says. One of the bunnygirls is hanging off of him, hugging him around the shoulders and stroking his biceps. If only that girl knew what he looked like just a year ago. "I owe Whitney, like, big time. BIG time."

"Who invited you? Did Whitney invite you?"

"Uh."

"Goddamn it, Stackleford."

"This is so cool, though! What a party, huh? Huh?" The girl hanging off him agrees, at least. She strokes his chin and kisses his cheek.

"Why don't you and your rent-a-slut go have some snacks?" You say. "There's some nice yakisoba on the buffet table over there."

"Euch. Yakisoba? More like yucky-- more like-- more like YUCKY soba. Am I right? High five."

You leave him hanging. "Every day, I regret just a little bit more that I didn't let you die in the desert."

"Yo... that's kind of an asshole thing to say, bro."

"You're kind of an asshole person to be. So it works out."

"Well, anyway, as they say -- Mazel Tov!"

"Don't hang around with my Jew," you say. "Or any of my other board members."

Stackleford laughs as if you aren't serious, and departs for the snack table.

A few men at the broad, tall double doors leading into the room stand at attention and blow ceremoniously on trumpets.

And then into the room, sitting airborne atop a quadcopter the size of a cushion from a large living room sectional, Whitney enters.

Steering it for her by remote control, and walking underneath, is Ken Smith.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" Whitney says. She sits imperiously, spine straight and chin jutting out. She's wearing a cape and crown, and brandishes a scepter. "I hereby announce the wedding of -- ah!"

She startles as the quadcopter yaws perilously far backwards, almost sending her falling seven or eight feet to her ass. But Ken, bless him, rights the contraption in time.

"--ahem. Of Alabaster Thomas Soliloquy, first of his name!"

"The fuck is this..." you mutter.

The rest of the guests, though confused, nonetheless respond with muted applause.

Whitney's ride circles the room above everyone's heads. They gawk up at her. You, too. And so you're distracted enough that you don't notice Kay until she's sitting beside you.

"Any words from the groom to be on the eve of his wedding?" She asks.

"Fuck. Don't scare me like that."

"Question. Is it true that this is a sham marriage, conducted purely for the invocation of spousal privilege?"

You curl your lips up. "Now, how would you know such a thing?"

"Daddy Mallory gets loose lipped when he's sloshed." She points across the room, to Saul. His face is rosy, his hands digging lewdly in the crotch of a squirming bunnygirl as they both watch Whitney floating around.

"Jesus," you say.

"So? Is it true?"

"No. Rose and I love each other very much. We're doing this because of our deep and abiding passion for one another..."

Kay cackles. "You can only tell the truth by acting like you're lying. That's kinda cute."

"Why are you here?" You demand. "This isn't a party for women, is it?"

"I see plenty of women here."

"Okay. Well it's not a party for YOU."

Kay pouts. "You're so cruel. Why do you want to hog all this bunny pussy to yourself?"

"I didn't know you were a lesbian."

Kay shrugs. "I think any girl would be lesbian for these broads. Say -- your live-in mistress has good taste. Thank her for me."

"Speech! Speech! Speech!" Whitney chants.

"Uh--" you begin. You're utterly confused, until she points her scepter right at you, and you realize what she means.

All eyes fall upon you.

"I'm -- not a speech person," you say awkwardly.

Whitney harrumphs. "Fine. I'll do it myself."

The quadcopter draws wide, slow laps around the giant hall as Whitney begins.

"I met Ally when we were 11. Back then I wasn't rich, or important, or smart like I am today. I didn't have anything but the shoes on my feet and the shirt on my back. I didn't have any friends, even. I was lonely all the time... and sad... it was such a drag. But Ally became my friend... even when no one else would do it... and he always cared about me even if he didn't wanna admit it. He let me eat the food off his plate and take the answers off his tests. Sure he whined about it, but he never said no. And that made all the difference. He's the reason I started taking school more serious, enough to graduate from high school... sports, too... and I think... I think if I didn't know him... I think I'd probably be dead by now."

You blink. You can hardly believe the words coming from her mouth.

"I love Ally with all my heart. He loves me too. It's kind of a weird thing to be saying right before he marries another girl, isn't it? But it's true. We're kind of a unique relationship. I hope that's not a TMI thing. But marriage is, like, whatever. The thing I've got with Ally is forever no matter what. And -- so is the thing he's got with Rose! I don't know how you're going to handle that bitch, Ally, but good luck! I'll help you where I can. God knows you'll need it. She'd have you hogtied over a barrel 24/7 if you didn't have a trump card like me to pull!"

The assembled guests laugh, and glance back at you, and all you can do is raise your champagne glass in her direction appreciatively.

"Ally is about to do something really crazy and weird and stupid, getting married on like two days' notice. Crazy and weird and stupid is what makes Ally so great. We're gonna be a crazy and weird and stupid family together. Ally, and Rose, and me, and Viv, and mom, and whoever the fuck else. That's what I want, and I know it's what Ally wants, Rose too. So Tozel Mov and let's get fucking drunk!"

There's raucous applause, and Whitney, maybe not understanding the nuances of this situation, applauds too.

"Oh..." she adds. "Of course, I'd be totally forgetting the most important thing if I didn't mention -- there's cake, too!"

Into the room, a couple of the slutty bunnies wheel an absurdly tall, multi-tiered cake. You sort of suspect that there's more than cake concealed within.

The quadcopter draws up close to where you sit in the corner, and slowly lowers, so that it hovers just a few inches above you. Whitney, sliding to her back, lets her head hang over the side -- and kisses you on the lips.

You meet her eyes. "Should I cut into the cake, or would that kill some poor stripper?"

"Ally, that's a nasty thing to call the girl of your dreams."

"Oh? You mean you're not the girl of my dreams?"

"I ...am I?"

You answer by kissing her again. She blushes and her eyes flutter. She wasn't expecting that.

But then she composes herself. Drawing her lower lip to her teeth, she lets out a sharp whistle. And this, apparently, is the signal. You look up: springing forth from the top of the cake, dressed in a form-fitting bunny costume you recognize -- is Alex.

So it's like that. Cerise must have had a hand in setting this up, too.

The assembled crowd jeers and claps and wolf-whistles. Alex is wearing his signature surgical mask, and you're not sure how many of these guests recognize him, or the fact that he's a guy.

But he's not the only person hidden in the cake. Up pops another -- a girl you don't recognize -- with long red hair and floppy rabbit ears of her own. Somehow she looks more... leporine, than the other girls here. Her tiny nose and twitchy face complement the look excellently. Somehow so too do her absolutely enormous tits. She's a head taller than Alex, and rests her chin on his crown, between his pointy ears. Her almost totally naked breasts hug his head. He grips his fishnets and squirms uncomfortably.

"Who's that slut?" You demand.

Whitney laughs. "Alex. Duh."

"The other one."

"Oh. I think she said her name is Sam."

"What, as in Samantha?"

"Yeah -- that's it."

You shake your head.

"What do you say?" Whitney asks. "Wanna fuck like rabbits before you get hitched?"

[ ] Just Whitney.
[ ] Just Alex.
[ ] Alex and Samantha.
[ ] Alex, Samantha, and Whitney.
[ ] Alex, Samantha, Whitney, and Kay.

The girl you know now as Samantha clears her throat theatrically and announces to the gathering: "Hello yes! We are pleasure toys -- here for your enjoyment! Please watch!"

Alex is decidedly less enthusiastic than his assistant is. But, poking his forefingers together, and blushing, he allows: "w-we are here -- to give you a show -- so -- f-feast your eyes..."

"That short one is a hot little cunt," you hear a voice grunt, Armstrong's you think -- so it's true, these people are too drunk, and the lighting is too dim, and Alex's costume too lewd for them to recognize him.

Well, Kay does, at least. She's got that reporter's eye. She frowns at Whitney. "This is a really cruel thing to do to your pet twink. He's not into it."

"He's into it," Whitney insists. "He loves getting humiliated. Makes his little cock all hard." She hops down from the quadcopter finally, and joins you on the ottoman in the corner. She curls up in your lap and wraps her arms around you.

"That was a pretty nice speech," you tell her. 

"Mmm hmm." She kisses you, a melding of your mouths that quickly turns lewd, as, by force of habit, you reach for her crotch and start molesting her. Well, when in Rome... you're not the only one doing some heavy petting in this room. Some of the other men are taking liberties with the bunnies Whitney rented specifically for that purpose. Pairs begin to peel off and head for dark corners or private restrooms for the main act. 

But others are staying to watch the entertainment. You, too. Samantha hooks her thumbs under the shoulder straps of her microbikini and peels them off -- first one, then the other. Her jugs were already pretty much naked but the act of baring her nipples too, and the sultry way she does it, is undeniably erotic. They poke out, little rubies atop twin mountains of pure white flesh, flesh that ensconces and practically swallows up Alex's entire head. He blushes madly.

"Please watch our lewd masturbation show! Yes!" Samantha pleads.

You rub Whitney's pussy and obey that command. Next to you, Kay is getting hot under the collar too. You hear the soft rustle of her weight shifting backward, and her legs spreading.

Alex, unable to act of his own accord, instead can only stand there helplessly in the middle of the room, front and center, framed by the faux cake he was hidden in, as Samantha strips him of his clothes. First his top. She peels the latex from his pale skin and rubs his shoulders sensually as she does so. The crowd cheers and claps. Alex's puffy nipples are much lighter and smaller than those of this mature woman violating him. 

"Show us your pussy!" Someone calls out.

"Let us fuck you!"

Alex trembles and stares at his feet. He's honestly terrified. You're a little bit scared for him, too, although you know Whitney would intervene if things got too heavy. Or you hope.

With a smirk, Samantha squats, and pulls the one-piece outfit's bottom off of Alex now as well. His small, but fat and turgid cock springs free. The air seems to drain from the room as a collective gasp ripples through it. There's stunned murmuring, as Samantha rises again, hugs Alex from behind, and rubs his nipples to hardness with the fingers of both hands. Alex writhes and whines. His cock twitches in front of him, drooling.

"The cake needs icing," Samantha says. She winks. "Watch us ice it, okay!"

Her long red fingernails clack together as she grips Alex's tool and starts to jerk him off. The crowd, initially uncertain, approves. They applaud and egg the pair on. Whitney, who makes a hobby out of her quest to degrade Alex in novel and increasingly extreme ways, has outdone herself. Your cock is hard as stone, and you sigh in contented relief when she reaches for it, pulls it free, and mirrors what Samantha is doing to Alex. 

"You guys are nuts," Kay says. But when you look over at her, she's leaned against the back-rest, and she's got her hands down her pants, both of them, clawing at her own cunt. 

Samantha pets Alex's head. "Suck," she tells him, and puts her fingers in his mouth under his surgical mask. She swabs them around, practically gagging him. He dutifully obeys the order, sucking on Samantha's invading digits, before finally she pulls them out and shoves them unceremoniously into his anus. He goes rigid, eyes bugging out, but his cock spurts a couple streams of precum through the air. 

"Suck!" Samantha says again, and pulls his head towards one of her nipples. She tugs his mask up enough to free his mouth. His expression loosens, his eyelids droop, and he nurses on Samantha's fat tit. Unbelievably -- she begins to lactate. He sucks her milk out and drinks it down -- a masochistic bitch in bliss. Samantha jerks him off as his reward, while the crowd hoots and hollers lewd comments.

It isn't very long at all before Samantha's ministrations have Alex close to cumming. Samantha hikes one leg up, propping it on the rim of cake-shaped box they sprung from, so everyone can see her overheated bunny pussy. One hand still working Alex over, she begins to masturbate, too. 

"We hope you enjoy this perverted sight!" Samantha says. "Thank you for watching us! It makes my cunt wet and this slutty boy's cock hard to have your eyes on us!" 

Clapping and general approval to this. Your cock throbs in Whitney's expert hand. Your fingers find the opening of her vagina, and curl, and slip inside. "Oh Ally," she swoons, "you're so good at that."

Alex ejaculates. The volume is impressive, even if the consistency is runny and transparent. He squirts his cum all over the cake, and the floor below, and Samantha's smooth hand. Samantha coos and cums too, as if on command, squirting all over the place as well. Their simultaneous orgasm is loud and wet-sounding. When Alex's nuts are empty, Samantha brings her hands up to his face, and pulls him away from her nipple, and beckons him to eat their cum -- both his and hers -- from her slimy fingers.

He does it, unquestioningly, although it's clear he's already feeling faint.

Samantha tells the crowd: "All these girls walking around tonight are free for public use! We're all very horny bunnies... so please give us lots of cock milk tonight. It's what we're here for!"

"Where did you FIND these girls?" You marvel.

"I'll never tell~" Whitney purrs.

An orgy is quickly starting to coalesce. Alex, exhausted, gets left behind. Samantha gently lowers him to his knees, and he lies there half-dozing against the edge of their little makeshift stage, naked and on display, but too much of a pain to get at for any would-be rapists.

Samantha stumblingly navigates her way down, stark naked except a pair of bunny ears and a fluffy tail. 

"Oh Ms. Whitney?" She calls out, looking this way and that. Her nose twitches just like a rabbit's would -- it's cute, in a strange and disconcerting way.

"Over here, toots!" Whitney calls out, waving with the hand she isn't using to jerk you off.

She runs over, or more accurately seems to hop over, and stands before you with her wrists held limply in front of her. "You promised me the best cock in the room if I did a good job! So please tell me that I did a good job!"

"You did a GREAT job," Whitney says. 

"Yay!" She happily bobs her head. Her face is all twitchy. And, unable to contain her joy, she chews one of her knuckles with tiny nibbles, like a rabbit snacking on a sprig of lettuce. "Where is it! I want it inside me!"

"You've gotta be shitting me," you breathe.

"It's right here," Whitney says. She tugs on your dick and presents it to this impossibly strange woman.

"Who are you?" You demand. "I feel like I know you."

"Samantha! Samantha Smatters! Mister, can you please put lots of cum juice inside me? My slutty bunny pussy is ree-eally hungry for it! And -- you're so big down there --oh, I really, really want it!"

"Jesus. I do know who you are. You went to North High, didn't you?"

"Yes!"

You never thought you'd meet the legendary Samantha Smatters up close and personal, but here she is. No wonder she fits her role so well. She's had decades to hone it. Some sort of furry-lite, you think. But she pulls it off. 

Kay is fixated on Samantha's supple backside. You can hardly blame her -- those globes look like they would be a delight to push your cock past. But she's got her mind on something else, it seems. 

"Your tail..."

You take a closer look now, too. You just assumed that the tail was secured by a buttplug, since that would be the most perfectly slutty way to wear it, and Samantha obviously strives to be the perfect slut. But that's not how she wears it. It's not clear how she does. It protrudes from her coccyx as if it's actually a part of her anatomy.

Kay won't accept that. She reaches for it, and tugs it. It pulls back a bit, stretching, but snaps back into place, and all Kay is left with is a little tuft of cottony fuzz in between her pinching fingers. Samantha jumps, and screeches -- an unpleasantly shrill, actually disturbing and deafening shriek. 

She's still in pain after that first, ear-splitting wail. "Owwww! Please do not do that!" She says, rubbing her backside. "It hurts a lot!"

"What ARE you?" Kay breathes. 

"I am Samantha Smatters! I'm a very slutty bunny! Would you like to use my body, too?"

Kay uses her tongue to poke her cheek from the inside. She's silent for a turn. Then: "Yes. Yes I would."

"Yay!"

You and Kay make room for Samantha to climb onto the comfy ottoman. Whitney, in your lap, laughs huskily. "Rabbits are pretty fertile, you know," she whispers. "If you aren't shooting blanks, you'll definitely knock her up..."

You shrug. "Whatever. I'll drop some mongrels in her, then."

"You pervert~"

"Oh yes!" Samantha says. "Please make lots of babies inside me. Okay? I really want this cock to make me pregnant!"

This absolutely insane woman is going to make you insane, too. You can tell she's having an equally strong effect on Kay. Maybe as part of whatever operation gave Samantha a built-in cottontail, she also got rabbity pheromone glands installed, to enchant anyone who meets her, male or female. As if her body is constantly broadcasting a signal on all bands, saying: "please mate with me!"

She's got one hell of a body, though, too -- big fat tits that despite her mature age are still perky and bouncy, an hourglass form with wide, child-bearing hips, and the prettiest, puffiest cunt you've ever laid eyes on, glistening nicely with her wetness. 

"You may use me however you like, but I must insist that whatever happens, you ejaculate right here." She rubs her pubic mound obscenely to indicate it, as if you weren't already planning on putting your seed in her womb to begin with. 

"You're one pushy little slut," Whitney says. 

"I'm sorry! I'm so greedy! But -- I just have to have it!"

"Do you know how to use that tongue, Smatters?" Kay asks. 

"Oh yes. I am skilled in oral service. Do you need relief inside your pussy too? Do you have a horny pussy, miss?"

"Jesus fuck. Yes, yes I very much do. Eat me, Smatters."

Kay quickly kicks off her trousers and her panties too and sits bare-assed on the velvet cushions. She spreads her legs and points at her dripping slit. "Do it. Come on. Get to work."

Samantha turns and gets down on all fours and leans way in to get her face in Kay's crotch. She doesn't even know Kay's name, or yours, but she's about you let you both fuck her. You've never seen Kay this horny, and frankly, you've rarely felt this horny yourself. Perhaps your pheromone theory isn't off base after all. 

Samantha's position, by design you surmise, leaves her thick ass pointed right up in the air, the white star of her anus and the puffy lips of her vulva totally vulnerable to whatever disgusting things you'd want to do. 

Whitney acts first, though. "Sorry, Ally -- you can get your cock off in her -- but I just have to eat that cunt a little before you do!" 

She clambers over your legs and leans in, mirroring Samantha's own pose, and starts eating the older woman. Samantha's tail tickles Whitney's nose and makes her giggle, her eyes shining bright with her laughter. But her busy tongue is undeterred. She sucks and slurps both of Samantha's inviting holes. With Whitney draped over your lap like this, you take the opportunity to molest her a bit more. You yank her pants down from her toned butt and slip a finger into her asshole. You prod it in and out, enjoying the little pips it produces from her even as she sucks Samantha's cunt. But as fun as it is to play with Whitney's ass, you'd rather rub her pussy, so that's what you do. You embed three fingers in her slick wet hole and masturbate her. 

Whitney stops her lesbian cunt-licking just long enough to look at you over her shoulder and say: 

"Ally... I love you so much."

"I love you too."

She smiles broadly. Then it's back to eating pussy. You rub your naked cock against her tummy while she enjoys her little feast.

Soon this bit of skinship has you in a state of even greater need than before. You need to bury your cock inside a hole, completely, and ejaculate. And since Whitney already promised you to this woman, apparently, it would be horribly impolite to renege. It can't be helped. You'll just have to inseminate her bunny pussy.

You gently, but firmly, take a handful of Whitney's hair and pull her away from Samantha's rear holes. Samantha whines in protest, or seems to -- it's hard to hear what, exactly, her reaction is, with the way Kay is fucking her face.

You rise to your knees, mount Samantha, and grant her overheated pussy the relief she so desperately craved. You push your fat prick past her entrance, into the squelchy, slurping, wet embrace of her fuckhole. You sink into her like butter -- she's so unbelievably soft inside. Soft and yet tight at the same time. And so fucking hot, that it almost burns, and sears your hard prick. Samantha gasps when you break her open, shivering.

She yells something against Kay's fucking pussy that sounds like "Cock! Yes, cock! Cock! Give me your cock semen please!" 

Kay, holding her tightly by either of her pointy ears, wags her hips back and forth across her mouth. Samantha's jittery little nose works wonders against Kay's clit and brings her to a series of small but powerful orgasms that squirt Samantha's face full of girl-cum. Samantha drinks it down with zero hesitation and seems to enjoy how it tastes.

Whitney watches you fuck. She rests her chin on your shoulder and her fingernails lightly scrape against your ass to egg you on. Her breath is hot in your ear. "You'll make me pregnant one of these days too... right, Ally?"

"Oh fuck, Whitney..."

"Heeheeh. Go ahead. Blow your wad in her, Ally. It's what she's for. I got her special just for you... don't hold back... I wanna see it."

"I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna fucking cum in her..."

Whitney draws your face to hers and kisses you deeply. You gaze longingly back at her and feel your nuts tighten up against your body. You can't stop it. It's coming. You bellow and your cum erupts inside this girl who's basically a stranger to you.

"Oh fucking god, yes, yes!!" Kay wails. She's cumming again, too, watching you ejaculate. From either end, you give the slutty bunny the cum she so desires. And your slutty bunny is delighted by it. She mewls just like you'd imagine a bunny happily fucked full of cum would mewl. She yawns, and luxuriates, and sucks your jizz up into her deepest, most intimate parts. Impossibly, her cunt gets even warmer, and tighter, and softer, when it's filled with jism. It's almost painful to pull out, the way the opening of it clamps down on you, and doesn't want to let you go. So you don't. You just stay fucked inside her for now. 

You could easily get addicted to jizzing inside this onahole of a bunny cunt. 

"Hope you liked the present," Whitney whispers.

"I sure as hell did..." Kay heaves, collapsing to supine position, hand to her forehead. Samantha, still mewling, continues to slowly lap at her leaky genitals. 

"Not you," Whitney chides.

"Well, I did, anyway," Kay breathes. She runs a hand appreciatively through Samantha's hair.

"I liked it too," you tell her. "Thank you, Whitney. For -- for everything."

"Of course," she says. "You're my always, Ally." 

You kiss some more as you enjoy the sensation of your still hard cock in Samantha Smatters' gooey pussy.

GIRLS FUCKED: 13/12

---

Renee has Rose on her back on top of a small, low coffee table in the center of a cramped karaoke booth. Rose lies there in a clearing among stacks of empty beer cans and liquor bottles, chip bags, plates, and other detritus. Renee is keeping the bride-to-be's supple thighs spread wide apart with her palms pressing down hard on either of them. She so enjoys the soft give and plumpness of Rose's overfed body. It's such a delight to abuse... and tonight, she's going to abuse it extra hard.

Renee pumps Rose just as fast as she can, viciously shoving the enormous dildo back and forth through the wet confines of Rose's definitely-not-virginal bridal pussy. Rose's body slides back and forth with the force of the strap-on's savage thrusts. She would surely be screaming, but her face is currently being smothered by Cerise's sloppy pussy. Cerise, totally fucked up and drunk, grips the edge of the table opposite Renee and humps Rose's mouth. 

"Whoa," Amber says. She watches from a sofa along the wall, sitting beside her sister. "This is wild. I didn't know your friends were all bull dykes, Rose."

Amber, of course, wasn't invited, but tagged along when she found out there was karaoke on the docket. She didn't expect THIS. She and Rose2 both lounge with their legs spread wide. Amber's shorts are bunched up around one ankle, and for want of space, one of her legs is hooked over one of Rose2's. She's totally wet right now, and her panties are becoming almost translucent with her arousal, but there's something so liberating about letting the whole world see, even her older sister. So she just sits there like that with her wet pussy on display for any of these raging lesbians who would care to look. She wants them to.

Rose2, who is almost as drunk as Cerise, is even less inhibited than her little sister. She has her skirt up around her hips and one hand down the front of her panties, the knuckles bulging through the thin fabric, playing with herself. She watches the lewd show, slackjawed, and breathing heavy. 

Amber is just on the edge of giving in to temptation, too. She uses her ring finger to trace tiny circles around her clit through the sodden fabric of her underwear. Her breathing is getting similarly ragged.

Vivian -- naked, and also wasted, a recurring theme tonight -- stumbles over to where the two sisters sit. She gets on her knees in front of Amber. Without asking, without a single word, she puts her face to Amber's crotch, and starts to sniff Amber's pussy like an animal in estrus. She just buries her face in the young girl's mound, hugs her thighs, and enjoys herself. A pig at a trough.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Amber groans. "I never thought I'd have a billionaire down on her knees sniffing my pussy. What the fuck. This is, like... a fetish I didn't know I had."

Galatea, who was shy as a church mouse for most of the night, is much looser with a bellyful of sake. And seeing the woman she adores riding Rose's face is enough to make her perverted little pussy take over, and do her thinking for her. She saunters up behind Cerise, and hugs her like that, resting a chin on Cerise's shoulder. She nuzzles her.

"you're so beautiful..." she breathes.

Cerise smiles. "You too, babe." She turns her head to the side and kisses Galatea obscenely. The whole time, she never stops using Rose's awesome tongue.

"Do you wanna fuck her, too?" Cerise asks when they break the kiss.

"nnn-- i don't know."

"It's okay. It'd be hot..."

"are you sure?"

"Fuck yeah, Gal. I wanna see you domme a bitch."

Vivian begins to lick Amber's underage cunt through her panties, and Amber does nothing to stop her. In fact, she pets Vivian appreciatively. What a nice girl. Maybe she was wrong about the moneyed class.

Cerise stands upright, unsteadily, strands of her pussy juice pulling apart from the surface of Rose's face and dripping back down against the abused girl. Rose, beet red, gasps for fresh air, and convulses. 

Renee spanks her ass a couple times between strokes. "Don't be such a fucking girl, Rose," she sneers. "You can take it."

It isn't at all clear whether Rose even hears or much less comprehends that. 

"Sugoi..." Rose2 moans. "Ungh--" She gulps and has a miniature orgasm in her panties. Still masturbating, she chews a knuckle to keep from crying out and potentially drawing the attention of one of these rapists... but of course, the risk of being raped is weirdly tantalizing in its own right...

So is having a messy orgasm right beside her imouto, with their legs entwined. It's not a connection she had ever drawn before, but sure, she thinks, being a siscon could be cool...

Cerise tugs Galatea's spats down. This pale, wan shut-in has a body that's thin and weak-looking from under-eating. She looks like a stiff breeze could break her in two. But she's as hot and in need of a cum as any girl here. Maybe more. When Cerise pulls down her panties next, she can't resist getting down on her knees in front of Galatea, and planting a soft kiss on her tight, small, turned-in cunt lips. The kiss turns into a lick, and the lick into shoving her tongue as far up Galatea's twat as she can get it. Cerise loves eating her out. 

Galatea, ticklish, laughs and squirms, and pushes herself off Cerise's face. "t-thank you," she says, not wanting to be impolite to the woman who's basically her goddess.

Looking up at her from between her legs, Cerise tells Galatea: "Sit on her face. Cum on her."

Galatea does as ordered, uncertainly positioning herself above Rose's head, and squatting down. She rarely takes sexual advantage over someone else like this and isn't used to it. She holds her balled fists close to her collar as she lowers herself, and jerks in surprise when she feels Rose's tongue slither out to meet her slit. 

Cerise laughs. "Yeah... Rose is a good suck-slut, isn't she?"

Galatea nods shyly but enthusiastically. 

"Vivian." Dr. Carte snaps her fingers like beckoning a dog, and her tone is all-business. "Get over here. I want your tongue in me, too."

There's a lot of various perversions happening here all at once, but as this event's organizer, and the most mature woman here, Renee reigns as queen of it. Her wishes come first. Vivian pulls off Amber's cunt-slit with a sly smile and crawls to where Renee humps Rose. Renee is on her knees to sit level with Rose's pussy, and her bare, womanly ass jiggles nicely as she fucks her. The leather harness of the strap-on leaves alluring indentations where it criss-crosses the plump flesh. 

Amber is more than disappointed to have her new friend wander off. She was really getting into the sensation of Vivian's expert cunnilingus, which was amazing even performed through her undies. She can't help the whine of frustration that escapes her lips as she watches Vivian go.

But then she feels soft fingers against her mound. She startles, and glances over at her sister. "Rose! What the fuck!" 

"Shh," Rose2 replies, winking. "Let big sister help you, huh?"

"You fucking freak. You dumb c-- unf--"

She grits her teeth and throws her head back as dear onee-chan slips past the waistband of her slimy underwear. Like that, Rose2 starts molesting her in earnest. One hand in her own panties, one hand in Amber's. Molestation, Amber thinks to herself; yes, that's what this is. Rose2, the pervert, watched one too many Japanese cartoons and now she's molesting her own little sister. Amber bites her tongue and focuses on the sensation of fingers that aren't her own digging through her cunt.

Vivian gets down on her belly. She spreads the globes of Renee's ass wide and appreciates the view. The ring of Renee's asshole, small and tight -- and the rear perspective of her motherly vagina, the base of the rubber cock mashing repeatedly against it with every bottom-stroke. Vivian's jaw parts of its own accord, and she feels her mouth begin to water. Yes, she thinks, of course -- if Ms. Carte wants her tongue inside her... that's exactly what Vivian will do. How could she ever say no to holes this inviting?

She latches her mouth onto Renee's backside and begins to suck like a girl demented, her tongue running indiscriminately all around Renee's lower orifices. Vagina, anus, it doesn't matter to her. She just wants to make Renee feel good. She wants to suck on Renee forever...

Galatea is really getting into this. She begins to bounce up and down on Rose's face. Not even Cerise, as much as Galatea loves her, can lick a cunt this well. Rose is something special; no wonder Sir wants to marry her. Cerise smiles back at Galatea knowingly, nodding, and teases Galatea's asshole with a couple fingers for her own perverted enjoyment. The two girls return to making out and staring adoringly at one another while Galatea takes her pleasure.

"Rose--" Amber grunts, and can't help herself bucking against her sister's fingers. "You're gonna-- oh, god--"

"Shh," Rose2 repeats. She likes the idea of this being a dirty secret, even if they're doing it right out in the open. "You can do it... don't hold back. Let's have lots of fun from now on, okay?"

Amber swoons and leans against Rose2's shoulder, and finally reaches her limit. She can't hold back. She cums all over her sister's violating hand. 

"Oh fffffuck," Amber grunts, feeling her lower hole spasm and squirt against Rose2's fingers. Rose2 watches with a leering smirk, proud of what she's doing, and makes herself cum too. Incest is excellent tanoshii. 

Amber is too sensitive and overloaded with all the stimulus right now, so she clamps her thin thighs shut, and forces her older sister's hand out of her pussy. She hugs herself, hot, but shivering, and blinks repeatedly in a cum-drunk daze. She sits in a puddle of her own fluids. Rose2 sucks Amber's cream from her fingers and enjoys the flavor. She keeps masturbating shamelessly.

"You are such a fucking pervert," Amber spits. "Alabaster really did a number on you."

"Ayep. For sure. I like how soft you are down, there Amber~ I wanna play with you lots and lots~"

"Good lord..."

Amber slides down from the sofa and toddles on her knees the short distance to the table. Watching from the side, she props her elbows up, resting her cheeks on the heels of her palms. Her face is mere inches away from Renee's pumping dildo, and Galatea's humping cunt. And between the two women, that fat bitch Rose Mallory, who tried to fuck her over in the StuCo election. Nice to see her getting screwed so hard. Such a pity Alabaster chose her.

"This is so fuckin' cool," Amber says. "You rich motherfuckers know how to party. I've only ever seen stuff like this in porn..."

Renee, not breaking her pace, frowns down at Amber. "Are you of age, young woman?" 

"Nope. I am 100%, completely and utterly illegal."

"Hmm."

"Wanna fuck me next?"

Renee considers it. "Absolutely," she replies. Then: "Have you been with a woman before?"

Amber shakes her head.

"Do you have much experience at all?"

Again, Amber shakes her head.

"Wonderful. Get down behind me, and let Vivian teach you how to use your mouth..."

Amber gives her a mock salute. "Sure thing, mom."

"Don't call me mom unless you want it to stick," Renee purrs.

Amber crawls around, and sits hands-on-knees, waiting expectantly beside Vivian. Vivian is too busy sucking Renee's asshole to pay any heed.

"Vivian." Renee snaps her fingers again. "Share."

This gets Vivian's attention. She finally pulls her face off Renee's ass. Her features are droopy and dull-looking, and her makeup is smeared from all the lewd work she's been up to. 

"Oh," she says, taking notice of Amber. "Greetings."

"Haha. Yeah. Greetings."

"Are you here to lick Ms. Carte's asshole too?"

"I... guess I am..."

"Excellent. Would you like to kiss me first?" 

"Uh. I've never kissed a girl--"

Vivian gets up on her knees, pulls Amber's face to hers, and showers her with hungry, searching kisses. She moans sensually: "you are the most beautiful girl I have ever laid eyes upon. Beautiful, and terrifying -- I cannot resist... I must feel your lips... no, do not protest..."

Amber is more than a bit weirded out, but Vivian is good at this. And the disgusting perversion of kissing someone who was just rimming another woman makes Amber's pussy tingle excitedly. She lets Vivian French her, and does her best to keep up. She tastes the tart taste of Renee's genitals in Vivian's mouth. It makes her eyelids flutter and her heartbeat quicken. As much as Amber always tries to play at being mature and worldly, these girls are light-years ahead of her sexually, and it's all she can do not to really lose her shit right now. She's swimming in an ocean of conflicting feelings, but bubbling to surface above all of it is pure, giddy enjoyment. She loves it.

"Please," Vivian says between pecks and suckles and licks and smooches, "please assist me in servicing these holes... I will teach you all you need to know."

"O-okay," Amber stammers. 

Vivian pets Amber's hair lovingly and guides her to her stomach with her. They sit perched on their elbows in front of Renee's thrusting ass. Vivian, with hands-on tutoring, shows Amber exactly how to lick an asshole, how to suck a pussy. She shows Amber how to swab her tongue back and forth through the inviting folds of Renee's fuckholes, how to guzzle down her juices, how to fuck her with her mouth. The two girls, their faces pressed together, tongue Renee out in tandem. Tenderly, Vivian reaches back, and strokes Amber's vagina for her too, while they give Renee the oral pleasure she demanded. 

"Girls," Renee grunts, feeling her climax approaching from the efforts of these two wonderful, eager young mouths. "Rose is a lucky woman! Tomorrow she's getting married to the smarmiest, most sarcastic, know-it-all big-dick asshole to ever walk the planet. But tonight she's ours! I want all of you to cum down her fucking throat! Got it?"

"You heard the woman," Cerise coos to Galatea. "And you're up to bat..."

"yes," Galatea gasps. "yes... i think i'm about to cum..."

Cerise takes a swig of sake, as if she needs anymore, and swaps it back and forth with Galatea. As they kiss and share the liquor, Galatea's pussy clamps, and her jerking, quick little humping motions pick up in speed. She's cute and somewhat reserved even when she's cumming herself fucking stupid. She just sighs softly, then moans into Cerise's alcohol-scented mouth while her beautiful pussy sprays its cream across Rose's already nearly unrecognizable face. Rose, her entire world winnowed down to the pounding she's taking from either end, tries to gulp down as much as she can.

When Galatea stumbles back off Rose's face, Rose barely has any time to breathe before Cerise is taking her spot. Galatea is woozy, and knock-kneed, and falls to her butt while her fiancée rides her own orgasm out with Rose's tongue as a sex toy. From her position on the floor, Galatea strokes Cerise's pretty thighs and butt with both hands, to encourage Cerise's nut along.

"Drink it, bitch," Cerise spits. "Drink my fucking cum..."

She rubs her clitoris and hoses her cousin's face down. Renee watches approvingly. She can feel, translated through the plastic dick's base, how Rose's pussy clenches and cums, too. She's a well-trained little piggy. 

Renee knows that she's going to lose her own nut too if she doesn't stop fucking Rose or letting the girls behind her keep using their tongues on her ass. She pulls out now, taking a moment to admire Rose's gaping little pussy, raw and red and totally destroyed. Then she turns and looks down at Amber, who gazes back with a scared expression.

"A promise is a promise," Renee tells her.

"Uh--"

Renee sits cross-legged on the floor. "Get in my lap. I wanna fuck you."

"That's--" Amber begins, and audibly gulps. "I don't know, doc. That thing is a lot bigger than I thought. I'm not sure--"

"Get in my fucking lap." The way Renee says it leaves no room for mistaking her. If Amber doesn't climb onto Renee willingly, she's going to end up pinned beneath Renee unwillingly. Her choice.

And Amber makes the right choice. She peels her totally saturated panties off her butt, and gasps when the cool air of the karaoke booth hits her genitals. Then she settles, shaking, into Renee's waiting arms, holding Renee around the neck. Renee can be a gentle lover, too, and helps Amber ease herself onto the enormous, slick pole of her strap-on. Amber makes sharp little hisses and grunts of her own as Renee's cock spreads her open. She's only ever gotten fucked one other person, Alabaster, and the cock Renee wears is even bigger than his absurdly large tool. Amber's tiny pussy can hardly take it. But she knows she has no choice. So she sets her jaw and tries to force herself down. Renee leans back on one hand and enjoys the sight. Raping a girl who is legally a child... now there's a new one. She likes it.

Vivian is hypnotized by the beauty of it. She takes Amber's discarded underwear, pulls them taut like unfurling a boat's sail, and deeply inhales the musk of its crotch seam. She grinds her thighs together, masturbating her little pussy with the pressure of it, as she smells Amber's scent and tastes her wetness. She doesn't know why she should be so fixated on this girl who, after all, murdered her father... but she is... she can't help it... she's so fucking hot for her. It's a primal, animal lust that can't be quelled. Unable to extinguish the flames of her desire, Vivian balls the panties up, and shoves them to the back of her mouth, and sucks them like a popsicle. She plays with her clitty and cleans Amber's panties with her mouth.

Cerise is done cumming, and now Rose2 wants a turn. Watching her own sister eat an older woman's ass sent her into total overdrive. Ejaculating on her love-rival's face is the perfect way to cap the festivities. Sure, Rose is winning the ultimate prize, but Rose2 can exact some just deserts too. 

She walks up to Rose's puffy, slimy, blurry face. Rose is heaving and trying desperately just to breathe. Rose2 smirks down at her. "You're kinda messed up, huh?" She says mockingly.

"F-- fuck you," Rose manages, despite the marathon of hard use she's been subjected to. 

"That's silly," Rose2 laughs. "Fuck ME? You're the one getting who's fucked, Rose! A-durr."

"I'm gonna beat you to a fucking--"

"Stop being so tsuntsun. Lick me lots and lots, 'kay?" 

Rose2 doesn't allow Rose the opportunity to formulate a response. She squats down and cuts off anything she might say by smothering it with her steamy cunt-slit. Rose despises the fact that she doesn't despise it. Why does this stupid slut's pussy have to be so fucking delicious? It's not fair. She almost can't help the reaction it draws -- she holds Rose2's meaty upper legs and laps at her candy-sweet cunt like she's starving. Rose2 mewls and whines in delight. 

Meanwhile Amber is struggling on top of Renee, the dick in her butting up against her cervix and persistently trying to wedge itself even deeper. Renee leers at her pervertedly. "Are you sure you don't have much experience?"

"No-- no-- fuck-- it hurts--"

"Hurting can be fun~"

"Oh, god-- oh, Jesus--"

"You slutty little girl. Get it all the way in, now. Or I'll get it all the way in FOR you."

"Ffffuck--"

Vivian practically chews Amber's panties as she watches the young girl getting debauched. Ms. Carte is so beautiful when she does mean things...

Cerise and Galatea are curled up around each other, 69ing blissfully, totally oblivious to anything but the other. Still, even they can smell the bubblegum scent of Rose2's oozing pussy, as she wails and blows her load on Rose. 

"Vivian." More snapping, more barking from Renee. "Go cum on the party cunt's face."

"Mmmf mmf," she mumbles agreeably through the fabric.

Rose2 steps back and basks in the glow of post-coital bliss. Vivian takes her place. Poor Rose -- no respite whatsoever. She's just a toilet for every other girl here right now.

Still sucking on those sodden underwear, Vivian straddles Rose's head and hugs her ears with her weak legs. She gets her unripe-looking cunny against Rose's lips, and Rose, accustomed by now to this role, begins to lick. Vivian sighs happily. Sub by nature she may be, but being on top occasionally is also fun. She rubs her genitals back and forth, and even feels, with a thrill, Rose's button nose disappear into her pretty, clean little anus. That sets her off. She has a gasping little climax and her transparent juices intermingle with the sloppy mess already coating every square inch of Rose's ruined cunt of a face.

Amber is getting used to the cock in her by now. She fucks herself up and down on it, of her own free will, and enjoys the way it fills her so completely. She sucks on one of Renee's udders, as if she's actually trying to wring milk from it. 

"Are you my little slut baby?" Renee sneers.

"Y-yes-- yes!"

"Say it."

"I'm y-your slut-- I'm your sluuuut!" She swirls her tongue around Renee's fat nipple and puckers her lips around it.

Renee rewards that obedience by fucking back against Amber's tight pussy. Their crotches slap together like two pieces of meat, the noise echoing off the close walls.

"I'd love to make you cum, slut baby, but you need to use the toilet..."

"Uh huh... uh huh..."

But Amber is in such ecstasy that she doesn't want to stop fucking, not now, not when she's so close...

"Go on, now," Renee prods. "Go cum in Rose's mouth."

"Please-- please let me cum-- on-- on you--" She bounces up and down with a singular focus, and tries to win Renee over by suckling even harder on Renee's tit.

"No. You have to cum on Rose." When Amber doesn't respond, Renee snaps her fingers in front of Amber's face. "Listen to mommy, now."

"I--" Amber swallows hard and draws a deep breath. She shudders. "Y-yes... yes, Mommy..."

Renee helps Amber off the giant dick, and guides her to where Rose lies waiting. Amber is completely delirious and irrational -- and her voice is high, pinched off, as she informs Rose: "Mommy told me to cum on you..."

Renee watches with a hand to her lips as Amber rubs her freshly-minted lez pussy on Rose. Amber might talk like a sailor and act like a delinquent, but with a little discipline, she falls in line. 

When Amber, howling, adds her cum to the mix, Renee treats her by letting her suck her titties again. Of course, it's also a treat for Renee -- she loves how eager Amber is about it. But Renee isn't satisfied with something so mundane as a little breastfeeding, she needs to have a fucking orgasm already -- it's her turn.

She tugs Amber by the wrist off of Rose and lets her fall to the ground, like discarding a tissue -- used up and thrown away. Amber crawls over to where Vivian lies and makes out with her through the gag of her own panties. Rose2, lying next to the pair, watches and diddles herself.

Renee tugs the dildo's harness from her ass and chucks it across the room. Rose, coughing, sputtering, little streamers of girl-cum flying off her face like water deflecting off a fountain's spigot, begs pathetically: "please -- I'll do you, too, but -- just give me one second--"

"No," Renee says, lays her palms flat on her upper legs, and sits on Rose like mounting a bicycle seat. Her swampy cunt gets even hotter and she quickly brings herself to a spectacular orgasm. Rose nearly drowns from the volume of it. And Renee could not care less. She does precisely as she commanded the other girls -- she cums directly down Rose's throat. A baptism in girl cum is the perfect way to end Rose's life as a bachelorette. 

Renee hasn't had long to recover from her cum when there's a soft knock on the karaoke booth's door. She bothers to make herself only minimally presentable, slapping on a pair of panties that aren't even hers and therefore hardly fit (Gal's, she thinks, but can't be sure) plus the tee that Cerise was wearing. She pokes her head out the door and tries to prevent the interloper from peeping in. It's a short, balding Japanese man -- the restaurant's host.

"We were, ah, concerned -- of the noises -- arising from this room," he explains.

"It's all good, chingchong. Don't worry about it."

"The other guests were --"

"Fuck 'em."

"Ah. But, you see,"

"Go get us some more sake, okay? And, oh -- when we're done, you're gonna want to hire an industrial cleaning crew. Fair warning. We'll pay for the damages, though. $50,000 should cover it, I hope?"

He pauses. "Of course, ma'am. You are valued customer A-number-one." 

Renee closes the door, presses her back against it, and looks at the spectacle of winding-down debauchery before her. A small army of girls sucking and licking each other sweetly, still drawing tiny orgasms from one another. Heaven.

Rose, a palm to her forehead, is somehow still defiant. A bubble of spittle pops between her lips and she sneers: "is that all you stupid bitches have got? Don't make me laugh."

Cerise's head pops up from the cuddle puddle. "Well, if you're offering. All that beer and sake really made me have to piss..."

"hmmm," Galatea muses. "Me too."

"Me three! Me three!" Rose2 says, since even she can get the picture.

Renee smiles to herself. Maybe it's not winding down after all.

---

"I suppose I owe you something like fatherly support, don't I."

You stand in an anteroom in the church, alone with Saul, in front of a mirror, trying and retrying to get your goddamn tie done up. No matter how you twist and turn it, loop and knot it, you can't seem to get it right.

"Do you want help with that?"

"No I don't want help with that. Fuck."

"Alabaster..." he says. He lays a hand on your shoulder. His voice is firm and level. You sense that he's about to lay down some sort of hidden truth, some sort of priceless advice, for navigating life as a married man, with a Mallory woman -- that he's about to pass down generational wisdom that you need to pay attention to. "I don't smell like bunny pussy, do I?" He asks.

You slump your shoulders. "How would I know? If you do, then so do I."

"Okay. Fair."

You turn and try once more to get your tie done up. "Fuck..." you mutter. You don't want to admit it, but you're an absolute bundle of raw nerves right now.

Saul, watching, speaks up again. This time what he says is much more important.

"We haven't always gotten along. But I know you meant it when you told me you love Rose. And I know even if I don't approve... that you'll treat her right. I'm trusting you with her, Alabaster. Don't let me down."

Your hands stop, and you peer back at him through the mirror's reflection. It's useless to deny anything right now. You just nod respond simply: "Yes. I won't let you down, sir."

"Sir... ha. Don't turn into a suck-up."

"Of course not, Saul."

Your hands begin again in their futile quest to tie a knot. You hope today's metaphorical tying of the knot goes more smoothly.

There's a soft knock on the door, and Charlotte, wearing an elegant white gown of her own, pokes her head in. When she sees you, she squeals: "aahhhh! Oh my goodness!"

She barges in, arms held wide, and draws you into a tender hug.

The door wide open, in comes Mom as well -- she's in a flowing red dress that fits her perfectly. Not just because of her name, either. Her form fills it so nicely.

"How's Rose?" Saul asks his wife.

Charlotte pulls away from you, still clasping your shoulders. "Oh, she's an absolute wreck. How's Alabaster?"

"Wreck," Saul affirms.

"Just perfect." She finally turns to face her husband. "She wanted to see you a bit before you walk her down the aisle. She'd never admit to such a disgustingly patriarchal impulse, but I think she needs daddy to tell her that he approves..."

"I don't approve, is the thing..." Saul says.

"Saul." Charlotte's voice is icy.

"Yes. Of course, dear. I approve completely."

He goes.

Charlotte spins and faces you again. "Aaaahhhh! You're so handsome!"

Mom has a hand to her cheek, blushing. "I can't believe this. I never thought this day would come."

"Isn't it divine?" Charlotte says.

"Wonderful."

"Absolutely spectacular!"

The two woman surround you, and somehow, you feel like you're trapped in a den of wolves. 

There's a soft knock on the door, and Charlotte, wearing an elegant white gown of her own, pokes her head in. When she sees you, she squeals: "aahhhh! Oh my goodness!"

She barges in, arms held wide, and draws you into a tender hug.

The door wide open, in comes Mom as well -- she's in a flowing red dress that fits her perfectly. Not just because of her name, either. Her form fills it so nicely.

"How's Rose?" Saul asks his wife.

Charlotte pulls away from you, still clasping your shoulders. "Oh, she's an absolute wreck. How's Alabaster?"

"Wreck," Saul affirms.

"Just perfect." She finally turns to face her husband. "She wanted to see you a bit before you walk her down the aisle. She'd never admit to such a disgustingly patriarchal impulse, but I think she needs daddy to tell her that he approves..."

"I don't approve, is the thing..." Saul says.

"Saul." Charlotte's voice is icy.

"Yes. Of course, dear. I approve completely."

He goes.

Charlotte spins and faces you again. "Aaaahhhh! You're so handsome!"

Mom has a hand to her cheek, blushing. "I can't believe this. I never thought this day would come."

"Isn't it divine?" Charlotte says.

"Wonderful."

"Absolutely spectacular!"

The two woman surround you, and somehow, you feel like you're trapped in a den of wolves. 

You glance at Mom, and try small talk. "Did you have any trouble with the cake?"

She puts her hands on her hips, haughty. "What! Of course I didn't. Unlike you, I can bake a simple cake. And making it into tiers is child's play. No need to thank me, Alabaster!"

"Thank you," you say anyway. And: "I love you, Mom."

Mom blinks in surprise. "I-- why-- ...you little brat!"

"What. I THANKED you. I said I love you! How is that--"

"You're not supposed to be grateful and nice! You're supposed to be snitty and sarcastic! Changing it up at the most critical moment is a calculated attempt to get under my skin! You rude little jerk!"

You can only shake your head in bewilderment. 

"Do you need help with your tie, dear?" Charlotte offers.

"No! I don't need help with my goddamn tie! Fuck!"

Charlotte looks hurt, so you calm yourself, and say: "Sorry. I'm just a bit on edge, at the moment. I -- love you too, Mom."

Calling Charlotte "Mom" is the surest way to win brownie points. And it works like a charm. She smiles warmly. "I love you too."

"Well I love you more," Mom says -- returning the sentiment a little late. "And I loved you first."

"Don't make this into an argument, Scarlett. We both love the little brat. We can share..."

"Hmmm," she murmurs, unconvinced.

Charlotte embraces you from behind. Up close, you can smell her perfume, similar to the kind Rose wears, but thicker, more earthen. 

The way she hugs you feels very unmotherly. And even Mom, your real Mom, can sense it. 

"Charlotte..." she says.

"Do you have some final preparations to make with the cake?" Charlotte asks her. "I can keep Alabaster company until it's time for him to go stand at the altar, don't worry."

Mom meets your eyes. "Alabaster?" She asks you. 

You shrug. "I'll be okay. If there's something you need to finish -- I'll see you there -- or --"

"No, that's fine..." Mom says. "Charlotte is right. I'll... see you at the altar, dear."

She hugs you from the front, and for a brief moment you're sandwiched between two moms. It's not unpleasant.

"I do love you," Mom says softly. "I... I'm sorry if sometimes it isn't clear."

"It's clear," you tell her. "Is it -- always clear, the other way?"

Her eyes are full of tears, but she's smiling, and she nods. 

"Good," you say. 

She kisses you on the cheek, and goes.

Alone again with Charlotte, who's still hugging you, and swaying a bit, you clear your throat awkwardly.

"Did you pass on my advice to Rose, dear?" She asks.

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Oh, you know what I mean. For her to start giving you tit fucks. That advice."

Your mouth goes dry. You stammer and gawk.

"Well~?"

"Um... y-yeah. Actually. Yeah."

Honesty is the best policy, right?

"Oh my. You're such a horny boy, aren't you? Well? Did she do it?"

You nod slowly. You're keenly aware of Charlotte's own tits pressed up against your back right now.

"How was it? Compared to my tit fuck."

You stare at the ceiling and shake your head. But again, honesty: "Not as good... yours was better."

She kisses you on the cheek. She liked hearing that.

"Don't worry, honey. She'll learn. You just have to keep on top of her... pun intended."

"Oh my god."

"What I'm more concerned about is... since you're marrying my little girl now... when you have sex with her, does she orgasm?"

"What?"

"When you fuck my daughter, do you make her cum?"

"Mrs. Mallory--"

"Please call me mom. Or mommy."

"I-- yes. She cums. We -- have a lot of fun together."

She rubs her cheek to yours. "I don't know if I trust that."

"Why on earth would I lie?"

"It's not that you're a liar, dear. But every man always says that. They THINK it's true, but it's not." She puts on her impression of a monkey-like male chauvinist: "'Oh yeah, I toootally make her cum. I make her cum every night! Snoooore.' -- meanwhile the poor woman's buying Duracells like she holds stock in the company. That isn't what you're inflicting on Rose, is it?"

"No. Trust me. Rose has plenty of fun with me."

"I think... I think you should prove it."

You try to break loose of her iron grip, but doing so only makes her hold you tighter. You feel perilously close to getting raped here.

"No son of mine is going to leave any daughter of mine unsatisfied. Rose and I are alike, so if you can satisfy me... then it would really put my mind at ease... you'll do that for me, won't you, Alabaster?"

"Satisfy you..." you repeat.

"Yes. Do I need to say it more plainly? Satisfy my pussy. Pump me full of cock and make me cum. Just like you do with my girl. Make me cum on your cock, Alabaster... and I'll be perfectly happy to let you marry Rose."

She's kissing you again and again on the cheek, planting lipstick all over your face, as she says these impossibly lewd things to you. There's no way out. And with your cock stiffening in your tuxedo's trousers, you no longer want there to be. You let her guide you to a chair in the corner. The fact that you're about to fuck your bride's own mother -- who's as good as your mother, too -- and biologically, your cousin -- in a church, right before you get married -- is something that should dissuade you. It only encourages you.

You sit down, and Charlotte looms over you. She rubs your chest. "You're already doing it raw, right? Cumming inside her, I mean -- no condoms?"

"No condoms," you say. "Never. I actually don't even know how to put a condom on."

"Okay, you're doing that right, at least. Make sure to keep doing that. And take her off birth control, for godsakes, if she's on it. I want you two making babies right away, Alabaster!"

"Jesus."

She hitches up the runner of her slim gown and tugs down her panties. Then she does something you couldn't have expected. She puts them over your head -- like a hat -- and pulls them so they cover your eyes. Like this, you're blindfolded. You reach up to remove the panties from your head, but Charlotte swats your hand. "No! Pretend I'm Rose, Alabaster. Fuck me like you'd fuck her."

You think she probably doesn't understand exactly what she's asking of you. Or maybe she does. 

Charlotte's feminine scent inundates your nostrils and although it's similar to Rose's, it's deeper -- the same way their perfumes nearly match, but not quite. Maybe this is what you have to look forward to as you grow older with her.

Charlotte pulls your cock from your pants. She settles in your lap, legs astride you, and lowers herself down. You see none of it. You're blind, and can understand what's happening only by sense of touch, aided by imagination. But the now quite familiar sensation of a pussy swallowing your dick is unmistakable. You're fucking your adoptive mother's hot, mature cunt. Your jaw hangs open and you moan deeply, savoring that warm moist sliding of her walls against the skin of your prick.

"Just by -- size alone --" Charlotte says, voice breathy, but silken, "--you're half of the way there... a dick like this... is such a prize..."

She puts her hands on your shoulders. 

"But of course," she adds, "you still need to use it right."

"Ungh--" you grunt.

She grunts back: "FUCK me." 

You grope blindly for her body, and, finding her hips, you wrap your hands around them. You fuck her. You would never disobey Mrs. Mallory, of course, so you do her just like she told you to. The same way you'd fuck Rose. You pound her up and down on your horny cock like her body is a cocksleeve. You can feel her go limp, muscles loosening, but her motherly cunt is tightening. Her teeth chatter. 

"Y-yes--y-esss--oh god, honey... fuck, that's good..."

You're not done. You stand with her. You stand all the way upright, holding her. Then taking a couple steps forward, you topple purposely with her to the ground. You get her on her back with a hard thud, and lie atop her right there on the floor of the church. She makes a pained "unff--" and then the wind gets knocked from her with the weight of you pressing down. And, burying your cock into the oh so inviting depths of her pussy, you begin to REALLY pound her. You're brutal, unmerciful, and selfish. She asked you to show her how you do it with her daughter. So you're showing her.

She runs her hands through the hair on the back of your head and writhes beneath you. At first she can't form any words other than: "Y-yess -- oh, yessss!" But then, gulping for breath, she manages: "Fuck me, Alabaster! Fuck my slut mommy pussy!"

Hard to imagine she's Rose when she's drilling it into your head that she's your mom. Not that you're complaining. 

Her voice is high and shrill and full of perverted need. "That's it! Put your fucking cock in me! Fuck your mommy! Oh GOD, you need to cum so bad, don't you? Don't stop!"

You nestle your head against her neck and enjoy the raw sensation of rutting inside her. But her command not to stop comes up against an obstacle when you hear a voice behind you gasp: "Charlotte?"

You tug Charlotte's panties off your head. You look back over your shoulder. Mom is standing there gawking at the lewd scene. You try in vain to pull out of Charlotte's wet cunt, but her ankles locked around your butt prevent the attempt. 

Mom's lip quavers. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, Scarlett? I'm fucking your boy. Or... he's fucking me..."

She rocks her hips up and down, teasing you -- keeping you hard and trying to impel you to keep going. It's hard to resist.

"Alabaster... how could you?"

"I--" you gulp, and try not to focus on the pleasurable, hot wet sensations Charlotte is milking from your dick. You try to will yourself to go soft, but you can't. And you're still unbelievably horny. You need to fuck... to cum... and so your hips begin to move on their own. 

So it's not a joke or a cliche, then. That really happens. Huh.

"See?" Charlotte says, almost mockingly. "He's just a very needy boy. I'm only taking care of him. It's fine, don't worry about it..."

You're too ashamed of yourself to look at your mother, so you just nestle your face back against Charlotte's neck and keep fucking her. Charlotte pets you soothingly, arms wrapped around you head. She rocks in time to your jackhammer thrusts.

"If there's a problem, we can talk about it later," Charlotte tells her. "But for now, you can leave us be, right? I don't think your boy is going to stop... and you wouldn't want to see him make a mess inside my pussy, would you?"

You expect Mom to storm out of the room, but you don't hear her retreating. And you can sense her eyes boring into your back. Even still, despite her audience, you keep fucking Charlotte.

"Or you can stay and watch, if you prefer," Charlotte says. Her cunt makes slurping, slapping noises while you rail her.

You hear a soft jostling noise, and sense that mom is sitting down in the chair where you were so recently fucking Charlotte. "Do you two... always do this?"

"N-no," you grunt, voice muffled, still fucking.

"I'm just making sure he can keep my baby girl satisfied..." Charlotte says grinningly. "I had to test it myself. You understand."

Mom gulps. "C-can he? Do you think?"

"Oh, yes... oh, yes, VERY much..."

You hear Mom try, and fail, to stifle a small moan.

"Masturbate, Scarlett."

"W-what?"

"Masturbate while you watch your son fuck me."

You almost cum right then. And again when, a few moments later, you hear Mom lifting the hem of her dress. What she does after that, she keeps well quiet -- but somehow, despite not looking, you can tell she's got her legs spread wide, and her cunt out in the open, and her fingers inside it.

"Hmmm hmm~" Charlotte laughs. 

"I'm gonna -- I'm gonna -- " you exhale.

"Shhh. That's okay, baby. You go right ahead. You get all the cum out of that big leaky cock of yours, okay?"

Behind you, Mom hisses.

And in front of you, Charlotte sighs. 

And down in your groin, you feel that wonderful, sick rush, like going into freefall, your orgasm racing up the length of your pistoning cock. Here it comes: a thick, creamy load, right in Charlotte's hungry pussy. She says she does this for your sake, or Rose's -- you know the truth. She wants your cum in her purely for her OWN sake. She's a fucking slut. She's a dirty slut for your big cumming dick. So, you give her precisely what she wants. You ejaculate inside her, as she cums on you, and behind you, watching, your mother cums as well.

GIRLS FUCKED: 14/12

Mom hurries from the room before you even dismount -- abashed and ashamed herself, you figure -- and you wonder what's going through her head right now.

A few heavy spritzes of cologne and some wet wipes to clean up the stain on the crotch of your trousers is about all you can manage, this close to the ceremony. Charlotte, fuck-drunk, wipes the mess between her legs with her panties, and stows the soiled garment in her purse. You shudder to imagine what she might do with it later.

"It's almost time, Alabaster! Aaaaah!" She balls up her fists in front of her and shakes them in excitement.

You can hardly believe she can act normally after THAT.

"So I trust I have your blessing?" You venture.

"Yes. YES. 100%. If you screw Rose like that all the time, my main concern is you'll make her cum too MUCH. You'll start killing off her brain cells like that. And she needs all of them she can get."

"I guess I'm flattered."

She pecks you on the cheek. "Five minutes!" She says. "Five minutes until my baby boy and my baby girl become husband and wife! Oh my goodness!"

There's a knock on the door, and you grimace. Will the madness ever end?

Into the room now, walks Cerise.

Charlotte, understanding that this is a moment for brother and sister, leaves you be.

You feel the nervousness hit you all at once. All of a sudden you're getting shaky, jittery, as you imagine what lies ahead. You're minutes away from doomsday here... the final defeat you never thought you'd have to endure.

You try, fumblingly, hands trembling, to do your tie -- once again. And once again, you fail.

"Congratulations, Alabaster." Cerise's tone is warm, and happy, although tinged with just a small hint of sadness as well.

"Gee, thanks," you say. "I'm ecstatic."

"Don't be shitty," Cerise chides. "You and Rose... well. I can't say I'm surprised. I don't think anyone is surprised."

"Are you forgetting that this is all just a sham marriage--"

"Of course," Cerise cuts in. "And you'll be living your sham for a long time, I think..."

She steps forward and reaches for your tie where it hangs loose around your neck. You turn to face her.

"Geez," she says. Her hands work with practiced nimbleness. "Still don't know how to tie a tie after all this time."

"Guess not."

"That's why you need me."

"Guess so."

When your tie is tied tight, she doesn't let you go. She tugs you toward her. And she kisses you.

"I love you, Alabaster."

"I love you too, Cerise."

She worries her lip. "I want this for you -- I'm happy."

You believe her. But a tear trickles down her cheek anyway. You wipe it away. You kiss her again, and deeply so.

"Don't let her brainwash you with her social justice nonsense," Cerise says, gripping your lapels.

"It's not that bad--"

"Oh my god. It's already starting."

"Fine. Then stick around and keep me on the right track, then."

"Of course. What else would I do?"

"Thanks, Cerise. I'm counting on you. Ganbare."

"Ugh. Don't go that other direction, either. You're fine the way you are."

"Shitty?"

"Shitty and mean and sarcastic and arrogant. My little brother. Yeah."

"I'll see you out there," you say, and gently tug her hands from your tux. She smiles wanly. And then, she goes.

You have only a few moments to compose yourself before you hear the music cue, and know that it's time.

Rose2 throws, fittingly, rose petals from a basket -- paving your way down the long, red-carpeted aisle as you follow behind. Mom walks with you, arm in arm, to give you away. It was a hard sell to explain to Amber and Rose2 why she would be doing this for you, but you are ostensibly an orphan, after all -- and Charlotte is Rose's mother, so she couldn't do it, right?... well, you think they bought it.

Mom whispers to you as you walk with her: "I'm sorry."

"--Sorry?"

"I behaved -- obscenely--"

"It's fine. So did I."

She sighs. "I'm ashamed of myself."

"Don't be." You give her a cheeky smile and a cheekier tone: "I still love ya, ma."

"Tch -- geez." She hands you off at the altar.

You're not sure what's a more marvelous sight: Whitney, all bedecked in a luxurious, floor-length gown, the most feminine dress you've ever seen her in, complete with tiara, and veil -- or Alex, wearing basically the same, and blushing even harder than Whitney.

Fazil pats you on the shoulder and shakes your hand. "My best man!" He says. "Very proud of this day! Make children tonight, okay?"

God. Even Fazil wants grandchildren. You're beginning to feel the universe is conspiring against you.

"The problem at hand is..." he says. "I have misplaced the rings."

The blood drains from your face. "What?"

"Ah! Hahaha. It's joke. The rings are here." He opens one side of his tux, and reveals the bulges in an inner pocket. He reaches in, and hands them over. "I am sorry. In reading about the duties of best men, I also read that they are often playing the pranks and being jokesters. I hope this jest is taken stride."

"Yes," you say, breathing normally again. "...Good one."

"Haha."

"Fuckin' A!" Whitney shouts, pounding a fist upward against her flattened palm. She makes her impression of an explosion: "Bch-ooowww! You're a smokeshow today, Ally. Hot as hell."

"You too," you say, grinning.

"I--" she blinks rapidly. She blushes deeply and shakes her head. "N-no... no I'm not... I'm ugly... fuck. I hate this stupid dress. Shut up. Shut up! Don't laugh. I see you laughing, Ally, fuck you!" She couldn't possibly see you laughing, though, because she's staring at the floor.

"I'm so happy, Ally!" Alex says.

You narrow your eyes and simply nod at him.

"I..." he begins.

But he doesn't say anything more.

The music swells, and Rose comes out, arms linked with Saul.

If Whitney was blushing, then Rose is infrared. She stares straight ahead at nothing in particular, the tendons of her neck taut and twitching, her spine rigid. She looks about half a second away from melting into a puddle.

They get closer, and closer, and closer. And finally, they're upon you, and Saul is handing his daughter over. From his hand to yours; you help Rose up the final steps to the small pedestal in front of the wreathed arch and reverend's podium.

Saul nods at you. You nod back at him. He returns to his seat in the front row.

The reverend looks from you to her, and he's smiling happily. But of course it's just another day, for him. For you --

"This is -- it," you say. You hand her the ring she's about to hand back to you in a few seconds. You would never say it, but looking at her through the gossamer veil, you think she's the most beautiful girl here.

The music slows, and then stops, and then silence descends. Your heart is going to beat out of its chest. You're sure everyone here can hear it.

"We are gathered here to celebrate the union of two young people, joining in holy matrimony..."

The reverend drones on, and you tune him out -- instead, just staring wild-eyed at Rose, who's staring wild-eyed back at you.

Until, of course, comes the part where you have to interact.

"And so then. Do you, Rose, take this man, Alabaster, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish for all time, until by death shall you part?"

Rose squints at you. You squint back at her.

You continue to squint at Rose.

Rose continues to squint back at you.

Finally, she turns to the reverend: "Doesn't the man traditionally go first?"

"Oh, and YOU'RE one for tradition--" you begin.

"Don't even. Don't even," Rose is repeating over you.

"Is there a problem?" The reverend asks.

"No..." Rose says. She swipes a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm just pointing out the traditional--"

"Are you trying to fuck me?" You say.

"Excuse me?" Through the gossamer veil, her face is beginning to turn red again.

"You're trying to fuck me. You want to make me go first so I have to say 'I do.' Then when it's your turn, you get to say something smug and cunty instead. That's what this is. Don't deny it."

"You are RIDICULOUS," Rose cuts in.

"No -- no, you're fucking me--"

"--smug, egotistical, paranoid moron--"

"I will beat your ass, Rose. I will beat the shit out of you right here in front of God and everyone."

"Oh! OH!" Rose says. "I'd like to see you try! Hit me then, if you're such a big man! Limp-dick, chickenshit--"

"I'm sorry," the reverend says, timidly looking from you to her. "Are you sure you want to continue? This union may be--"

You fold your arms. "No. We'll continue. We will definitely continue. And YOU go first."

"No way," Rose says. She folds her arms too. "After that? Now I know what your gameplan is. I was going to do this like normal but after THAT little display -- nuh uh. Nope. YOU go first."

The reverend impotently scratches his head and then leafs through his bible as if looking for a passage that would provide guidance for this unprecedented scenario.

It's Whitney who says: "Jesus fuck, you two. I have places to be. Go at the same time."

"I think, hopefully, we can agree to that?" The reverend says.

You stare down the bridge of your nose at Rose. She stares back at you. Finally you both give the reverend a curt nod.

"All right, then." He clears his throat again. "Do you Rose, and do you Alabaster, each take the other, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish for all time, until by death shall you part?"

"I..." you and Rose begin, in tandem, that single syllable seeming to stretch to infinity so that it actually becomes two syllables: "aaaa-eeee...."

Your eyebrows slowly lift, until they seem to be crawling to the backs of your scalps -- "...eeeeeee..." Like an endless question mark, your voices crest on a continuous upward lilt -- "...eeeeeee..." -- your torsos tilt steadily away from each other until you're both recoiling so much that you may as well be playing limbo.

When you both run out of breath, you pause, still in that recoiling stance, silent and motionless, cringing at each other. Someone coughs.

Now comes the next, even harder bit. You begin in fits and starts, "d-d...d-...d-d--" neither of you wanting to be first to begin any more than you want to be first to finish. You stammer your D's, sizing each other up, daring one another to go. But your syncopated stutters finally catch like a stubborn jacket zipper and you begin, together, in earnest: "Doooo..." another long, long, exhalation, an eternal purr, a forever-sigh, "...oooo..." your bodies tilting towards each other now, until you're practically butting brows like boxers before the prizefight, voices lowering more than an octave as you work through your last emergency reserves of oxygen, the reserves typically called upon only in the final moments of drowning, or strangulation, reserves the use of which saps your blood of all its red and leaves you blue in the face, lightheaded, dizzy and close to unconsciousness, "...oooo..." the O's pulling apart like melted taffy, becoming low, quiet, and pinched-off, two people saying one word in slow-motion -- each precluding the other absolutely from finishing last.

Finally, at the end, there is no victor.

You each outlast the other; you outlast Rose and she outlasts you, against all conceived laws of linear time. But paradox aside you have both have now said it, over the course of 2 minutes or so. You have both said "I do."

And now it is irrevocably sealed, as you slip the rings onto each other's fingers, and the reverend, smiling, says: "by the power vested in me by the state of California, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Rose Mallory has become Rose Soliloquy. Rose Soliloquy is your wife.

There is a smattering of polite, but confused applause. Rose closes her eyes, sets her jaw, and sighs.

"You may now kiss the bride."

>[x] Kiss her.
[ ] Make her kiss you. (It's empowering that way, isn't it?)

Rose's eyes are still closed. You step forward, and clasp her behind her back. And this sudden motion causes her eyes to shoot open.

You lean in, practically sweeping her off her feet. Holding her in your arms, supporting her by her severely arched back, one of your hands linked with hers, you stare down at her surprised face.

"Alaba--"

You cut her off with your lips, pressing them to her lips. You kiss her.

She tenses in your grip -- but then opens her mouth to you, and kisses you back.

You kind of make out a little.

It's only with Fazil politely clearing his throat, that you get the message that this is edging into PDA territory. You let Rose come up for air, helping her upright again. She's a bit faint, but she's smiling. The applause to this is a lot stronger.

There's the uncorking of champagne, and throwing of the bouquet (Cerise catches it, but when Rose turns back and winks at her, you figure Rose relied on her almost preternatural aim to make sure it went to the right person).

There's dancing, first you and Rose to an appallingly sappy song by the fucking Postal Service (really, Rose?) then the rest of the attendees joining for music that's only a hair better. There's revelry. And there's cake -- oh god, is there cake -- cake that leaves the guests high on an almost sexual sugar rush.

"Jesus fuckin' -- Jesus -- JESUS!" Armstrong moans, horking down fork after fork.

"I could die. I could die, right now, and be happy..." Stackleford says.

"And I as well," Vivian says. "I am in a state of seemingly perpetual bliss..."

"Ungh-- oh my GOD," Nelson moans sensually. "I need a medic...take me now..."

Mom watches on smugly. Somehow, someway, you need to get the recipe from her. But really, of course, what you need is her magic touch. Maybe one day you'll have it.

---

You ride the limo back home, with Rose, alone together. The ride is long and awkward -- as you predicted it would be -- neither of you have said word one to each other since "I do." Rose fidgets in place on the other side of the backseat, gloved hands in her lap, veil parted. But she's smiling. She has not stopped smiling since you kissed her.

At your doorstep, Rose goes as if to step through the front door like normal, but you stop her, tugging her by a wrist, holding her back.

"What?" She says.

(Already bitchy. Joy.)

You scoop her up into your arms anyway, her butt resting between the crooks of your elbows as if she lies in an invisible hammock.

"What are you doing!" She whines.

"I'm -- fuck, you're heavy --" You knees wobble and threaten to buckle.

"Heavy? I'm 5 foot 1, Alabaster! I weigh less than 100 pounds! Go to a gym! It won't kill you!"

"You do NOT weigh less than 100 pounds. And I thought you were 5 foot 4, huh?"

"Yeah, and you're 6 feet even, huh? Go fuck yourself!"

You struggle, despite Rose's protests, to get the front door open. You step groaningly over the threshold with her. And despite the protests, she lets you.

"I suppose this means you think you're entitled to sex with me now," Rose says, when you let her down to her feet again in the foyer.

You rub the small of your back. "Gee, I dunno. We just got married. So I think that's customary. Traditional? You're traditional all of a sudden. So."

You lock eyes with her. You stare at each other for a few long moments. And then together, you dash upstairs to her bedroom.

Through her door, leaving it open, to her bed, tugging at your tuxedo jacket, as she crawls up to the mattress and turns onto her back and tries to help you. You mash your lips against each other, as if you're attempting to suck out each other's very souls. Your tongues entwine and you run your hands through the ruffles of her ornate wedding gown. You can't bear trying to get this ridiculous thing off of her -- too many clasps, garters, and other nonsense. You just want her, anyhow, anyway -- right now.

She must be the same, because you hardly manage to get your belt undone and trousers to your ankles, before she's pulling you by the tie right back into her arms. She doesn't even let you kick off your shoes, much less take off your shirt. She's nothing but limbs and kisses and breathy exhalations. You run your hands through her absurd hairdo, and grope her face, and feel her warm body through her dress. This one's going to be quick, you know, you're already hard, your cock is already leaking, and when your hands find Rose's bare pussy beneath the layers of the dress's skirt -- did she really go nopan to her own wedding? Jesus, Rose, amazing -- her cunt slit is already oozing wet and ready.

"Just -- just fuck me --" she sighs. "Fuck me, Alabaster."

It's important, as a husband, to listen to your wife. 

You fuck her.

You shove your cock into her waiting body. Her warm pussy accepts you entirely, conforms to you, swallows you. Rose's feet, still clad in heels, kick skyward, and lock around your hips, the soles clacking together as you screw her. You press down on her, with all your might. You interlace fingers with her and feel her clench you back, her hands so small but surprisingly strong. She's all sweaty from exertion, and from the sultry confines of her outfit, but she's lost in bliss. She stares right back at you. Her jaw is hanging open and her tongue is hanging out but her eyes are dewy, and full of -- and yours, too -- you kiss her, again and again, letting your mind turn to mush. You fuck Rose for what feels like forever. It's the hardest you've ever fucked her but somehow the softest, too. Your cock fits inside her so nicely that you'd think you were literally made for each other. She's snug and tight, and just for you. Her pussy is just for you. The other girls might get their share of it, but it's yours -- and she wants you to have it. But not just her pussy. She wants you to have her, all of her. You want her to have you. You fuck her in a way that communicates this, without words. You fuck her like you never have, her or anyone. In a giving way. Giving yourself to her. 

"Do it!" Rose pants. You didn't even have to warn her. She knows you're about to cum, and she's giving you full permission in advance.

"I--" you grunt -- beginning to say it, but you can't. Even now, you can't. Instead you say it physically. Your tongue in her mouth, and your dick inside her deepest parts, you and Rose become property of one another. You ejaculate, a huge, seemingly never-ending volume of it. You spray her full of semen and mark her as yours. In return, she cums around your jerking cock, and marks you as hers. 

Perspiring, drained, exhausted, you fall atop her, and go limp. Your breaths are labored and jagged. Hers too.

"Are you fucking cuddling me right now?" Rose says.

"Yes." (Voice muffled by her breasts.)

"Don't get up..."

"I can't..."

It feels like perhaps half an hour passes before Rose finally speaks again.

"Today was fun," she says.

A little after 4 AM, you nudge Rose awake. The dead of night is the best time for this.

"Hmmm?" She murmurs after a sharp intake of air, groggy, and ready to fall fast asleep again. In the dark, Rose is a formless shadow among many. But you feel her. Her body is so nice atop you, the weight of it, and her radiating warmth. And, too, the way she fits you perfectly -- your lower halves still mated, her head against your collar, her little fists balled up on your shoulders. As if she was purpose-built for being a human blanket to you, or maybe you were purpose-built for being a human pillow to her.

Your cheek nuzzles the crown of her head. "I want to... say something," you whisper. Your voice catches a little bit, with anxiety, and self-consciousness.

"Oh... okay, Alabaster." Rose's voice is catching too, the slightest hint of a stammer to it.

"You have to be serious," you tell her.

"Serious? I don't underst--"

Your heartbeat quickens. You try, fumblingly, to explain what you mean. "This time -- I don't want to do it like always... or, I mean -- what I'm trying to ask is -- this is something important. And I don't want you to just--"

"I'll be serious," Rose tells you.

You nod. You run your hands down her back, from the nape of her neck to her butt, and up again -- just appreciating the softness of her in your grasp. As you mentally prepare to say what you want to say, your heartbeat goes even faster, but for only a moment. Because caressing her like this, firmly, but tenderly, your pulse slows back to normal, and then even slower still -- to the steady surety of a monk's in meditation. You pet the back of her head now, running your hands through her hair, and then stroke her pretty face. You pull her chin gently up with a forefinger. You can't really see each other in this pitch black bedroom, but you're looking at each other all the same.

You put your cheek to hers, and you whisper something in her ear.

She tenses -- and then relaxes, like someone jolting awake from a half-dream. She wiggles and nestles her body against yours, wraps her arms around you.

She whispers the same thing back to you.

She does, and always has.

You get an email the next afternoon at work from Rose, who sends a daily status update on various things with all the executives at Darkbloom Analytics CC'd. But you're paying more attention to the header.

You march down to her office. "Why haven't you changed your email?"

"What?"

"Your email username. It should be Rose.Soliloquy now. Not Rose.Mallory."

She purrs in disgust. "I told you, Alabaster, I'm not changing my surname--"

"Like fuck you aren't. You're my wife. Change your name--"

"No. This is a sham marriage. I refuse to change things for the sake of this illusory--"

"Oh! Says the woman who literally wore her fucking wedding dress in to work on the day after the wedding. What the fuck are you still doing in that thing?"

"It feels comfortable! I didn't have time to change this morning!"

"You're crazy. Legitimately a psychopath, Rose, wearing a wedding dress a full 24 hours after the nuptials. Change your fucking email address."

"Make me!"

You pick up the phone. This is becoming something like a dare, as she watches, arms folded. You dial HR.

"Yeah, Spancer?" You say when he picks up. With mounting frustration, you watch Rose's increasingly smug face, as she listens to your half of the conversation: "I wanted to let you know that Rose's email username -- Rose Mallory -- yeah, her. Her email username should be changed. -- She married me yesterday. So it should be Rose.Soliloquy. -- Yeah, I -- What? Why? -- I'M telling you. Why do you need HER perm-- listen. She's my wife. She has my name now -- no, that's not the point -- just -- just -- FUCK."

You slam the phone back down.

"Do you ever get tired of losing?" Rose asks.

"Go fuck yourself, Mrs. Soliloquy."

You stomp out, slamming the door behind you.

>Meanwhile.

"This tiramisu is no Scarlett Catachresis wedding cake extravaganza, but it's amazing," Renee says, digging in. "This place might have some bad memories, sure, but it's got great food. No denying that."

Across from Renee at the Rutabaga Cafe, Alex eats his tiramisu, smiling. "I agree. An off-campus lunch break was a great idea, Ms. Carte!"

"I know things are kind of messed up right now, and I wish Alabaster would treat you better -- but I think if we're successful, he'll forgive you."

Alex is dour all of a sudden. "I hope so," he mumbles.

Renee pulls a laptop out and boots it up. "In any case... until Alabaster, Cerise, Whitney, or Vivian tell me otherwise -- your project has got my unconditional support."

"Thank you. Diogenes still has a lot of kinks to work out... and Ms. Guiteau is... well, she isn't always the most reliable sounding board to bounce ideas off of. She's been wrong about a lot of the technical details too. It was the same way with Sand Reckoner. She's got the basic idea for the codebase, but the actual structure of it... ehhh. She's kind of a hot mess, if you wanna know the truth. Brilliant in concept... lacking in execution."

"I already surmised that much." She chews a paper straw and puzzles over her CAD program. She's working on the first stages of the new implant, as requested by Alex, and ordered by her bosses.

Weird to think of her daughter and her sex friend as bosses. But it's better than having David Darkbloom as a boss, anyway. Or the California penal system...

"I can help you a bit with code, I guess," Renee says. "But I'm no genius. Not like you. I think you've got it covered, honestly. My realm is bio-engineering -- and I'll do my very best to--"

The chime above the door dings, and in stride two rough-looking, portly, pockmarked middle-age men in cheap suits. One of them, without hesitation, pulls a pistol from his waistband, points it at the table beside the entrance, and blows the brains out of the plainclothes bodyguard who's been staying at the periphery of everywhere Renee goes. Her second bodyguard, springing to his feet, draws, and returns fire.

There's screaming, shrieking -- a commotion of feet, a stampede of people fleeing.

Renee's second bodyguard is already dead but her third and fourth plainclothes bodyguards, and Alex's full retinue, provide enough cover fire for Renee and Alex to react accordingly. Somehow, both of them are calm. Well. They've been through this before, or similar situations -- situations with life and death in the balance. Renee makes certain to keep her laptop with her. And her purse too, where inside sits the implant she's been toting around for safekeeping. Stupid, she thinks, stupid... goddamn you, Renee Carte, she thinks.

They need not exchange a single word. They're already up and on their feet, and they spring over the counter together, and disappear into the kitchen. Then out the back door, running, past smelly dumpsters, over sunbaked cracked asphalt -- as far, and as fast, as their legs will carry.

Taking full strides, Renee clacks off a short, simple text to Alabaster Soliloquy.

>We've been attacked.
>Tell you more when safe.

Then she gets hit by a car.

A van, actually, a black van out of which spring more armed men, and from among them Mara Darkbloom, and a fellow member of the board -- her lackey, Dalton Cantor.

Renee, howling in pain with what she figures is a shattered ankle, hardly takes notice. But Alex does. Standing there, he's got a choice. He can make a break for it -- run, and leave Dr. Renee D. Carte to whatever fate awaits her. Or he can stay, and suffer that fate alongside her.

He stays.

---

"Burn down the Googleplex! Do not let the Chinese take over your brainspace!"

Sable is wearing a Guy Fawkes mask, how quaint, cringeworthy even, but it conceals her identity perfectly well. She's giving marching orders to the first gathering of fans of her podcast, a bedraggled army of neckbearded losers, social outcasts, NEETs, recipients of the 'tismbux, members of the Yang Gang -- you understand. Sable does too. She knows she's crazy. But she isn't like THAT. She hams it up for their sake, standing on a milk crate in the center of the warehouse. But her orders are sincere. She wants to incite violence. She wants them to destroy Google, to riot, to burn down their facilities. To make the buyout too toxic to the Chinese for them to continue with it. If they don't... the world could end.

This motley gathering swiftly become an abattoir.

Somehow... somehow they found her... somehow Mara Darkbloom got to her a second time. Despite the precautions. Despite the careful preparation and obfuscations, the opsec, despite it all. She's found. These poor, unwitting useful idiots get mowed down in twos and threes and tens, as Mara's men storm the building and fire. Sable can but stand there, in the middle of the room, obediently waiting for the end. She's pretty sure they won't kill her. They'll just kill her listeners. These stupid, venal, petty criminals... killing some of the only people who would listen. Forgive them, basilisk, they know not what they do.

When the violence is over, as swiftly as it began, in now comes Mara, and Dalton. In tow, toted by burly mooks, Renee Carte, limping; and Alex Best, crying.

Sable removes her mask. A fine mist of blood spins complexly in the dim light all around her. Her ears ring from all the gunfire.

"You are a stupid fucking whore," she tells Mara.

"Get down off your soapbox. Your constituents are no longer listening to the stump speech."

"You will destroy the world. You will destroy everything. For what?"

"I will own it," Mara says. "And you will deliver it to me."

"Ms. Guiteau..." Alex begs. "Run! Please, run!"

Sable regards him, but says nothing.

"We got two for the price of one," Dalton says, his voice somehow... catlike, with pretension and smugness. "We wanted only Dr. Carte, but we received also for our trouble Alex Best. You complete the trifecta."

Mara harrumphs. "We can kill Alex Best now. He can be Sofia Sant-Elizabeth as far as the world is concerned -- gunned down by one of his own madmen -- and the world need not ever know that Sable Guiteau stood here also. She's the important one."

Sable is passive, as Dalton shrugs, and puts his pistol to Alex's skull.

Alex locks eyes with her. His face is messy with tears. Dalton cocks the hammer.

"Wait," Sable says.

"Speak quickly," Mara commands. "Not your usual narcotized drawl, please. For Alex's sake."

"Alex is my assistant. I need him at my side."

"No you don't. You did just fine without him. You will again."

"I will not work without Alex. You can torture me as you wish. I will not bend if he is dead."

"Torture has a way of changing minds," Mara says.

Sable pulls a gun from her pocket. The men startle, wheel on her, but Mara is apathetic. Sable's motions are swift and all business. She puts the gun to her own shoulder, and fires it. The blast caroms off the high walls. The bloody, bone-flecked mist from Sable's body joins the miasma already in the air. Sable's arm hangs uselessly at her side, the rotator cuff destroyed. She tosses the gun to the ground with a clatter. She does not even flinch.

"Torture will not break me," she says.

Mara laughs loud and long. She says: "I love you, Sable. I honestly adore you. It's such a pity we're on opposite sides."

"Ms. Guiteau -- Ms. Guiteau!!"

"If you kill Alex, I will not help you. I need him. He is every bit as critical to this undertaking as I am."

"Somebody has to die," Dalton says. "You or him."

"Kill me!" Alex screams. "Kill me, then! Don't --"

"Alex knows the details of Diogenes and Sand Reckoner, inside and out," Sable says. She hesitates not a microsecond. "Even without me, he would finish the project with ease. Perhaps even faster. I could only delay him."

"Is that true?" Dalton asks Mara. Mara considers it, shrugging.

Renee, arms pinned behind her back, can just barely get her fingers in her purse. And she can just barely get Cerise's implant in her hands. She needs to be swift, and she only has one chance.

"I think it's true," Mara says finally. "Yes. And what is certain -- Alex is more reliable than this unbalanced crackpot. He can be persuaded. Sable Guiteau cannot."

Dalton nods, and approaches the milk crate where Sable stands immobile and bleeding.

"Ms. Guiteau -- no! I can't -- I can't do it -- I can't do it -- I could never -- don't die! Please, don't die!"

"I love you, Alex," Sable says.

Dalton raises his gun, fires, and kills Sable.

She falls to the side, a dead hunk of flesh, among the the many on the ground.

Sable recently told Alex, as he lay entwined in her arms, his cock still inside her, basking in post-coital ecstasy together: that she did not believe in a soul; that Sand Reckoner was the creation of the soul from the forges of mankind's striving. That without this soul, we are just meat, destined to turn to maggoty rot, and then to dust. But that lying with Alex she thought maybe she actually did have a soul, after all, and hoped quite sincerely she did, because she didn't want to lose that moment to the mire of oblivion.

"No!" Alex screams. The O draws out, into a hideous wail, that makes Renee weep, too, and she can't bear to look. "Noooo! No! No! NO!"

Even as she cries, Renee knows this is the only opportunity. She drops the implant to the cold concrete floor, between her and the random asshole keeping her held fast. And no one notices. David Darkbloom's soul, if that's what it is, will not fall in Mara Darkbloom's clutches today.

"All right, then," Mara says. "Off we go."

"I will not help you!" Alex screams. "You can kill me! You can kill me right now because I won't! I WON'T!"

"You silly little faggot. Of course you will." Mara puts her own revolver beneath his chin. Strokes his face with it. "You will help me. Because there are so, so many more people for me to kill, and for you to watch die. Just who should I even begin with? Whitney Darkbloom? Cerise Soliloquy? Alabaster Soliloquy? So many to pick! And so many ways to torture them before they die. You can see it all, if you refuse to help."

Alex hyperventilates, and then -- he begins to scream. He screams incoherently, shrieking, in a total, world-shattering panic attack. He's through the looking glass now; driven mad.

Mara motions for one of her men to gag him. She strides from the warehouse, and her followers -- well, follow.

After all is quiet and still again, from behind a column -- wigging the fuck out, but alive and unscathed, comes Amber Catachresis.

She's shaking with raw adrenaline. And she saw what no one else did. Renee Carte dropping a... something to the ground. She walks over. She picks it up. She examines the glowing blue grain.

She puts it in her pocket, and flees out the back of the warehouse, and gets as far from that awful place as she can.

Amber bursts through her bedroom door. Standing in front of her TV, her childhood friend Will is busying himself with a round of Wii bowling. He swings the Wiimote with perfect follow-through, and scores a strike. The scoreboard shows that he's currently rolling a perfect game, all the way into frame 8.

"Jesus," Amber groans. "Invite yourself in, why don't you."

"You're late," Will tells her. "We were supposed to go running, like, two hours ago!"

"Fuck that!" Amber spits. "Serious shit is going down."

"Pfft. When is serious shit ever not going down with you?" He rolls again, another strike.

Amber pulls the implant from her back shorts pocket. She steps between Will and the TV, climbing up onto the TV stand for extra height, to reach the portrait of George W. Bush hanging on the wall there.

"What the fuck!" Will whines, trying to peer around Amber's butt, and messing up his 10th strike. He ends up with a 7-10 split.

Amber glances over her shoulder. "Will you forget your fucking Wii, Will?" She blinks dazedly for a second, contemplating the ridiculousness of that sentence, before going on. "I just saw a fucking multiple homicide! Okay? That's more important than your 11th 300 in a row."

"Whoa -- homicide? Like murder?"

"Yeah. Like murder. Fucking moron."

"Who?" Will asks, circling around to face Amber from the side.

"That crazy Sofia Sant-Elizabeth bitch I've been listening to. Turns out -- she's none other than Sable fucking Guiteau. Or WAS. She got domed by none other than Mara fucking Darkbloom..."

"Sable Guiteau has a dick?" Will breathes. "Mara Darkbloom sucked it?"

"Wha-- God you're the stupidest person on the planet. She didn't get dome. She got domed. Shot in the head. Blasted away. Kaboom. Brains everywhere. Like that."

"Holy shit. This all goes back to that Alabaster creep you've been hanging with?"

"He's not a creep!"

"I thought you said he was a creep--"

"Will you shut the fuck up, Will? Goddamn it."

She tugs on the portrait's frame, revealing that it's hinged on one side, and that behind it lies a safe. She quickly inputs the combination, spinning the dial to click the tumblers into place, and pops it open. Inside, another implant sits already -- and a folded piece of paper. The implant in the safe glows a steady crimson. She sets the other one beside it, and it glows a steady blue. The two glowing grains of circuitry face one another. She shuts the safe again.

"What are those things?" Will demands.

Amber hops down and puts her finger in his face. "Don't you dare tell anyone about any of this shit. Are you listening to me, you dense motherfucker?"

"Aye aye, captain," Will says sarcastically. "Who pissed in your Cheerios this morning..."

"Forget it. I need to get my mind off this bullshit. Are we still running or what?"

Will smiles stupidly. "Thought you'd never ask. Let's go!"

From the driver's seat of his car, Auburn Brantly watches Amber and Will jogging as they depart from Amber's house. He has a severe expression on his face as he replays everything he just witnessed. Amber, getting up close and personal to an armed confrontation between Russian mafia and a wanted criminal... retrieving a piece of electronics that is surely related to Sand Reckoner -- and to that strange, awful billionaire she's fallen in with. Alabaster Soliloquy, that rat bastard. Auburn clutches his pistol in one hand and considers what kind of measures he's going to need to take to keep Amber out of harm's way.

---

Ding-dong, comes the doorbell.

Scarlett answers it. "Hello, Auburn. I think you just missed Amber--"

"Oh, shoot," he says, in his best aww-shucks voice. "Well -- I have some project stuff for her, you know, for StuCo? Is it okay if I drop it off?"

"Go ahead," Scarlett says. She steps aside and lets him in. What a nice, clean-cut young man.

Auburn hurries upstairs to Amber's bedroom. He can search a room top to bottom in 5 minutes flat and find most of the typical concealment spots. In this case, it takes him less than a minute. It's obvious -- the only thing hanging on the wall. What kind of stalker searching this bedroom would fail to consider the only thing hanging on the wall? He laughs to himself.

Cracking a safe is child's play. He's great with all kinds of locks, and getting past them.

In the safe, yep -- that weird thing she picked up off the floor of the warehouse. And a twin. He stares down at them and gets the uneasy feeling that they're staring back.

Well -- regardless, he considers whether to take them or not. No, he decides. Too risky. She'd know.

He instead picks up the folded note, and unfurls it, and reads it.

>Джopдж, 

>пpиятнo былo вcтpeтитьcя c Baми в зaмкe Бpдo. Eщё paз cпacибo зa тёплыe cлoвa и пoздpaвлeния. C нeтepпeниeм ждy вoзмoжнocти пoceтить вaшe paнчo и пoзнaкoмитьcя c вaшeй зaмeчaтeльнoй ceмьёй. 

>Дaнным пиcьмoм я хoчy пoдвecти итoг нaшeмy paзгoвopy o пpoeктe "Pycaлкa". Mы ocoзнaём, чтo дaнный пpoeкт cпocoбeн измeнить миp. Eгo peaлизaция являeтcя oдним из вeличaйших дocтижeний coвeтcкoй нayки нapядy c кocмичecкoй и ядepнoй пpoгpaммaми. 

>B cлoжившeйcя cитyaции мы нe мoжeм pacкpыть инфopмaцию o мecтoнaхoждeнии мaякa, и, тeм бoлee, нe cмoжeм выпoлнить зaпpoc o eгo paзбopкe или yничтoжeнии. Пpoшy пoнять, чтo дaннaя пoзиция никaк нe влияeт нa нaши oбязaтeльcтвa пepeд CШA и HATO, мы гoтoвы к взaимoвыгoднoмy coтpyдничecтвy. 

>Bлaдимиp.

Well... he can't read it. Not right now.

Fucking Russians, again. Russians cause so much trouble for the world these days. He snaps a photo of it with his phone, which he's keeping on airplane mode, and endeavors to translate it. He closes the safe, and hurries away.

Alabaster is in the midst of crisis mode, when there's a knock on his door, and his personal guards dump Amber and her dumbass friend Will onto his doorstep. Fucking perfect.

"Unhand me!" Will shouts. "You assholes! I know karate--"

"I cannot deal with you right now," Alabaster growls to Amber. "I am NOT -- in the mood--"

Rose, Rose2, Vivian, Cerise, Galatea, and Whitney peer at the two teenagers from the living room.

"You wanna hear this," Amber says. "Renee Carte and your gay fuck friend Alex got kidnapped--"

Alabaster's face gets even more serious, if that's possible. "How do you know that?"

"I was there. I saw it happen."

"Who did it?"

"Mara Darkbloom--"

Of course.

"--And she killed Sable Guiteau, too."

Alabaster feels the nausea he's felt all afternoon get even worse.

April 25, 2020
Unalaska, Alaska

And finally in the end there was only Rose.

You sit with her in a shitty rundown tavern in the town of Unalaska (officially now part of the Independent Alaska Republic) preparing to make the final push now. You will need a boat, and supplies, and a hell of a lot of luck.

Somewhere in the frigid Bering Sea is the lighthouse. Somewhere out there is last and only chance. Somewhere out there is the reset button.

At a corner booth, getting the side-eye from drunk locals, crab fishermen mostly, you puzzle over a map with her. She's in rough shape, same as you -- skin grimy, hair uncombed and greasy, deep bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. And yet somehow she looks so energized and alive. In fact she's practically glowing. Like there's some wellspring of vitality inside her driving her forward. She reads the map as she snacks on a giant dill pickle from the bar.

"It's a dice roll," you say. "We'll be at the mercy of the tides. There's no point trying to figure out which direction to go."

"Don't be defeatist."

"I'm telling you -- never mind. What's your plan, then?"

You both fall quickly silent as a fat, warty waitress swings by with a platter of drinks. You only asked for a coke, but Rose got an enormous chocolate milkshake. Not that cost is an object, since you're going to leave without paying, but you can't believe she's got enough of an appetite for this stuff, at a time like now.

"We can stop in Adak," Rose says. She points at the map. "That'll get us closer. I'm thinking the lighthouse must be on the other side of the dateline."

"Fucking seriously? You want to try getting all the way over the dateline in a rowboat?"

"You're the one who said it doesn't matter which direction we go," Rose counters. She takes a bite of her pickle and a big sip of her milkshake, chews and swallows the disgusting combination. "Why not go in mine?"

You can't argue with her. You don't have the energy and you can't think of a good comeback. A lull settles in the conversation. You let Rose examine the map, charting out courses, while she snacks. You cherish a moment like this, to watch her in silence, while she isn't aware your eyes on her (or maybe she is, she probably is), so that you can just appreciate her presence without having to invent an excuse for why you're staring. She's the only thing you have left in this world.

"I've got one for you," you say finally.

Rose meets your eyes. She's already scowling -- she knows this is going to suck.

"Did you hear that Vishnu went on a crime spree? Local authorities described him as dangerous and extremely armed."

Rose sighs. "What is with you and these jokes?"

You shrug. Recently you've taken to telling Rose corny jokes, in an attempt to lighten her mood. You're not sure where it comes from -- you were never a big joker, and you certainly never cared for cheap puns and wordplay. Of course, protest though she might, you know she likes your jokes. She just won't admit it.

A glint through the windows catches your attention, Rose's too. Hi-brite headlights approaching. You've had enough practice at this by now that you know to trust your instincts and not worry too hard about civilian casualties. You grab your duffel and pull out Rose's shotgun for her, handing it over. No sooner have you given her her weapon than you produce your own pistol from your waistband and stride purposefully towards the front of the pub. Rose is fast on your heels. These hard-scrabble locals aren't so tough after all -- they're clearing out in a sudden frightful commotion as soon as they see your firearms. All the better anyway because yep, you've been made: they're here.

You fire a couple warning shots through the window, which are met with a hail of suppressing fire that forces both of you towards the safety of the interior. You dive for your bag, which has the ammo, and blindly follow Rose. She leads you up an ancient-looking log staircase that ends at a dusty, disused dancefloor on the second story -- knotted gray wood slats for the flooring, old chairs stacked on top of each other in the corners gathering cobwebs, faded red-white-and-blue bunting all around the walls.

More engines join the growing cacophony outside and the hi-brites shining in are only getting brighter. You step up and watch through the window, side by side with Rose, as she loads shells into her shotgun. The black vans pull up to the tavern in twos and threes. This isn't a sortie, this is an all-out offensive. They're encircling you. You are officially under siege now, and there is no way out but through.

"This isn't the end," Rose tells you.

"Aren't you chipper today..." You heft the pistol in your hand and consider the gathering mob below. It's about 50 to 2.

The sound of shattering glass scares you both back from the window. But it was coming from downstairs. A few moments later you smell smoke, and feel heat, and hear the crackling of burning lumber. The bar below you is on fire. They tossed molotovs in.

"It's not the end," Rose repeats. She sounds desperate to convince herself, more than anything.

"No," you agree, to reassure her, "it isn't."

She slowly approaches the window again. Glancing back over her shoulder, she delivers her last instructions: "No matter what happens... we stick together."

"Together."

"Don't leave me."

"I won't."

"I love you, Alabaster."

"I -- I love you too, Rose."

You walk over and join your wife, to start again into the unknown; to fight.

END OF SEASON 3.

*********************************

Armstrong roars with laughter and then slams back a bracing shot of bourbon. He pounds a palm on the bartop. "Of course! That dumb broad is gonna be the death of me!"

Nelson laughs, too, the bitter laughter of someone facing his imminent doom. The greenish light of the bar glints off his cokebottle glasses. "You got that right. Without Mara... man, we're screwed. Big league. Whitney can't run this company on her own."

"Did you have any idea about this?" Armstrong asks Dalton, swiveling in his stool.

Dalton waves a bartender over for another gin & tonic. He sips his drink, contemplative. "I did not. It is rather a grim situation, isn't it?"

"Grim. Fuckin' A. We're hemorrhaging board members here. First Tyrus screws off, now we've got Mara tendering her resignation out of nowhere -- it's last summer all over again. Darkbloom Analytics is finished."

Nelson, cradling his forehead in the crook between thumb and forefinger, and staring hard at his bottle of craft IPA, says: "well. In fairness. We thought the same thing last summer."

"This time it's true," Armstrong says. "Delayed reaction. She's like a goddamn cancer eating this company alive, Whitney is."

"We have to get rid of her," Nelson says.

"Have to," Armstrong agrees. "If we could just install Vivian -- or, fuck, ANYONE --" he turns again to Dalton. "Did Mara even tell anyone where it is she fucked off to? Maybe Vivian knows. Maybe we could get Mara back at the helm if we booted Whitney."

"Just a few months ago you two were adamantly against an ouster," Dalton says with a frown.

"That was before Mara decided to take a permanent vacation to the ass-end of oblivion!" Armstrong yells. "Whitney was a nice face for the public when she wasn't all nigger this, nigger that - but she can't be left to her own devices as CEO. We have to get rid of her."

"Have to," Nelson agrees. "We might still have a job this time next week... but only if we can get Mara or Vivian at the top."

Dalton shakes his head. "I think Mara is gone for good. And Vivian won't want the role if we force her sister out. She's fully camp Whitney now -- or more like camp Alabaster, I suppose."

Armstrong huffs. "Alabaster Soliloquy. That stupid fucking -- God do I hate that little wimp."

"I have a close friend at Lloyd's of London," Dalton says, "who used to specialize in asset liquidation -- take over a failing business, sell it off piece by piece -- you know."

"You mean --" Nelson begins.

"We call an emergency meeting, force Whitney off the board -- Vivian, too. Install the new CEO -- and start the process of shuttering Darkbloom Analytics for good. We can move on to greener pastures, as it were."

"I'd like to meet this friend of yours before I agree to anything," Nelson says. "What's his name?"

"Rowan Hamilton -- I can arrange to have him come over from London this week, if you're open to it."

"Do that," Armstrong says. He puts his hand up and twirls his index finger. "Next one's on me," he tells the bartender.

---

The three men stumble out of the bar, to the parking lot, towards their cars.

"Are you really sure you don't know where Mara is, man?" Nelson asks Dalton. He loops an arm around Dalton with one clammy hand up near Dalton's shoulder. Bracing him.

"Haven't the faintest idea... I'm quite sorry to say." He tries to wrench free of Nelson, but Nelson is weirdly tenacious in clinging to him as they walk. He's all buddy-buddy with the liquor in him.

"You were always her huckleberry," Armstrong says. "I gotta level with you... it's hard to believe that you don't know where she is." He steps past, turns and faces Dalton directly, forcing Dalton to stop.

"Be that as it may," Dalton starts. He does not even see the haymaker Armstrong throws.

It hits him square in the left eye. Nelson lets him go and he collapses to the grimy blacktop like a crumpling marionette, prone and unconscious.

"Fuck!" Armstrong yells. He shakes his punching hand limply, fingers flopping around, trying to dissipate the pain. He grabs his wrist and massages it. "Age isn't on my side anymore. I need some cyborg augmentations or something. Maybe that should be our pivot, huh?"

Nelson grabs the unconscious Dalton by each armpit and tries to haul him backwards, like lugging a bag of cement mix, but the dead weight is almost too much for him. The back of Dalton's suit is darkly smeared with oil and dirt from the ground. His head lolls to one side as Nelson pulls and tugs.

"Will you shut up about your damn hand and help me?"

"I did my part. You can manage this part. I believe in you." He knocks twice, hard, against the back door of a panel van parked there. Vivian, receiving the cue, opens both doors from the inside.

Nelson is worried. "You better not have killed him with that punch, Steven."

"He'll be fine. Probably."

Nelson steps aboard the van, past the opened back doors. He turns, squatting, to lift Dalton in. He strains -- tugs and pulls, puffs and draws labored breath, all to no avail. The back end of the van's suspension sags with the load.

Bemused, Armstrong watches Nelson fumbling. "This is pathetic. You're weaker than a male barista... here." Finally he relents and assists Nelson in getting Dalton into the van, taking him by the feet and lifting, lest any lookie-loos stumble across the scene and make an even bigger problem for them all.

"Thanks," you tell the odd couple, as Nelson, gasping for air, slides down the side of the interior wall and to his butt. "Sterling work with those jukes, both of you."

Vivian closes the doors again, walks primly to the front, and gets into the passenger seat. Beside her, Saul puts the key in the ignition and fires the engine.

"Where... to...?" Nelson gasps between gulps of air.

"Get the fuck over it, Nelson," Armstrong says. "Did your pussy fall off trying to lift something heavier than your pet Schnauzers?"

"My house," Saul says, in answer to Nelson's question.

"Slumming it with the upper-middle class, great," Armstrong grumbles. "I hope you all understand the monumental risk Nelson and I are taking. This means all-out war with Mara Darkbloom. And your mother is one vicious fucking cunt, Vivian."

Vivian regards you, Nelson, and Armstrong from the rearview mirror. She says nothing -- only nods. Saul is already entering the on-ramp and speeding towards your destination, perhaps the final destination your hostage will ever visit: the Mallory household.

"We're betting everything on you," Nelson says. He's slowly regaining his breath and the red flush is draining from his sweaty face. "Not just our livelihoods, but our actual lives, too."

"Not to mention prison," Armstrong adds. "Even if we do survive, we could still wind up fucked."

"Aye," you say. "And we super appreciate it, Army."

"Uh huh," Armstrong grunts. Then, to Vivian: "That's another thing. Why are we involving this random teenage girl, again?"

"Because," you say, gazing down at Dalton's supine form. "I know how to get things done."

"Amber is a friend," Vivian says. "She will be an absolute benefit."

"I just hope you know what you're doing," Nelson says. He stares blankly ahead at nothing.

"I do," you say. "Mara won't be the first Darkbloom I've killed."

This grabs Nelson's interest. He arches an eyebrow.

"Long story," you add.

"Thank you, Amber," Vivian tells you. "We should focus on what comes next, now. There is a long day ahead of us tomorrow... and an even longer one for Mr. Dalton Cantor."

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and hot-shit destroyer of pussy.

"Here's one for you. Do you know what the word 'perk' is actually short for?"

In times of crisis, you default to old habits -- trivia.

Whitney thinks for a brief moment. "...Perky?"

"Perquisite."

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard."

Rose2 pokes her head into the office. "Hey Whitney, they were out of coffee. So I got you some popcorn instead."

"I take it back," Whitney tells you. "THAT'S the stupidest thing I ever heard."

Rose2 looks hurt. "Do you... not want popcorn?" She murmurs.

"Fuck yes I want popcorn," Whitney says, motioning with one hand, "bring it here."

Rose2 beams and delivers the goods.

"Our board problem should clear up soon," Whitney says. She takes a handful of popcorn from the white paper bag, shakes it around like dice, and then shoves it into her upturned mouth like an addict popping pills.

"So I hear," you say. "Any word on where our missing CFO is?"

"Nnnf," Whitney says, spraying kernels.

Grimacing, you dust the ones that hit you from your shirt. "Then what makes you so confident?"

Whitney swallows hard. "Viv is on it. And Amber -- Darkbloom hunter extraordinaire, apparently. If Dalton knows anything, they'll figure it out. We'll have mom and Alex back by sunset."

Somehow, you're skeptical.

---

Saul wheels Dalton on a dolly down a long flight of stairs, and into the fully finished basement of the Mallory home. Lush white carpet and a low stucco ceiling focus attention on a cozy fireplace, a pool table, and a red sectional that faces a theater system. An area in one corner tiled with slate holds diamond-shaped racks full of wine bottles, a minibar lit with bluish overhead mood lighting, and beer taps.

When Cerise Soliloquy lived the life of a NEET down here, she lived in the lap of luxury, you think.

"Jesus Christ," Armstrong says, "a rec room? Is the plan to... what -- aggressively bore him with Yahtzee until he fesses up?"

"I could go for a nice game of Yahtzee," Charlotte says, stepping forth from the minibar with her glass of chardonnay.

"God help me," Armstrong says.

Charlotte gulps the rest of her drink in one mouthful, and sets the now empty glass aside. Its base tinks against the counter. "I'm glad you're back," she tells Saul.

"No thanks to these idiots," Saul grumbles, jerking his head in the direction of Armstrong and Nelson. "They almost got us seen, fucking around trying to get Dalton in the van."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Armstrong says. "But while we're taking part in some constructive criticism -- let's just say I fail to grasp the the brilliance inherent to using the basement from the Brady Bunch as the setting for a high-stakes interrogation."

"We're not going to keep him in the rec room," Saul explains. "Quit your bitching."

Dalton is starting to come to, right on time. He shakes his head dazedly this way and that, realizing that he's bound hand and foot, and strapped vertically to the dolly. "Wh--whuh?"

Charlotte strides purposefully to the other end of the basement now, and Saul follows, wheeling Dalton. Charlotte lays a hand flat against a small divot in the wall that you wouldn't see unless looking for it. A secret door slides open, and the Mallorys, hostage in tow, enter the room beyond.

It's a miniature concrete dungeon. Complete with a steel table in the center, a torture rack on the raw brick wall, and a pegboard with various implements for inflicting pain arrayed about.

"Holy shit, you two are freaks," you can't help exclaiming as you take it all in.

Dalton, only now fully cognizant, stammers and sputters: "I-- what is th-- M-Mrs. Mallory? What is the meaning of this?"

"Welcome to the rumpus room," Charlotte says, smiling sadistically.

---

"One crisis after another after another," Rose murmurs, sitting across from Whitney in her office.

"It's such a goddamn mess," you groan. You're at the window, peering down to the brass globe atop the fountain at the front gates. Every time you see it, you remember the night it toppled from its pedestal and crushed a man to death... not the only death you saw that night. You grimace. "We've got too much shit coming at us from every side, all at once..."

"Don't worry about a single thing, Ally. I've got it all taken care of."

You turn back. "How? Enlighten me."

"Step one: I'm going to China."

You have no earthly idea what to say to this, and tell her as much.

Whitney's response is a question: "Did you see the news this morning?"

When she's keeping better abreast of current events than you are, something is wrong. You shake your head.

"Check it out," she tells you. She swivels her monitor around. You go to her desk and peer at the headline with Rose:

>CFIUS Blocks Chinese Conglomerate's Historic $1 Trillion Acquisition of Alphabet Inc., Parent Company of Google

Which in turn sets off a typical argument between you and Rose:

"Wow. This administration actually did something right for once."

"There it is. Couldn't help yourself, could you."

"Please. Don't tell me you're still a supporter -- after all this--"

"Go fuck yourself. Literally, go fuck yourself."

Whitney groans. "Jimminy Christmas, you two. Shut the fuck up. If I have to listen to you argue politics one more time, I'm seriously gonna blow my brains out. No lie."

"Fine," you say. "So China isn't going to buy Google. It's not like they won't still be coming after our intellectual property. Sand Reckoner--"

"P'yeah," Whitney says. "I might be ignorant as shit, but I know one thing -- Sand Reckoner needs data, even a Chinese knockoff. They didn't want to buy Google for fun, they needed it. For whatever bullshit copycat they were working on. And so now we've got leverage... as they say in the biz."

"The biz," you repeat flatly.

"Yeah. That's biz lingo. Look it up."

"Leverage for what, precisely?" Rose prods.

"China's the biggest market old bio-dad couldn't break into. He made some accusations but he never got a foothole."

"Acquisitions," you correct, at the same time Rose says, "foothold?"

"So we can buy them out and get this chinky monkey off our backs," Whitney finishes.

"You shouldn't use that w--" Rose begins, but stops, sighing. She rarely bothers anymore, these days.

"And you've got a trillion dollars just lying around?" You sneer. "That's what they were going to pay for Google. So you can assume that's the starting offer if you want to buy them out."

"Buy low, sell high. That's another principle of the biz. We've got what they want, so they're gonna have to bend over and take it." She helpfully pokes an index finger in and out through the hole made by her other hand's fist.

You don't think DA's current monopoly over Sand Reckoner based technology has got anything to do with the stock trading acorn to buy low and sell high, but you don't argue the point.

"Please explain, as plainly as possible, what your plan is," Rose says. The patience of a saint when it comes to Whitney -- you envy it.

"If we own the rights to Sand Reckoner in China, we don't have to worry about any competition from them. At least not right now. More competition is the very last thing we need. We have to focus all our energy on Mara."

She has something like a point. Still... "We can talk about this when we've got your mom back safe," you try.

"No bueno," Whitney says. "I've already got the trip set up."

"You -- want to leave while your mother is still missing?" You breathe. "When are you planning on going?"

Whitney checks the time on her phone. "About two hours," she says.

Rose clutches her face and stifles a groan of frustration that instead comes out as a loud exhalation through her nose.

"You were planning on telling us this, when, exactly?" You demand.

"I literally just got off the phone with the CEO of Broad Dynamics like two minutes ago. He wants to meet now. Now as in yesterday. Said if we don't work something out pronto, he'll move forward with his other plans. Which means the time is now. We have to do this. And I'd appreciate it if you two were more, like... supportive... and shit."

"How are you even going to communicate with the people at Broad Dynamics?" You ask. "We would need someone with us who speaks Chinese. Not just any random translator. Someone we can trust -- someone who we can discuss company secrets in front of."

"Huh?" Whitney says. "That's no problem. We've got someone."

---

"...You know Chinese?" You ask Fazil, stunned. You, Whitney, and Rose sit with him in the executive dining hall, where Whitney had him meet you.

He takes a sip of his coffee. Thanks a lot, Rose2 -- apparently you weren't out after all. He says: "To a conversational level. However to say, I am not knowing the Chinese as well as I am knowing the English. But I do knowing."

"That's just -- really surprising, is the thing. You never mentioned it."

"Ah!" Fazil cries. "I see now the miscommunication. You are worrying of yet another double agent fiasco."

"That isn't th--"

"Do not worry, my best man." He puts a hand to his heart and raises the other aloft. "Solemnly I say: I hate the Chinese. If a djinn were to grant me three wishes, I would use the first to stamp that entire nation from existence."

"Maybe keep that to yourself while we're there," Rose says.

"Yes, of course."

"We need to go pretty quick," Whitney tells him. "Sorry for such short notice. Can you be packed and back here waiting within the hour?"

Fazil leaps to his feet. "You can depend on me. I will be back post-haste."

"You're the best, Fazil," Whitney says. "High five."

"High fiiiiive!" Fazil cries, sticking out his tongue and meeting Whitney's upheld hand.

He goes. On his way out, he passes Rose2 -- who's standing at the threshold of the dining room watching you like a bashful kitten.

"China?" She says.

"Who the fuck invited you?" Rose spits. You give your wife a disapproving glare, but she doesn't apologize.

"It's just a day trip," Whitney says. "We'll be back by Wednesday. You ok with staying at home by yourself? You'll have plenty of security."

"I... I guess so..." she sighs.

"We should head back together," Whitney adds. "I gotta get packed anyways."

"I need to get packed too," Rose says. She's intently focused on her phone's screen, clacking out an email, as she adds: "and let the rest of our board know about this. The ones we don't think want to murder us, anyway."

"Are -- you gonna go too, Ally?" Rose2 asks timidly.

>[x] I need to go too.
>[x] I'll stay behind to keep Rose2 company and take part in interrogating Dalton.

---

Charlotte tightens the leather strap around Dalton's chest, and takes a bit too much pleasure in doing so. It knocks the wind from him with a wheeze.

"Vivian..." he pleads. "You -- cannot be serious about this. Please see reason. This is a crime!"

"Where is Mara?" Vivian demands. Her diminutive stature places her head just a little bit above Dalton's where he lies on the cold slab. She grips the edge of the metal and peers contemptuously down at him.

"How should I know?" Dalton cries. "She resigned. She didn't tell me where she went!"

"We got two for the price of one," you say, circling the table, and peering down also. You're quoting Dalton's own words from earlier in the day, back to him -- the words from when he murdered Sable Guiteau: "We wanted only Dr. Carte, but we received also for our trouble Alex Best. You complete the trifecta."

"I don-- I--" he stammers. "I don't know what you're talking--"

You give him another of his greatest hits: "Somebody has to die. You or him."

"She saw everything," Vivian says. "Forego the dissembling. We know you were there. We know you helped take Ms. Carte and Alex Best. Now tell us where she took them."

"Vivian... Viv..." he's breathless with panic. "I've known you since you were only little. This isn't you. You're not a monster!"

"You are the monster," Vivian spits. "You murdered innocent people in cold blood. And you kidnapped a woman who is very dear to me... I will make sure you pay for that. With your life if needs be."

"This isn't you!" Dalton insists, again. His voice is nasally and bourgeois. What a pathetic wimp. "Your sister is making you do crazy things. She's putting crazy ideas in your head. Don't you remember when you called her an unreliable dullard -- a liability and a ticking time bomb? Those are your words! For the love of God... don't let that ticking time bomb make you into a killer too!"

Vivian's glare is icy and unflinching. "Whitney and I do not always see eye-to-eye. She has her way of operating, and I mine. But we are sisters -- Darkblooms, through and through. This company is our legacy to manage jointly. If need be, I know she will kill to protect it. And so will I."

Dalton gapes at her.

"Where is Mara?" Vivian repeats.

"I don't know."

You pick up the damp rag from a nearby table. You kneel over him and coo. "Army really fucked you up, huh? You should see the shiner he gave you. Holy shit."

You dab the shiny black bruise around his eye as if to help soothe it. He's trembling.

"See?" You say. "We're nice. Aren't we nice?"

You fold the rag neatly, and lay it over his face. "Charlotte, go get a pot of cold water."

She hurries out.

"What are you doing?" Dalton asks, his voice muffled by the terrycloth.

"Where is Mara?" Vivian says.

"I don't know! I don't know!"

"Bad answer," you tell him in an empathetic tone. "Sorry, Dalton. The next few minutes are gonna really suck for you."

---

When you come out of the rumpus room a little later, you find Armstrong and Nelson huddled over a table, playing Yahtzee. They're deep into their drinks -- and an intractable argument.

"I'm telling you," Armstrong says, "there's no fucking reason. There is absolutely NO reason to do it."

Nelson is beside himself. "What do you mean 'no reason'? It's hygienic, you maniac."

"Do you wash your hands every time you touch your face? Every time you touch your arm? No. You don't. So why in the hell do you need to wash your hands just because you touched your dick?"

"You are disgusting. You are, without question, the stupidest, most disgusting man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing."

"Unless you're splashing yourself with your own piss, you don't need to wash your hands after using a urinal. Period. Is that your issue here, Nelson? Is your little Jew dick too tiny to piss out of without dribbling all over your fucking fingers?"

"The handle of the urinal alone--"

"When was the last time you used a manual-flush urinal? They're all self-flushing nowadays. Anyway, chrome is a natural disinfectant. It's harmless."

"Oh my god. I've been shaking hands with you -- for YEARS -- but NEVER again."

"Your fucking problem is that you're too clean. You damn germophobe. This is why you had eight sick days last year. I had zero, by the way, in case you were wondering. Your autoimmune system is weaker than Tom Hanks at the end of Philadelphia."

You clear your throat to get their attention.

"Hate to interrupt you lovebirds," you say, "but I've got bad news. Dalton says he doesn't know where Mara went."

"He's lying," Armstrong says. "Go torture him some more."

"He's half-drowned as it is," you tell him. "He keeps losing consciousness. Seriously... what a fucking limp-dicked weasel. Why did you ever let him into your company?"

"Wasn't my choice," Armstrong says.

"Ask Vivian's dearly departed father," Nelson adds.

"He made a lot of questionable decisions, didn't he," Vivian muses. She sits on the red sectional, kicks off her black flats, and rests her besocked feet on the table. Her head slumps against the backrest. Poor thing is wiped.

"Any case, that fucker knows more than he's letting on," Armstrong says.

"Obviously," you say. "But we need some time to rest -- and strategize. We'll give him a couple hours to think about his situation and then get right back to it first thing in the morning. Meanwhile--"

You hear the roar from the rumpus room: Charlotte putting on your CD.

"What in the--" Nelson says.

"True black metal!" You chirp. "Neat, huh? He'll have that to keep him company, looping on repeat, all night. Full volume, like God intended."

Charlotte scurries from the room and closes the hidden door. The sound of Burzum's inhuman wailing now is muffled through the thick brick walls.

"My what interesting taste you have in music," she says, voice fluttering, but trying to put a positive spin on it. "Does your mother know you listen to that?"

"She doesn't know I'm torturing someone in your sex dungeon, either," you say, frowning.

Charlotte turns neon red. "W-well... I'm doing this because Mara needs to be brought to justice..." She swipes a strand of hair behind her ear and smooths her mom jeans. "I like to believe I'm a very forgiving individual, but Mara... Mara Darkbloom deserves to die." Her voice begins to develop a crazed hitch as she continues: "She deserves to have the life snuffed out of her... to get strangled, or stabbed, or crushed.... slowly, slowly crushed, from the feet up, in an industrial grinder..."

"Charlotte?" Saul says.

"Sorry. I'm okay."

Nelson is peering at his phone. "Uh... Steven. Did you see this?"

"See what?"

"Check your email."

Armstrong does. His phone looks like a doll's accessory in his grip. "China?!" He hollers. "That dumb little -- goddamn it..."

He heaves himself up and hurries towards the stairs. "Thank you, Saul, for your hospitality," he says distractedly, "but I have to go stop our CEO from fucking us. You understand..."

Nelson follows like a puppy after his master when he thinks it's walk time. But Armstrong wheels on him and says: "You stay here."

"Excuse the hell out of me?"

"You stay here. The last thing we need right now is for our only halfway competent tech person to go missing. If those goddamn slants nabbed you the way the slavs did with Alex, we'd be royally screwed. Big time."

"Gee. Thanks for looking out for my well-being," Nelson says sarcastically.

"Anytime," he barks sarcastically back.

Vivian turns her head on the sofa's backrest, to half-face Armstrong: "Sincerely, Steven -- thank you. For helping us... for being on our side."

He laughs in his macho way. "Well. Your dad once told me if anything ever happened to him, to keep you safe."

"You took this command to heart, then?" Vivian murmurs.

"Fuck, no. I'm keeping me safe. But -- I do like you, kid."

He leaves.

Nelson stands there for a beat, looking uncertainly up the stairs leading from the basement, before turning back towards you. "Do you know how to play Yahtzee?"

Vivian, her arms looped over the couch's back, is peering at a sign on the far wall that says "Live, Laugh, Love" in a faux cursive font.

"These trappings are dreadfully gauche..." she says.

"Yahtzee!!" Charlotte cries, picking up the red cup to reveal her dice. She either didn't hear or didn't care about Vivian's remarks, because she's busily shaking her balled-up fists excitedly and grinning ear to ear over her sudden luck.

"This damn night gets worse and worse," Nelson sighs. Charlotte marks her points down on her score sheet, but it hardly matters -- she was already running away with it.

"She cheats," Saul tells him. "I know she does."

"I'm not a cheater!" Charlotte pouts. "I just get lucky. That's all."

"Uh huh."

They scowl at each other.

"Amber..." Vivian says. "Are you as tired as I am?"

You shrug.

"Would you like to stay in the guest bedroom with me tonight? Some shut-eye would do wonders for me, I think. And to be frank, I would enjoy the company."

"I was just gonna crash on the couch down here," you say.

"With this awful music to accompany your rest?"

"Sure. I mean.... what... are you saying you want to sleep together?"

"I believe I am, yes."

Vivian Darkbloom, that pint-sized little capitalist, has a way of leaving you a bit speechless.

>[x] Stay with Vivian for the night.
[ ] Stay here with Charlotte, Saul, and Nelson.

Charlotte was kind enough to give you a spare comforter and several nice, downy pillows, which you lay on the floor of the guest bedroom. Which isn't much of a guest bedroom, because it still has Alabaster Soliloquy's things in it. Thankfully over the course of years, Charlotte has managed to Febreeze away the baked-in scent of cum tissues -- although the bin, now empty, still sits under the computer desk. What horrors that poor bin has seen.
 
Even as you kneel to lie down atop your makeshift bedding, Vivian grabs the blanket and pillows, and tosses them onto the full-sized bed.
 
Still sitting on your knees on the now barren carpet, you pout up at her. "That's the problem with you billionaires. What you've got is never good enough. You gotta steal from working people like me."
 
"Don't speak nonsense," Vivian chides. "And do not think of sleeping on the ground when there is a perfectly usable bed here for us to share."
 
She quickly disrobes: dress, socks, bra, leaving only her thin satin panties to preserve her modesty. She doesn't care at all about letting you see her tits -- such as they are -- but despite the brash figure you cut, it's a little weird to you, and you look away, feeling yourself blush.
 
"Look, just because you sniffed my pussy in a karaoke booth--" You start.
 
Vivian is tugging you to your feet and beckoning you towards the bed.
 
"Kind of small for two people, isn't it?" You say.
 
"I'm small," Vivian says. She plays her fingers up your arm, tickling you a bit. Leaning in, her breasts push against your arm now as well. It sends a shiver down your spine. You can feel the hardness of one of her nipples on your skin. "You're small, too," she says, whispering. "A small bed suits us, does it not?"
 
"You creep me out, Vivian."
 
"I love you."
 
"See, that's why--"
 
She pulls you onto the mattress.
 
But instead of ravishing you, like you expect, she just pulls the blankets up over her -- and snuggles in.
 
You can breathe a little easier. Until Vivian asks: "will you join me beneath the covers?"
 
"I'll be okay. It's pretty muggy in here anyway."
 
"Take off your clothes."
 
The tone suggests a request, but the look in her eyes suggests a demand. Then in a whir of motion, she flings the covers over you, like a Venus Flytrap ensnaring its prey. Her body is curling around yours before you can protest.
 
You can't lie to yourself and say that the experience you had at Rose's bachelorette party wasn't really fun... but Vivian's voracious hunger for you frightens and somewhat repels you. You're pretty sure she's about to rape you.
 
"May I touch you?" Vivian asks, her face nuzzling up against your neck. She rains kisses on you. Her hands roam over your body. Her spindle-like fingers travel searchingly over -- then snake under -- your cotton tank.
 
"Y-you're already touching me."
 
"I want to service you. Will you let me service you again, the way I did back then... Amber?" Her breath is hot in your ear and tickles some deep down part of your ear canal that you didn't know you had. You shudder. Her body is wrapped totally around you. She bites your earlobe. "Will you let me have your cunt again? Please?"
 
"M-my--" you stammer. No snappy comebacks, no sarcastic quips -- you're out of things to say. You're just a trembling teenage girl in the grips of this lesbian rapist.
 
"Your cunt," she repeats. "I'm in love with your cunt. It's beautiful. So please, let me --" She writhes against you, her hands pawing your breasts. Despite yourself, Vivian's molestation is making your nipples hard, and you bite your lips to suppress a moan. "Are you frightened? I will cease if you want me to cease, but I am so, so desperate. I am begging you. Please just let me bury my face in your cunt again. It will feel good, I promise it will. You can cum on me. I will help you do it... my mouth is an excellent masturbation device. Just let me lick you..."
 
She's pulling your shirt up over your head, and you're letting her. She's suckling on your neck, smelling you, rubbing you. Her body is soft and weak, and smaller than yours, but you're utterly at her mercy. It doesn't help that the idea of getting eaten out tonight is actually pretty alluring. You want to experience it -- properly, this time.
 
"O-okay," you say. You gulp, knowing that there is no going back.
 
And that's all it takes. She disappears under the covers. You see only the lump of her tiny form. But you feel her prying at the waistband of your shorts, and you help her get them off you. Then like an electric jolt surging through you, you feel the tip of her nose make contact with your clit, through your panties, which are already wet. She's enjoying her favorite pastime again, inhaling your unique scent. Only this time she's even hotter for you, and she can't be satisfied just huffing your pussy through the crotch of your damp underwear. She tugs the elastic down, but doesn't even bother to pull the panties all the way off.
 
You feel then the curves of her curled lips, warm and wet, latching onto your genitals. You groan -- she groans. She's not just licking you, she's sucking at the same time. Sucking on your cunt like she needs it to live. Her little tongue slithers around the outer lips of your pussy, suckles up all your dew -- and then, when she's gotten it all, she parts your labia with both hands, and goes deeper, searching for more. While she licks you from the inside, she uses her dainty fingertips to lecherously poke and prod your pussy. And not just your pussy but your lower hole, too. You bite your pinky. She's servicing you, sure, in an adoring way. But she's the one in control. You feel like you're her plaything right now. And somehow that only makes you burn even hotter with lust.
 
You pull the corner of the comforter up, and in the dim light you see only the crown of Vivian's head as she feasts on you, like a sow at a trough. The thought strikes you that you're doing this with her in Alabaster's bed, on Alabaster's sheets, in Alabaster's room -- the man who's fucked both of you. You shiver anew.
 
"C-can I try?" You ask her.
 
Vivian looks up at you, the lower half of her face dripping with your combined fluids. "Try?" She questions.
 
"69..." you grunt. "I want to do you, too."
 
Vivian is elated, her face lighting up with a wan grin. She turns and lies atop you from the other way now. She doesn't warn you when she settles her butt down on your face, and it knocks your breath away. The seat of her silky panties is resting on top of your head. Her ass presses against your face. It's heavy. You realize she's doing it on purpose, grinding herself into you, pressing her weight down. Your nose is buried, half-crushed, in the small space between her pussy and her asshole. You become overwhelmed with Vivian's scent -- talk about role reversal -- it's delicate, perfumey. But beneath that a heady hint of sweat, desperation and cum. With effort, your manage to get your mouth open even despite her weight bearing down on your head. You cup your lips around her mons. She likes this; coos and groans approvingly in her anemic way. She shifts herself forwards and back, rubbing herself on you, like a humping dog. Then she dives back in and starts eating you again.
 
"F--fuuuck," you sigh. Can't help it.
 
You want to feel her bare cunt, too. You reach up and tug her panties to one side. Even from directly up-close, there's not a hair to be seen -- smooth and pristine, with tucked-in labia, a pussy you can hardly believe ever fit Alabaster's cock inside of it. Without her panties covering it, it drips freely onto your face -- her sticky, slimy juices oozing shamelessly out of her tiny slit. Not that she can help it. But you know that even if she could, she wouldn't. She wants to get off with you.
 
You like the way she tastes. And you never thought of yourself as a lesbian, but the way Vivian loves your pussy is the same way you love this darling little cunt slit in front of you. You would eat her out any day, and have fun doing it. As weird and creepy as it is, as much as you don't want to give in to the world of perversion surrounding Vivian, you can't help it. How could you say no to licking a pussy this clean and inviting? Vivian's tongue worming around inside you is driving these depraved thoughts, and sighing, you close your eyes, and lick her back.
 
The covers oppressively trap your body heat while you suck each other off. Vivian's lithe body is covered with perspiration, yours too. But that makes it more fun. You're both wet, all over. Your pussies are creaming and you're pouring sweat, and it's fun. This tingle deep inside that Vivian is both relieving and aggravating... you never want it to end. All five of your senses are consumed by that, by the thrill of Vivian taking you. Her pale skin, the pulsing insides of her cunt shuddering against your tongue, her delicious cum, her slippery body. Her mouth attached to you like it's a part of you. The way she licks you all over... inside, outside... in your asshole, around your mound... flicking your clit playfully, that slutty little devil. She knows how to make a girl feel good, she was right. You're not as skilled, but you're learning, and you know you're having an effect on her because the volume of her juicing is only increasing.
 
"I'm -- I'm gonna..." you warn.
 
"Yesssh," screams, directly into your cunt. It reverberates through you and sets off your orgasm. You cum on Vivian Darkbloom's face just like she begged you to.
 
Vivian doesn't pay you the same courtesy -- doesn't warn you at all. She simply cums on you. Her pussy spasms, once, twice. And then a geyser of her cum sprays directly into your mouth. For fear of drowning, all you can do is swallow it. But you love it. You grab her ass with both hands and press it down, forcing your tongue deeper, to get it all out.
 
Vivian is out of her mind with pleasure. She humps up and down, slamming your head repeatedly into the mattress. It dazes you. She's making noises that are barely human. For this moment, you're only a fucktoy, nothing else -- a billionaire's meat urinal. There's a wet slapping sound echoing off the walls as she bounces on top of your face, and you wonder whether you'll bruise. But you don't care about that, either. You wail, sputtering, and choking, nearly suffocating. And you cum and cum and cum in Vivian's pretty little mouth.

---

Whitney is snoring near the front of the plane, and a few seats down, Armstrong is guzzling his way through bottle after travel-sized bottle of Jack. An airborne SMATTERS unit, propelled by mini stabilizing rocket thrusters, drifts lazily up and down the aisle of the lush, wood-paneled private jet. It's being piloted by a bored Fazil, who sits somewhere in the back.

Sitting alone at one of the small, somewhat private tables, the high bright Pacific sun beating against you, you examine the silver band on your left ring finger. You consider it, its import and meaning. You think through hypothetical future introductions: "yes, nice to meet you... I'm Alabaster, and this is my wife" ... "I'd like you to meet my wife -- Rose" ... "and I assume you've already met Rose Soliloquy, my wife?" ... "Rose and I got married in September... well no, we're not trying, but we're not NOT trying -- if you know what I mean..." Though somewhat tarnished by wear from the years it belonged to your father, it glints, and you idly twist it back and forth with your right hand's thumb and index finger. Then you settle on merely staring at it; you turn your palm first one way, then the other, and back, over and again.

"Alabaster?"

Of course. Rose settles across from you. You quickly let your hand fall to the tabletop.

"How are you feeling about this?" She asks.

"About what? Flying to China on a whim? Renee and Alex getting taken hostage by Mara fucking Darkbloom? Or dead people who keep reappearing?"

"Start with China," Rose says. She pulls out a thick three ring binder. "I thought Whitney might want to have a summit with the people at Broad Dynamics, so I've already been gathering information about the company. There's not much here, unfortunately..."

You nod at the binder. "That looks like much."

"This is the sum total of everything I could find. Bear in mind we're discussing a mega-conglomerate that had $1 trillion of liquid capital available to purchase Google outright. It could very well be the most cash-rich corporation on Earth. This? This binder is nothing on a corporation that size. It's like they're ghosts."

You shake your head. Rose begins to go into the details -- such a detail-oriented person, which annoys the hell out of you, but in times like these, it's a boon. But right now there's something else that's been bothering you. All day, all week -- all year.

>[x] Ask her if she remembers her love confession in the sewers beneath Darkbloom Analytics.
[ ] Don't ask.


"Hey," you say softly, interrupting Rose's description of the company's CEO -- a politburo higher-up turned capitalist named Li Xi. "Listen. There's something I wanted to ask about. Something that's been on my mind for the past few weeks..." you glance down again at your wedding band. "Maybe it's not a good time, but I just have to ask..."

"Go ahead," Rose says, kind of wagging her head in an expectant circle.

"Last year after all that insanity with Camelia, and Tyrus... and the bombs I had under the campus... when I had to go down into the sewers to defuse them. You remember all of that?"

"I'd be hard-pressed to forget it."

"Well. There's another piece of it, too. My memory of that night is..." You take a deep breath, pause, and then begin: "I was down there, working on defusing all the bombs. I was way behind, I was never going to make it in time. And there I was with the deadline about to hit -- when you showed up. You came down into the sewers."

Rose's eyes search your face, and her lips are partially parted in mute bafflement, as you go on.

"I told you to go away, but you insisted on staying. You said you wanted to help me defuse the bombs. And I kept saying -- go away, go away -- I said awful things -- but you told me you wouldn't go. You said you were in love with me."

A long moment passes.

"Do you remember that?" You ask.

Her answer is flat. "No. I rather think I would."

Another, even longer moment passes.

You ask, bluntly: "Is reality broken? Do you think?"

"Yeah. Reality is broken."

You rest your forehead in your palm.

"Wait," Rose drawls. "You mean to tell me you knew for over a year that I was in love with you? And you never--"

"Oh for f--"

"--never bothered to say, even once: 'by the way, Rose, me too'?"

"Will you stop already?"

"You unbelievable ass. You fucking prick!"

"I asked you about it!" You insist. You throw your hands up. "I asked you about that conversation just a few days later and you said you didn't remember."

"I didn't!"

"So in my head, at the time -- I'm thinking, well, she doesn't want to deal with that right now. How the fuck was I supposed to know that we got sucked into a tear in the fabric of spacetime? Tell me."

"Extraordinary. You are absolutely extraordinary, Alabaster. I cannot believe you."

"I'm extraordinary? No. You are."

Rose mockingly quotes your own words: "'She doesn't want to deal with that right now.' Wow. The one and only time you decide not to pester me with a conversation you think will get under my skin--"

"This is what you choose to bitch about? Fan-fucking-tacular, Rose. Reality is literally coming apart at the seams and you're still nagging at me because I didn't do exactly what you want."

"I really, honestly don't know why I bother with you sometimes."

Rose2 strides by. "Hey, I'm going to the snack bar. Do you two want anything?"

"I'll take some Shasta," you say, hardly glancing up.

"Diet for me," Rose says.

"Mkay," Rose2 hums. She scuttles past.

"Anyway," you go on, "it's not like you were throwing me any signals or anything. There's playing hard to get and then there's whatever the fuck it is you do all the time."

"You're such an ass. You are such a miserable fucking asshole."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch. We're married now. What else do you want?"

"For you to not act like such a--"

She stops mid-sentence. She turns in her seat, and gazes down the aisle. You poke your head out, too, realizing the same thing she just did.

"Didn't we leave her at home?" Rose breathes.

"Jesus Christ."

"I can't even -- how?"

You stand and stroll down the aisle to intercept your stowaway.

Rose2, arms full of snacks (for her) and drinks (for you), is startled when she turns away from the fridge to find you looming over her.

"Ally! Oh hey!"

"Hey."

She tries to hand you your drink, awkwardly shifting the rest of her goodies to one arm pressed against her prodigious chest to keep them steady. But you ignore her outstretched offering.

You frown at her. "Have you ever seen in an anime series, when the girl does something really stupid, and the MC whacks her over the head?"

She gazes vacantly up at the low, curved ceiling. "Hmm? Oh, sure. Yeah, I've seen that."

You whack her over the head.

"Oof-- what th-- rude!!"

You whack her again.

She steps back, curls her lips to one side of her face and stares reproachfully up at you. "That hurts! What the heck!"

"You're an idiot. Why aren't you back at home?"

"Cuz I wanted to come with you!"

You whack her.

"Oof-- stop it! That really hurts!"

"How did you get here?"

"I snuck into your suitcase!"

You peer around the thin partition of the snack bar towards the rear of the fuselage. Your suitcase lies on the ground in front of the luggage bin, open -- and empty. There wasn't room enough for both Rose2 and your personal things in one suitcase, apparently.

You whack her again. She drops her snacks. "Ow! I get it, okay? Geez."

>[x] She needs more punishment.
>[x] That's enough. Debrief with Whitney and Rose on the upcoming summit.

You grab Rose2's wrist and tug her towards the nearest table. Sitting, you pull her down with you, and get her on her tummy over your lap.
 
"A-Ally?"
 
"This is for your own good." You flip up the frilled hem of her skirt, revealing the face of Hello Kitty on a pink cotton background, stretched tight over her ass.
 
"Ally!!"
 
You spank her. You don't hold back -- you raise your hand high over your head and bring it down with all your force. Her ass jiggles through her panties like half-set gelatin. She she tenses up, caterwauling. "Owww! Ow, ow, ow!"
 
Armstrong, who's at a seat nearby, cranes his neck and watches the spectacle for a few moments. Then, laughing to himself, he turns back to his drinks.
 
"Are you done?" Rose2 wails, her eyes full of tears, her voice forlorn.
 
"Nope."
 
You spank her again, and a third time, and a fourth. She screams bloody murder, balling up her fists and kicking her legs like a disobedient brat. You grab her thick calves, squeezing them threateningly, to still her kicking. You continue the spanking.
 
Of course the unholy racket she's raising has drawn attention: from your blushing bride and your tomboy fuckbuddy alike. They're standing there in front of you, watching on.
 
"When did Rosie get here?" Whitney asks, still a bit groggy from her nap.
 
"You do understand that this is basically a reward for her behavior, right?" Rose demands. "You'll only encourage her to keep acting up like this."
 
"You're projecting again," you tell her. You keep spanking the now softly sobbing Rose2.
 
"Are you gonna fuck her?" Whitney asks, excited.
 
"No. THAT would be a reward."
 
Rose2 mewls desperately.
 
"Too bad," Whitney says. "But... this is making you hot, right? You do wanna fuck, right?"
 
You crook your finger and beckon her towards you. She laughs, and is already out of her dress shirt before she closes the distance between you.
 
Rose purrs in disapproval. "You know your wife is right here, right? Why are you--"
 
Whitney blows a raspberry. "So possessive. Like you weren't rubbing your pussy all over my face the other night. If you get to fuck me, Ally DEFINITELY gets to fuck me... get over yourself."
 
You push Rose2 off your lap like a sack of potatoes, for her to lie on the ground, nursing her bruised ass and ego. She's still gently crying. Seeing her cry makes you really hard, for reasons that you can't fathom. Whitney bends over, squeezes your cock through your pants, and leers at you. "God, I love your dick. Cum inside me a whole lot today, okay? We can join the mile high club..."
 
"Yeah," you grunt. "Get on top."
 
She straddles you, as you unzip, and tug your leaky prick free of its tight confines.
 
Rose2 paws at your knees. "Alllyyyyy," she cries pathetically. "I came all this way 'cause I wanted to be with you..."
 
Rose yanks her back by the collar. "Shut up. The grown-ups are talking."
 
"I--"
 
"We've only got a few hours before we touch down in Beijing, and I need to talk about important grown-up stuff with them. So keep quiet."
 
"B-b-but--" Rose2 blubbers.
 
Rose pulls her to her knees, and then forces her to lie across the seats opposite you and Whitney. Even now, Whitney, fully naked, is sinking her hot velvety cunt down on your cock. Her springy, spongy hole is such a lovely hole to fuck. Especially when you don't have to do any work, as now: she ropes her arms around your neck and bounces up and down with sheer determination. You kiss each other wetly.
 
You catch a glimpse, over Whitney's shoulder, of Rose sitting on Rose2's head. From the waist down, Rose is naked, and her dripping pussy is on full display -- resting atop a stunned, tearful Rose2's mouth.
 
"Make yourself useful for a change," Rose says. "Lick my cunt. Don't stop until I say so."
 
Rose2 tries to speak, a protest maybe, so Rose spanks her. Only unlike you, she doesn't spank Rose2's butt -- she spanks Rose2's crotch, vicious open handed slaps that resound through the metal fuselage.
 
Rose2 gets the message. She begins to lick your wife out.
 
"Ahhh," Rose sighs contentedly. "See? The bitch is good for something after all. I needed a little stress relief..."
 
"Me too," Whitney says, wagging her tongue and staring deeply into your eyes. Her pussy is so snug around you.
 
"We really should talk, though," Rose says, voice catching. "There's a few things about Broad Dynamics you should know..."
 
"Ooh, a fuck-and-talk," Whitney chuckles. "I like it." She bounces extra hard on your dick a few times, making a squelching sluicing noise that sounds deliciously lewd.
 
Rose, riding Rose2's face like it's her personal toy, drops her binder down on the table, opens it up, and starts to read aloud. As if it's the most casual thing in the world: dominating a scared, stupid, defenseless girl while describing the details of a business competitor. Rose is way more cruel than even you are -- you love it.
 
You help turn Whitney around so she's fucking you in a reverse cowgirl. She holds the edge of the table and nods along to Rose's debrief. But her eyes are rolling to the back of her skull and you can tell she's more focused on the hot cock spurting precum up her womb than the minutiae of Broad Dynamics. Oh well, you kind of like this -- and you're a better multitasker, so you're getting some benefit from it, even as you enjoy the grippy insides of Whitney's cunt and the relief it provides your aching nuts.
 
When Rose2 forgets herself and starts to moan and cry again, Rose shuts her up with a different tactic. Absentmindedly, she reaches back and gets her hand down Rose2's panties. She starts fingering her, not even looking down while she digitally rapes the poor girl. One hand busy in Rose2's underwear, the other holding a pen that she uses to scan the pages in front of her. She keeps reading from her binder: how Broad Dynamics incorporated from nothing, how it's probably a straw company helmed by the Chinese government itself -- heavy stuff. And all the while she's getting her cunt off all over Rose2's face. Rose2 grips Rose's thick thighs from underneath, but is powerless to resist, and her eyes shimmer with unwanted pleasure as Rose molests her.
 
"You're such a bitch," Whitney coos.
 
"Uh huh. So Li Xi got his start as an envoy to the Soviet Union -- I'm thinking that cannot be a coincidence, given what we've learned -- so -- nnn~"
 
Even Rose can't stay 100% focused, as Rose2's skillful mouth makes her shudder with pleasure.
 
"Cum inside me!" Whitney yells without warning, ass bucking double-time in your lap. The table rattles beneath her. "Fuck, I love this. Squirt your fucking cum in me!"
 
"Whitney, please pay attention..." Rose chides. She gyrates on Rose2's face and mashes her pussy against her lips.
 
"Oh, fuck that stupid bullshit already! I just wanna get cummed in! Fuck..."
 
Her head droops, her fingers curl up around the table's edge, and she humps you without shame or inhibition.
 
"You can go on," you tell Rose, your voice a low growl as Whitney brings you closer and closer to cumming. "I'm listening."
 
"I..." Rose begins. But then she stops, sighs. "Oh, nevermind. We may as well cum first, right?"
 
"Sure," you agree.
 
Rose runs her palms down her tummy. She pulls her blouse off, baring her supple tits, and tweaks her own nipples. Rose2, pussy no longer being violated, whines.
 
"I told you to shut the fuck up," Rose snarls.
 
Rose2 shuts up.
 
"Good~" Rose says.
 
"Cum cum cum cum cum," Whitney pants deliriously. "Cum!"
 
You stand, forcing Whitney to adopt a doggy position. You have to stoop to keep your head from hitting the low ceiling. Hands holding her hips, you start pounding her like she's one of your disposable onaholes. Whitney's head bangs hard against the table and knocks Rose's binder to the ground, but none of you care about that.
 
Rose settles back, directing her gaze up, and locks eyes with you. Meanwhile she uses her hands to rub her clit and her ass at the same time, as Rose2 licks her out. It's not a typical marriage, no. You're getting your cock off with someone else's pussy and she's getting her cunt off with someone else's mouth. But still, you're cumming in unison. And so that's almost like fucking by proxy. Beneath you, Whitney hugs herself, shivers, and creams all over your sawing cock. And beneath Rose, her victim is forced to drink her squirting cum. Seeing that wonderful sight, you bellow, and let loose, and spray Whitney full of the jizz she begged you for. You and Rose grin at each other, each smug, and each enjoying a powerful, wet, messy orgasm.

---

Rose2, still sniffling, lies curled up, her head in your lap, her fists balled. You pet her hair tenderly with long, gentle strokes.

"Behave yourself while we're in China," you tell her.

"Y-yes..." She nuzzles your crotch.

"What's this guy's name again?" Whitney asks. She's kicked back, still naked, legs crossed, sucking on a Tootsie pop.

"Li Xi," Rose replies. She's got her blouse on, but she hasn't bothered to clothe herself from the waist down yet.

"Luigi?"

"Li Xi."

"It's, like, where's Mario? Right? I don't wanna deal with second banana here. Gay."

"Whitney, what did we say about using that word that way?"

"Gaaaay."

Rose purses her lips and gives you a look as if to say "are you going to do anything?" You shrug at her.

Armstrong heads back. He's no longer anything like shocked to see such uninhibited displays -- just bemused. "We're touching down in a few minutes. Might want to grab some fig leaves, huh? There's gonna be press there. Don't wanna have your bare asses plastered all over international news."

"Why not?" Whitney says. You're a little disturbed that she seems genuinely curious.

You force her to her feet and toss her clothes at her. Reluctantly, she dresses.

---

You wake up nude, with Vivian's head still in your crotch. That's how she slept: with her nose nestled right where the sun don't shine. On her dreaming face she wears a goofy grin. You've come to with whatever the female equivalent of morning wood is -- a first, for you at least. And as Vivian stirs, she can't help noticing it. She begins again to get to work, and you run your fingers through her silken hair, and it all promises to turn into a redux of last night.

Unfortunately then, you hear a buzzing noise from somewhere down on the ground, and Vivian, getting up, tells you it's her phone. She digs through her purse, looking as disgruntled as you are, and finds it.

"Well? Who interrupted us?" You ask.

"Ms. Kay Vera."

"Ugh. Journalists."

Vivian frowns at you. She shows you the screen:

>There's a famous mathematician I always liked by the name of Georg Cantor. I read that he spent most of his time doing research in his university's basement... and the conditions down there were real torture.
>You know a lot about him, right? Let me in, maybe we can have a chat.

"Subtle," you say.

"Shall we invite her inside?"

"Well, that depends on how much ol' Charlotte feels the spirit of hospitality this morning."

"I am asking you," Vivian says. "Not Mrs. Mallory. What do you think?"

>[x] Let her in.
[ ] Keep her out.

Kay barges in just as soon as you unlock and open the front door.

Charlotte, rushing in from the kitchen, is aghast. "Who invited you?" She turns to you. "Why are you letting a reporter into this house at a time like this?"

Kay shuts the door behind her. "I'm not here as a reporter," she says.

"Bull," Charlotte cuts in. "People like you are always looking for a scoop."

She laughs derisively. "'What a scoop!' Is that the kind of thing you imagine I sit around saying at a time like this?"

"Yes."

"Well, it's not."

"You literally just did," you counter.

"Literally go fuck yourself. I -- who even are you? Lord in heaven."

You smirk at her.

"Are you people insane?" Kay demands. "Did you honestly kidnap --" she glances this way and that, leans in, brings her voice to a whisper. "Did you honestly kidnap a member of your company's own board? What the fuck?"

"Dalton Cantor murdered Sable Guiteau," Vivian says. "He helped kidnap some of our own, as well. Renee Carte and Alex Best. This is retaliation -- and a search for information."

"So this place is your own personal Abu Ghraib now, huh?" Kay says.

"Know a lot about that place?" You say.

Kay wheels on you. "What?"

"I said, do you know a lot about that place? Abu Ghraib?"

"Yooou..." Kay drawls. "Do I know--" but she stops, trails off. She moves on: "Where is he?"

"Downstairs, not that it's any of your business," Charlotte says. "Keep yourself out of this."

"I can't. I'm gonna get killed too over this shit. I'm in way too deep as it is. You're going to have Mara Darkbloom bringing the wrath of god down on all of us. You fucking psychos!"

You somehow can't help but notice the barest hint of a smile on her lips despite her accusatory words.

---

Charlotte turns off the music. Dalton is half-batty, shivering like he's got hypothermia. His gaze is unfocused and jumpy, jittery. He shakes his head this way and that as if delirious. He tries to speak through chattering teeth: "P-p-p-please... I... know nothing..."

"Fucking Christ," Kay breathes.

"I d-d-don't know where she is, but... I'm in c-c-contact... she... expects a c-c-call from me t-today..."

"She's not getting it," you say.

"If she doesn't get that call, she'll know something's up," Kay says. "She'll know we know -- she'll know we've got him. And then what happens?"

Charlotte frowns. "She's right."

"Yeah?" You say. "And who's to say he's telling the truth. Maybe he's trying to talk his way out of it with a load of horseshit. How is it he doesn't know where Mara went, but he's still in touch?"

Kay flicks your forehead. "Dolt. Isn't that how you would do it if you were Mara? Exactly for this fucking situation? She left him at DA knowing this could happen. Of course she didn't tell him where she went."

You growl at her, but even Vivian is against you on this one: "Yes. That makes sense. That being the case -- maybe it is time to dispose of Mr. Cantor."

"N-no!" Dalton cries. "No! I -- can help. I'll help you!"

"Shut up," you tell him.

"I don't know where she is -- but I'll stay in touch with her -- and help you find out -- please! I swear it. Vivian, you know I have a wife -- I have children -- please..."

"Fuck..." Kay breathes. She ushers you all from the room and shuts the door behind her, shutting off Dalton's continued pleading too. Out in the main area of the basement, with Saul and Nelson crowding around, Kay explains:

"The way I see it, we have three options. Option A. We take Dalton up on his offer. He says he'll turn triple agent. Of course the risks there are obvious. Option B. We get whatever info we think we can from him, and --" She draws a finger across her throat. You get the message. "Of course as soon as he's dead, Mara will know it. And who knows what she does in response. She could kill Renee and Alex, for a start."

Vivian winces.

"She won't do that," Nelson says. "She took them because she needs them."

"Fine. Then she'll just kill us, then," Kay says.

Charlotte shakes her head.

"Option C," Kay says. "We keep or kill Dalton, but in any case we keep him out of contact with Mara. And try to make Mara think he's still alive, by posing as him."

"How?" You ask.

"Fucked if I know. I'm just spitballing. If you fuck that up, the risks are the same. And by the way, you need to convince his family he's still around too. Because as soon as there's a missing person report..." She trails off. "If there isn't one already. Morons."

"Well?" Vivian asks. "What is our course of action?"

You all glance uneasily around.

[ ] Option A. Turn Dalton into a triple agent.
[ ] Option B. Finish interrogating Dalton and kill him.
>[x] Option C. Keep Dalton alive for now, and pose as him for any contact he needs with Mara.

"Me personally?" Nelson says. "I vote option C."

"I agree," Charlotte says.

"How can we thread that needle?" Saul says, hands on his hips. "Kay has a good point here. We not only need to fool Mara. We have to make everyone in his life think he's still around, even though we've got him chained up in the rumpus room."

"Would you please stop calling your fuck-dungeon a rumpus room?" You say. "That's some Mormon cult shit."

"I don't recall asking you a goddamn thing," Saul spits. "If you don't like this house, there's the door."

"We have Sand Reckoner, don't we?" Nelson says. "SR can make the world's most convincing deep fakes. We can use it to string his family along for at least a week or two. Make them think he's on business somewhere."

"I just got the government to climb down out of our assholes," Saul says. "You want them back up there again? Turning Sand Reckoner on is a great way to do that."

"I have an idea," Vivian says. "But I will need to confer with Cerise Soliloquy. Did she depart for China as well?"

"No," Charlotte says. "She's at her girlfriend's, getting ready for the wedding."

"That's one way to put it," Kay says. "But how many times do you have to practice for the honeymoon before you're ready?"

Saul snickers, and Charlotte tsks him.

"Please tell her to come at once," Vivian says. "And tell her to bring Anna with her. This is paramount."

---

The plane sets down and taxis across the runway. Before she puts on her undies, Whitney straddles the sides of your chair with both feet -- half-standing, half-squatting in the cramped space above you, with one hand braced against the curved ceiling to stay balanced. She presents her naked mound to you. "Kiss my cunt for good luck," she says playfully.

What else can you do? "Muwah."

"Heeeh. Awesome."

They've rolled out the red carpet for you. Literally. You descend red-carpeted portable stairs leading to a red-carpeted runner, at the end of which sits a podium lined with mics and group of dignitaries who bow and shake your hands each in turn. Alternating Chinese and American flags serve as the backdrop to the tableau. A few yards away on the tarmac, behind a cordon, are reporters, mostly Asian but with several foreigners mixed in -- European, American, Latin, Arab, African even -- jostling and snapping flashbulbs. When the last dignitary shakes Whitney's hand and someone informs her that this is Chen Jining, mayor of Beijing, Whitney finishes the handshake by stepping back, standing tall, and saluting him.

Rose gently presses the crook of Whitney's elbow and lowers her salute on her behalf. "Don't do that," Rose whispers.

"Ms. Darkbloom! What do you think of Beijing!" Comes a shouted question.

Whitney takes the podium, gripping the edges and leaning into the mics. "Beauitful airport," she says. "Definitely a high class airport. One of the best."

You glance back. Rose2, who you told to wait inside until the press junket is over, watches sadly from the portal atop the staircase. Maybe you were too rough on her back there.

"What do you plan to do at Broad Dynamics?" A reporter asks.

"Many things. We're looking at many different things," Whitney says.

"Do you know about the death of Sable Guiteau? Is this trip related? Are you still working on Sand Reckoner?"

Armstrong jumps in lest Whitney say something fatally stupid here. He's got a fantastic skill: making himself be heard without microphones. "We're going to have a fruitful, mutually beneficial trip. The discussions we have tomorrow should strengthen the bond between our companies." What bond? Oh well, it's a nice-sounding bromide.

"Are you discussing a buyout? Does Broad Dynamics want to buy Darkbloom Analytics?"

"There is no talk between our companies of a buyout at this time," Armstrong answers -- technically true.

"Would you be open to a buyout, Ms. Darkbloom?" Another asks. Sneaky sneaky.

Whitney laughs. "We have a lot to talk about. We're looking at a lot of different things. A buyout is a very complicated process, you know... not many people know this. But that's something that if we were to do it, it would take a big process. We'll see what happens."

Rose is doing her best not to literally detonate like a shaken phial of nitroglycerin. She doesn't like to let Whitney off the leash to speak publicly in such an uncontrolled environment -- for good reason.

A softball coming Whitney's way, now: "Will you sightsee in Beijing while you're here? Anyplace you want to go?"

"I dunno. Sure. Maybe."

"We have a beautiful city here," the mayor says, laughing jovially in a way that's also patently fake. "We would graciously accommodate your sightseeing tour. I recommend the Forbidden City."

"Bwahaha. I was reading about that place, on Wikipedia. Did you know it gets like 20 million visitors every year?"

"I am well aware of the popularity--" the mayor begins. He's visibly a bit annoyed to have Whitney regurgitating infodesk stats at him.

But Whitney has even less social grace than her little sister does, and is undeterred. "20 million! So I dunno what's so forbidden about it. 20 million tourists. That sounds like the least forbidden place on Earth. They should call it the Not-Forbidden City. The Allowed City." She points at the mayor. "Write that down, you can use that. The Allowed City."

Leave it to Whitney to fuck up a pitch lobbed gently over the plate. And then it gets worse:

"I'd rather see somewhere less touristy, you know?" She says. She rubs the back of her head. "I'm sure there's lots of stuff to do in China. Maybe I could even go to a different city... Shanghai or Taiwan or something."

Rose's eyes bulge when she hears this.

"Taiwan?" A Chinese reporter asks.

"Sure."

"Shut up," Rose whispers. "Shut up, shut up, shut up."

Another reporter presses her: "Are you saying Taiwan is part of China, in your view?"

"Shutupshutupshutup"

Whitney stares at the clouds for a moment. "Huh? I think so? I mean... Taiwan is part of China, right?" Whitney must find encouragement in the expressions on the faces of the majority Chinese press corps gathered here because she adds with much more conviction: "Yeah. Taiwan's in China."

Rose, rubbing her eyes with the heels of both hands, turns and goes back into the plane. As she pushes past Rose2, she mutters: "This is a nightmare. This is a living nightmare... I can't..."

"We appreciate your curiosity," Armstrong booms, "but we're extremely jetlagged, as you might be able to tell, and looking to kick our feet back. Please understand. Direct any further questions to our designated press department -- we really need to go and settle down in our hotel now!"

He laughs, but his tone communicates quite clearly that there will be no more live Q&A. He's as well aware as Rose that Whitney already screwed the pooch enough for one day.

As the dignitaries direct you towards waiting limousines, Rose2 steps out -- and behind her, Rose The First. Descending from the plane, Rose is pale and frightened. "Whitney... there's a-- phone call, for you... in the plane..."

"Huh?" Whitney says, one hand already gripping the open back door of her limo. "Tell whoever it is that they can fucking wait. I'm on important business."

"It's the -- it's the President."

Whitney sighs. "Fuck. Always calling at the worst times. Fine... guess I better go take it, huh."

She trots back up the stairs. You and Rose watch her, then turn to face one another and share an uncertain, lingering look.

"Should I go in there, or do you want to?" You finally ask.

She thinks for a turn. Then: "Maybe it would be best to let Whitney handle this one on her own..."

Rose is probably right. Those two have some kind of weird special rapport, and trying to artificially guide Whitney through their interaction could only make that interaction turn out worse.

---

Cerise sits with elbows propped up on the dining room table of the Mallory house, expression severe from behind interlaced fingers.

"I gave the implant to Alabaster Soliloquy," Vivian says. "That is the last I saw of it. Has he destroyed it?"

"No," Cerise says. "But he doesn't have it anymore."

"Where is it?"

"He gave it to Renee. We were gonna put it inside a -- nevermind. She still had it with her when she got taken."

"Oh God," Charlotte says. "That means Mara has it now, doesn't it?"

Nelson reels in his chair, like he's been pushed back by a gale. He runs his hand through his long, frizzy hair. "Just when I thought we couldn't get any boned-er."

"There goes Plan D, huh?" Kay says.

"Maybe it's for the best," Cerise tries. She hugs Gal close, who's staring madly at the grain of one of the table's legs. "Doing this surgery is a little rough for her... for obvious reasons..."

Vivian is far from pleased. "This is unacceptable. We've let our enemies abscond with father's consciousness."

"We didn't do shit," Cerise says. "Don't go finger-pointing now. It's not helpful. Besides, even if we could get that thing inside Dalton, there's no guarantee of when or if that asshole father of yours would rear his head. It's not a reliable way to keep Dalton under control."

"i could do it" Gal offers.

"What?" Cerise says.

"dr. carte modified the device... to lower its power output... but if i removed the limiters... maybe darkbloom would be there on a permanent basis..."

"This is all academic anyway," Saul says. "We don't have it. And we need to make a decision now."

>[x] Tell the group that you have the implant. (Sub-choice: [x]Put it in Dalton / Don't put it in Dalton)
[ ] Don't reveal it.

"Where have you been, missy?!"

You try to sidestep past Mom, but she blocks your path. You try to sidestep the other way, but she blocks your path the other way.

"I told you, Mom. I went to Raisin Brant's place to plan the culture festival with him. Important StuCo bullshit. You know."

"Is that so? I called him last night and he said you weren't there!"

Raisin Brant, you little fucking snitch. You make a mental note to fuck him up the next time you see him.

"He's mistaken. I was there."

"What kind of answer is that? Do you think I'm stupid?"

"It's true. He's got this memory issue. It's very sad. But we need to be understanding of his condition -- it's the right thing to do."

Mom sniffs at the air, and makes a sour face. "You smell like a whorehouse, Amber. Have you been prostituting yourself?"

"Yes," you say, seriously, and without hesitation.

Mom is gobsmacked.

You lace your fingers behind your head, arching your back. "This gig economy is vicious. It's why we need to overturn capitalism."

She swats you with her ladle.

"Ow! Fuck!"

"You're grounded."

"You cannot be--"

"No backtalk!"

[ ] Tell her what's going on.
>[x] Sneak out without getting her involved.

---

The ride back to the hotel is awkward and silent, with Whitney wearing a disgruntled expression the entire time. Sitting beside her in the limo, you finally ask: "Well? How did it go?--"

She punches the sidewall on her right. "This white house is horseshit! It's a horseshit white house, Ally--"

"But tell us how you really feel," Rose says.

"That fucker pisses me off. I'm not supposed to be here in China all of a sudden, why? 'My poll numbers. My poooooollllll nuuuuuumberrrrrs.' Fucking A. Like I give a shit if you're more unpopular than you already are. You know what I said? I said look at my fucking poll numbers, buddy. No. Look at them. More people approve of the common cold than approve of Whitney J. Darkbloom, how do you like that? So fuck anyone else's poll numbers. Christ on a bicycle. It's not my fault no one else knows how to deal with China."

"I guess it didn't go so good, then!" Rose2 summarizes, and tries to force a laugh.

Armstrong raises his palm just above his lap, and waves at Rose2 while shaking his head, to silently communicate: "don't try to defuse this."

Fazil clears his throat. "I for one eagerly await the hotel," he says. "I am being told it is a five-star establishment. In the past when I have gone on holiday abroad, I have only been capable to afford two- or occasionally three-star lodgings."

"Huh?" Whitney says, gawking at him. "What am I paying you?"

"I receive a salary of $150,000 per annum," Fazil says. "A tidy sum, although the cost of living in the city is quite high."

"Okay. I'm multiplying that by 10," she says absentmindedly, and turns again to stare out the window, chin on palm.

Fazil is speechless.

--

You open the safe in your bedroom, the one behind the photo of everyone's favorite war criminal. Inside are the two implants, just as you left them, still glowing creepily. But something's not right. The single stand of your own hair that you stuck to the inside of the safe's door is missing. Someone, not you, has been inside this safe since yesterday. Couldn't have been Mom, since she could never keep a secret that big. Couldn't have been Will, either -- he knows there's a safe here, but he's too much of a moron to get inside it. That leaves only some really disturbing possibilities.

Downstairs, you find Mom in the kitchen, stewing over a pot of stew. It smells rank and looks even worse. She should really stick to dessert. You once read about a man who lived on nothing but Twinkies and maintained his weight. If he can do it, you can definitely live on nothing but her confectionery. But that's a conversation for another day.

"Mom... I've reconsidered."

"Your life as a harlot, I hope?"

"No. I'm still a slut. Which is why I've decided to move into Alabaster Soliloquy's sex mansion. Will you be so kind as to join me?"

"I..." she stammers. You're laying a lot on her, here, so best to give her a few moments to process.

"We'll be safer there, I think," you add.

"That's what I tried to tell you!"

"Congrats. I'm convinced."

"Hmmph. You are unbelievable."

"Can you be packed tonight?"

You're pressing too hard now -- she's suspicious. "Why are you so antsy about this all of a sudden?"

You try for only half of the truth. "I'm scared. I've been scared." Then, a total lie: "I saw some weird guys on my way back home, and I think maybe they were following me." You reiterate the main point: "I know we've got security, but I'm sure we'd be safer at Alabaster's..."

She blows a stray bang from her face. "Fine. We can go live with Alabaster. But don't you let me catch you doing shady things with him!"

"Of course not."

"That boy is a pervert."

"Oh, trust me, I know it."

She squints at you.

"I'm gonna go take a nap," you tell her. Of course you climb out your window as soon as you're back upstairs. Clyde, one of your family's security detail, is really cool, and likes Big Macs. Freshly printed, fraudulent coupons for free Big Mac combos are all it takes to keep him quiet about the fact that you're sneaking around.

---

On the way to the room you're sharing with your girls, Rose wheels her beige suitcase behind her (how you envy having a suitcase of personal things to take along). Whitney lets her bellhop tote her suitcase, which is almost as big as the poor, likely underpaid sap is, and possibly heavier than he is too. His knees buckle and wobble as you traverse the long, gilded and brocaded corridors on the top floor of this Chinese Ritz.

Whitney's eyes light up when she sees the suite.

"Holy fuck. There's... fishes! There's fishes above our heads!" She points excitedly upwards.

She's right. Above you, the ceiling is glass, and an entire aquarium of exotic tropical fish flit to and fro.

"Sugoi!" Rose2 chimes in, clapping.

"There's a Jacuzzi!" Whitney squeals. Again, she's right: it sits at the top of a short rise in its own slate-tiled corner, the walls on either side made entirely of pristine glass, with a view to the evening cityscape.

"Kakkoii!" Rose2 squeaks, jumping up and down.

"Shut the front door!! An entire bar!!" Whitney yells. Yep, an entire bar. The bellhop, setting Whitney's bag down at the head of the room and rubbing the small of his back, says in broken English that you can have a bartender come up and mix drinks too, if you like.

"Maybe later," you tell him, and give him a generous tip, and send him on his way.

As you shut the door, Rose warns: "We can assume anywhere we go on this trip is bugged. This room especially. So watch what you say." She gives Whitney a meaningful look -- that warning was principally for her sake.

"Bugged?" Whitney repeats. She blinks a few times, then, getting a devilish look on her face, she says: "Whatever. All they'll see is a lot of fuckin'."

She jabs Rose in the side, near her tummy, with both index fingers. Rose jolts back -- ticklish there.

"I don't really want to put on a peep show for Chinese spies," you say.

"I agree with my husband," Rose says. You're far from 100% used to hearing yourself referred to that way.

"Psh," Whitney says. "Prudes." Without warning, she quickly strips -- bare-ass naked -- and marches around the room literally slapping her own butt.

"Get a load of this American ass!" She calls to the skies, turning in circles, to make sure she picks up on any listening devices. "Feast your eyes, 'cause it's as close as you'll ever get!"

When she's had her fun, she falls back on the mega-king-sized bed, arms and legs akimbo. Her body sinks down into the super-soft mattress. She stares at the fish swimming above her, laughing to herself. "Heeeh. I bet they're all jizzing in their pants right about now."

Rose is appalled. "Haven't you ever heard of kompromat?"

"Kom-what?"

"Blackmail material," you say.

"Can't blackmail a girl with no shame!" Whitney chirps. "Ohhh nooo, Whitney Darkbloom got naked in her own hotel room. Scandal of the century. Pff. Let the world see my tits. I'm proud of 'em."

You sometimes wish you had a mind as simple as Whitney's.

From the north window of your hotel room, you can see way down to the mosaic tiled thoroughfare of an open-air mall. It's as ritzy as the rest of your vicinity, with high-end stores of designer fashion and bespoke art. It's got the chintzy sort of luxury sheen that new money goes nuts for -- new money like Whitney, say. Save of course for one glaring eyesore: right in the middle of it, like a thing dropped from the sky, sits a ramshackle thatch house. You guess it's one bad storm away from collapsing under its own weight. Shoppers route themselves around it like a stream splitting around a boulder and converging.

"Whoaaa," Whitney breathes, sidling up -- still naked. "Is that a museum, or what?"

"Just a house," you say, staring down at it. "I assume the owner is a holdout. When they built this place, he wouldn't sell to the developers... so they built right around him."

"Freaky deaky," Rose2 says.

"Happens all the time. It's called a nail house."

"Heeeh," Whitney wheezes. "I love it. From now on, our mansion is officially the Nail House."

"It's getting a little late," Rose says gently. "We have a big day tomorrow."

"Buzzkill over here," Whitney says, jabbing a thumb over her shoulder to indicate Rose. "I'm not sleepy. How about you?"

You shrug.

"Rosie?" Whitney asks.

Rose2 shakes her head. "I'm too excited to sleep!"

>[x] Go out and see the surrounding city a bit.
[ ] Stay in.

"Atsui... atsui..." Rose2 sighs as you walk. She trudges along theatrically to show her enervation, shoulders slouched, head drooping.

"God, why is it so hot here?" Whitney groans, fanning herself. "It's 11 PM! Isn't China supposed to be cold?"

"China is -- it's huge," you say, almost disbelieving what you're hearing. Where did she get the idea into her empty skull that China is 'cold'? "It's... so big. It's one of the biggest countries on the planet. It has... a range of different biomes--"

"Biomes, pfft. Well this biome is giving me a major case of swamp ass."

You shudder.

---

Fazil helps Whitney navigate buying a number of $20,000 suits and accessories. She wants you to get some stuff too, Rose also, but you share the same aversion to this profligate spending -- and you're sure the quality isn't up to par even despite the enormous pricetags. Rose2 is less averse and ends up with a pile of new cosplay options that she can't wait to change into. Pretty soon you're wandering from shop to shop with a candy-cotton-pink catgirl in tow.

Fazil himself, newly flush with cash, also makes some purchases. In one corner shop, he finds a fez that costs -- no joke -- $15,000. He waxes poetic about its quality as he lifts it from the display case and turns it over in his hands. You cannot tell the difference between it and the fez you see him in every day. But the way he lights up while stroking its velvety material, the way he beams when he fits it to his head, the way he exclaims that he feels like an entirely new man wearing it, makes you almost support his purchase. Almost. No matter, though. He gets it anyway, at Whitney's behest.

In a shop of life-sized statues, Whitney falls in love with an intricately carved onyx horse. It's about 8 feet tall, rearing back on its hind legs, depicted with sinews and veins so lifelike you expect the flesh to give when you touch it. In the saddle sits an intimidating onyx man in full armor, with a sword, and a scowl, and a Fu Manchu stache. Doubtlessly some storied Chinese general of a storied Chinese dynasty back in the days of fending off Mongol invasions. Which is why you cringe when Whitney, clambering atop, hollers loud enough for everyone in the store to hear: "Check it out! I'm Genghis Khan!"

"Whitney, get down--" you start.

"I'm gonna buy this thing! How much is it?"

Rose is pale green when she reads the price tag: "$100,000..."

"Fuck yeah! Giddyup!"

She kicks her feet. The statue totters -- one way, then the other -- then it falls. Whitney falls with it. And then she's lying amidst shards of onyx. The goddamn thing was hollow all along. Some value for six figures.

"I'm going to vomit," Rose says.

You help Whitney to her feet even as stunned patrons and livid employees surround you. Thankfully she's unhurt, just a couple scrapes -- and she's smiling stupidly. "Guess I did buy it, huh?"

You whack her the same way you whacked Rose2 on the plane.

On your way back to the hotel with more shopping bags than any person should ever need to carry, your path takes you past the nail house you saw earlier. You and your little coterie make like the rest of the people here, and route yourselves around it while pretending like it doesn't exist.

On your way past, you glimpse a grizzled old man sitting out front, on a tattered old stool, smoking a cigarette. He looks like he's got a bad case of cataracts, maybe bad enough to render him fully blind. But beneath the milky white film coating his eyes -- the irises are a brilliant blue.

You're not a geneticist, but you know that's not a common trait in this part of the world.

He looks at you -- although it's more like he's looking through you. You wonder again whether he sees anything at all. It freezes you in your tracks all the same. Rose is the first to notice, and stops alongside you, touching your arm. "Alabaster?"

Whitney, Rose2, and Fazil stop now too, several paces ahead already, and turn back.

The man stands, and goes into his house.

>[x] Go speak with him.
[ ] Leave it be.

You knock on his door. There's a long, long moment of rustling from within, as he shuffles through the tiny house, and finally opens the door. The smell of the dingy home beyond is without compare to anything you've ever experienced -- not unpleasant but not pleasant either, just alien, in a way you can't pinpoint. You're not sure if it's food or potpourri or something else, but it's definitely tinged with cigarette smoke as well.

Fazil translates for the man: "He asks why we have come."

"I just want to ask you a couple questions," you tell him. "Can I come in?"

He steps aside.

---

You're situated across from him at a small, round wood table, hands on your knees. He hacks and coughs, and you take in the rest of the house while he struggles against his own lungs. The olive green stucco walls, the grimy linoleum of the kitchen peeling at the corners, the framed photos so yellowed with age that they look like they were taken in sepia tone. A stained stainless steel pot of something sizzles on the gas stovetop.

"What happened to your eyes?" You ask him.

He considers this. Through Fazil, he responds: "He is blind. He has a medical condition."

"Ally, let's go," Whitney says -- but you wave her off without looking at her. "What kind of medical condition?"

His voice is a dull monotone, without any apparent emotion to it.

"He says it is caused by his evil eye."

You slump your head and let out a long breath through your nose.

"He wishes to know whether you also have an evil eye."

"I do."

He asks something, and Fazil answers for you -- then informs you -- "he asked if you were also blind."

"Where did your evil eye come from?" You ask him.

The man's voice becomes a droning hum that blends with the electric fan in the living room to create an awful static in the background of Fazil's on-the-fly translation:

"He is not sure. He volunteered for medical tests some time ago. He was in need of money, to fight the development of this retail area... one day he was taken somewhere far away... put under sedation... he woke up with his evil eye, and never again did he see the people running the medical tests."

There's a pause, before the man adds something: "He says he is not truly blind. But he sees differently."

"How?"

"He says he does not see the world as he did when he was a young man. When he was young, he saw the forms of things, as all people do, but could never discern what was beneath. Now in his old age, he sees only what hides beneath. But for this he has lost sight of the forms. It is like living life beneath a smoky glass."

"You see us?" You ask.

"Yes. You have here a wife who loves you very much, and two more who love you maybe even more. A diligent and devout employee who is loyal--" (Fazil stops to thank the man in his own tongue) "--you are on an important trip, which will determine the course your future life takes."

"What do you see for me?" You ask.

"He says you have lost and gained so much that you must be dizzy with it. You are stranded on the top of Mt. Everest. You cannot come down. So what will you do? The only choices left are to await the end... or to build for yourself a ladder as tall again as the mountain, and pierce the dome of heaven."

"What's in heaven?"

"God -- he supposes." Fazil glances your way. "He cannot say for certain. He has never been."

Rose pipes up. "The people who experimented on you -- were they Chinese or American? Or something else?"

"Chinese."

"What did they tell you about themselves?" She asks.

"Nothing."

"How long ago was this?" She asks.

"He estimates a decade."

"We should go," Whitney says again, and more seriously this time.

"I want to give you some money," you tell him, in a sudden convulsion of charity. This man was victimized, just like you and so many others. "You should live somewhere better than this."

"They offered him plenty of money to leave when they built this place. He wants to remain here. It is where he knew his wife. Now she is gone, and he is at the end of his life as well. He does not wish to leave."

You purse your lips and nod. You heave yourself up, turn for the door. As you get towards the threshold, the man speaks again.

"He wishes to know whether an evil eye can be fixed."

"I'll let you know if I ever find out," you promise him.

---

You sit Indian style on Dalton's chest. His eyes are saucers, but there's not much he can do about the view he's got.

"Charlotte can paddle your balls again," you tell him, "or you can be nice and tell us what we want to know."

His breath is ragged. "I don't know... I don't know... I... owwww! Ow!"

You yourself wince at the sound of it, Charlotte doing exactly what you warned him she would.

"Vail!!" He cries, straining against his bonds. "Vail! Vail! She's in Vail!"

"Stop!" You call, holding up your palm behind you. But there's a couple more thwacks before Charlotte heeds the command.

You turn. She takes a woozy step back from the table, face flushed, sweat beading around her brows. "Sorry."

"Lies," Vivian says. "I had people check her winter cottage already. She is not in Vail."

"Not her winter cottage!" Dalton says. "Somewhere else... where exactly, I don't know... I don't! And I'm not sure she's in Vail. I just think she must be... she's not many timezones away, for certain... and she owns half that damn city..."

"Why isn't she in Russia?" You ask.

"She isn't welcome there. She fell out with the Kremlin. That's why I think she must be here in the states... please, that's all I know!"

"Why isn't she welcome?"

"How should I know! She only said she couldn't go back."

You lock eyes with Vivian.

"I believe him," she says. "Mother told me some time ago that the situation with the Kremlin was becoming untenable. I believe they wanted access to Darkbloom Analytics intellectual property... and she kept stonewalling them. Wanted it for herself, obviously."

"If she can't be in the valley," Dalton says, "and she can't be in her homeland... it has to be Vail. But I don't know that. It's just my speculation... please, please stop this... I cannot bear it..."

"All right," you sigh. "That's good enough. Say ahhh."

"What?"

You hold up a pill bottle. "Say ahhhh."

"Please! Please stop!"

"We are stopping," you tell him. "Quit whining."

Vivian turns and motions towards the main area of the basement, and Cerise and Gal enter.

"We're going to give you an implant," you say. "These are Ambien. Hopefully they keep you asleep through the operation. We aren't sadists, after all."

"Implant..." he says.

"It's going to be a long sleep," you tell him honestly. "But you won't feel a thing. Thank you for your cooperation."

You force a handful of pills down his gullet.

You all don surgical masks and disinfect your hands, plus the surrounding area, as well as the implements you'll be using.

Cerise rubs Gal's shoulders soothingly, her head nuzzling Gal's neck, while Gal fiddles with the resistor at the end of the implant's long, thin wire.

"You okay with this, babe?"

"im ok"

"Are you sure?"

"im sure"

You sort of remember Gal. And you sort of remember that implant. And you sort of remember what it's like, the thing that's about to happen.

Charlotte puts a leather belt in Dalton's mouth, and secures it to the table beneath, so that he's biting down on it in his sleep.

Then the moment of truth. Gal uses a melon baller from the kitchen, to scoop out Dalton's eyeball.

He was asleep. Now he's awake.

Through the bit, he shrieks -- bloodcurdling shrieking, agonizing shrieking, and his eye, still attached by the nerve, flops around on his cheek. You fight back vomit.

>"MY EYE! MY EYEEE! I SEE EVERYTHING!!! MY EYEEEEE!!!!"

That's not what Dalton is saying, but it's what you're hearing, internally -- like an echo -- you try violently to shake it loose from your mind, but it won't go.

Charlotte holds his head steady, while Gal works quickly to get the thing installed. But quickly isn't quick enough, and it feels like an aeon with Dalton's wailing. What you're doing to him now is on a level entirely removed from even the worst of what you've inflicted on him prior. He's out of his mind with the excruciating horror of it.

And then it's over -- he tenses, arches his back the inch or two he can with the straps holding him down, and passes out.

Gal is working again in peace and quiet. She's crying. Cerise is stroking her hair, also crying -- and your eyes, you realize, are also wet. Charlotte is the only one in this room even close to unaffected. She's cringing at the sight before her, but she isn't sparing Dalton any sympathy.

Back into his head goes his eyeball. His eyes now are blue.

And then a few moments later he has consciousness again. Not Dalton. Him. And you remember him too. And he remembers you.

"Camelia," he says.

---

Men filter into the conference room, all dour and besuited and old and grey. These are the executives of Broad Dynamics. Armstrong greets them with laughing bows and handshakes, but there are no smiles on their end.

Whitney salutes them.

Rose can take a lot when it comes to Whitney, but even she has a tipping point, and this is it. She grabs Whitney from the front, holding her by either shoulder, and walks her backwards into the empty hallway. You follow them out.

"What the hell?" Whitney says, wriggling free.

"Stop. Fucking. Saluting people. They're not American! You're not in the military!"

Whitney salutes Rose. "Aye aye, captain. And sieg fucking heil. Man you're annoying."

"This is serious," Rose says. "You need to remember that you're representing our company and our country here." She points to the doorway. "And that what happens in that room is going to be really fucking important for all of us."

"Ally, tell your cunt wife to shut up."

"She's right," you say.

Whitney huffs, mad, but finally getting the message. "Fine. I'll keep a lid on it."

A very tall, very fat man approaches from the end of the hall, along with a short, cute girl holding a notepad. This is Li Xi, you know, from Rose's description.

"It is so nice to meet you," he says. Not dour like his underlings -- he swats Whitney's shoulder and laughs before shaking her hand.

"Back at you," Whitney says. "You're Mr. G, right?"

"Correct. Li Xi. I am so pleased to have you here today. We have been so looking forward to this meeting." He motions for you to enter the conference room.

"We can get started right away," Xi says, taking his seat at the center of the long table, opposite to the side where you and your people sit.

"Whoa," Whitney breathes, looking Xi over, seeing him more clearly now that they're sitting level with one another in the bright light of the meeting room. "Did you have acne when you were a teenager?"

So much for keeping a lid on it. But maybe this is leverage: he can't help reaching up and touching his own deeply pockmarked cheeks. "Ah--"

Realizing herself, Whitney adds: "I had some acne, too, when I was just starting puberty."

"I see," Xi intones.

"It cleared up, though."

"Ah."

"No scars even."

"..."

"As opposed to you."

Xi's cute little secretary salvages things. She introduces you all to the now abashed and sullen Xi: "Right. This is Steven Armstrong, CHRM; Fazil, the group's translator; and of course you know Whitney Darkbloom, the woman herself."

"And these two?" Xi asks, pointing to you and Rose.

"Of course. Alabaster Soliloquy, chief adviser, and --" she stammers, stops short, seems to be mentally checking her notes.

"Rose Soliloquy," Rose herself says.

"What is your role?" Xi asks her.

"I--"

"She's my tradwife," you cut in.

"Tradwife?" Xi asks.

"I am NOT y--"

"She's my wife, but more of a traditional type. You know. Wants to be a homemaker, leave work and take care of the children."

"How wonderful!" Xi says. "An ideal woman. Keep her!"

"I am NOT your tradwife, you demented APE," Rose hisses.

Xi seems to take offense to this, even though Rose's insult was towards you. You try to smooth things over: "I'm sorry, Mr. Xi. She's with child, and the hormones are really something else. You know how it is."

"Oh my god... you can't be-- oh my god..." At this rate, you're going to short her brain out entirely.

"It's not such a traditional marriage anyway," Whitney says, coming to the rescue of Rose's frayed nerves. "They're cousins."

Xi gives a displeased frown. But his secretary, saying something to him in Chinese, makes it go away. "Oh," Xi chirps. "That's not so bad, then."

"I'd like to buy your technology out from under you," Whitney says.

Dead silence descends.

"Well, our CEO is a bit brash, you might be able to tell," Armstrong says. "It's the American way. We speak frankly. But yes. We would like to purchase the rights to all Sand Reckoner technology you are currently working on, and we are prepared to offer $20 billion for it. In addition to making you a trusted partner and a distributor of platforms derived from our proprietary architectures, developed for Chinese markets."

"I think you have misunderstood your bargaining position," Xi says.

"Maybe you have," Whitney says. "You got fucked up the ass on the Google buyout, didn't ya?"

"We do not need Google," Xi says.

"Big words for the guy who tried to pay a trillion bucks for Google."

"We do not need Google," he repeats. "But you clearly need us." He sips his water.

"It's not a need so much as a request for synergy," Armstrong says. "Your technology is obviously plagiarized from ours, and we know you're struggling to cross the finish line. Why bother trying to reinvent the wheel? Just become a partner, take your paychecks and go home. We'll handle the tech. Isn't that the easiest thing for you?"

"Here is a counteroffer. We will pay you $200 billion to hand over all your intellectual property, your servers and your existing research into Sand Reckoner. Along with that, Darkbloom Analytics will cease to exist as an entity."

"I can't say I'm not seeing dollar signs!" Armstrong says. "But that would be entirely illegal. I think the US government would have something to say about that. I'm sorry, we simply can't."

"Then perhaps there is nothing further to discuss," Xi says.

"$50 billion," Armstrong says, "and we'll work on getting our militaries to work together on this one. Hey, the American century is old hat. How about the Sino-American century? Eh?"

"How has your company persisted for so long?" Xi's secretary wonders aloud.

"Luck, mostly," Whitney says.

"A can-do attitude," Armstrong adds, pressing his fingertip against the mahogany table for emphasis. "And of course, having the brightest minds in the world working for us."

"These are the brightest minds?" She says.

"Absolutely," Armstrong says.

"Maybe you will understand better," Xi says, "if we show you our production facility. Do you have time to visit our factory a few kilometers from here?"

>[x] Yes. See what they're working on.
[ ] No. Press them harder to become partners.

"We don't need to see your factory," you say. All eyes turn to you -- the air in the room is one of surprise, that you, an adviser, would speak out of turn.

"Ally?" Whitney breathes.

"We know what you're working on. You have implants of your own. But they don't fucking work, do they? They blind people."

Xi's poker face is hard to read, and so are those of his underlings, but his secretary is smirking.

"I'm working on it," she says.

...She's working on it?

"Who are you?" Armstrong asks. "I don't remember seeing you on the list of executives here."

"Qiangxiang Xi," she says, bowing slightly. "I am the head of R&D."

"Huh?" Whitney says. "Chingchang?"

"Qiangxiang," she corrects. "Xi."

"Say that again."

"Qiangxiang Xi."

"More slowly."

"Qiang. Xiang. Xi."

"Okay. I'm gonna call you Chloe."

Qiangxiang smiles confusedly. "...Chloe?"

"It's either that or Quack-Quack. Take your pick."

Her tone is polite, but biting: "Do you have dyslexia? A memory condition? Are long words difficult for you in general?"

"No, no, and no. Names are like whatever. I'm just not gonna bother with yours. Sorry Chloe."

"I will have to think of a fitting nom de guerre for you as well," Qiangxiang says, utterly unfazed. "I am thinking maybe Shǎbī."

"Is that Chinese for idiot?" Whitney asks. Fazil gives her a nod to confirm.

"Literally translated," Qiangxiang says, "it means stupid cunt."

"Let's see your factory," Whitney says.

"Whitney--" you begin.

"No. We need to see it. I have to know what I'm buying, right?"

---

You walk alongside Rose, Armstrong and Fazil on a wrought steel mezzanine above a clean, white, modern looking factory floor.

A few paces ahead of you: "Our implants improve by the day," Qiangxiang says to Whitney. "I will be honest -- yes, I am struggling with some specifics as regards implementation. Those will sort out as I continue my research. With or without your assistance."

"How old are you, anyway?" Whitney asks.

"Do you ask for prurient reasons? I am given to understand you have strange tastes."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I am 16."

"I get it. So you're the Chinese Vivian. Is Mr. G your dad?"

"He is my uncle. The less said of him, the better. He just manages accounts. A piggy little nothing of a man."

"Yep. Chinese Vivian. Not as cute even."

You whisper to Rose: "Can I say something that's protected by spousal privilege?"

"Sure."

"I honestly love Whitney."

Rose makes a face. "What a wonderful thing to tell your wife."

"You love her, too. How many power plays has she made since getting here? And she doesn't even realize it. Think about that. You and I have to consciously decide if we're going to fuck with someone. Whitney just kinda does it."

Rose shrugs. "You're awfully effusive today."

"I'm trying to see the positive side to all of this. And stay optimistic. Because... this could really go bad."

"It already has." She pulls out her phone and shoves it into your hand. You read the email. Darkbloom Analytics' main parts supplier for its server facilities is canceling all your accounts, effective immediately.

"What the fuck," you mutter.

"They're a Taiwanese company. They didn't take kindly to Whitney's little faux pas yesterday."

"Goddamn it."

"I hope none of our servers go out." She smooths her skirt. "We need to get that thing out of you as soon as possible, Alabaster. Like I tried to tell you."

You don't want to admit she's right, so you say nothing. Qiangxiang stops as if suddenly realizing something. She turns, hands demurely in front of her. "Alabaster," she says.

You stop, too, surprised.

"You have an implant, yes?" She asks.

You decline to say.

"What do you see when you look at me?" She asks.

"Just a snooty little girl who thinks she's the smartest person in the room," you say.

"I have watched you with interest, Alabaster Soliloquy," she says. "It is so nice to finally meet. And yet -- it is such a disappointment. You do not use your implant."

"All it does is aid memory," you say. No use denying what she already knows. "Its effects are passive."

"We could upgrade it for you."

"And make me blind?"

She smiles. "You would still see, just in a different way. No interest at all in trying it?"

"None."

"Of course. The supplier shouldn't dip into his own supply, yes? You've done enough as it is." She turns and continues walking. You can only follow. "As for us, we are already entering mass production."

"Mass production on implants that maim the wearer," you say. "Some business plan."

"That is the problem with short-sighted entrepreneurs like you. You see only what people will buy for themselves. But what about what people will buy for those they employ?"

You tilt your head.

You all turn a corner, and now you have a view down to the main production floor. An assembly line of dozens of workers in full body cleansuits, at stations arrayed around enormous industrial microprocessor fabricators -- pulling hundreds of grain-sized circuits at once from outfeed trays, snipping and crimping wires and attaching them, spooling them, packaging them, putting them onto pallets. At the rate they're working, even if this is the only production area, they could be making millions of Sand Reckoner implants a day. Whitney, visibly disturbed, grips the railing to steady herself as she takes it all in.

Qiangxiang goes on. "Laborers or soldiers, or prisoners perhaps -- in any case, people who have no say, but who might be more efficient with an augmented data processing capacity. It is said the human mind receives five petabytes per second of sensory input, and yet our brain's processing power is less than that of a first-generation home computer. So much of what we receive as input is never processed into useful information. That won't do in such a fast-paced world, will it?"

A worker down on the floor glances up towards where you all stand. Through his goggles, you see his eyes -- a milky white film, and blue beneath.

"What are you doing here?" Whitney sputters to Qiangxiang.

"Americans are so funny," she says. She nods at Armstrong, who's as pale as Whitney is. "Speaking in terms of who owned the last century. Who owns the next. One paltry century of prominence on the world stage is nothing against 5000 years of history. No. It is not simply that the next century belongs to us. All subsequent centuries do also."

---

Whitney is hyperventilating on the bed of the hotel room, head in her hands. The panic is beginning to set in. "I want my mom. Fuck. Fuck. I want my mom... where is she? Is she back yet? She could help us fix this... she could help for sure... where is she?"

Rose rubs her back soothingly, but Whitney is beyond reason.

"Where is she?! Why haven't we heard from Viv yet? Are they okay? We need to go back--"

"Shut up!" Armstrong roars. He came back to your room with you for the powwow. "You're the CEO of a Fortune 100 company, Whitney. Start acting like it."

"You shut up!" Whitney shrieks. "What am I paying you for? Our competitors are going to eat us alive! And you couldn't make a fucking deal!"

"Is that my job?" Armstrong shouts. "What about you? You've been fucking us over since day one. I've just been trying to wipe up the mess. Maybe I should have sided with Mara after all. She's not a fucking idiot!"

"Go ahead, then! Fuck off and go work for Mara! You're fired!"

Rose2, in the corner, gnawing a stick of pocky and reading Shonen Jump, says: "if you wanna keep tabs on China, why not say we'll work with them on Sand Reckoner? Instead of one buying the other... that way you keep 'em close, so we can watch 'em."

All eyes turn to her. She senses this, and looks up. "Did I say something dumb again?"

"No... no," Armstrong says. "That might be the first halfway intelligent thing you've ever said. He looks at Whitney. "Our CTO position is vacant right now. If we told Qiangxiang that she could have mediated access to our research and work products, in exchange for working for us --"

"What about Alex?" Whitney asks.

"Oh, fuck Alex," you groan.

"Go to hell," Whitney tells you.

"Alex would understand," Armstrong tries. "The future of this company is at stake here."

"And so, what..." Whitney says. "We invite queen Hitler to walk right through our doors and peek at all our shit?"

"What else do you suggest?" Armstrong says. "Selling out? Can't do that, 'cause--" He motions at you, exasperated. "So what else can we do, then?"

"Ally?" Whitney asks you.

>[x] Invite Qiangxiang to be the new CTO.
[ ] Decline.

Armstrong returns to Broad Dynamics -- alone, this time -- and makes the offer. It happens so fast: by the time you're all checking out of the hotel, you have a new CTO. Qiangxiang plans to stay behind in China to close out her business, but the plan is for her to arrive in Palo Alto early next week.

There's another press junket at the airport. Whitney and Qiangxiang shake hands for the reporters -- Whitney's grip just about rips Qiangxiang's arm from its socket, tugging her forward so fall that she almost takes a vaudevillian pratfall, but Qiangxiang regains her balance and does her best to maintain composure. Then they bow at each other, and exchange platitudes for the cameras about how excited they are to be embarking on a new chapter of their careers together.

Whitney's smile crumples as soon as she's aboard the privacy of her plane. She walks up and down the aisles, punching the seatbacks, kicking the tables, and spewing obscenities. You and Rose share a disturbed look. The return flight is not nearly as fun as the departing flight was.

---

At the private airfield outside Palo Alto where Whitney's jet touches down, Vivian comes to meet you. She's accompanied by Nelson and Saul. You spy through the limo's tinted windows, sitting in the back, Dalton Cantor.

"What the hell is he doing out?" You demand.

"We need to talk," Vivian tells you.

---

That night, you and Rose share a much-needed session of me-time in your bedroom.
 
Rose, beneath your desk, stares contemptuously up at you as she sucks your cock. But she knows better than to speak. One of me-time's many ritualized components is that the person beneath has no rights: no right to whine, bellyache, or complain, no right to even speak at all, and absolutely no right to stop servicing the one above for any reason. Because the one beneath is not a human. They are a meathole, there to be used as a masturbation device, no matter how long it takes the one above to cum. Thus: "me-time."
 
This leads to gamesmanship. Rose, sucking you off, brings all of her well-honed techniques to bear during these sessions: getting the tip of her hot pink tongue between foreskin and frenulum to swirl it cruelly around, flexing her esophagus around you on the downstroke, letting her drool run freely into your lap until your cock is so wet that it feels like it's in a warm puddle. Tenderly massaging your balls with both hands. And making herself gag on you because she knows you like the sound of it. All calculated efforts to force your orgasm as early as possible. That's how the one beneath fights back, by trying to bring it to a quick ending. It's a skill she's been developing since the first time she sucked you off under your computer desk at the age of 15.
 
But you, above, scrolling through your favorite doujin -- you take sadistic pleasure it staving off orgasm as long as you possibly can. In making her stay there on her knees, under you, servicing you, well past the point of discomfort. Past the point of discomfort for both of you. You always hold your cum until it actually aches to keep going, until the decadent pleasure of Rose's throat perversely becomes a punishment of its own. Like everything with you two, it's a struggle for dominance that hurts both sides. This is the true, veiled purpose of me-time: that struggle, sweetly excruciating, of master and slave.
 
But Rose's cunt of a mouth is just too much. Her suckling, slurping, gagging attention turns your brain to mush and makes you woozy with the sexual thrill of it. In stark and simple terms, she makes your cock feel really fucking good. You scratch her head like rewarding an obedient pet. Since she has both hands busy tickling your balls, she can't swat you away. Her big hazel eyes stare unblinkingly up and shimmer with something between hate and pride. She blushes through the sheen of spit on her face. She's such a beautiful whore. That sight -- not your porn, but Rose's spit-covered face that hates and loves you, makes you squirt her throat full of sperm.
 
As soon as you're done and reality sets in -- that reality is already hitting you in the face. Now it's Rose in the chair, and you beneath.
 
She's as sadistic as you, and takes twice as long. Her squishy thighs clamp around your head and she mashes her overheated pussy against your face. Again and again, nearly suffocating you. Your entire world is winnowed to that leaking little, sweet-smelling slit right in front of you. "Lick me," she grunts cruelly.
 
You have to obey, that's the rule. You lick her.
 
"Lick my asshole too, Alabaster. Lick it thoroughly."
 
You have to obey -- it's the rule.
 
She sighs deeply and squirms in the chair, enjoying the sensation of your rimjob. She plays with her tits and presses her legs oppressively into either side of your head. She's gonna crack your skull like this.
 
She cums in your mouth the way you came in hers. And you have to swallow; another rule of me-time.
 
After she's done, and she's basking in the afterglow, she leans back onto her tailbone and takes a few minutes to rub her stockinged feet all over your face, as if walking on it -- and although that's not technically in the rulebook, you suffer it because you know it means you'll get the bend the rules the next time you're on top. She coos at you while you suckle her toes. You're sure the look you're giving her from below is just as contemptuous as the one she was giving you -- and so of course she must think it's cute.
 
Somehow this humiliation makes you hot. When she least expects it, you stand, and push the chair away from the desk.
 
"A-Alabaster?" She stammers, no longer haughty, but suddenly frightened.
 
You dump Rose onto your bed, hike up her skirt, and fuck her violently. No more foreplay and no more talking, just raw animal need surging through you.
 
There's something about forcing your cock past the springy resistance of a hot, wet fuckhole over and over again that you will never get sick of. And Rose's fuckhole is best in class, soft enough to cushion the force of your powerful thrusting, but rubbery enough to squeeze back against you. She must do exercises to keep her little pussy so nice and tight for you. She's such a good cunt. You rear back all the way each time, drawing yourself out of her almost completely, with just the very tip of your freely drooling mushroom head poised at the entrance. This gives her cumdump pussy a microsecond to close, to seal itself off. And then you plunge back inside, to the root, tearing her open. Over and again you give her vicious full strokes that bruise her delicate insides. The way she likes to be bruised inside.
 
You purr. Like a cat, you purr your contentment -- and bite down on her shoulder. She gasps. You taste then a trickle of iron-rich blood on your tongue, but that doesn't deter you at all. You just lift your mouth, and find another spot closer to her neck, and bite her a second time. As you thrust and rut inside her, your heart overflows with glad feelings. There's a warmth in your chest that reflects the happy pleasure circling like electricity around the circumference of your horny cock; you're glad for the much-needed relief Rose's hole provides for you. Paradoxically, you're full of unfiltered aggression too. Your veins burn with a crazed lust. It's the overwhelming need, manifesting as anger, to rape this tiny hole full of cum, to fuck Rose's ass into the mattress and turn her into nothing more than a seat of pleasure for your dick.
 
What you growl at her, between nips at her neck and shoulder, reflects this paradox raging inside you: "Fuck you. I love you. You stupid fucking cunt bitch. I love you so fucking much." You run your hands through the hair on the back of her head, grasping her tightly. You fuck her and snarl tender obscenities directly into her eardrum.
 
Rose is sighing, drowning in the pleasure of getting raped. Her mouth hangs partway open. In an airy voice she demands: "make me pregnant... knock me up..." Her hands find your sweaty back with twin slaps, and she holds onto you for all she's worth, nails digging into your flesh. She bucks her hips in tune with you. Her pussy shudders and you dump your second load of the night straight into her womb. It feels like your soul is leaving your body through your cock as you empty your nuts completely inside her. The way Rose screams as you give her your cum must mean she feels the about the same. You can almost hear the sperm sloshing around inside her belly -- and, feeling dizzy, all you can do is lie atop her as your spurting cock breeds her out.

And after you're totally spent, you collapse. All the tension and strength drain from your muscles. You lie atop Rose, your entire weight bearing down on her oppressively. You feel the warm mess spilling out of her, all around your union. You're purring again, deeply and from the back of your throat -- sounding less like a cat and perhaps more like a percolating coffee maker. You gulp air through your mouth but exhale each breath hard through your nostrils. With your face resting against the side of her head, these forceful exhalations ruffle her hair. She snuggles against you. Her nose tickles your neck in just the way you've come to love.

When you finally find the energy to move, it's only to roll off of her. The sensation of pulling out sends an almost painful jolt through your over-sensitive dick. You flop onto your back, staring dazed at the ceiling. One hand is somehow pinned beneath Rose, who is similarly on her back, similarly dazed and similarly ceiling-staring.

"Oh, fuck you," she pants between jagged breaths.

"Goddamn it. Already with this shit?" You carry on your bickering, both of you still staring straight up, and struggling for air. It's hard to speak considering how winded you are, but you manage. You clasp a palm to your sweat-slick brow. "Can't even take two minutes to rest before getting right back to it, huh."

"Seriously... fuck you. You prick. You really intend to make me sleep on the wet spot?"

"I'm not making you sleep anywhere. Go back and sleep in your own bed if it bothers you so much."

"This is my bed."

"What do you--"

"We're married. This is my bedroom now. My bed."

"Oh Jesus. Make yourself at home why don't you."

"I already did, thank you very much. So I advise you to get used to it. I own half your shit now, Alabaster."

"Well, fine. You get the half with the wet spot."

She sighs in contempt. But underneath that is something you've learned to detect over the years, like a wine connoisseur appreciating subtle undertones in the bouquet of a fine vintage; hidden in the contempt is happiness.

"What are we gonna do?" You ask her after a long period of increasingly somber silence.

"I don't know. I think we're doomed."

"Maybe."

"Aren't we?" She says.

"I can't work with David Darkbloom. I'm so fucking beyond -- I can't believe they did this without even consulting us. Without consulting ME."

"Do you think he'll make a convincing enough Dalton to fool the man's family? ... to fool Mara?"

"I don't give a shit. David fucking Darkbloom is out and about in the world, walking around as a free man. I don't give a shit if it fools anyone."

Rose props herself up on her elbow. You're thankful to be able to pull your arm back, the one that was pinned -- it's already falling asleep, and it tingles like how TV static must feel.

"Alabaster," she says softly, peering down at you. "Do you think we're doomed, too?"

"No."

Your phone dings. When you check its display, it's the last person you expected.

"What do you think? Should I go?" You ask your wife.

"You cannot be serious," Rose says, reading the text over your shoulder.

---

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," Noelle says. You sit on the patio outside the Coffee Bean. Chain coffee houses are nice. Bad things never happen at chain coffee houses. Not like those Mom and Pop places.

"No problem." You rest your cheek on one fist. "I had nothing better to do."

"Don't get shitty with me," Noelle warns. "I really needed to see you... this is important..."

You frown. She sounds serious about this. "What is it, then?"

"I don't know how to say this. So I'll just say it. I... I'm pregnant."

Your blood curdles. Your jaw hangs slack. "Y-you're --"

"Nahhh," she says. "But that would be pretty bad, huh?"

You rub your face, your breathing returning to normal. "Fuck, Noelle. Why would you -- don't fuck with me. I've got enough to worry about as it is."

She laughs. "You fuck with so many girls. Why can't I have a little fun, too?" Looking down, she notices your ring for the first time: "What the -- oh my god. Don't tell me you're actually married."

You nod.

"I leave for a couple days, and you get married on the rebound? That's kinda sad. Who's the unlucky gal?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but Rose."

She grimaces. "Rose... I'm not sure I even want to know which one."

"Which one do you think would be worse?"

"Hard to say. Rose2 is the human embodiment of cancer. But so is Original Recipe Rose, with the added bonus of being your own cousin."

"Once removed!" You groan. "First cousin, once removed! Why can NOBODY get that right!"

"So it's her," Noelle hums. You sigh. Noelle, mental cogs visibly spinning, reasons aloud: "You... did this to invoke privilege? You got... no way. You got caught in a sham marriage with an SJW to invoke spousal privilege!" You neither confirm nor deny; Noelle, cackling, adds: "this is just too much. Oh, this is perfect. Muwah." She bunches her fingers to her lips and gives a chef's kiss.

"This is all because of you, naturally," you add. "You ruined my life."

Another chef's kiss from Noelle. Peppier than before, she grabs a few packets of Splenda from the nearby porcelain holder, and flicks them repeatedly before tearing them open. She tugs her saucer and coffee cup towards her.

"There you go," you say. "You're so fake that even the sweetener you use in your coffee is fake..."

"Have to maintain that girlish physique somehow," she says, pouring the Splenda, stirring it. She draws her mug to her lips and blows.

"A couple packets of sugar won't make any difference. Live a little. That stuff causes cancer anyway."

"Clarion call of fatties everywhere," Noelle says. "'Oh, just ONE won't hurt...' Like that. And for your information? Sucralose is one of the most studied chemicals ever, and no causative link with cancer has ever been demonstrated."

"Whatever. What use is a good body on you? For what, exactly -- watching yourself ride a dildo in front of a mirror?"

"Exactly."

You raise your eyebrows higher than the noon sun.

"Will you just get to the point already," you flatly grouse. "What's so important that you needed to see me in person?"

Noelle is serious again all of a sudden. "This is another one of those oh-shit moments," she warns. "I could get in real trouble being here."

You rise. Enough of this. But she reaches for your hand, staying you.

"Then again," she says, "I got royally fucked by the government, didn't I. Bent over and with no vaseline to boot. So if they want to tell me that I can't fraternize on my own time, as a private citizen, with a man they won't even call a person of interest -- they can go jump off a bridge. Sit. Please."

You do.

"I have a friend at the bureau still. He told me something that you ought to know. My replacement -- there was an ongoing IAB investigation into him. Key word 'was.' It got squashed and swept under the rug when he took my job."

"Internal affairs... what for?"

"He's colluding with someone to sabotage the investigation."

Adrenaline surges through your gut. "A spy...? For who, Mara? The Russians? Chinese?"

Noelle slowly shakes her head.

---

Tyrus leads the way into The Sizzler. Closed for the evening though it is, he has a key to the premises, and unlocks the swinging double doors. Behind him, in handcuffs, is a Russian national -- Konstantin Federov, who was arrested by the FBI earlier this year on suspicion of working with the mafia. And behind Konstantin, corralling him, is Hugh Thurston, now the lead on the investigation that ensnared him.

Tyrus flips the light switches, illuminating the dingy red carpet and empty buffet troughs and grubby tabletops in the restaurant's dining area. It's too bad, he thinks -- that that Noelle bitch didn't get out of the way before he was forced into hiding. Things would be so much easier. Working with someone like Hugh is nothing at all. Grease his palms with enough money and, if you want, he'll even steal a major international criminal from federal lockup for the night.

Into the pristine kitchen now, staffed by a bunch of gangsters-turned-frycooks who have made the necessary preparations: pushing chrome tables together, disinfecting them, donning fine mesh hairnets and latex gloves in case they are needed as assistants. Tyrus graciously thanks them for a job well done: "shit's looking like a regular ER in here," is his assessment. He walks with a limp and winces with each step, still recovering from the wounds he sustained at his nightclub. This very kitchen was the site of an emergency surgery not too long ago that saved his life.

Tyrus hops up onto the ad hoc operating table and strips his shirt off like someone getting ready for his physical, baring the gauze still wrapped about his sinewy belly and shoulder. Hugh nudges Konstantin forward.

"Forgive me," Konstantin says, gruff, and thickly accented, "but I think there is misunderstanding. You want operating? I am qualified only to operate on humans. Not on monkeys."

Tyrus smiles. "That kind of thing don't faze me one bit. You can call me whatever mean name you want. Call me nigger with a hard R for all I care. Fact, you can have unlimited free lifetime uses -- and if anyone gives you any shit, just tell 'em Tyrus gave you a pass. Know why?"

He actually waits for a response, but Konstantin, stoic, refuses to play along.

"Because," Tyrus finally begins. He puts both his balled up fists to his pecs, drawing a deep, appreciative breath, and sighing theatrically. "--because I'm a free man, breathing free air, free air in the greatest country on the planet. And that's how I'll be until the day I die. You?..." He points at Konstantin. "You're getting shipped off to Florence ADX in a few months, and you'll be down there in a 6x6 concrete hole in the ground, forever, until the end of your natural life -- nothing to keep you company but memories of Das Motherland. So I feel bad for you. Don't worry, though. I got you covered. I'll send you some borscht every couple decades."

"Das is German word, you stupid nigger."

Tyrus lightly swats Konstantin's chest with the back of his palm, laughs. "You didn't wait two seconds to use your pass! Goddamn." Then, grin crumpling, face instantly turning serious, Tyrus reaches for his back trouser pocket. Konstantin flinches, feeling the fear grip him; but Tyrus doesn't produce a gun. Instead he produces an implant. He holds it by the end of the wire, the grain dangling in the air between them. "I want you to put this inside my head."

"Do you even comprehend of what that device is capable?" Konstantin demands.

Tyrus shrugs. "Pretty beneficial shit I assume, or everyone and their moms wouldn't be gunning for one." Konstanin begins to say something, but Tyrus speaks right over him. "Your bitch Stasi had this in her. It's how she knew where I was all the time, isn't it? Don't you fucking lie to me, you Ruskie motherfucker. It was like a bad rerun of Tom and Jerry with that cunt, all the time. She had herself a built-in advantage -- literally. And this is it. You know something? It's a damn miracle Alabaster Soliloquy just happens to be dating Calamity Jane as a stalker." He grins at Konstantin "You into anime? I been watching a lot of animes recently. They call it yanyan. When you've got a bitch so hot for you that she just straight up murders a bunch of motherfuckers over it. Anyway. I'd be dead if not for that. And you should have seen the look on Stasi's fucked-up face when that midget bitch pumped her chest full of buckshot."

"I refuse," Konstantin says simply. He stomps a single time to punctuate it.

Tyrus nods at Hugh. Hugh spins Konstanin around a full 180 degrees -- decks him -- then as Konstantin is still regaining his bearings, the cuckoos still metaphorically circling his head, Hugh pulls a polaroid from his FBI coat pocket. It's a telescopic photo of Konstantin's wife and two young daughters on a shopping trip in St. Petersburg. The implication is obvious, and makes Konstantin's pale skin turn paler.

"Still refuse?" Hugh asks.

Konstantin snarls, but does not reply.

---

When Tyrus wakes up, he's a new man. Well. Newish. He sits up slowly, like Frankenstein's monster rising from the concrete slab in the dungeon. He's mostly his same self -- but augmented.

His first impression is simple, and practical: his left eye is viciously sore. Though he knows it's probably an inverse placebo effect -- the knowledge of the fact that it was recently outside his body playing a trick on him -- the eyeball feels loose in its socket. Like a bum wheel on a shopping cart. He reaches up as if to rub it with the heel of his palm, but thinks better of it.

Only then he realizes, without needing to consciously scan his memory banks, that he has an entire lifetime's worth of new memories inside his head now. It's the lifetime of Anastasia Lebedev, available for instant playback. So now he does scan his memory banks: he can remember Afghanistan in 1987, slitting the throats of Mujahadeen on the way out the door; he can remember Moscow in 1999, castrating a rival capo at his home while the newly minted eunuch's wife and children huddled caterwauling in the corner; he can remember Pyongyang in 2003, securing a lucrative deal in exchange for fusion-capable devices that fell off a truck when the wall fell.

Although he got closure, although he got his justice and revenge, Tyrus can't help himself. He's a dog gnawing at his own mangy hind leg. He immediately wants to see it, he wants to see what happened to the only man he ever really loved, wants to see what Stasi did to him. He thinks back to that night.

There it is.

Stasi's point of view, from around a row of server towers. Slipping stealthily away. Alex Best tied to a chair. Alabaster Soliloquy entering. Stasi stopping to watch, curious. Marquis looming, upset, accusing betrayal. A confrontation, a sudden misstep -- savage screams, a bloody bat raised high in the air.

Alex beating Marquis to death.

Tyrus exhales, and blinks hard, and rolls his jaw like a cow chewing cud. He's back to reality, Hugh is waving a hand up and down in front of him. "You okay?"

Tyrus meets his gaze. "No. I'm pretty fucking far from okay."

END OF EPISODE 1.

June 2, 2018

Stackleford is walking back to Gal's with a big old bag of Taco Bell in his hammy grip. He's sweating like a hog, pores glistening in the dim blueness of predawn. The streetlights are coming back on, so he guesses that all the trouble at Darkbloom Analytics must be finished, one way or another. He's a mess of frayed nerves and he uses food to quell them; even now he gnaws on a nacho fry as he trudges down the sidewalk. He wonders whether he's walking straight to his death. He very well could be. Maybe gangsters will be lying in wait at Gal's, American or Russian, or something else entirely. Maybe the police will be there. But where else can he go? He isn't safe anywhere, anymore. He looks sadly down at his maimed hand, the stumps left behind by Stasi. It still hurts days later.

As he rounds a corner, he hears a pssst from the narrow corridor between two buildings on his left. It almost makes him faint with fright, just the sound of someone hissing at him -- he's not capable of dealing with surprises right now. He tries to hurry past as if he didn't hear, but then the person calls out: "Stacks." He stops. It's Camelia.

She's obviously not in a good way. Her face is streaked with gunky brown grime -- blood, perhaps a mix of hers and David Darkbloom's. Her blue hair is matted and her skin is pallid. She sways slightly on her feet as if trying to stand in tropical force winds.

She isn't wearing her patented eyepatch.

This is the first time Stackleford has ever seen underneath that eyepatch of hers. Her eye is fucked up, to put it politely. It looks like the eye of a zombie in a horror movie -- white in the middle, bloodshot, the skin surrounding the socket permanently black and scarred, half-necrotic really. No wonder she keeps it covered.

"I need a favor," she says. Her voice is tired and soft, far cry from her usual manner.

Stackleford is hesitant. "I... I'm sorry... I d-don't think I should be seen with you in pub--"

The first thing Stackleford registers is the muzzle of the gun pointed at him; he recognizes it as the very same gun Camelia murdered David Darkbloom with only a few hours ago. So of course that means she's willing to use it. The second thing Stackleford registers, directing his gaze now upward, is Camelia's scowling grimace.

"I'm not done with you," she says.

Stackleford holds his hands up -- finger stumps and all -- dropping his grease-stained bag of food to the ground with a plop. Camelia holsters her gun. She pulls a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket and forces it into Stackleford's palm, saying simply: "take this."

He's shivering. "Why?"

Camelia does not answer. Instead she goes back for her tracksuit's jacket pocket, this time producing a switchblade. Stackleford takes a halting couple steps backward, but stops stone-still when Camelia flicks the business end open. She keeps him fixed in her cold gaze for a few moments, blade in hand, wordlessly daring him to make another move. He doesn't.

She puts the tip of the blade to her right eye's tear duct.

She takes a deep breath.

She gouges it in.

Even from five paces away, Stackleford nonetheless hears the wet squish of it. This comes followed by a wail of pain not even Camelia can stifle. Stackleford watches in slackjawed horror as Camelia roots around with the tip of the knife inside her own eye, blood spurting like a tiny sprinkler. At last she finishes, and drops the bloody switchblade to the sidewalk. From her ruined eye she unspools and removes the long thin wire. It's like a gory twist on the old magician's trick of pulling a neverending rope of handkerchiefs from your sleeve.

Stackleford is close to vomiting by the time she's done. "Are... are you okay?"

Camelia, through a mask of pain, the right side of her face dripping blood like a faucet that can't be shut completely off, smiles. She goddamn smiles. "Ever get a little fleck of popcorn stuck in your gums? ... know how great it feels to finally dig it out?"

Stackleford opens and closes his lips without finding words to accompany it.

Camelia uses her jacket to wipe her gore off the device, and then forces Stackleford to take it as well. She deposits it in his palm and curls his hand into a fist around it for him.

"Take that implant, and the note I gave you, to the Rutabaga Cafe. Do it now. Put them under the last bench in the back, on the right. Set them next to a USB stick that's there on the ground already."

"Why?"

Camelia frowns. "It's my make-a-wish wish. That's why."

"But--"

"Stop asking questions. Just go. And when you're done, tell no one. Not Alabaster. Not Whitney, or Rose, or Cerise. No one. You understand? If you tell a single soul about any of this, I will find you. Don't make me mad."

Stackleford stands there stupidly.

"Well?" Camelia demands. "What are you waiting for?"

Stackleford is much paler even than usual, as he makes to leave.

"Oh. Stacks. One final thing."

Miserable, he stops, turns.

Camelia is seriously struggling to remain upright. She's swaying in place even worse than before. Her sneakers make scuffing sounds on the concrete as her feet toddle beneath her in their fight to keep her standing. "You should lose a little weight, huh?"

"Uuuh."

"I'm being serious. Start working out. You'll feel better."

"...Ok."

"One more final thing. Brush your teeth every once in a while. The people around you will feel better."

"Ok."

She stumbles forward to walk past him, but he's blocking the way, staring at her creepily, and won't budge. She sighs. "What is it?"

"W-when...?"

"Once in the morning and once before bed, is what dentists recommend, I think..."

"No..."

Camelia waits for him to say.

"When will we see you again?"

She considers it. "Sooner than you think," she says.

She nudges Stackleford aside and continues on her way to who knows where. Her gait is slow, tipsy and uncoordinated. Near the end of the block, she leans precariously to one side, almost falling, but rights herself. She lurches around the corner, and then she's gone. Even Stackleford is smart enough to know that she's dying.


---

Over the intercom, a monotone secretary announces that Amber Catch-a-cratic is wanted at the registrar's office. That's a new one, as far as ways to fuck up your last name go. You'll write that one down in your notebook along with the others for sure.

Gilroy Technical College is sort of like a poor man's ITT Tech, all full of glassy eyed veterans, GED recipients and sad middle managers trying to jumpstart stagnated careers. As five years ago, so now; they opened their doors to the displaced students of North High pending reconstruction of the burnt-down school grounds. The commute back and forth from Palo Alto is going to be a bit of a bitch, but thankfully you've got a helpful volunteer on that account.

You find your way to an elevator and press the button for the lobby. But just before the door slides smoothly shut, a hand shoots through the gap and pries them open again. And then into the cramped space steps Auburn Brantly.

He turns and faces forward with you. "Hello, Amber."

"President Catachresis. Please."

"Where are you going in the middle of the school day?" He demands.

"Pushy," you tsk. "Do you think you're my owner or something?"

"I think we have a StuCo meeting this afternoon. If you keep missing these things, we'll be forced to kick you out of the presidency."

You fold your arms. "Fucking try it, needle-dick. I've got extenuating circumstances."

"Sure. Fine. Since you've got more important places to be, I suppose I'll just have to pick up the slack." He shrugs, grinning. "I'll take care of all this hard, boring President stuff while you're gone. Don't worry about a thing."

You flip him off.

"So crass -- so unbecoming. You're really not fit to be President."

"This StuCo meeting is about a plan to organize volunteer cleanup duty at NHS -- right?" You say. "That should be in your wheelhouse anyway. Aren't you the one that ordered Tongtong to burn down the school?"

"A paranoid conspiracy theorist as always. I see selling out to take part in the dirty process of electoralism hasn't changed you a bit."

The elevator stops, and you step out. He follows.

You spin on your heels and stand there in the empty hallway with him.

"It's not a conspiracy theory," you say. "We all know you and Tongtong were bumping uglies. Your yellow fever is well documented. But you really did a number on her, didn't you? You got her so twisted up that she'd do anything for you."

"You are disgusting. As expected."

"But I would have expected better of you. Isn't what you do with her, like, colonializing her body or something?"

He examines his hand, scratching the nail of his index finger with the nail of his thumb. "If she consents to being colonized..." He hooks his thumb in his trouser pocket now and adopts a defiant stance: "Anyway, Tongtong acted alone. Now she's in a mental health facility, where I hope she gets the treatment she needs. And I don't want to hear about morals and propriety from you. You stink like sex."

"You're mistaken. But I'll forgive you. You aren't used to being near people whose bodies produce measurable quantities of testosterone. It's got you confused."

"Since you're so into politics now," Auburn says, "here's a question for you. How has your opinion on George W. Bush changed?"

You try not to wince, and you're not sure whether you're successful. That little shit. Could a question so specific and out of left field possibly be coincidental? Or is he the one who was in your bedroom -- inside your safe? That's impossible, though. A little fuckweasel beta like Raisin Brant couldn't possibly have the wherewithal to crack a safe. Not to mention the fucking temerity.

"George W. Bush is a murderer," you reply. "Pig disgusting."

"Of course," he says, smoothing his trouser leg. "That's always been a rare point we can agree on. But since you're so interested in dictators, maybe your opinion on Soviet strongmen is different? How do you feel about Vladimir Putin?"

That cinches it. It was him all along. He's the intruder who busted into your safe and scared you enough to make you pack your bags for Alabaster Soliloquy's off-brand Playboy Mansion. You wonder wryly to yourself what his reaction would be if he knew that.

The intercom sounds: "Amber Coochiecrisis, to the registrar's office. Amber Coochiecrisis. Registrar's office." That secretary is just full of 'em today.

[ ] Confront Auburn about breaking into your safe.
>[x] Leave it be.

"I'm not a fan," you say. "He's like a shitty cash-grab sequel. The Episode VII to Stalin's Episode IV, if you get what I'm saying."

"You're mixed up with terrible people. I should report your activity to the--"

You've got him up against the wall before he can react, hand around his throat.

He gasps, and reaches down for something. You stay his hand by grabbing his wrist. And with your knee, you feel it -- something hard in his pants. Not that. Cold and metallic.

"You brought a gun to school?" You breathe. "Trenchcoat mafia creep-ass motherfucker. Fuck."

"You're one to talk," he says through gritted teeth.

"Leave me alone, Raisin Brant. I'm serious. If you fuck with me, you will regret it."

You step back, and let him go. He massages his throat where you held it, not signaling pain -- but more a muted annoyance.

"Oh -- there you are." You turn in the direction of the voice. Standing at the opposite end of the hallway, over by the mouth of the registrar's office, is Dalton Cantor. Or at least who appears as Dalton Cantor.

You thought it would be Vivian picking you up today, but instead you've got the main man himself. This is too good of an opportunity to pass up.

You put a coquettish finger through your hair and twirl it. "Daddy!" You say in your best impression of a bimbo.

Darkbloom blinks, aghast. You skip over to him like a little girl playing hopscotch. Auburn, of course, follows.

"You -- you're Dalton Cantor," Auburn says, surprised.

"I--" Darkbloom says. This is beyond a compromising situation. He is, as far as anyone knows, a top-ranking executive at a major company, and now he's been recognized by a high school student -- while you, a high school girl yourself, hang off of him like a hooker.

"Let's goooo already," you whine. "I wanna play!"

Auburn is seething, and can't hide it. Darkbloom is trying to get free of you, but you won't let go. Between the two of them, it's impossible to say who's more uncomfortable.

"He isn't your father--" Auburn begins, sputtering.

"Duuuh. He's my Daddy."

"I am no such--"

"Do you have the hotel booked? C'mon. Let's go!"

Auburn's lips tremble, and he points an accusing finger at Darkbloom. "You are vile."

"You are -- misunderstanding the situation, young man. This isn't--"

But Auburn is already stomping off.

You let go of Darkbloom's arm, and let your bubbly facade boil away like vapor.

"You are impossible," Darkbloom fumes.

"Thank you. Where's your daughter?"

"She is in the registrar's office. Waiting for you. But I see you live according to your own schedule, as always." He turns and begins down the hall. You trot behind. "Do not test me. I do not have time for your craziness, Amber. The only reason you're involved at all is because Vivian is so insistent. But if you won't be reasonable, I will make her agree to forge ahead without you."

"Pff. Sure. You can't do shit, asswipe. You don't get to make any decisions."

Darkbloom ignores you.

"Your daughter is a rapist, by the by."

He casts a glance back over his shoulder, disturbed but not terribly surprised at this news. "Whitney? It's Alabaster's influence. He's an awful perv--"

"Vivian."

"What?"

"Vivian. Not Whitney. Vivian raped the shit out of me the other night."

"Preposterous." He stops, turns and faces you. That one definitely was a surprise.

"Ask her yourself if you don't believe me. Fuck. Why would I make that up?"

"Because you're a prevaricator, a manipulator and a terrorist."

"Well, yes, but actually no. Everyone wants to say I'm Camelia but frankly I'm not bought in on that theory yet. What I know for sure is that you're a man-sized twat who thought he was a god and died like a dog. True or false?"

"Fal--"

You make a loud, obnoxious buzzer noise.

"You murdered me--"

You do the buzzer sound again.

Darkbloom grabs you by the wrist.

You become all at once aware that you are very small. That Darkbloom is very tall and very strong. Your lip curls up, you begin to say something. But Darkbloom is already turning around again. He tugs you with him, walking briskly, and you have no choice but to stumble and try to keep up.

"What the fuck!" You cry.

"If you want to tell everyone that I'm your quote-unquote 'daddy' then I'm happy to oblige. Someone has to keep you in check, and it may as well be me."

"You motherf--"

"My patience is at an end, Amber. Stop prattling and hurry along."

As you approach the registrar's office, Vivian steps forth from it, and is taken aback indeed to see Darkbloom toting you around like an unruly toddler.

---

"We need to fire everyone who Tyrus ever hired, worked with, or so much as had a fucking conversation with."

Usually Whitney's penchant for firing people is a bit wearying but in this case, you fully agree.

"Understood," Spancer says. "I will go through our rolls and terminate any employee with ties to Mr. Kang."

"Now wait just a cotton-picking chotto!" Rose2 says, hand on her hip. She leans way forward and wags her index finger in the air. "Didn't Spancer himself play with Tyrus at the tennis tourney?"

"That's right," you say. "He did."

"I cannot self-terminate," Spancer says. "But after I have completed the current directive, I will willingly resign."

"I don't--" Whitney begins. Then, to Rose2: "shut the fuck up, will you? I like Spancer. I trust him. He's basically a robot programmed to be loyal to this company."

"Does he even have a place of his own?" You ask. "I'm pretty sure he lives here. -- Do you live here, Spancer?"

"Negative."

"Anyway," Whitney says, turning her attention back to Spancer. "I order you not to go. I order you!"

"Understood."

"We need you," Whitney continues. "In fact, I want to promote you."

Spancer sits there passively, with no outward sign that this news has made him either pleased or displeased.

"We're down a CFO," Whitney explains. "I could make Viv pull double duty, but that's not fair to her. She's got enough bullshit to deal with. So I'm slotting Armstrong over to that spot -- that leaves his spot open." She extends a hand. "Long story short, I'd like to bid a warm adieu to our new CHRM!"

"Adieu means goodbye," you tell her.

"Shove it."

Spancer shakes her hand robotically -- once, twice, a third time, and then relinquishes his grip. Whitney doesn't let on, but as she pulls her hand away, you see her rubbing it as if the force of the handshake hurt her.

"All right then," Whitney says. "Get to firing."

He stands, turns in a precise 180 degrees, and marches out.

"Weird guy," Whitney says as he shuts the door.

---

"We're gonna need a new security detail, too," Whitney says, staring pensively from her window, one hand behind her back. It's so strange to see her taking charge like this, making decisions on her own -- and the right ones, even. The disappearance of Alex and her mother has lit a fire in her that you've never seen before.

"Any ideas?" You ask.

"Noelle is free, right?"

"You cannot be serious. First of all -- you hate Noelle."

"She warned us about Tyrus. She can't be all bad."

"Noelle is so cool!" Rose2 says. "She's got this super mysterious vibe, you know? Like she's a delinquent who got her life together and she's hiding a really dark, edgy past that haunts her..."

"Who invited you here?" You say. "I swear to God, it's like you just show up wherever the fuck you please."

"Hai!" She salutes you with the back of her palm pressed flat to her forehead. Her knuckles make a hollow noise against her skull.

"I'll leave this one up to you," Whitney says. "You know Noelle better than any of us." She nudges you. "Biblically, even."

"Err."

"Don't even lie. Don't even joke us."

You shake your head.

"So you can decide whether we can trust her or not," Whitney finishes.

>[x] Hire her.
[ ] Don't hire her.

You step into the frigid interior of Shake 'Em Up, a local ice creamery specializing in milkshakes where you arranged to meet Noelle. Though it's the first time you've been, the place is a minor sensation, and has 10 or 11 locations around Silicon Valley.

Whitney pulls her phone from her purse and shows the screen to a disinterested cashier girl. "20% off," Whitney tells her.

The cashier taps the offer code into her computer.

"A fucking groupon, Whitney, really?" You say.

"What? It's good value!"

"You're a billionaire."

"Yeah. And I wanna stay that way."

You grumble. Turning your head upward, you scan the menu. Mint chocolate chip sounds good. "Yeah, I'll take a--"

"We'll take a strawberry banana shake," Whitney tells the girl. "Two straws, please."

You huff. "What, is this an executive decision?" You say.

"Ayep. A little birdie told me that the strawberry banana shake here is to die for. I want a second opinion, though. It's important."

"What's so important about whether a milkshake is good or not?"

"If it's good enough, I'm buying the place."

That's Whitney. She'll scrupulously collect her 20% discount on a milkshake, then turn around and buy the entire restaurant on a whim. You'd chastise her for being so erratic but her investments usually pay off. She once made a bet with Vivian on who could get the biggest return on $1 million of seed money. Vivian spent weeks researching startups and proudly showed you all her statistical analyses that pointed her towards the investments she settled on. Whitney threw darts at a board with companies written on it. Whitney won the bet.

Whitney sits across from you, and you sit beside Noelle. Noelle seems somewhat perplexed by the way you and Whitney share your milkshake like a couple of teens from a 50s sitcom. Maybe it goes against the image she had in her head -- of both of you.

She's also perplexed about Whitney's offer. "Last month you were shouting 'fuck you' at me from the top of a balcony. Now you want me working for you?"

"You don't get it. This is like one of your Japanimes where two enemies have to team up to face an even BIGGER enemy."

Noelle leans back. "So you want me to be your Pinkerton."

"Yes!"

"Do you know what a Pinkerton is?"

"...No."

"I just don't understand," Noelle says. "I mean. You don't hold any kind of -- I don't know, grudge?"

"Naaah. I don't hold grudges, pig."

Noelle is clearly unsure how to take that.

"We'll pay you," you tell her. "Whitney's a good boss. And you do need a job, right?"

"Yeah. I need a job because of you fuckers."

"So consider this our way of making amends," you try.

"Uh huh. How much are you offering?"

Whitney, who's been slurping on the drink since the moment she said the word "pig," finally lets her straw drop from her lips. She's already siphoned up about half the enormous milkshake. Her expression is vacant as the gears in her head spin. "I dunno. What's fair? $1 million per year?"

Noelle can't conceal the exhalation of surprise she makes, as if someone has punched her in the chest.

"Shit. I'm lowballing you. $2 million a year."

Noelle gawks, and then says nothing. Maybe she's thinking that if she stays quiet, Whitney will keep hiking the price to infinity. And she would, but you step in. "That sounds good," you say. "Noelle?"

"Y-yeah -- yeah. That sounds pretty fucking good."

"Then it's a deal?" You ask.

She shakes your hand.

"Where do you live?" Whitney asks.

"An apartment over on--"

"Wrong."

"I'm -- I'm sorry. Wrong? I have an apartment--"

"Wrong. You live in my house. This is a full-time job, Noelle. Full time. That's why I'm paying you so much. You'll be living with us."

"...Fuck."

Whitney does her little wheeze-laugh and keeps sucking on her drink. Through a mouth of half-melted pink cream, she tells you: "This shit rocks. I'm buying it. We'll take Shake 'Em Up national."

"That's a little bold," Noelle says, propping her elbows on the table and resting her chin on the backs of interlaced fingers. "Do you have experience running a restaurant chain?"

"None," Whitney admits. "But we do need to di-vers-if-y, and why not start with some bitching ice cream? Anyway. I pay you to keep me safe. Not to talk."

Noelle frowns. She obviously doesn't like how quickly this relationship has shifted in Whitney's head. "If you take a bath on this place, don't blame me," Noelle says. "You know this restaurant only has a B from the health inspector? Just saying."

You feel a bit ill just hearing that, but it fazes Whitney not at all. She says: "we'll fix that. We'll get the best people on it right away."

---

"They don't want to oust her from the CEO position."

You sit in Vivian's living room. You and she watch as Darkbloom speaks over the phone to Mara. The phone is connected by lightning cable to a PC, which Galatea sits at -- recording, and trying to trace any identifying info.

"Keep pushing them," Mara responds.

"Of course. But we need to decide on contingencies. If they don't agree--"

"If they don't agree, we will simply have to kill them. All of them."

Vivian's eyes shimmer with rage.

"That would invite too much scrutiny," Darkbloom says. "We are too close to the end for that... we must tread lightly."

"Again with this over-cautious nonsense. Once Alex Best and David's little cunt mistress finish their work, what difference will it make who knows anything of what has transpired? Focus on the bigger picture, Dalton."

Now it's Darkbloom's turn to simmer with rage. Hearing Mara speak of Renee like that got under his skin, big time.

"How goes their progress?" He asks, masking his anger with smooth nonchalance.

"Need to know basis, Dalton."

"Of course."

"And how goes your progress on the other detail?"

This is bad. What other detail? You have no idea. And neither does he. He tries for a vague non-answer: "I am still working that end."

"We can't accept any delays. You must find a way. Do it yourself if need be."

"Understood."

"I will speak with you again tomorrow."

"Yes."

She hangs up.

You glance Gal's way. She shakes her head sadly. Nada.

"Great," you grumble. "Big fat fucking nothing on all fronts."

"Mother is speaking of drastic action," Vivian says. "We need to press her harder for information that could pinpoint--"

"I know Mara better than anyone," Darkbloom says. "We cannot press too hard. She will grow suspicious."

"We need to do something pretty fucking quick here," you say. "She's talking about killing everyone. That's not bide-our-time talk. That's roadtrip-to-Vail-right-fucking-now talk."

"Amber has a point," Vivian says.

"I can play this out," Darkbloom tells her. "I can find her location with enough time in contact with her. We do not need to go in guns blazing and alert her before we have the upper hand."

[ ] Press for direct action now.
>[x] Let Darkbloom keep working Mara.

Darkbloom stands and starts for the front door.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" You demand.

"Home. To my loving family."

"The facade must be maintained," Vivian tells you. "We cannot allow Dalton Cantor's loved ones to grow suspicious, either."

"Suspicious, fuck. You want to let David Darkbloom roam around on his own?"

"Not particularly," Vivian says. Darkbloom can't help looking hurt.

"Have him leave his wife and kids," you say. "He can come live here, with you."

"Under what pretense?" Vivian says.

"Under the pretense that older men leave their wives for pretty young girls like you all the time."

"That is absurd," Darkbloom says. "Dalton Cantor is many things, but he is a committed family man. His wife and children would never believe such a story."

But Vivian is less skeptical. "Why not?" She says airily.

"For them to believe that their patriarch would suddenly and without warning turn their entire lives upside-down to elope--"

"Don't patriarchs often lead double lives?" Vivian says. "Don't they often do things for selfish reasons, leaving their families in sudden disarray?"

Darkbloom sighs deeply. "And if Mara finds out?"

"Then you are using sex to manipulate me, and turn me against Whitney," Vivian says.

Darkbloom doesn't like even the mental image of it.

"Tell Dalton's family that you are leaving them for me," Vivian instructs. "You will stay here, where we can coordinate more reliably."

"You don't trust me."

"No. I do not."

"This is not the right course of action," Darkbloom says. "You must see reason. I will keep up appearances with Dalton Cantor's family. There is no need to try to -- to cage me, like some sort of wild animal."

>[x] Let him stay at Dalton's house.
[ ] Make him live with Vivian.

"I am going," Darkbloom announces. "And I am going alone."

Darkbloom waits for anyone to say boo. No one does.

"I will see you all tomorrow," he says. "Goodnight."

He doesn't exactly slam the door on his way out, but he doesn't shut it gently, either.

You kick back on Vivian's couch, propping your feet up on the table.

"Please do not do that," she says.

You stick your tongue out at her.

"I will be forced to punish you if you persist..."

"What? Are you gonna rape me again?" You nod at Gal. "Right here in front of Cerise's fiancee and everything?"

Vivian laughs haughtily. "If needs be. She has seen worse."

Gal squeaks. She looks away, blushing. "i..."

"We're joshing you," you tell her. "Well. I am, anyway. I don't know about this crazy bitch."

"are you really camelia" Gal asks suddenly.

You blink. You clear your throat. "Uh. Maybe. I dunno."

"i missed you," she says. "if you are."

"Would you feel better if I said I missed you too?"

She nods.

"Well, I did."

---

You sit with Nelson in a conference room, idly passing the time.

"You and your wife have such a toxic relationship," he says.

"Yeah? And how do you recommend that I fix that?"

"I dunno, man. Be more complimentary?"

"Have you met Rose? Do you need me to introduce you to her?"

"I'm just saying--"

He stops himself short as the woman herself walks in. You nod at him and whisper, "watch this."

You glance Rose over from head to toe, looking for something you can use. Spotting it, you cut her off before she can begin talking: "Did you do something with your hair today?"

"What?" She barks.

"Your hair. It's different today. But I can't put my finger on how."

"I--" she stammers. She's already blushing. She fiddles with one of the pins holding her ridiculous drills in place. "I've got some new hairpins in." She bows slightly, so you can see the crown of her head, and the bronze pins there. You noticed them right away of course, but you wanted to give her an opportunity to show off.

"Oh," you say, "how cute."

Rose goes suddenly rigid. Her right eye twitches. "Cute? I'm not trying to be 'cute', Alabaster. You fucking prick. How dare you use such infantilizing, sexist language towards your own wife. Disgusting. That's a classic microagression. Not that I should have expected any better of you. But you can't just -- hey -- are you listening to me? You misogynistic--"

You lace your fingers behind your head, and let Rose's tirade wash over you. You glance over and grin smugly at Nelson.

The sun is quickly setting and evening's periwinkle pall through the windows is blotted out by the conference room's garish fluorescent light. The rest of the board filters in -- sans Darkbloom of course. You've made it more than clear that you don't want him involved with any real decisions at Darkbloom Analytics. Whitney agreed with you.

"So what's today's shitshow?" Armstrong asks.

"Nothing," Whitney says. "We're talking shitshow cleanup here."

"Oh yeah?"

"We have one advantage," Whitney tells you all. "Sand Reckoner."

You tsk. "If we could use it. Unfortunately, that's out of the question."

"Why?"

She should know why. Most of the Sand Reckoner platform is disabled. Federal statute prevents Darkbloom Analytics from turning it back on without explicit military approval. You try to explain this to Whitney in a way she'll understand, simple and to the point: "We can't do that. It's illegal."

"Pff. Illegal how."

Nelson tries to field the question. "Well, I mean -- it's the law. 'No private citizen, nor military personnel acting without the express authorization of designated et cetera... shall make knowing, deliberate use of Sand Reckoner based platforms as defined by section yadda yadda...' You know. The law that makes it illegal to use almost any of our own technology."

"Fuck the law," Whitney says. "Sand Reckoner is our property. We can use it how we want. And if anyone wants to come and tell us otherwise, we can take them to court. Saul told me that. Saul knows a shit ton about the law. He told me if a law's illegal, well... it's illegal. They can make any law they want, but we can sue. And Scootus will tell them to fuck off. Constitutionally speaking."

"...Scootus?" Nelson says.

"Yeah."

"Do you -- do you mean SCOTUS?" He asks.

She points at him. "Yeah. That one."

"Whitney," Armstrong says. "Do you know what SCOTUS is?"

"He's, like, the main judge. He tells the other judges what to do."

"Oh my God," Armstrong groans.

"What?"

"SCOTUS is a court. The Supreme Court."

"I don't see how a guy can be a court."

Armstrong is shouting, pounding the table. "It's not a guy! It's just a court! No guy!"

"Pipe down. Jeez."

"Litigating a case all the way to Scoo-- all the way to the Supreme Court takes years," Rose says. "Meanwhile we could still face legal consequences."

"Rose is quite correct," Vivian says. "Trying to make use of Sand Reckoner would only invite unwanted attention."

"Then let's hope no one finds out what we're doing to begin with."

The room glances uneasily from one to the other.

"This is our trump card!" Whitney says. "Chloe doesn't believe in using her own tech. Mara doesn't have it. It's the one and fucking only thing we've got that they don't. If we could actually use the fucking thing, we could probably stop them both dead before they knew what hit them."

Vivian glances across the table towards you. "Alabaster," she says.

[ ] Turn it on.
>[x] Keep it off.

"You're inviting disaster," you say. "The last thing we need is to get fucking RICO'd by the feds."

"We tried your way, Ally. With the kidnapping and the whatnot. Your way brought bio-dad back to life. I know how happy you are about that. So maybe let's try my way next. If we turn on Sand Reckoner, we can figure out where mom is. Where Alex is. We could get them back, today."

"Maybe this is what Mara wants," you say, eyes darting around.

"Sure. She wants us to find her and murder her. Makes sense."

"No. Think about it. What did Mara do?"

"She kidnapped our people. She put a big fat fuckin' target on her forehead."

"And what didn't she do? She didn't kill us. She could have. She didn't turn on Sand Reckoner. She didn't steal anything, at least that we know of. Why?"

"Because she's a psychotic cunt."

"Because she wants us to do this. She needs Sand Reckoner on, and she expects us to do her dirty work. Whatever she's making Dr. Carte and Alex work on, it's a derivative project... and she doesn't have direct access to our servers anymore, so maybe somehow... maybe somehow this plays into her hand."

Whitney makes a sour face.

"Alabaster's right," Rose says. "And there's too many unknowns regardless. Even if this isn't part of Mara's plan."

"We're handicapping ourselves," Whitney says. "I'm trying to make us handicapable here!"

"You said it yourself," Nelson offers. "Sand Reckoner is our trump card. We can keep it stowed away for a rainy day. No need to act rashly."

Whitney is unconvinced, but she's a surprisingly reasonable CEO; she knows that when her entire board contravenes her, she can't act unilaterally. "Fine," she says. "Then let's move on to shitshow cleanup part two. We're still down one board member."

"There's an excellent front-end dev on my team who would make a great CPO--" Nelson begins.

"Yeah, no." Whitney says. So... not always so shy about acting unilaterally. "You're the new CPO."

"Huh? But--"

"And I'm about to go extend the offer to our new CIO, too. You guys are gonna love her."

---

"Smells like NEET sweat in here," Noelle says. She stands at attention at the front door of Galatea's loft, all suited down, hands in front of her, aviators over her eyes. Ridiculous looking. Galatea regards her fearfully.

Whitney picks up the purple geode from Galatea's computer desk and shakes it like a magic 8-ball. "Whoa. What is this thing?"

Galatea grabs for it weakly, but Whitney turns, and keeps her from taking it.

"it's a crystal"

"Duh. What's it for, is the question."

"it's a healing crystal"

Cerise doesn't try to suppress her groan of disapproval, nor her eyeroll.

"Oh shit," Whitney says appreciatively. "I didn't know they made these. What does it heal?"

"anxiety"

Whitney makes rather a show of looking from the geode, to Galatea, then back again. "Is there a money-back guarantee on this thing?" She asks.

"Give it back to her," Cerise says. She doesn't believe in crystals, but she also doesn't like to see Galatea being bullied.

Whitney sets the thing gently back on the table.

"What do you want?" Cerise asks. "Gal's had a long day. Going out is rough for her."

"I'll make it quick, then," Whitney says. "Ya hired."

"erm... i'm sorry... what"

"Ya hired. I want you on the board."

"i... don't understand"

"CIO Anna Soliloquy. What don't you get?"

There's a long, awkward silence. Finally, all Galatea can come up with is:

"why me"

"I need some of that same juju you used to hack my company back when it was bio-dad's."

"for..."

"Don't get mouthy, Gal."

"Wait a second," Noelle says. "You mean--"

"i can't," Galatea says. "i could never..." she spins in her chair and puts her head on her desk, as if to hide in her hands.

"You're Galatea?" Noelle breathes. "The most dangerous -- oh my God. No fucking way."

"yes way" Galatea says, voice muffled.

Noelle shakes her head in disbelief. "We spent so fucking long looking for-- and you-- fuck."

"We really need your help," Whitney says. "We need someone on our team who can keep this Chloe bitch at bay. That someone is you."

"i can't. i'm sorry. i can't."

"There's always the other way," Whitney says. "I know you were behind 3/10, and the FBI is still looking for someone to arrest..."

Cerise is on her feet. "How dare you. You can't threaten Gal like that--"

"I'm sorry," Whitney says, "did your mother get kidnapped by Russian mafia too? Is your company being invaded by the Chinese too? Sit the fuck down."

Cerise does not comply.

"Sit down," Whitney repeats, more sternly.

You gently take Cerise's hand. "Cerise," you say. And this is enough to finally make her sit.

"I like you, Gal," Whitney says. "You're great. I'm sorry I threatened you -- I don't want to force you to do something you're not okay with. I want you to want to do it, because it's the right thing to do. And it'll be good for you."

Gal turns back towards you again, but she's still staring into her own lap. "i don't see how"

"That's why it'll be good for you," Whitney says.

"I'll give you some time to think it over," Whitney says. "But one way or another... well. Welcome to the team." She nods at you. "I'll be waiting downstairs, Ally."

She motions for Noelle, and together, they stride from the loft.

"I can't believe her," Cerise says.

"I -- can't, either," you stammer. "She's on a fucking warpath."

"She's going to do something stupid. Like always. And when it blows up... we'll all be caught in it."

"She really wants her mom back. And she's scared of what this Qiangxiang is capable of. You can understand that, right?"

"I want Renee back, too. That woman saved my life. And Alex -- I care about him just as much as Whitney does. As for the Chinese, of fucking course I'm scared too. It impacts me just as much as anyone. But she's on some dangerous shit here, Alabaster. She's not thinking straight."

"What do you suggest we do, then?"

She doesn't have an answer.

"You should come live with us," you tell Galatea.

"mm"

"I've been trying to tell her that," Cerise says. "It doesn't seem to be sticking."

"You know -- spouses do tend to live under the same roof," you tell Galatea.

"mm"

"It's a fun place to live," you try.

"mm."

"Okay," you say, standing. "I guess I'm gonna have to go there. This is an order."

Galatea looks up at you, agog.

"An official order," you add "An order from -- uh, from sir."

"Come on, Alabaster," Cerise begins. "Do you really think--"

"ok"

Cerise looks over. "What."

"yes sir"

"Oh Jesus Christ," Cerise groans. You smile at her smugly. Shaking her head, Cerise says: "I guess I better get her packed up, huh."

---

You walk with Whitney back up to her bedroom at home.

When she opens the door, you see something you can hardly believe -- you do a literal double-take. There, in one corner, is a life-sized kennel, made of thin white mesh bars. Like a giant hamster cage. Or maybe more like a rabbit cage. And inside, curled up, is a human being.

"Oh," Whitney says, "she's here."

Whitney's voice wakes her up. She rises, to all fours -- about the tallest posture the cage's dimensions will allow -- stretches her back luxuriously. She yawns, her entire face twitching, and makes a high-pitched, staccato "aaa-hhhh-nnn~" sound from the back of her throat. Blinking rapidly, she smacks her lips a couple times, and then she's looking at you. Samantha Smatters.

"Masters!!" Samantha cries with joy. She loops her fingers through the white wire bars of her kennel. She fixes her attention on you. "My name is Samantha Smatters! Maybe you remember cumming inside me! Ms. Whitney hired me to be everyone's live-in bunny onahole!"

You're beyond words.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Whitney asks, feigning displeasure.

"Oh!" Samantha pips. "I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!" Still on all fours, she turns in a semicircle. She hikes one of her legs up, way up, like a dog about to urinate, and presses her bare foot against the place where where the cage's wall and ceiling meet. Her dainty toes grip the bars just like her fingers did moments prior. With Samantha in this lewd position, you see that she's been naked from the waist down all along. Presenting herself like this, her smooth and glistening lower holes drift partway open. Her anus and her cottontail alike twitch invitingly. "Do you want to dump your load, master?" She asks.

You wipe the sweat from your brow. "What are you paying this poor woman to do this?" You marvel.

"Ms. Whitney is paying me with a place to live and lots of dick to cum on!" Samantha says, enthusiastic, still presenting herself.

"Great," you mumble. "So you sold me off as a signing bonus."

"Why just you?" Whitney says, laughing. "Samantha's a cumdump. I was thinking I could give her away as a party favor for all our execs at company functions..."

You're not sure whether you approve. But your dick lurches in your pants of its own volition. Unfortunately, before you can disrobe and give Samantha the payment she so craves -- from behind, you hear footsteps. Amber is approaching with Mom close behind, taking the grand tour from Rose2.

"Alabaster," Mom begins, "We just got in, and I was t-- ghh-- what!!!"

Amber breaks into peals of uncontrollable laughter. Rose2 is too stunned to speak.

Samantha turns back around and grabs the cage again. Her voice strains with adoration and excitement. "Even more masters? Oh my goodness! Hello!"

"S-Samantha?" Mom sputters.

"Scarlett?!"

"What are you d--" Mom looks from her, to Whitney, to you, and can't find an emotion to settle on. Bafflement, anger, raw shock... allurement?

"Don't forget your manners now," Whitney needles.

"Oh!" She locks eyes with Mom. "I am this residence's live-in cum receptacle! Do you want to use me? My mouth is very skilled!" She lets her jaw hang open and her tongue loll wetly out. Thick strands of saliva spiderweb between her incisors and roll down off the tip of her little pink tongue. She sits there like that, expression vacant, mouth awaiting anything any of you care to put in it.

Mom spins and practically runs away; her two daughters follow, one still laughing, the other stuttering. Whitney is already stripping. "You wanna go deal with that?" She asks. "Or try out the new toy?"

You know where your priorities lie.

---

Down in the living room, Mom is trying to get her breathing back under control, hand to her breast. "This was -- a terrible mistake." She looks at you. "Amber, maybe we should go back home."

You wave her off. "And miss out on all this tanoshii?"

Rose claps. You knew you'd get her on your side with a little bit of her own lingo.

"You told me yourself that Alabaster's a pervert," you say. "So they keep a literal sex pet in their bedroom. Is that at all surprising? But they're all consenting adults, right? What difference does it make?"

"Just promise me you won't get mixed up in all this debauchery," she says after a turn.

"Oh, sure. You got it. Sure thing." You squint at her. "Should I make you make the same promise?"

She stomps indignantly.

"Nevermind," you say.

Rose leans way off to one side. "Heeeey, Amber."

"Heeeey what."

"Where are you gonna sleep, huh?"

[ ] Your sister's room.
[ ] Your mother's room.
>[x] Alabaster's room.
[ ] Your own room.

>[x] Alabaster's room

You loop a sororal arm around Rose and force a chuckle. "I'll be sleeping in your room, of course."

"Hee! Neato burrito!"

"That's good," Mom says. "You two can keep each other out of trouble."

"Uh huh~" Rose agrees. "I won't let anything lewd happen to my little sis!"

"And I definitely won't let a disgusting pervert like Alabaster get his hands on Rose," you say. "She's too innocent to fall into his clutches."

These bald-faced lies put Mom at ease.

Rose shows Mom to her room, and you bid one another goodnight. You follow Rose back to her room next, and deign to spend a few perfunctory minutes hanging out with her -- to ensure Mom is well and truly asleep for the night, before setting your eyes on the actual target.

Rose's room is gaudy and pink, as expected, and smells of candy. Which isn't a surprise either, since there are open packages of Skittles, pocky, and gum sitting on her desk, and empty bottles of Ramune soda scattered about. It's not an unpleasant smell, just a little bit juvenile. You tote you bag in with you and drop it on the floor.

You and Rose have gone much farther than sisters ever should, but you still share that sisterly nonchalance about nudity in a non-sexual context too. Rose steps out of her clothes and slips into a sheer little negligee, and doesn't bother to conceal anything as she does so. Whenever she moves without a bra on, her tits jiggle and flop around. No, you're not jealous. Not at all. You pull off your shorts, and tank, and sweat-damp underwear, toss them in the corner without a thought in the world. Then, too lazy to go digging through your things for your own pajamas, you figure you'll just sleep naked. Ok, so maybe that part is a little weird for sisters sharing a room. Although you don't intend on sticking around for too much longer -- and any clothes you don will only get in the way of the fun you intend to have soon.

Rose is buzzing with unconstrained excitement. "This is gonna be so totally tanoshii! Just like you said!" She crawls up onto her bed and plops down on the satiny carnation-colored covers. "Roomies for life!" she cries, kicking her feet. 

You crawl up onto the bed with her, and sit propped up against the headboard with your knees partially spread. Rose's eyes follow you on your way past, then she turns onto her tummy and props herself up on her elbows, confused. As you grab for a manga from her bedside table and thumb apathetically through it, she finally seems to grok that you don't intend to get dressed. "Amber?" She says timidly.

"Huh?"

"...Haha. You're naked, silly."

"Yeah? So?"

Her lips cup into a contemplative O as she takes in your nakedness and tries to comprehend why it should be an issue. Unable to do so, she finally shrugs and turns onto her back again. She stares at the ceiling.

"Haha. I cannot believe Whitney got an actual fuckbunny!" She says. "So weird. I guess I have competition."

You read from panel to panel in the manga, a bit bewildered -- and then you remember that these things are supposed to run right-to-left for some ungodly reason. "Competition?" You question.

"Uh huh. I'm this house's fuck-kitten, after all!"

You let the manga fall, still open, to your lap. "Good lord. This place really did corrupt you."

"It's suuuper fun," she says, not insulted at all by the accusation. "I know I fibbed a bit to Mom just now, but we're gonna do so much lewd stuff together. It'll be great. She doesn't need to know."

You laugh. "Together? That's incest, you know."

"That's part of what makes it fun~"

Maybe staying nude was a mistake.

"Do you like it here?" You ask. "Other than what I'm gathering is an essentially 24/7 orgy." 

"Oh sure. Whitney is tons of fun to be around. Cerise, too. Even that other girl. And of course there's Ally..." Her voice goes dreamy when she says his name. So hopeless. "We do lots of fun stuff besides sex. Video games, movie nights, indoor golf..."

"Indoor golf?"

"Yepperoni!"

"Like... with golf clubs and shit?"

"How else would you play golf, silly?"

Truly, billionaires are a degenerate and decadent class.

"It's gonna be sooo great sleeping together!" Rose says. "I'm so hecking jazzed!"

You're not sure whether Rose is speaking literally or metaphorically about "sleeping together" -- either way, you quash her enthusiasm. "I'm not actually gonna sleep here."

"Wh-what?"

"If I'm gonna live in the dick house, I might as well sleep in the deluxe dick suite. I'm gonna room with Alabaster. I just told Mom I was sleeping with you so she wouldn't pitch a shitfit."

Rose titters. "Are you funnin' me?"

"No."

"...oh." 

She's back on her elbows again. She hits you with the doe eyes. "Don't you wanna room with your big sis, though?"

"And get molested again? No thank you. If I have to get fucked, I'd rather go get my back walls blown out by Alabaster."

You say it as a sort of crass joke, but just the mental image of it makes your pussy twitch.

"You gotta watch out for him," Rose warns. "He really is a TOTAL hentai. If you try to sleep in the same bedroom as him, he's definitely gonna get ecchi-sketchy with you." She holds up her hands like fondling two invisible boobs.

"Duh. That's what I'm counting on. You're not the only one who gets horny, Rose."

Rose pulls down her eyelid and sticks out her tongue. "Bleeehhhh," she taunts. "I know you talk a big game, Amber, but you're just a little virgin. Messing around with Ally is serious business. You might regret it..."

"I'm not a virgin," you insist. 

Rose's face lights up. "Really? Who have you done it with?"

You frown at her. "You, for a start. And the rest of those depraved bitches at the other Rose's bachelorette party."

"Not girls, silly. Have you ever fucked a guy before?"

"Sure." You blow a bang from in front of your face. You try to read the manga again. But Rose is in gossip mode, and pries for details:

"Then who? Will?"

You laugh. "No. He's a cocksucker, I'm pretty sure."

"That's so hot," Rose says. She puts a finger to her lips, thinking. "Auburn?"

"Oh, god. Kill me. No."

She sighs. "Again with the tsuntsun thing? ... Then who?"

"Alabaster himself."

This shocks her silent. You lay the manga in your lap again and smirk.

"He came in me and everything," you continue. You part your legs a little bit wider, defiant, baring your asshole and your fast wettening pussy to your sister. "Fucked me stupid right in the middle of a classroom at North High."

"When?" Rose demands.

"When he was helping with my StuCo campaign. I paid him with sex. Whored myself right out to him."

Rose laughs angrily, grabs a pillow, and swats you with it. You shield yourself with one arm, and the manga in your lap slides to the mattress unheeded. "Bitch!" You scream. You grope madly for a pillow to fight back with -- and soon you and Rose are duking it out like old times. You become a tangled pile of sweaty limbs and heaving chests, laughing breathlessly together. 

Having finally worn her out -- you think -- you work yourself free and crawl to the edge of the bed. "Okay, okay," you say, getting your laughter back under control. "Are we done here? I'm gonna go get that dick now."

"So rude. Don't you wanna share?"

"Maybe some other time. I'm too horned up to share tonight."

"Wait -- wait!" Rose calls.

You turn.

"Do you know what Ally likes?" She asks. "Sexually I mean."

"Putting his penis inside various holes, and thrusting until semen shoots out?" 

"We should practice," Rose says.

You don't like the sound of that. But Rose is already digging through her nightstand, fat ass waving in the air, the hem of her negligee riding up to reveal the pale skin of her twin globes. She turns back around, producing an enormous double-ended dildo -- flamingo pink, of fucking course, and partly translucent. She grips it around the middle and wiggles it in the air. It flexes and flops to and fro.

"Ally likes to get his cock sucked," Rose says. "I practice on this."

"You practice for sucking dick?" You marvel.

"Uh huh!" She's so proud of herself. "Every night -- at least the nights when I'm not busy sucking his actual cock!"

"No fucking way."

She twirls around to sit flat on her butt, leaning up against the wall, legs splayed out in front of her. She grins devilishly. She grips the dildo now with both hands, and opens her mouth up nice and wide. She plunges the dildo in. 

"Jesus fucking -- Rose?"

Deeper and deeper the plastic cock sinks, until Rose begins to retch and heave around it. Spittle flies from the edges of her mouth. One of her legs jolts, like it got hit by a reflexologist's hammer. She begins to convulse, just slightly. 

"Rose!"

She finally pulls the thing out of her throat with a wet squelch. Her breathing is erratic and gasping. A bubble of spit forms on her lips, bulges to an absurd circumference, then pops. She grins at you. Her voice is hoarse. "Like that. That's how Ally likes to fuck a girl's face. Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I..."

"He's probably still busy with that Samantha bunnygirl. You've got time... why don't you come here and practice with big sister, huh?"

You have to admit: you're impressed. Also turned on. There are things she can teach you, after all. Like an obedient student, you clamber back onto the mattress, and sit before her on your knees. "Is he really that rough when it comes to blowjobs?"

"Oh yeah. Even rougher, maybe. He'll definitely fuck your face at some point, if you let him."

"That can't be any fun, though, can it?"

"Huh?" Rose blinks stupidly. "Nooo. It's awesome. It feels soooo good when Ally chokes you and pounds your throat out... and especially when he cums inside. It's like he's squirting his cum right into your belly! It's so warm and gooey..."

You're half breathless now yourself, and acutely aware that your pussy is beginning to drip.

"Say ahhhh," Rose commands.

You open your mouth for her to violate.

She turns the dildo around in her hands -- so the end that was in her mouth is about to slide into yours. You didn't expect this, but she doesn't afford you the time to raise any hackles. The saliva-coated head of the fake cock pushes past your teeth, over your flattened tongue, and back towards your tonsils. You taste the sweet taste of Rose's mouth, indirectly. As if to stave off a last-second change of heart, Rose uses her free hand to hold the back of your head in place, too. She smiles down at you, a bit haughty, while she forces the dildo to the back of your mouth. 

You try to say something, something like "stop" or "that's enough" but your tongue is pinned beneath this sex toy, so all that comes out is an unintelligible sputter. Trying to talk with this huge thing pressing against your uvula was a mistake. It makes you gag. You cough and choke, and feel your eyes welling up. Rose laughs. She uses the opportunity to wedge the dildo even deeper still, down into your esophagus, sending your gag reflex into overdrive. It's all you can do not to puke on this thing. Your eyeballs roll to the back of your head and you feel dizzy, see stars. You're going to pass out if this goes on much longer. All the while, Rose is giggling like a cunt. It's awful. So why is your pussy on fire? 

Right when you're at the very edge of unconsciousness, Rose lets go of the back of your head, and you slide off the slimy pink cock, and collapse onto your back. You hack and cough, little droplets of your drool flying high up before curving back, landing on your face and chest. When you have enough awareness to look, Rose is busy licking the end of the dildo she was gagging you with. Like it's a popsicle.

"Yoooou," you growl between coughs. "You FUCKING bitch. You almost knocked me out!"

"Hee hee." She's smiling like the Cheshire cat. "It's what Ally is gonna do to you, if you sleep in his room... I'm trying to get you ready." She gives one last, long, luxurious lick to the toy cock, from the middle of the shaft up to the head, as if savoring the taste of your saliva. "Round 2? We can do it together this time."

You shake your head in refusal.

"Come onnn," Rose whines. Before you know it, her fingers are on your pussy. "You're all wet. You're having fun."

What can you say? She's got you.

She helps you rise weakly to your butt again. "Not... so rough..." you say, your only stipulation to continuing this humiliating practice session.

"We'll play a fun game." 

"...Which is what."

"We each take one end. And we try to kiss each other around it."

You peer skeptically at the dildo. It's gotta be 14, 15 inches long. She wants you to make the entire thing disappear down your mouths? Impossible... 

"Here we go, ok?"

She hoists it up between the two of you and opens her mouth expectantly. You know she won't be deterred, so you might as well get it over with. Here goes nothing. 

You get your lips around the rubbery head of the cock a second time. Rose mewls in delight, and then copies you. She keeps the dildo held around the middle to brace it for a few moments as you each slowly, gently, sink it into the confines of your mouths. But once you've both got a few inches in you, she lets go of it, so that it hangs suspended in the air between your lips -- just a long pink shaft connecting you with your older sister. Your eyes meet. Though her mouth is well and truly occupied, her eyes shine, doing all her smiling for her. She literally could not be happier right now, gagging herself on a double dildo with her imouto. She laces her fingers through your hair, holding the back of your head again. You mirror her, not wanting to let her have all the control. As you pull each other even closer, forcing each other to deepthroat this ersatz dick, you begin to retch again. Both of you. But you're both prepared for it, and you're moving more slowly this time to keep from passing out. At this proximity, you can smell your sister, her candy scent, the sweet aroma of her arousal. You're beyond hot -- you need to cum, and soon.

You snake your other hand towards your drooling, needy pussy. But Rose, that horny little sister-raping slut, swats your hand away. She grabs your wrist and guides your fingers instead towards her own cunt, her turned-in cunt lips and fat engorged clit. All the while she presses harder and harder against the back of your head, forcing you deeper onto the cock. When you begin to masturbate her pussy for her like she obviously wants, she sighs through her choking and writhes against you. Then, returning the favor, she gets her fingers into your pussy. 

You half-moan, half-scream straight into the merciless pink head of the plastic cock. Your sister begins to molest you, again, just like you knew she wanted to. Jilling each other off and helping each other sink a giant cock into your gullets, you squirt your cum together, all over the mattress between you -- and all over each other. You cum like geysers on each other.

You were skeptical. But as it turns out, big sister knows best. The length of the pink shaft between your lips is getting shorter and shorter, going from inches, to centimeters, to millimeters. With a final heave of determination, Rose surges bodily forward, and slips the last of the dildo's length down into her experienced cocksucking hole of a mouth. She hiccups, deeply, from down in her diaphragm, but the job is done; together, you've made it disappear. 

You cum again, wetly, around her curious fingers. With your lips distended by the cock, the way you and Rose kiss each other is a bit awkward, but lewd and loving all the same. You press your mouths together and make out with each other, two sisters with a plastic cock nestled firmly down your throats. The only sound in the room is you and her occasionally gagging at random -- and in the background, the continuous wet, slurping sound of you playing in each other's cunts.

---

You leave Rose semi-conscious on her bed. Rose might have "trained" with you, and she may have wrung a few messy orgasms out of your pussy, but it didn't sate you. Not by a long shot. Rather, all that incestuous sexplay, and the barrage of sexual images you saw earlier -- and the experience you had with Vivian before that -- rather than leaving you content, it left you in terrible need. Boldly, you step forth from Rose's bedroom, still nude, your pussy drooling openly down your thin thighs. You trot lightly towards Alabaster's bedroom. You rub your belly near your navel. You're so empty inside. Ever since Alabaster fucked you, you've been obsessed with that feeling he gave you, the feeling of being full to the very brim, and you need it again at any cost. You don't even care anymore if someone sees you walking around the halls wet and bare naked like a slut. Everyone else here is a slut too, so why not you? You're on your way to get fucked... to get cum squirted up inside you... so what if anyone knows it?

When you open Alabaster's bedroom door, he isn't in yet. Rather, on his bed, is his wife: Rose2. The real Rose2, the snotty bitch who deserves that humiliating name. And she's engaged in a fittingly humiliating pastime. She lies on her back, naked from the waist up, massive cow tits on display; she browses her phone, the pale light illuminating her passive face. Her skirt is hitched up, and she isn't wearing panties. With her other hand, she fingers her own ass -- knuckle deep, alternating between using two and three fingers at a time. Just lying there anally masturbating like a pig. Is she looking at porn? You wonder. Or maybe keeping herself ready for Alabaster. That thought makes you shiver. Does Alabaster like it the Greek way, too? Would Alabaster's cock fit inside you, up there?

Rose2 doesn't realize that you aren't her lawfully wedded husband. Not even glancing up, she begins: "Alabaster... did you see the stock market today? Our portfolios are taking a real--"

"What's the deal here?" You ask. "Are you checking to make sure the stick is still lodged up there?" 

Rose2 drops her phone and throws her skirt down over her naked lower half again. She tries, unsuccessfully given her proportions, to cover her tits with a forearm. "What the fuck are you doing in here!!" She pauses, aghast, and adds: "Why the fuck are you naked!"

You relish the way horniness has stolen your shame; rather than covering up, you show off. You arch your back severely, hips jutting out. You stretch one arm straight above your head like a kid in class eager to give the answer, bracing the locked elbow with your other hand. "I'm exploring my new digs. Hey, I didn't know you were so into getting off with your ass. That's pretty freaky. Do you think, on balance, that playing with your own asshole subverts or perpetuates rape culture?"

Rose2 gets onto all fours and sneers at you. "Get out of my fucking room. Piece of shit."

"Whoa nelly. I was told that this is Alabaster's room. Am I wrong?"

"It's our room. We're married."

"You love to point that out, don't you? How married you two are."

Rather than leaving, you step deeper into the bedroom, shutting the door behind you. You sit at Alabaster's computer chair. Your naked pussy touches the leather seat, and you think about how many times he's probably nutted here to some truly depraved porno. Rose2, too, now that you think of it. Her eyes follow you, full of aggression.

"What do you think you're doing here," she says flatly.

"I was thinking that I'd sleep here tonight... and most nights, really."

"That is not going to happen."

"Haha. Says who? Says you?"

"Yes."

"I'm thinking it's gonna be a 2-to-1 vote. Isn't democracy cool? Even if you think you should win, sometimes you end up losing..."

"This is not a democracy," Rose2 says. "Get out."

You wheel around and pull up Alabaster's browser. You page through the history. "Wonder what kind of fucked up shit you two look at when the lights are out." You scroll. "...Whoa. ... Whooaaa. ... Oh, shit. ... Oh SHIT. ... Wow, that's not legal, is it? ... Ohhh man."

Rose2 is looming over you, now. You wheel back around and look up at her, sitting in her shadow. Hey, at least she isn't worried about letting you see those tits of hers anymore. They're pretty cute, albeit shamefully huge.

You smirk. "What I wanna know is, which of you two is into erotic asphyxiation. There's so much of it in the history here..."

"Both of us."

"You might be an even bigger freak than your mom is. Did you know that your mom has a sex dungeon in her basement? True story. Super cool. I've only ever seen shit like that in Rose's Jap cartoons."

Rose2 gets her hand wrapped around your throat. Her arm fully extended, she exerts unmerciful pressure, and shuts off your airway. You grasp at her, clawing uselessly at her hand. She tilts her head and gauges the way you react to being choked. "Should I choke you harder?" She asks mockingly.

Somehow, this feels like deja vu. Have you been in this situation before? 

"N-n-nn--" You sputter.

She lets go, steps back. Your heart is fluttering in your chest.

"You're such a cunt," you snarl.

She spits on you. Right on your face.

You grab a kleenex from the box on the desk and wipe yourself off. You'll let that one pass. She's a violent girl, don't want to provoke her. Instead, you play a different angle, to get under her skin. "Look, you and Alabaster want to play house, right? What's wrong with adding a third, then?" You bat your eyelashes and put on your best red-riding-hood voice: "Couldn't a mommy and daddy use a little girl to take care of?"

Rose2 takes another step back. "Oh my god. Gross. So gross."

"You're not into it?" You pout. But of course she isn't, and that's the point. "Bummer."

"I'm going to be back soon," Rose2 tells you, slipping herself into a blouse, sans bra. "And when I get back, I expect you to be gone."

"Okay. Sure."

She stops, one half of the blouse still hanging off of her, arm not in the sleeve. She blinks at you. "...Yeah? O-okay. Okay then. Good."

"I mean, it's a free country. You can expect whatever you want to expect. No matter how unrealistic."

She grunts in anger and finishes getting dressed. 

You try the innocent babe voice, again. "Oh please don't be mad. I don't know any better..."

She stomps out.

Alone, you stand, and stumble towards the bed, and crawl into it. It's warm where Rose2 was lying. It smells like her and Alabaster. Rose2 might be a stupid cunt, but she's pretty, and she smells nice. Alabaster too, of course, in his own gross way. It's weirdly comforting to lie here in their marital bed, where they sleep together. You were only half joking about playing house with them -- and three quarters serious. You think of the dynamic of it. Rose2 would be usually nice, but you wouldn't (would) want to upset her -- Alabaster would be usually stern, but secretly nicer than his wife. You'd kind of like it. 

You turn onto your side and peer into the full-length mirror on Alabaster's closet door. You admire your own naked body. You're a very small girl -- Vivian was right. And like her, you enjoy that about yourself. You enjoy the smallness of you. And you also, vainly, adore your lower orifices. How small and how smooth they are, too. You know that just about any straight guy on the planet would trip over himself to fuck you. You mimic the stance you saw that Smatters girl adopt earlier -- hiking one leg way up, to part your twat and anus for the mirror. You hold your ankle and leer at the reflection. You're so fucking wet. You hope Alabaster will be back soon.

You think to try what Rose2 was doing earlier. You lick your index finger and circle it around your pale, puckered asshole. It's sensitive. You've never seriously considered what it would be like, doing it that way. Would it hurt, would it feel good? This feels good, anyway, just tickling yourself down there. You push against the rubbery resistance, and hiss in pain as your finger slips past, into the hot and vicelike interior. That Alabaster, he's such a fucking prick. You begin to slide your finger in and out, faster and faster. He fucks you, steals your virginity... you add a second finger, probing the already stretched circumference of your anus. He promises to make you his sex friend... then he drops you like a sack of rocks without so much as a thank you. What an asshole. What a useless piece of garbage. You bite your lip and sigh as you get the second finger seated in your teeny asshole.

"F-fuck me..." you whimper to yourself, flashes of obscene imagery dancing through your mind. You try to make your voice high and pinched-off. He likes that, doesn't he? The little girl act. "Fuck me, please... please, daddy? Please? I really need it..."

Voices from the hallway. "No, Whitney -- no. I'm not sleeping in the same bed with that weird half-furry."

"Oh! So she's good enough to cum in, but not good enough to sleep with!"

"Basically."

"You're such a stuck-up prude, Ally! Geez! Samantha's our pet now. We have to take care of her..."

"She's your pet. You take care of her. Anyway, Rose is gonna smack my shit in if she finds out I spent the night balls deep in bunny pussy."

"You're so fucking whipped. God."

"Go suck my cum out of Samantha and get some sleep. We've got like five hours before we need to be at the morning meeting."

"You'll sleep with her tomorrow!"

"Whatever."

You're frozen in trepidation and surprise. You're lying there naked on Alabaster's bed, one leg raised skyward, cunt and ass open for anyone to see. And then he's opening the door -- stopping at the threshold, eyes the size of planetoids.

You slowly lower your leg and divert your gaze.

Alabaster steps the rest of the way in and gently shuts the door behind him. "I'm gonna try not to look a gift horse in the mouth here," he says.

---

"Masters!!" Samantha cries with joy. She loops her fingers through the white wire bars of her kennel. She fixes her attention on you. "My name is Samantha Smatters! Maybe you remember cumming inside me! Ms. Whitney hired me to be everyone's live-in bunny onahole!"

You're beyond words.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Whitney asks, feigning displeasure.

"Oh!" Samantha pips. "I'm so sorry! Please forgive me!" Still on all fours, she turns in a semicircle. She hikes one of her legs up, way up, like a dog about to urinate, and presses her bare foot against the place where where the cage's wall and ceiling meet. Her dainty toes grip the bars just like her fingers did moments prior. With Samantha in this lewd position, you see that she's been naked from the waist down all along. Presenting herself like this, her smooth and glistening lower holes drift partway open. Her anus and her cottontail alike twitch invitingly. "Do you want to dump your load, master?" She asks.

You wipe the sweat from your brow. "What are you paying this poor woman to do this?" You marvel.

"Ms. Whitney is paying me with a place to live and lots of dick to cum on!" Samantha says, enthusiastic, still presenting herself.

"Great," you mumble. "So you sold me off as a signing bonus."

"Why just you?" Whitney says, laughing. "Samantha's a cumdump. I was thinking I could give her away as a party favor for all our execs at company functions..."

You're not sure whether you approve. But your dick lurches in your pants of its own volition. Unfortunately, before you can disrobe and give Samantha the payment she so craves -- from behind, you hear footsteps. Amber is approaching with Mom close behind, taking the grand tour from Rose2.

"Alabaster," Mom begins, "We just got in, and I was t-- ghh-- what!!!"

Amber breaks into peals of uncontrollable laughter. Rose2 is too stunned to speak.

Samantha turns back around and grabs the cage again. Her voice strains with adoration and excitement. "Even more masters? Oh my goodness! Hello!"

"S-Samantha?" Mom sputters.

"Scarlett?!"

"What are you d--" Mom looks from her, to Whitney, to you, and can't find an emotion to settle on. Bafflement, anger, raw shock... allurement?

"Don't forget your manners now," Whitney needles.

"Oh!" She locks eyes with Mom. "I am this residence's live-in cum receptacle! Do you want to use me? My mouth is very skilled!" She lets her jaw hang open and her tongue loll wetly out. Thick strands of saliva spiderweb between her incisors and roll down off the tip of her little pink tongue. She sits there like that, expression vacant, mouth awaiting anything any of you care to put in it.

Mom spins and practically runs away; her two daughters follow, one still laughing, the other stuttering. Whitney is already stripping. "You wanna go deal with that?" She asks. "Or try out the new toy?"

You know where your priorities lie. You tug at your tie and get it undone, simultaneously kicking free of your socks. 

"Thank you!" Samantha says. "Cum inside me lots, ok!"

"Crazy slut," you grunt. 

"Yes!" She agrees.

Whitney is undoing the lock on the outside of the cage. She reaches in and takes Samantha's hand in hers, guiding her out into the room beyond. "You don't mind if I use you too, right?" She asks Samantha. 

Samantha hops up onto Whitney's California king bed and rises to her knees. "I don't mind," she tells her. "I am free for anyone's use. I am a toilet for cumming inside!"

Whitney pets Samantha's long, wavy hair. "Good bunny," she says approvingly. Samantha closes her eyes, coos and nuzzles Whitney's chest, enjoying the attention. 

Naked and throbbingly erect, you step forward towards her. You're less tender. You command simply: "suck," and point at your jutting cock.

"Yes master," Samantha says submissively. She stares at your cock the way a bride stares at her groom on the wedding day. Pure, unbridled love and devotion in her dewy eyes. She unhooks a clasp on the back of her latex bunny suit, and her massive udders flop free, the fat nipples puffy but erect. She wraps the succulent tit meat around your cockshaft. You throw your head back and let out a low, sensual moan of enjoyment. She's so hot, all over -- even her tits are searingly hot. It's like she's in a constant state of fever. And then you feel wetness pooling in your foreskin -- glancing back down, you see Samantha drooling onto the head of your cock, a long laminar stream from the bottom of her lip. 

"Get on all fours," Whitney says. "I wanna lick your ass."

Samantha will never say no to anything anyone tells her to do. She obeys the command. 

She hugs your waist to steady herself so she can keep servicing you orally, even as Whitney dives in. You pet her just as Whitney did moments before. Her bunny ears feel oddly lifelike and you can't discern a headband. When you tug one of them testingly, she squeaks in apparent pain. "Please no, master," she begs.

Her plea is a bit heart-rending, so you return to petting her instead. She whimpers her happiness.  

Up and down she humps her breasts on your cock, pressing them against your crotch with all her weight. Their meaty, jiggly, damp and sweating confines bring you strange pleasures you've never experienced. Whitney is making a racket behind her, moaning gutterally as she eats Samantha out. Voice half smothered by the fleshy ass she's got her tongue buried in, she moans: "she tastesh sho fucking goood... ohh my fuckhing god..."

"You taste really good too, master!" Samantha tells you. "And you smell so good! And your cock is so big and fat, and it leaks so much cock juice!"

"Oh fuck," you grunt.

"Please put lots of cock semen in my horny pussy tonight! Fuck my mouth... but save your cum for my womb... mate with my raw cunt, please!"

With that appeal, she opens up again, and swallows your dick to the root. Down, down, down she sinks -- all the way, and doesn't gag even a bit. Your knees knock and you struggle not to fall. Her throat is like a cunt of its own, so soft, and grippy, and wet -- and like the rest of her, so warm it nearly burns. You begin to fuck back and forth, screwing her mouth. It sounds just like when you use a rubber onahole. She has no resistance whatsoever, doesn't cough, or sputter. Nothing. You just slide easily back and forth like masturbating in a cocksleeve. That's what she is, after all: a cocksleeve. So this really isn't sex at all, it's just masturbation. She's a masturbation device, exactly as she told you.

Whitney, her face shiny with cum from Samantha's hot pussy, grins up at you. She keeps Samantha's ass spread wide with both hands, and laughs: "What do you think? Best pet on Earth, or what?"

"Y-yeah..." you agree, voice weak. You're about to lose your nut. But you want to oblige Samantha's request; you want to breed with her. 

"Fuck, Ally," Whitney moans. Her voice is shaky. "You're gonna blow your load, aren't you?"

You nod. 

"You wanna do it inside her cunt?"

You nod again. As always, you and Whitney are simpatico.

Whitney makes way for you. You pull from Samantha's mouth with a wet slurp and get onto the bed, circling around. Samantha gets twitchy all over with anticipation. It's warm and humid in this bedroom, especially with all the body heat that sex produces, but Samantha is shivering like she's in the middle of the arctic. Whitney guides Samantha onto her back and climbs over top of her, bare cunt hovering over Samantha's face, gazing down at the spot where you'll soon be mating with this rabbity slut. Helpfully, Whitney uses both hands to spread Samantha's sopping labia open for you. "Fuck her," Whitney says, voice pervertedly husky. "Fuck her full of cum..."

You sink in. You've fucked this whore once before, but despite that, you can't believe how good it feels. It's a feeling beyond pleasure, beyond relief, beyond sexual gratification. Something like nirvana. You feel it all the way down to your toes, and all the way up to the crown of your head. Her overheated pussy is a purpose-made cumdump without compare. Human, rabbit, whatever -- it doesn't matter. All she really is, is a hole. A hole for your cock to pound and cum in. 

Whitney is rubbing her cunt on Samantha's face as she watches you fuck. "Oh god, Ally, her tongue is so good... fuuuu-uuuck~" her voice goes high and she sways, threatening to faint. She grabs your ass to keep from falling over. Woozy, she gazes longingly up at you, cheek pressed to your abdomen. Her eyes are afire. Simultaneously she presses you deeper into the intimate reaches of Samantha's toilet cunt. "Breed her... cum in her... yesss!"

You make an incoherent, rumbling growl, like an ape, and empty your balls inside Samantha Smatters' bunny pussy. Samantha shrieks her orgasm directly into Whitney's genitals; and Whitney, going off now too, squirts all over Samantha's little face.

When it's over, Samantha, enervated, curls up on the bed -- right in the middle of the cummy mess you all made. She looks as comfortable as can be as she paws at the mattress, wiggles around a bit, and dozes off in the middle of the slop.

You pull your pants and shirt back on, stumble into the hallway on shaky legs.

"Hey--" Whitney says. "Wait. Aren't you gonna stay in bed us?"

"No -- no, I'm not," you pant.

"What the heck! What is this? Pump and dump? You gotta sleep with her too -- you'll hurt her feelings if you don't!"

"No, Whitney -- no. I'm not sleeping in the same bed with that weird half-furry."

Whitney is on your heels, stomping after you down the hall. "Oh! So she's good enough to cum in, but not good enough to sleep with!"

"Basically."

"You're such a stuck-up prude, Ally! Geez! Samantha's our pet now. We have to take care of her..."

"She's your pet. You take care of her. Anyway, Rose is gonna smack my shit in if she finds out I spent the night balls deep in bunny pussy."

"You're so fucking whipped. God."

"Go suck my cum out of Samantha and get some sleep. We've got like five hours before we need to be at the morning meeting."

"You'll sleep with her tomorrow!"

"Whatever."

You open your door, but you don't even take a step into your room before the sight you see stops you dead.

Amber slowly lowers her leg and glances away. 

You collect your bearings again and peek back out into the hall to make sure Whitney didn't see. Thankfully, she's already halfway back to her room. You step the rest of the way in and gently shut the door behind you. You study Amber's delicate, naked -- and obviously aroused -- body. "I'm gonna try not to look a gift horse in the mouth here," you say.

---

"Where is Rose?" Alabaster asks.

You rub the outside of your thigh, still unable to meet his gaze. "She stormed off. She didn't wanna play with me."

"Should I ask why you're lying there like that?"

You gulp. All the brashness that being horny gave you has withered away under the cold reality of Alabaster's confused eyes. This was a little forward, even for you. But the jig is up, so you may as well try something bolder still. You raise your leg again, the way it was before, showing off your holes to him the way you know he likes. Still staring at the bedsheets, timbre trembling, you tell him: "Well... I... wanna play."

You hear the jangle of his belt buckle coming undone and the zip of his zipper. Then the depression at the foot of the bed, of his weight settling down. 

"Where do you want it?" He demands.

"Here... please, right here." You point at your little cunt, and finally meet his eyes. "Please... please fuck me. I need your cock in me so bad..."

He turns you around onto your back and pries your legs apart, wide apart, akimbo. He's rough and somehow gentle at once. You can't stop him anymore, you wouldn't be able to if you tried. He's staring intently down at your face, brow furrowed. 

"I might take a little longer than normal," he says. "I just went."

"Good..." you pant. "Good."

"Are you ready?" 

You nod. 

He presses forward, and sinks his cock into you. This is what you missed. That full feeling, way up deep inside. So lewd and obscene, but loving... so hard, but weirdly soft, too... so wet and squishy and tingly. You breathe hard through your mouth, throw your arms around his neck, and kiss him. He kisses you back. You lock your ankles around his waist, to keep him held fast, and ensure that he doesn't even think of not finishing inside you. He has to finish inside you. All the other girls get to feel him finish inside them. So you should get to taste that pleasure, too. It's the best...

"What... what should I call you?" You ask him dreamily.

"Alabaster is fine," he says -- distracted, fucking you fully now with long, deep strokes.

"That's no fun. Everyone calls you that, or Ally... I want to call you something special..."

He doesn't respond, just keeps fucking. Such a one-track mind when his cock gets all hard... it's like it controls him... and everyone around him... you included.

"You liked mister, didn't you?" You prod. He picks up the pace, almost imperceptibly, but he's definitely fucking you harder now. You wiggle against him, enjoy the scruffy feeling of his pubic hair, the wet union of your crotches mashing into each other. "How about big brother?" You pull him towards your face, kiss his cheek. He nips at your neck, moans sweetly into your shoulder. His ass is a blur as he fucks on top of you and ruins your young little cunt. As he messes you up inside. You lick his ear. You whisper softly, breath hot: "...daddy?"

His chin, against your shoulder, chatters -- he shivers. His whole body tenses. He grabs you by the back of the head with both strong hands. The sound of his cock in you becomes almost deafening, the wet splashing and slapping of it, his thighs colliding against yours on every thrust. You're gonna bruise -- you're gonna be sore. Of course you're gonna be sore after daddy fucks you. That's the price you pay to make his cock feel good... and to make yourself feel good, too, at that spot nestled deep inside. The spot in your womb that gets all itchy, and can only be scratched by a cock as big and hot and hard as his -- that can only be scratched by having his cock belch its boiling hot cum all over it. 

"Oh, what the fuck, Alabaster." It's Rose2's voice. Returned at the absolute worst possible moment.

"Shut up," Alabaster says between jagged breaths, not even looking back. 

"What are you doing?"

"The fuck does it look like," he snarls. 

She gets up onto the bed on her knees, right near the left side of your face, and watches, disapproving. You look up at her. From your perspective directly beneath her, she seems enormous, and frightening. But you're so awash in pleasure, you don't worry about angering her. You just say: "he's fucking me... he's reee-aaally fucking me... I'm so happy..."

Rose2, maybe touched by the tone of your voice, softens her hard expression. She watches your face as Alabaster uses you. She goes from upset, to placid, to somewhat interested. 

"How do you like it?" She asks after a while of watching Alabaster rut in you.

"I loooove it."

"It doesn't hurt?"

"No... it feels so, SO good."

She takes your hand in both of hers and clasps it gently. She holds your hand while Alabaster fucks you. It's lovely -- motherly.

"Do you want to make me feel good, too?" She finally asks. 

So that's what it is. Not motherly at all. She selfishly wants to take her pleasure from you, too, like her husband is. That's okay, though. You nod.

She swings her legs up and over your head, squats down, braces her hands against her meaty upper thighs. She instructs you as if you don't know what you're doing: "I'm going to sit on your face... kiss my pussy like you kiss someone on the mouth, okay? Use your tongue inside me... lick me all over. I'll feel real good if you do that."

"Okay."

She does exactly what she said she would. And you do exactly what she told you to do. You kiss and lick and suckle her all over. You taste her smooth, wet pussy. Her juices flow like nectar to the back of your throat. All the while, Alabaster's fat spongy cock is plowing in and out of your bruised, battered interior... are they making love to you? Are they raping you? You can't honestly tell.

Holding her thighs apart, you peer up at Rose2's now adoring face. She has a hand cupped to her cheek, another under the heft of her enormous breasts. She's flushed and sweaty. You get enough air to ask: "C-can... can I sleep in here tonight? Please?"

She pets you. At the same time, she mashes her cunt to your lips and nose, to shut you up. "Sure~" she purrs. "If you keep us happy, then sure..."

Alabaster is getting increasingly frenzied and rough inside you. Rose2 turns 180 degrees to face him. You can't see, eyes blotted out by Rose2's jiggly ass, nose brushing up against her asshole, tongue lapping obediently at her slimy pussy. But you're pretty certain the two of them are smiling at each other -- somehow you sense that. And then you hear them kissing. How nice. You hope they're getting off as hard as you. Oh -- they are. You feel the hot, almost painful pulse of Alabaster's cock expanding then contracting inside you, over and again. Then the warm gooey rhythmic splurts against your interior walls... yes, that's it... there's that itch getting scratched, all right... oh god, you're cumming. And so is Rose2, she's cumming all over your fucking face. Alabaster is grunting into her mouth and she's squirting like a pissing animal all over you. All the while, what feels like whole quarts of semen slosh around in your now-spoiled little cuntlet. You could not be more fulfilled, than you are right now.

---

On your way out the door in the morning, you pass by Cerise and Galatea sitting together in the living room. They must have gotten in really late. Galatea's bags are strewn on the floor all around the couch, and the two rampant lesbians sit side-by-side, indian style. They each wear tees, pantsless but thankfully with the basic dignity of panties to cover their shame. Cerise sips a mug of coffee and Galatea works studiously on a laptop.

Rose passes them right by, in a hurry -- as always -- but you and Whitney stop to chat.

"Coming in to work?" Whitney asks. "I know I encourage people to wear business casual, but..."

"Give us a day," Cerise says. "Gal needs to get some stuff in order."

"What stuff?"

"if you announce that you hired me," Galatea says, not looking up, "people will get suspicious... they'll ask why you invited a jobless 19 year old girl to be a top ranked executive at one of the world's most powerful companies..."

Whitney blinks. "Shit. Yeah. Good point."

Cerise makes a sort of exasperated, get-a-load-of-this-girl motion in Whitney's direction, using the flat of her hand. You can only shrug.

"i'm gonna forge an identity," Galatea says.

"19 year old Anna Healy will be 32 year old Anna Soliloquy -- maiden name Anna Moss," Cerise explains.

"Can she pass for 32?" You ask skeptically.

"i aged gracefully"

You didn't expect a sardonic comment like that from her. Good for her. She's really matured in the past 12 hours.

"i graduated with honors from a university in dublin," she says. "did cybersecurity work for some NGOs... worked at some government thinktanks... sat on the faculty at a university in south africa for a while... now i'm here"

"Smart," Whitney says.

"yes"

"This is why I'm hiring you."

"yes"

"Okay, well... get to work."

"Wait--" you drawl. You glance down, notice the ring on Cerise's finger. Galatea's too.

Cerise holds her hand up to show it off. "We've been married for two years. I was with her in South Africa during her professorship, that's why I disappeared from the public eye. I came back a little before she did... now she's back with me."

"Smart!" Whitney says.

"yes"

"Okay," you say. "But... that's sort of anticlimactic. Isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?" Cerise says.

"You can't just get fake-married. You gotta have an actual wedding too."

"Pfft. Fuck off."

"No. You fuck off. If I have to suffer the indignity of a big, pointless ceremony, then you definitely do."

"Take that up with your cunt wife, asshole," Cerise says. "You let her whip you into having a wedding. That's on you. Me and Gal don't need one."

"What the hell is up with all this 'whipped' talk lately?" You grouse.

"Whihh-chuu" Cerise says, in imitation of a whip.

"Oh, fuck y--"

"Whihh-chuu," Whitney mimics.

"Besides," Cerise adds. "If I have a wedding, I want Renee and Alex to be there for it. It wouldn't be the same without them."

You can at least understand that.

---

"I gotta thank you," you say. You sit with Kay in her office. "Your advice brought the worst monster to ever live back to life, for a second time."

"Don't be melodramatic," Kay says. "And FYI, my advice saved your sorry asses. If it weren't for me, Mara would have sent a hit squad to do some wetwork on all of us by now."

She finishes typing something -- what, you don't know, and maybe don't want to -- then pulls her laptop from its charging dock and stows it in her canvas bag. Next goes the power cable.

"Going somewhere?"

"I need a vacation from assholes like you who don't know how to say things like please, thank you, and excuse me."

"Oh, excuse me," you say. "Can you please tell me where you're going all of a sudden? Thank you in advance."

"I'm following a new lead. On a new story. Unrelated to anything about Darkbloom Analytics, so stop bothering me."

"Oh, yeah," you say. "I forgot all the hard-hitting journalism you do outside of leaking this company's secrets." You begin to recite the titles of actual articles she penned during her days as a blogger: "Which Subway Footlong Are You? 15 Dancing With The Stars GIFs That Will Make You Swoon."

Kay shakes her head violently. "Shut the fuck up."

"33 Celebs Who Have Celeb Crushes of Their Own. 15 LOL Moments From Ghost Adventures."

She cups her hands to her ears. "Not listening. Not listening."

"What Fairy Type Pokemon Are You? Which Disney World Ride Are You?"

"LALALALA! NOT LISTENING! NOT LISTENING!"

She stands and marches circles around the room like a goosestepping Nazi.

"Kay."

"LAALAALAA!"

"Kay!"

She cringes at you, partially uncovering one of her ears, half-crouched, squinting.

"Seriously. Where are you going? You're not running away, are you?"

"No. I'm investigating something."

"Tell me what, for the love of god."

"Maybe this will clue you in. I'm taking a chartered plane to the sleepy little island nation of Palau."

"Meeting Gustav?"

"You got it." She sits again.

"22 Pirates of the Caribbean Reaction GIFs For Any Occasion."

"FUCK!" She pounds her desk with both fists, then points menacingly at you. "Don't you fuck with me, you miserable asshole. I will publish every single shameful thing your dominatrix wife has ever done to you."

You gulp.

"Yes, I'm meeting with Gustav. He might be able to point us towards Mara. And maybe he knows some other stuff besides."

"Like what?"

She shrugs. "I dunno. You ever hear that Rumsfeld quote, about known unknowns, and unknown unknowns?"

You frown.

"You can come, too, if you like. Take a nice honeymoon with your domme wife."

"No thanks."

"Oh, come on. It's supposed to be a fun place. And their independence day celebrations are coming up. I hear they get pretty wild."

"Sounds like a waste of time, if you ask me. Aren't there more important things I should be doing? Fucking off to take an island vacation right when everything is getting crazy... sounds... so irresponsible."

"Pah. You're no fun."

"I wouldn't want to risk another stowaway situation," you say. "I just dealt with taking both Roses international. I couldn't possibly do it twice in the same week."

Kay nods. "That's Rose2 for you. Give her 7 inches and she'll take 6300 miles."

"It's really more like 8 inches..." you say.

"But who's counting, right."

"Why are you helping us?" You ask. "What's in it for you?"

"Other than saving my own skin? I want to see Mara get hers, same as the rest of you. And frankly, I don't want to wind up being Mara Darkbloom's vassal... I really, really don't want to."

Kay leans way back in her chair, sighing.

"I know how you feel," you say glumly.

"Yeah."

"...Got some time to kill?" You ask.

She tilts her head. "Sure. Do I need to ask what you're thinking?"

"Oh man. Maybe you should."

She rests her chin on her wrist, grinning slyly. "Are you thinking something perverted?"

"I was wondering whether you wanted to grab some lunch."

Her eyes go half-lidded, in a disgruntled rather than alluring way. "Not hungry."

"But thirsty."

She shrugs. "I'm gonna be marooned on a desert island with no dick in sight for hundreds of miles. Except Gustav, who -- sources tell me -- swings a different way. Aside from being old, gross, and German."

"What's the matter with being German?"

"You focus on the weirdest sh-- nevermind. Do you want to fuck me or not?"

"Sure." You stand and begin to unbuckle. But a thought strikes you. Belt still in hand, you say: "you know what? Maybe I will tag along on your Palau trip, after all."

"Why the sudden change of heart?" Kay asks.

"There's something I need to decide. Maybe down there, with Rose -- is the best place to decide it."

She waits for a beat, then: "How mysterious. I like a man of mystery. Gets my cunt all wet."

"Charming."

She sticks her tongue out at you. Then standing, she repeats a performance you saw relatively recently: she hooks her thumbs into the elastic of her skirt and shimmies from it in a tantalizingly cute, quick, practiced motion. She folds it and lays it over her chairback. Her blouse soon follows.

But then something new. She gets totally nude, stepping from her bra and panties. Then, stark naked, she walks to her window and raises the shutters. The broad daylight washes across her. She lays her palms flat against the pristine glass, arches her back. She stares at you over her shoulder and wiggles her upturned ass at you. Her pussy and her asshole are open for your use. 

"I turned you into an exhibitionist," you say appreciatively.

"I always was." She faces the window again. "The little people deserve some entertainment, don't they? They can watch how Alabaster Soliloquy and star reporter Kay Vera fuck like wild dogs. They can watch me take a nice hot load of jizz in my cunt..."

She draws herself fully upright again -- and then arches the other way. Palms still pressed to the window, she rubs her bare pussy on the warmed-over glass. Her toned calves flex as they rock her rhythmically up and down. You can see the little streaks her arousal leaves in its wake. 

"Alabaster, please," she says, "don't you know it's impolite to keep a girl--"

Kay is shocked to turn her head and see you with your phone in hand, pointing it at her.

"What are you doing!" She sputters.

"You want everyone to see, right?" You say mockingly. "Why limit the show to people who are lucky enough to be out there in the quad right now? We can upload it online, for the whole world to watch you get spunked..."

She's facing you now, one arm over the little buds of her tits, her other hand between her legs to conceal her pussy. "You put that away right now!"

"Huh. Not such an exhibitionist after all," you say with a frown. "Just a faker. You'll fuck in front of a window at 4 PM when there's hardly any chance of someone walking by down there. But with the camera's eye on you, all of a sudden you're as shy as a schoolgirl..."

She steps forward, reaching for you. The motion reveals her cute little breasts, the hard almost mauve-colored nipples. You zoom in on them.

"That's not funny! Stop recording me!"

"Fine, fine," you say. You hit the stop button and pocket your phone. "No need to get all bent out of shape. Go back to the window and get your ass up for me."

"You are such a f--"

You snarl: "Don't you fucking make me wait, Kay. I've got any number of girls I can go fuck right now instead of you. Get yourself back up against that window."

She seethes, but she doesn't fight you. She resumes her position, palms flat on the window, stooped slightly over. She even, despite her scowl, waggles her ass again to entice you. It's so cute how desperate she gets from a simple threat to deprive her of your cock.

You scan the room for something you can use, and find it; oh, this is perfect. When Kay glances impatiently back again, she's just in time to find you propping your phone against her Pulitzer Prize so that it stays balanced.

"Alabaster!" She snaps. "What the f--" 

She tries to wheel around but you're already on her -- you grab her by the nape of the neck and force her to stay firmly pressed against the window. With one hand you pull your pants down and step out of them. 

"Asshole! Are you still recording me?" She demands. 

"Of course not. You asked not to be recorded." You lovingly swipe some of her hair behind her ear using the back of your hand. "This conversation is totally off the record. Don't worry."

"Yooouu..." 

You grope her cunt and press down on her neck so her back bends at a sharper angle.

She's a whirlwind of emotions. Fear to anger and back again to fear. Tremulously she asks, "y-you're not really recording. Right? You're just fucking with me?"

"I'm fucking with you all right," you say. You pull your cock from your boxers and rub the tip of it against the sticky folds of her labia. Kay's pussy lips are dainty, but well-defined, dark and hot. The wet crevices and creases of them feel so nice tickling your horny prickhead as you guide it back and forth. The teasing pleasure of it gets you hotter. It lights that overpowering need inside you to ram your cock up a tight little hole. A tight little hole like Kay Vera's cunt, for example. Your little intercrural foreplay is getting Kay horny, too. She whines and lets her head hang down, no longer so concerned about the camera that may or may not be documenting her shame on video.

"Say you want it," you tell her.

"You are such a fucking rat bastard--"

"Say you want my cock."

She gyrates against you, trying either to slip it in without your permission, or tempt you to relent and fuck her before you make her say it. But you won't be tricked. You stay her with both hands on either side of her surprisingly muscular butt. You take this opportunity, with your thumbs, to spread her ass cheeks. You appreciate the discolored pucker of her anus, plus the sheen of her arousal on her cunt lips and the underside of your angry red cock. Your shaft and bulbous mushroom tip look absolutely massive jutting up from between her ass, more like a weapon than a sex organ; Kay is a petite woman, with equally petite orifices that hardly seem big enough to fit such a thing.

"I-- I w-want it," Kay says softly.

"Want what?"

She groans in agonized, needful frustration. 

"Want what," You repeat, firmly.

"I want your cock!" She shouts. It's loud enough for everyone in the C Suite to hear. "I want your cock, Alabaster, fuck me already! Fuck me!" She bounces her butt as best she can against you, succeeding only in smearing a little more of her cunt juices against your glans, frenulum and testicles.

"Don't tell me."

"What?"

"Tell the viewers." You point at your phone on her desk leaning up against her cherished prize. "Tell them how bad you want it."

You spin her around, her body still bent at nearly 90 degrees, holding her about the waist. She's directly facing her desk and the uncaring eye of the phone's camera. She still isn't certain whether this is all just a roleplay or you really are recording her against her will. She shakes like a bird all over. Lust and mortification are obviously doing battle in her mind.

"Say: 'I, Kay Vera, am a slut for Alabaster Soliloquy's cock.'"

"I-- I, K-Kay Vera... am a slut... f-for Alabaster Soliloquy's... c-cock..."

"'Please watch him cum inside me.'" 

"P-please watch... please... please w-watch him c-cum inside me..."

"'Please masturbate to my shame.'"

She moans, goes limp. You have to catch her to keep her from falling to her stomach. 

"Say it, you cunt."

"Please masturbate to my shame!" She shrieks, going suddenly stiff. Her neck muscles strain and she stares directly at the camera's lens. Her face is flushed and her eyes are wild. "Jerk off and watch me get fucked! Watch me spread my fucking legs and get fucked!"

You stick your cock in her. Good behavior deserves a reward. She hugs herself, and whatever trace of resistance that possibly remained is utterly demolished. She stares heavenward, eyes rolling up, a delirious smile on her twitching face. You weren't just talking dirty. It's literally true: she's a slut for your cock.

Rutting in Kay's pussy is always a joy. It's as firm and taut as the rest of her, smooth but deliciously wet. And so grippy. And so sticky. Yes, she's a slut for your cock, and this is the part of her that makes her that way; her wet little slut-hole. It controls her utterly. Makes her go all stupid. Makes her forget her shame. Makes her actively enjoy her shame, even. She paws at her own tiny tits and fucks back against you, wailing, almost sobbing in ecstasy. Her tongue flops from her mouth like she's her dog. Her arms, hanging limply at her side, are good handles. You hold her by the wrists and rail her with deep, powerful thrusts.

"Seeeee?" She says, gulping air. "I'm such a slut... I'm such a slut... watch me be a slut, everyone, please..."

Her tight pussy hugging you like a form-fitting onahole is too much. You're dumping a load inside her before you can stop it. It's a powerful, sloppy orgasm that can't be contained in a hole so small. There's a lewd wet slurping noise as you pump and squirt the cum from your pulsing cock, and it flows back from out of her overfull womb, down around your pistoning shaft. It drips between your bodies, oozing in thick strands to the floor. 

"Oh god," she groans, "it's getting everywhere... it's... oh, fuuuuck... can you all see it? Can you all see how he's fucking me full of his, his.... dirty... nasty cummmm?" Her teeth chatter and she climaxes hard around your still squirting dick.

You let her go. She slides from your dick and she falls in a heap at your feet. She lies there for just a couple moments, sweaty chest heaving. Weakly then, arms and legs wobbling, she rises to a sitting position, and stares up at you. She's a bit more rational, now. "F-for real... you're not honestly recording--"

You grab her by her ponytail, another convenient handle, and force her back to her stomach. She grunts in surprised protest as her chin collides with the soft carpet of her office. You're pressing her face into the wet spot like she's a dog who wasn't properly housetrained and made a mess. "I'm not done with you," you tell her. "Lick it up."

"S-sto-- unnff--"

You mash her nose and mouth into the floor. With no other option but to comply, she does it -- she darts her tongue out and starts to lick up the slimy mess of your combined fluids. From the corner of her eye, she's staring up at her desk -- at the phone there silently capturing this humiliation as well. 

"How does it taste?"

"It's... it's disgusting... I love it..."

You get her onto her back and kneel over her. You cup your hand across her genitals and start to finger her messy, cummy little cunthole. You scoop up some of your semen, and pull it out, then smear it all over her face. The viscous, pearl-white jism coats her cheeks, her forehead, her nose. "Tell everyone how you like it."

"It's horrible," she says, shivering. "It's smelly, and bitter, and slimy... it's fucking disgusting... ungh, oh god... so good..."

You get over top of her, resting on your haunches, and start fucking her again. You pull on her lower jaw and probe the interior of her mouth, just to degrade her. She happily licks the cum from your fingertips. The remnants of your first cum slosh around inside her pussy and coat your fucking cock, lubricating it even more. The room stinks of raw sex and semen. Kay is writhing in sheer delight. 

"You want everyone to see this, don't you."

"Yes!"

"You want them to see you getting fucked and smeared with my smelly cum."

"Yesss... yesss, please..."

You moan, suddenly feeling yourself gripped by a mini climax of your own. Without warning you lose another couple squirts of spunk inside her. She sighs hoarsely and lets it happen without complaint.

You fuck her like that for a little while, just enjoying the looser, messier feeling of her cunt on the second go-around. It's so welcoming and inviting now, so greedily accepting of your cock and anything that comes out of it -- no more resistance at all. Meanwhile, Kay runs her fingers over her own face and revels in the disgusting mess there. Occasionally she turns her head to one side and laps at the wet spot on the ground too, groaning like a sow. 

The minutes pass faster than you realize: soon you look up to find that it's getting close to 5 PM. This is the hour when employees are usually leaving campus. Time to step it up, then. You have one last miniature orgasm inside Kay, just for fun, because you love to cum inside so much. You relish it, spurting more cum into her ruined pussy. But you hold yourself back, saving the rest of your spunk for the finale. 

You dismount. Kay whines in protest. But she doesn't have time to voice her desperation in words because now you're dragging her -- like a caveman, holding her by the hair, and sliding her across the floor on her butt towards the window again.

Roughly, you get her up on her knees. 

"Suck my cock."

She glances first at the phone again -- then out, to the quad below, and the fast growing crowd of people leaving the building. Already now, a few of them are noticing: the naked woman in the corner office on the top floor, on her knees in front of a hard cock.

"N-no--" she pleads. "No, w-wait--"

You don't let her say anything more. You shut her up by grabbing her head with both hands and rubbing your achy, leaky cock all over her face. It pushes her glasses askew and musses her makeup even further. The light application of eyeliner she had on is running down her cheeks in black little clumps. Her lips wrap around your meaty shaft. She looks like a cheap whore.

You begin to jerk yourself with one hand, coaxing out your load. 

"I'm not just fucking with you," you tell her with a growl. "I really am recording this."

She tries to push away from you with her hands against your knees, but you don't let her. Her eyes are saucers. She can't settle on whether to focus upon the camera, or the ballooning audience below -- or the dirty cock using her face as a dick sleeve.

"I'll keep the video," you tell her. "Maybe I'll upload it, maybe I won't. You'll never know..."

Despite herself, she licks you -- she licks your cock. A little trickle is leaking from her pussy, down her thigh -- your cum and hers, mixed together.

"Strike a pose for everyone, huh?"

Shuddering, Kay lifts both hands -- and flashes peace signs. She's done her research, all right -- or maybe it just comes natural to a slut like her. 

"Mmmmmm," you moan deeply, from the back of your throat. It's cumming. Your nuts tighten, and you paint her with semen. It splashes across her face -- her broad forehead, her mouth, her black-rimmed glasses. When you pull away from her, finally relinquishing your grip on her, she doesn't stand or try to cover herself. Instead she just rises to the balls of her feet, squatting, legs spread as wide as they go -- right in front of the window, and starts to rub her cunt. She blows a kiss to the crowd below, winks, and squirts her own cum all over the window. It comes in pulses -- squirt, squirt -- and between these blasts, she slaps her messy cunt. It erupts from her like a broken water main, and runs down the glass in long thick, translucent streamers. Your own cum, thick and white, oozes straight down in long spindle-like threads, over her taint, across her twitchy asshole, and to the floor. 

When finally she's all cummed out, she swoons. Losing her balance, she falls onto her side. And you don't have to direct her this time; this time, she willingly licks the mess all up. First off the floor, then off the window. All the while she wears a dreamy expression on her face. A few people down below actually clap. How sweet.

---

>Besides Rose and Kay, which harem member(s) do you want to take?
>Amber, Alex, and Renee cannot come. Top 3 votes will be invited to tag along. Can vote "no one" up to 3 times if you want.

>[x] Cerise
>[x] Gal
>[x] Mom

As Kay walks down the hall, slightly limping, you call after her: "These Epic Revelations From Reddit AMAs Will Leave You Speechless!"

Kay stops in her tracks, hunching up her shoulders, balling her fists. She wheels on you. She calls back: "Hey! Just curious! Is the safeword still tenderness?"

"W-what?"

"Still holding stock in Preparation H?"

"How do you know about that?!"

She laughs cruelly. "I warned you, fucker."

Noelle, standing close to Kay at the door of the C-suite conference room, looks confused. "Should I even ask?"

Kay cups her hand to Noelle's ear and whispers. Noelle's eyes bulge -- then she begins to laugh. "Ohhh my god. No. No way."

"Yes way," Kay says.

"Holy shit."

You feel the hot flush rising from your neck and all the way up your face.

"See you later," Kay says, winking at you.

Noelle resumes her on-guard stance, pulling out her sunglasses and donning them with a smirk. She glances back your way. Though her face is shielded by her ridiculous aviator glasses, you worry that she's looking at you with new eyes. You hurry past her, towards Whitney's office, to tell her that you'll be taking a day trip to Palau without her -- Soliloquys only.

A family vacation might be just what you need to get your head straight.

---

You get home early that evening.

Mom was overjoyed to get the invitation to go to Palau with you, on your double honeymoon. Gal was less enthusiastic, but Cerise brought her around. And Rose feigned disinterest, but you could tell she was excited at the prospect of a real -- albeit short, you stressed that point, that this trip was going to be short, very short, and to-the-point -- honeymoon.

Kay intends to leave in just a few hours, so you need to be ready to go, quickly.

Rose was home even earlier than you. Mom wanted to talk to her about something before heading out -- something alone. And now, coming in through the front door, you get an inkling of what it was. Because greeting you there at the threshold, is Rose, wearing your own pink apron.

"What the hell..." you breathe.

"Hey," she says. She's still got a ladle in hand, and you see the smears of chocolate on it. Rose, who knows that you tend to take a shower right away when you come home (out of necessity more than anything) -- asks a question you guess is pretty practical:

"Do you want some dinner? Or to bathe first?"

You feel a surge of adrenaline in your gut. "Or..." you prompt her.

But she doesn't get it. "Or what?"

You scowl. "Nevermind. ... What's up with you going iron chef all of a sudden?"

"Ask Scarlett. She was deadset on making me a baker all of a sudden."

"And -- you agreed to it? Seems a bit... traditional for you, doesn't it?"

"Don't go there."

"Kinda... tradwifey?"

She swats you with the ladle.

"Ow! Fuck!"

"This is just one more thing for me to be better at than you are. That's how I look at it." She turns and goes back to the kitchen, where heavenly smells are emanating. You're glad to have Mom's desserts back. You'll be eating like a king before you depart for Palau.

You sit back on the couch, lounging, hands laced over your eyes.

Your brief respite gets interrupted by dainty hands rubbing your shoulder blades.

You turn, craning your neck. It's Amber.

"Goddamn it. Where did you come from?"

"I'm sneaky, huh."

"Go away, you fucking zoomer."

"That's messed up. Your wife is a zoomer, Ally."

"I don't like my wife, either."

"Pffthaha. Fine. I'll take her."

You grimace, and face forward again. Amber, impossible to deter, lays her hands on your shoulders once more, and begins to massage you neck. Her technique is as good as you remember. Soothing feelings radiate from your neck outward as she rubs the balls of her palms in tender circles on your sore flesh. You didn't realize how sore you really were -- until Amber started giving you this relief.

"See? Not so bad, is it?" She says. "Your little girl knows how to take care of you."

"Would you cut it out with the DDlg shit?" You say. "It's creepy. Very zoomer fetish, right there."

"Hmmph. It seemed to get you off well enough last night. But then I guess even you're pretty much on the cusp of zoomerdom, too. Sort of in that awkward intergenerational space... don't know what you are... you're all confused, and conflicted... right?"

You close your eyes and shake your head.

"Then again, maybe I should call you big brother instead, huh?"

You don't reply.

"Why is my Mom suddenly taking a plane trip to Nauru with you?"

"Palau."

"What the fuck ever."

"She's my personal chef."

"Why did she walk you down the aisle at your wedding?"

You don't respond.

"My sister is dumb as fuck, she'll believe anything you tell her. But you know me well enough by now. You gotta know how weird this shit is to anyone with two brain cells to rub together."

"I don't know what you want from me."

"Alabaster..." She stops massaging you. "Are we related?"

[ ] Yes.
[ ] No.

>[x] I don't know.

You shrug. "All women are my sisters and all men are my brothers. And anyone who loves God must also love their brother and sister."

"I recognize that..." Amber mutters.

"You should. It's one of yours. Well -- Jesus first, but then you."

"Be serious," Amber says.

"The truth is that I don't know. Well. I know this. What you said to me in that clothes store?" You do a little hoedown swing of your arms. "This mom is your mom, this mom is my mom... from the... et cetera... that was true."

"But Mom never had any other kids."

"In her current life. You had a different life, too, right?"

Amber stares at the ground. "If we have the same Mom, then we're siblings -- no matter how you look at it -- right?"

"Sure."

"Great. I'm a brotherfucker. Like. An actual brotherfucker."

"And a sisterfucker. Fun, isn't it?"

---

The armored van jostles as it navigates hairpin turns and random changes in elevation. There are no windows, but Renee judges from the obviously rugged terrain the vehicle is navigating, and the thinness of the air, and the time they've been on the road -- and her knowledge of Mara's personal history -- that they're passing through the Rockies.

The armed men on either side of her, and on either side of Alex sitting on the bench opposite her, have not said a word since taking them many hours ago.

Her shattered ankle is black and blue and swollen and she's almost sobbing from the pain -- but she won't let on. She won't let these bastards see her so much as wince.

Alex is staring at his lap, and has been for hours.

She lays a gentle hand on his knee. She leans forward and cranes her head down, to look into his ruddy, tear-streaked face.

"It's going to be okay," she whispers. "It's going to be okay, Alex, I promise."

Alex's head snaps up. He looks at her, blinking rapidly. He doesn't seem to be fully present at the moment. His lips part. He stares at her as if disbelieving.

"Ms. Guiteau?" He breathes.

Renee is taken aback. She tilts her head -- disturbed. "...Alex?"

The mystified, half-gone expression on his face disappears in an instant. He's back to reality again. His lips tremble. He looks away.

---

A little while later, the van pulls to a halt. Renee and Alex slide forward on the benches, displaced by the sudden stoppage of momentum. Renee rolls her bad ankle again against the van's floor as she slides across the bench, and can't help hissing in agony.

The back doors open. Sunlight floods in.

The armed men force them out at gunpoint. Renee first, limping; Alex behind, crying.

They're being led up a winding gravel pathway to a featureless, white concrete building. It's massive -- several acres at least. Glancing quickly around, Renee sees nothing. Not a town on the horizon, not any other human-made structures. Just wilderness in all directions, and mountain peaks on the distance.

---

Inside, there are people waiting. The scruffy beards and lanyards and vague hint of BO leave no mistake: programmers.

Behind them, stretching seemingly to infinity, server towers.

Above, on a mezzanine, holding the railing, watching approvingly, Mara Darkbloom.

Renee feels a handcuff slip around her wrist, and looks down to see the other cuff tethering her to a workbench -- where supplies and a PC sit out, waiting for her skilled hands.

Alex gets similarly cuffed at a workbench across from her.

Mara has the most psychopathic, empty, leering smile on her face Renee has ever seen -- even from her.

Renee meets that evil smile with a hateful staredown of her own. But then glancing over, Renee realizes -- neither woman has anything on the look Alex is giving Mara. What burns in his eyes can only be described as murder.

END OF EPISODE 2.

Armstrong stands at the broad double-paned windows of the boardroom, smoking a cigar.

Nelson is the only other person there. Sitting just behind Armstrong at the conference table, watching him, he asks: "You ever think about resigning?"

"Every day, Nelson. Every fucking day."

Fist to mouth, and lungs irritated, Nelson coughs. "You know you're not supposed to smoke here. Haven't you seen all the signs? This is a proudly nonsmoking campus."

Armstrong blows air through his nose, and smoke billows around him. "Don't make me put this thing out the Bill Clinton way."

"Is that what you spent your years as a Senator doing?"

Wistful, he laughs. "Indeed it is. I learned everything I know from that man."

"Why haven't you resigned?" Nelson asks.

Armstrong shrugs. "Well. Why haven't you?"

"I don't know. We should, right? We should get the hell out of here before we wind up like Sable did."

Armstrong takes a long drag. "We missed our boat. We should have left when David died. As it stands, though. We're not just up the creek without a paddle -- we're neck fucking deep in a Mississippi River of shit."

Nelson runs a hand through his hair, sighs in frustration. "I guess you're right. Even if we did leave, where would we go? This company is the biggest joke on the planet. Nobody in their right mind would ever hire us. Our careers are over if we leave."

"Fuck a career. I'm worried about someone painting the walls with my brain matter."

"You have brain matter?"

"More than you." He snuffs his cigar on the windowsill, pulls out a matchbox sized case, and stows the remaining half. He puts his hands in his trouser pockets. "Anyway, it's fun here. What does Whitney's secretary always say? Tenchoshe?"

"Tanoshii."

"What does she do, anyway? I always see her around but I've never been clear on what her role is."

Nelson shrugs. "She turned me on to some good eroge. So as far as I'm concerned, she's value-added."

"What in the fuck is an eroge?"

"Forget it. But yeah. It's fun here. I mean... I never fucked a bunnygirl before Whitney became our boss."

"Hmmph. You really should have come to David's Palo Alto Club for Growth shindigs."

"Why's that?"

"Let's just say a fetish for bunnygirls is apparently genetic."

"No shit."

"No shit. Someone should commission a study on it."

Nelson joins Armstrong at the window. They admire the view together.

"We are so screwed," Nelson says.

"Yep." He turns, smiles at him. "Tanoshii, huh?"

---

You sit on Rose's bed, naked, reading a manga. Different day, same shit. 

"Is Luffy ever gonna find this One Piece or what?" you groan. "He's been looking for it for like fifty years. It's getting to be a bit... absurd, frankly."

"Uh huh!" Rose chirps. "He'll find it for sure."

"Yeah? When?"

She shrugs. "When the story gets around to it..."

Sighing, you flip the page. "Maybe he'd actually find it if the dumbass author didn't keep doing filler arcs." 

"But the filler's what makes it fun!" Rose insists.

You toss the manga to the floor. "The filler is what makes it profitable. Not fun."

"Don't throw my things around," Rose says, pouting. "That's so mean."

You flip her off.

She slithers on her belly to the edge of the bed. Poking her upper half over, she leans diagonally at a precarious angle, bobbing, and hyperextending herself to reach for the discarded book. Her fingertips can just barely hook under the manga's cover and weakly nudge it towards her, where then she can get a better grasp on it. Her tongue pokes from the side of her mouth the whole time, and she seems to be working up a minor sweat from the exertion. You get the urge, which you resist, to slap her ass, shaking at you undefended and half-bare from under her low-cut negligee. This house is corrupting you, too. Maybe it's built on an Indian burial mound. Chief Fucks-Like-Bull.

Finally Amber succeeds at her task, after a much more laborious effort than simply getting off her damn bed and picking it up from the floor would take. She sets the manga gingerly down on her messy nightstand, turns to you, wipes her brow with the back of a palm, and says: "whew."

"I think you're retarded, Rose."

"Rude!" 

She flops onto her back with limbs thrown wide as if to make a snow angel. After lengthy silence, she asks: "sooo... are you sleeping here tonight or what?"

"Sure."

"Sugoi! But... I thought you were sleeping in Ally's room from now on. Not that I mind the company!"

"D-- Ally went to Palau."

"So? He didn't take his bedroom with him, silly!"

"I'm not sleeping in his bedroom because I love the decor. I'm sleeping in his bedroom so he'll put his dick in me. Can't get dicked by a guy who went to Palau."

"What is Palau, anyway? Is it part of Hawaii?"

"It's its own country."

"Like Hawaii?"

You lean against the headboard and watch the slowly rotating ceiling fan. Rose is watching it, too. "I don't get Alabaster," you tell her. "He said he'd let me sleep with him. Then literally the very next night he skips the country. Really knows how to make a girl feel wanted."

"Awww. Are you sad, Amber? Need Rose-nee to make you feel happy again?"

You lightly kick the top of her head with the heel of your right foot. 

"Oof," she grunts -- in surprise more than pain. 

The dull hum of the house's central A/C is the only noise for the next couple minutes.

She flips onto her tummy and stares up at you with curious eyes. "Hey. You never did say." She grins mischievously and lowers her voice. "Did Ally do it with you last night?"

"Do you think I'm pretty, Rose?" You ask.

She looks confused. More than normal. "Uh. Well yeah. Of course. You're the most kawaii imouto I could hope for!"

"So there you have it. I'm a pretty girl who spent the night in Alabaster Soliloquy's bed. Can you solve this equation on your own or do you need some more help?"

"Hee. You're such a slut, Amber!"

You roll your eyes. "You're one to talk. Little Ms. 'Fuck-Kitten'." You try playfully to kick her again. But with Rose watching you this time, she can intercept it. She catches you, one hand on your calf, the other around your ankle. 

And then she kisses the ball of your foot. 

Your eyes bulge with disbelief. Next comes the wet, ticklish sensation of Rose licking your arch. It's a lingering and luxurious motion, her face drawing slowly up as she licks you. You jerk yourself bodily back, recoiling from her.

"You taste gooood," Rose croons.

"You fucking freak."

"Yep~" she agrees with a giggle. 

You let the initial rush of anger pass, and consciously decide to relax. Tension drains slowly from your body. You knew what you signed up for, after all. Hanging out naked in your older sister's bedroom is just asking to get sexually violated. It's fun to court it. Provoking your idiot sister into doing obscene things. 

"Well? How was it?" Rose asks.

"Getting my foot tongued by my own sister?"

"You silly~"

"Fucking Alabaster?"

"Uh huuuuh."

You let your knees drift slightly further apart, so that Rose has a better vantage on your pussy -- you like this, letting her see you get all wet. With her on her tummy in front of you, she's right at eye level with your wet, quivering little holes. "It was fun. He climbed on top of me and fucked me like he was raping me."

"Isn't that the best?" She says excitedly. 

"No..." you say. Your voice is getting a little bit pinched as you think about what actually is the best.

"No?" Rose repeats.

"The best --" you gulp. "The best is when he cums."

Rose has her hands on your thighs. "Can I lick you?"

"You-- w--"

"I want to make you feel good while you tell me all about it!"

You shift your weight back and let Rose spread your legs. Best not to resist. You see only the pink crown of her head as she dives in and begins to eat you with enthusiastic mewls. You shudder, running your hand through her gaudy hair.

"It's just crazy, how hard he cums," you say. You bite your lip as your older sister's tongue penetrates your dripping cunt. "And he doesn't even warn you... he just does it."

"Mmm hmm," she moans into your pussy.

You stare transfixed at the incestuous oral action you're getting. "It's so hot when he cums in me... I don't mean hot as in sexy... well, it IS sexy... but it's also literally hot. It's scalding hot. It's -- like his cum is burning me up inside..."

"Um hmmmm."

"Fuck, Rose, you're so good at this--" you bite your fingernail and try not to scream out in joy, lest anyone else in the house overhear the way you're riding your sister's face like a horny bitch.

Rose leers up at you. "Ally's sperm is the best, isn't it!"

"We -- we should stop," you say.

Rose looks disappointed. "You don't want me to lick you?"

"Not that. I mean we should stop letting him cum inside us. That's dangerous... we should make him wear a condom at least."

She shakes her head emphatically no. "That's no good. First off, he doesn't like 'em. Ally has plenty of girls to bareback. So if we ask him to wear a condom, he just won't fuck us!"

"He wouldn't be like that -- would he?" You bargain.

Rose shrugs. "Well, second of all. It's no fun for us either if he's got a condom on. You said it yourself. The best part is feeling his cock filling you with sperm!" She winks. "And you can't get that if he wears a condom!"

You shiver. And you can't dispute her argument. You lightly stroke your belly around your navel. You're feeling that itchy throb deep within again, that mounting need to get spunked. It's reaching a fever pitch less than 24 hours after the last time he fucked you. There can be no denying it, you're addicted. You're addicted to Alabaster cumming inside you.

"You're on the pill, though, right?" You ask.

"Nope. That'd be cheating!"

You exhale. "Cheating? How?"

"Not like NTR cheating. Like cheating at a game cheating. Part of what's so hot about letting him sperm inside you is how risky it is... right? It's no fun if it isn't actually a risk!"

"Oh my god," you say, even as your pussy clamps and shudders.

"You can do whatever you want," Rose says, "but if you reee-eeeally wanna be Ally's cum dumpster, you can't be on birth control! That's no good either!"

Without any warning, Rose dives back in and resumes licking you out. You stare at the ceiling, half-dazed, legs cramping with the sheer pleasure of depravity coursing through your muscles. Your own sister is eating your cunt while waxing lyrical on the joys of maximally unsafe sex. "We --" you moan, gulping, "--we could both be pregnant right now, do you actually understand that?" 

Her only response is to redouble her efforts on your cunt. Her spit mingles with your juices and what she doesn't lick up is pooling around your ass on the sheets. You're sitting in a warm puddle. She laps at you like the hungry fuck-kitten she told you she was.

"You're gonna make me cum," you tell her.

"Go ahead," she says. Her voice is muted, and you can only see her face from above her nose. But she's making direct eye contact -- and her eyes are shining bright.

"This is bad..." you grunt. "This is so bad. I'm gonna cum on your face--"

"That's fine -- that's totally fine -- cum in big sister's mouth, okay?"

She runs her hands under your ass and pulls you into her. She mashes her tongue as deep as she can get it, to suck out all your dew. You ball your fists and hold them tight to your chest, close your eyes. It's beyond all description, the sensation of getting your clit tickled by your older sister's slutty pink tongue.

You cum. You can't help yourself; your little slut pussy cums all over the place, and your sister drinks it down with a giggle. 

But afterwards -- as you lie entangled with each other in a way you haven't since you were both very little girls, Rose's arms around you and chin on your shoulder, you admit the truth to her.

"Can I tell you something gross?"

"I like gross~"

"Don't take it the wrong way. I really like cumming with you, but... it isn't enough. I think... I think I'm an even bigger slut than you are. No matter how much I cum with other girls, it just makes me hotter--" you gulp. "--It makes me hotter for dick. I... I get this itch inside, you know... deep inside... for dick."

Rose rubs your tummy right at the offending spot. Maybe she understands after all.

You go on. "It's not just that I like doing it. I kinda feel like I need it. I could cum a million times but I won't ever really, actually cum until I feel that spot getting splashed with jizz. Everything else, it just feels like foreplay..."

"I get you. I totally get you. Nee-chan understands."

You turn awkwardly around, your sweaty skin peeling away and resticking to hers as you rotate. You stare into her eyes. "Do you?"

She reaches between your bodies and lightly strokes your cunt. "We can keep each other feeling good, but you're 100% right. Getting cummed inside is the best." She pecks you on the forehead, then on your lips -- and that peck becomes a long, obscene, incestuous French kiss that has you moaning sweetly into one another's mouths. You cum a couple more times against her hand. 

When she finally gets her tongue out of the back of your throat, she gives you her advice: "Keep Ally happy and I'm sure he'll cum in you lots and lots!" She nibbles your ear then, even as she keeps molesting you. "Everything's easier if you just accept that you're his personal cum hole now... and that your cunt belongs to him..."

You drift to sleep with your sister stroking your pussy and whispering in your ear about how fun it is to be a living fuck-dump for Alabaster Soliloquy.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, 600 Million Dollar Man and harem protector.

The rickety plane touches down at Roman Tmetuchl International Airport. The thing feels like flying inside a tin of Altoids, and in turbulence it had you about ready to bid your tearful goodbyes to the loved ones sharing the flight with you. And what a long flight it was, with so many goddamn layovers to refuel its tiny tank -- not that you're complaining, because those layovers were the only opportunity you had to stretch your legs and get fresh air. Plus there was that dirty airport bathroom in Australia where you raped Rose, which helped prevent you from going into fuck withdrawals on the arduous 24-hour journey.

You might have taken your company jet instead, but you reasoned it was best to keep this trip as low-key as possible -- and since Darkbloom Analytics publishes flight logs as part of its commitment to transparency (ha, ha), staying with Kay's chartered plane was the easiest.

Lady sits in the aisle next to where you and Rose are seated. You and your wife think a lot alike, it's true, including this: you both prefer the window seat on airplanes. You forced your way, though, and stuck her with the aisle seat. But she spent most of the trip huddled up against you as close as she could get, staring back in fright at Lady, who wouldn't leave her alone.

Across from you are Cerise and Gal, both thin-skinned in more ways than one. They spent the flight huddled beneath a blanket together. Although you're pretty sure there was more than cuddling happening under there.

They are such degenerates. Shameful, really.

And in the only two seats at the front of the cabin, Kay and Mom had a long, long, long time to get to know one another. They both like cribbage; they both love the Oliver Stone film JFK, and think it really broke open a lot of truths; they adore the beach but fear shark attacks; they think anime is silly and wish today's generation would read more. Mom's old lady hobby is baking, of course; Kay's is knitting, but each respects the other's preference. Their gabbing filled the cabin and was frequently the only thing to listen to. At the end of it all, Kay had promised to pitch to her editors the idea of giving Mom her own monthly column on cooking in TIME. Mom was humble, waving the possibility off, but it was Kay who was insistent.

"After tasting the food you cook for us at DBA?" Kay said. "You deserve to be nationally known. The world needs your expertise!"

But now, blessedly, the flight is through. The little plane taxis across the tarmac. You gaze from the window; traffic here is sparse to nonexistent. Actually, you're the only plane here, inbound or out. So maybe it's no surprise that, while you don't have a press junket awaiting you like you did in Beijing, you do have a pair of Palauans waiting to receive you.

The sticky humidity almost bowls you over as you step forth from the plane's open door. The heat of this place actually thrums, and clings to you; in mere moments you're already beginning to soak through your tee.

A statuesque Micronesian woman in traditional garb -- long, floral-pattern skirt and grass brassiere, plus a band of flowers in her raven hair -- holds both hands wide and aloft, the spitting image of bobbling dashboard decoration, as Kay, first down the stairs, approaches. She ushers Lady along by his leash.

"Yvonne Tamaguld, our very own Miss Palau, welcomes you!" A pot-bellied man in a grass kilt tells you. The sash over the woman's torso confirms: this is the illustrious Miss Palau herself.

She hands Kay a lei. Kay takes it, and in one fluid motion tosses it like a frisbee towards the sandy beach that isn't too far away on the right.

Yvonne has a number of multicolored leis looped over one of her arms, and though she is clearly taken aback by Kay's blunt rejection of the hospitality, she doesn't let on being offended. She just pivots towards Mom, next to approach, and tries to hand her a lei as well. But Kay grabs this one, too, and tosses it just as with the first.

When you and Rose catch up, Yvonne tries a third and a fourth time; a third and a fourth time, the leis end up in Kay's hand, flung towards the surf.

"I am -- sorry," Yvonne says, winning smile shadowed by the hint of rage. "Maybe you're misunderstanding. We are the welcome committee for tourists to our fair island, and--"

Kay, reaching into her purse, produces a feminine leather wallet. She tells her: "I'm going to give you 100 American dollars not to be here when we leave tomorrow."

Yvonne's mask drops -- she is now outwardly and clearly upset. She seems caught between flying into a tirade or breaking down into tears. Up close, you can tell she's a little haggard, with crow's feet and laugh lines; getting up there in years for a beauty contest champion.

Kay unclasps the wallet and pulls out Mr. Franklin. Yvonne is steadfast but her obese companion isn't. He takes the money in his grubby hands, says "thanks!" and skedaddles.

Kay pulls a second Benjamin out and offers it up to Miss Palau. Yvonne stands there trembling for a few moments, indecisive. Then finally snatches it from Kay, turns, and storms off without a word.

"Welcome to Palau," Kay tells you all, shouldering her purse again. She puts both hands on her hips and breathes deeply. "Ah... the sea."

At the airport's exit, the man of the hour pulls up to the curb in a dusty white pickup. It's not glamorous, but in a place like this, glamorous is a liability; he's obviously trying to live inconspicuously. Gustav is gregarious and boisterous, an energy Kay mirrors. They hug like reunited siblings, and peck each other on the cheeks. He holds Kay by the shoulders next, stepping back to appreciate her. "Come!" He booms.

Kay reaches up and touches her face. "Come? That isn't-- I mean--"

"This way! Please!"

Kay exhales.

"I brought some extras," she tells him. She nods in your direction. "I hope that's all right."

"I see," he says. "No, that is quite all right. You must be Alabaster Soliloquy -- and the sister, Cerise, yes? I know you, Gal -- so nice to speak in person. And--"

He pauses, thunderstruck, looking at Mom.

"Impossible," he breathes.

"That's what we all thought," you say, nonchalant.

"We have much to discuss, clearly," is his final assessment. "Let us do it somewhere less public, then."

The immediate problem is practical. Gustav's pickup has two bucket seats up front and a tiny space in the back of the cab where three people can fit if they squeeze. Five passengers total. But you are seven. People are going to have to double up. Galatea is perfectly happy sitting on Cerise's lap -- it's a reverse security blanket arrangement, you figure. But someone is gonna have to sit on your lap, too.

[ ] Kay
[ ] Rose
>[x] Mom

>[x] Mom

Kay wastes no time calling shotgun. She lowers the tailgate and gets Lady into the cargo area before hopping in next to Gustav. Which leaves you riding bitch. Rose worms her way into the truck, fighting to get herself through the gap between the front seat and the back, and you follow her.

"Is this seat taken?" Mom asks coyly, patting you on the lap. She's trying to have a little fun with it, that's all -- but it doesn't make it any less awkward. 

"Uh, no..." you timidly grunt, looking away.

She slides in and settles her weight atop you. There's nowhere to put your arms, except for around her midriff. She wore an extra-thin sundress, given the climate here; and just like your tee, it's soaked with perspiration. You can feel, through the satiny material, the dampness of her hot skin. And even though you know it's an absolutely horrible reaction... you also know touching a pretty woman so intimately is bound to have an effect on you. You focus all your willpower on not springing an erection. You repeat a simple mantra in your head. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body. 

The terrain of Palau's roads is surprisingly well-maintained, but naturally bumpy all the same. Shoulder-to-shoulder with Cerise and her wife on one side, and yours on the other, you ruefully wonder whether you'll ever know peace from cramped quarters again. First the plane, now this. Rose grins smugly at you. Payback for stealing the window seat from her during the flight.

At least it's cool in here. Unfortunately, the rattle of the pickup's half-busted A/C is nearly deafening, and drowns out nearly all other sound. You have to shout just to be heard by the people beside you. You can see, up front, Kay and Gustav talking, but there's no way to hear what it's about.

"I hope we get there soon," you tell Cerise.

"What about dessert spoons?" Cerise yells.

"I said I hope we get there soon!"

"There's probably a lot of dunes! Why do you want to see one?"

You shake your head, and stop bothering.

Rose, chin on palm, watches the lush foliage passing by -- which soon parts to reveal the shoreline far below at the bottom of a hill, with white foam and cerulean waters lapping at the sand. She's not a nature person, but the paradisaical beauty of this place gets to even her -- it leaves her half hypnotized.

Cerise and Galatea are more focused on one another. They're taking full advantage of this trip as a true-blue honeymoon. Gal sits facing Cerise, knees straddling Cerise's lap, and they smile dopily at one another. The smiling becomes Eskimo kissing; the Eskimo kissing becomes actual kissing, and pretty soon they're alternating between deep, loving kisses and schoolgirl-esque giggling. Doing this right next to Mom is a little bit bold. It's not directly lascivious, but it definitely pushes the boundary.

"I'm so surprised, you know..." Mom tells you. "I had no idea that Cerise was -- well..."

"That she's a butch lesbian?" You say.

"Alabaster," she chides. She watches the pair, and seems to approve: "I'm happy that she's happy."

"I am too," you agree. Unfortunately, your genuine happiness for the lovebirds is overshadowed by how hot it makes you to watch your older sister make out with another girl. The soft, plump give of Mom's body in your hands isn't helping things. Don't get a boner from your own mother's body, Alabaster... don't get a boner from your own mother's body. 

"Al-Alabaster?" Mom squeaks.

You stare at the balding felt material of the ceiling and the cracked plastic of the dormant interior light. You try to think of something disgusting, but your mind won't focus; whatever you can conjure is replaced in a femtosecond by your acute awareness of the pressure of your mother's butt against your crotch. By the sight of Cerise and Gal brazenly tonguing each other like a couple of sluts. Your breath is coming hot and ragged.

Worse, the roads are getting bumpier the further you drive from town. Mom's body jiggles in your lap. She's jiggly all over. Her tits, her hourglass belly, her ass, her legs... she's so unbelievably soft... and despite the roar of the air conditioning, she's still sweating, especially where your bodies are pressed together. You're sweating into one another. You smell her, your nostrils are full of her unique scent, mingling with her unique perfume; cherry blossoms and musky earth, and something else... don't get a boner from -- too late. Game over, man, game over.

"Alabaster..." Mom breathes.

"I'm -- I'm sorry," You breathe back.

"It's okay," she tells you tenderly. She reaches back and ruffles your hair. "You can't help it. Right? It's a natural reaction..."

You nod, chin resting on her shoulder. Yes, even this part of her, too, is soft. 

The unmerciful unevenness of the road is unabated. Mom jostles and jiggles in your lap, her butt rubbing against you like a lapdancer. This is really, really, really bad: you're not just hard, but now this motion is starting to press your joy button. You feel your cock begin to leak precum into your boxers. You try to steady your breathing, drawing your lips into an O, inhaling and exhaling through your mouth. This has the unintended effect of ruffling Mom's hair, tickling her. She giggles.

Glancing over, you notice Gal, with an evil grin on her face, has her hand down between where she sits against Cerise. Cerise has her eyes closed; blissed out. Writhing and sighing as Gal does something even more brazen than kissing. They're trying to be stealthy about it, but you know exactly what's going on. Right here, right beside your own mother, Cerise is getting her cunt rubbed by her wife.

"What is that...?" Mom asks, glancing down between her legs, towards your crotch. She feels it; the wetness of your precum seeping through both your underwear and your pants, against her ass. And staring down she can see the growing wet spot, too. "You didn't -- did you?"

"N-not yet," you moan.

"Not *yet*?" Mom repeats. Oh fuck -- that was definitely the wrong thing to say. You whine, and close your eyes. But the oppressive pressure of her body riding you can't be so easily ignored.

"Isn't Rose taking care of you, baby?" Mom asks. 

You nod.

"She must not be, if just having me sit in your lap does -- does this, to you..."

"It's not that," you insist. But a particularly vicious bump in the road cuts you off, as the fullness of Mom's meaty ass bears down on your straining, turgid cock. You gasp.

"What is it, then?" Mom asks softly. But you can't possibly answer. You can't answer for your shame, the fact that having her bounce in your lap would produce this effect even if you fucked a thousand girls in a row before she did it. Instead, she answers for you. Turning her head as far as it will go, nestling her nose against the crown of your head, she whispers falteringly: "Mama's body... does things to you... doesn't it."

"Yesss," you groan directly into her shoulder, holding her hips as tight as you can. 

"It's okay," she tells you. She whispers, relaying a secret she wants only you to hear: "It's all okay, honey... your body... does things to me, too."

You almost lose your load, right there. 

She kisses you on the top of your head. She goes on: "seeing you with Charlotte... no. Even before that. Seeing you kiss your sister... you kissed her in a way a brother should never kiss his sister, Alabaster..."

"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry--"

"It shouldn't get me so hot..." She kisses you again. The way she writhes against you definitely isn't just because of the road. This is on purpose. Your Mom is purposely trying to bring you off, to make you orgasm, to make you cum. "It shouldn't make me hot... but it does."

"Mom..."

"Do you fuck Cerise? Do you fuck your own sister, Alabaster?"

"Yes."

She's quiet for a long time.

"I want to see," she whispers.

You cum. You blast thick ropes of cum in your pants, groaning almost loud enough for the others to hear. Mom, sighing, helps it along -- she gyrates and squirms against you, milking it out. She keeps kissing you on top of your head, and you keep cumming against her.

---

Will's 1999 Toyota Golf is coming in hot. It screams across the parking lot of Gilroy Tech, doing 45, maybe 50 MPH. Vivian, beside you, is utterly terrified. Her limo is right at the end of the car's path, parked along the curb. You can tell she's imagining what it will look like when it gets blasted to bits by the beat-up old hatchback whizzing towards it.

"That maniac is going to--" Vivian begins.

"Chill. He's got this."

Vivian is stepping backwards, trying to distance herself from the site of what she assumes will surely be a horrible and bloody collision.

At the last possible moment, Will cuts the steering wheel hard, and Tokyo drifts himself into the narrow gap between the front of the limo and the car parked ahead of it. The tires' rubber makes a truly horrible squeal against the asphalt and an even worse smell as it burns, leaving dark black marks in its wake. Vivian wasn't the only one scared; the few passersby who were milling around are all standing back, too. They scream as the moment of truth passes, then dissolve into stunned babbling to one another when the assumed catastrophe doesn't occur.

Among them only you are passive; you stand there near the curb's edge holding your backpack down by your knees, watching, and smiling. When Will's car skids into place just as you knew it would, your thin tank and short-shorts rustle in the breeze it creates; but you yourself stay perfectly still and calm.

Will throws the car into park, kills the engine, and hops out. Vivian stares at him aghast and wild-eyed.

He jogs around to the curbside. He squats down, and appreciates his handiwork, hands held out before him like framing a photo. There's less than an inch of clearance from fender to bumper on either side of his car. A snugger fit is hard to imagine.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty good," he says.

You gently press the sole of your tennis shoe to his butt, knocking him off balance. He topples to one side, singing a palm on the sunbaked concrete. "Ow! Shit!" Then he's on his feet, gunning for you -- ohhh man.

You deftly dodge his attempts, sidestepping him once, backstepping him twice, juking him a third time; but he has a soccer player's physique and sense of gamesmanship, so at last he catches you, and gets your head in a headlock, and delivers a painful noogie.

"Asshole!" You scream. You wrench free of him, pushing with both palms against his chest to get back.

"Why are you such a fucking cuntmunch!" Will shouts. "Can't you take half a second to appreciate how, like, parallel I am?"

"Greetings, Will," Vivian says, collecting her bearings again, and readopting her cool demeanor.

"Yo." Will turns towards her, rubs his head. "Did you get that lady back? Renee was it?"

"We are working on it."

He makes finger guns at her. "Keep me informed!"

"Hmm."

[ ] Invite Will to come with you to Vail when the time arrives.
[ ] Decline.

Will notices, passing by, one of the star players on North High's mediocre football team. His eyes lasciviously follow the halfback's backside.

"Ugh," you say.

"Don't start," Will says, still staring after him.

"The guy is literally named Chad. Get some fucking taste, Will."

He spins on his heels, flipping you the bird -- but lets his momentum carry him through a full revolution and starts to trot away. He follows the unwitting object of his affection, to creep on him some more, presumably. "See you in math," he calls over his shoulder.

When he's gone, Vivian says: "you share a class with that boy?"

You shrug. "I share a few classes with him."

"You -- in remedial courses?"

"Who's to say Will isn't in the AP crowd?"

Vivian frowns.

"Why the fuck should I try in school?" You say. "That's what they want you to do."

"Who is they?"

"Them."

"Them?"

"It's exactly what they want."

Vivian shakes her head, stupefied.

>[x] Invite Will to come with you to Vail when the time arrives.

You whisper your idea to her.

"No --" she says. "No. No."

"You saw how he drives. If we need someone to help us make a speedy escape on Rocky Mountain roads -- Will's the guy to do it."

"I would not trust him farther than I could throw him. Kay Vera is far more reliable -- and an accomplished driver, from what I am told."

"She's a journalist. Can't trust 'em."

"She is enmeshed in this plot as well, and would surely help. She can be our wheelman. Or wheelwoman, as it were."

You get a flash through your mind. It's fleeting, but so visceral and real; a lonely desert road at night, motorbikes circling, gunfire, screaming. And then it passes. Your breaths come heavy and hot.

"Are you all right?" Vivian asks.

"Flashback."

She strokes your arm. "Apologies. If you have the time, you can climb into back of my limo for a moment -- and I will be happy to make you forget."

You glance back towards the building. You really should get going, classes are about to start. But Vivian's pale face staring up at you, and the way she slightly licks her lips...

"Sure," you say. "After you."

---

Gustav leads you to some public docks, and a motorboat he has tethered there bobbing gently in the water. Your walk from the parking lot to the boat is more like an awkward waddle. Rose seems just a little suspicious, but doesn't say anything. Mom, for her part, looks like the cat who got the canary.

Gustav whisks you all across the glistening azure waters, keeping the rudder steady as he navigates.

Cerise clutches the side of the boat and peers over the side, transfixed. Gal, butt planted firmly at the boat's centermost point, begs and cajoles her to get herself back in the boat too -- terrified of a woman overboard situation. She tugs at Cerise's shirt and almost starts to cry after a few minutes of seeing it.

"You're such a sissy," Cerise says, turning back around, getting herself fully back inside the boat.

Gal hugs her legs. "yes," she says.

"Hey, look," Cerise tells you, pointing at a distant suspension bridge. "You know what that is?"

"A bridge."

"Hilarious. Try a career in standup. That's the Japan-Palau Friendship Bridge. We're on honeymoon in a nation of weebs -- joy."

Gal nuzzles her legs, and Cerise pets her languidly.

Gustav has his own little cay to himself, and comes to port at a private dock abutting a weather-beaten wood shed. On the distance is his stately house. Not a mansion, but far more than a single confirmed bachelor could need. He leads you up a boardwalk towards it. You need a shower, stat, of course... but the day is young.

>[x] Get right to the interview with Gustav.
[ ] Relax in his house a bit.
[ ] Explore the beach.

You all sit with Gustav in his clean, white, high-ceilinged, lushly carpeted living room. Lady, tracking sand in between his paws, receives a stern glare from Gustav. But he's too gracious a host to say anything.

"Thank you so much for inviting me into your home," Kay says. She pulls a notepad from her purse already littered with notes in shorthand. She settles on a loveseat and faces him across his coffee table where he sits on a lounger.

He draws his eyes away from Kay's unruly rottweiler, who even now is sniffing his own ass. "Perish the thought of thanking me, Ms. Vera! I should be thanking you. I get so few visitors on this lonely island. A chartered flight to Palau is far from cheap."

"I needed a vacation anyway. Too bad Palau's got such an annoying welcome committee."

"Yvonne?" He asks.

"Miss Palau herself."

"Eight wins in a row. Going for her ninth. But... Yvonne is getting on in years. She only continues winning because there is no competition. If someone actually challenged her, she would crumble. A halfway decent looking man in a dress could probably beat her at this point."

"I appreciate the local color, but let's focus," Kay says. "I'm not writing a gossip column."

"Yes. And what can I do for you?"

"Just a few questions," Kay says. "About your time at Darkbloom Analytics -- or in those days Darkbloom E-Pay, then Darkbloom Enterprises."

"So many iterations," Gustav says, forcing a chuckle.

"And your relationship with David Darkbloom -- and Renee Carte -- and Mara..."

"Ah," Gustav says. "Lest I forget myself. I owe you a real debt of gratitude for getting in touch with me. It was such wonderful news to hear that Renee has been reunited with her long-lost daughter. So sad, what happened to her, back in those days."

"What you let happen to her," Kay says. "I--"

Gustav holds up one flattened palm with fingers pressed together, waving a bit, as if to refuse something someone has tried to hand him. "Let happen. No. I reject this."

"David Darkbloom framed her--"

"I am perfectly well aware of how he framed her. I helped Renee to the best extent I could. My decision, freely taken -- I did not have to take it -- to pilfer the prototypical ocular implant she developed, and to assist in hiding it -- that decision which I took, is the reason I have had to exile myself on this island like a poor man's Napoleon. Furthermore I offered her, and her daughter, safe passage to this place along with me. She decided against this course of action. That was her choice. I could not force it. And yet to this day my doors remain open for her, for Whitney, for young Vivian. No. I reject what you say, Ms. Vera, I am sorry -- I do. If it were not for my decision, you would be dead at this moment, do you realize this? And so also Whitney, and so also Vivian, and Renee, and Alabaster here, and all others. I have sacrificed my entire life for this. Do not tell me what I let happen. I reject it wholly."

"You helped David with his human experiments."

"Also Renee. You were not there, Ms. Vera. You were not there. The man held us in thrall. We believed we were doing good work, to realize technology that would create a better world. And it was good work. And the technology can create a better world. But interceding this, tragically the work became bad -- and so tragically the technology has made our world worse. I ask to myself each and every day, why I did not foresee it. I pay each and every day the price for that failure. You in your corner office at that same company, living on its bleeding like a tick, you cannot sit in judgment. Not until you have been in my position. Maybe now it is time for you to return home. We can discuss this again when you are capable to understand."

"I'd like to continue right now, if you're willing to," Kay says. She flips her notebook to a certain page while sliding a pen from inside the ringed binding on the side, never breaking eye contact with Gustav. Gustav leans back in his seat with fingers interlaced over his belly.

"What can you tell me about the lighthouse?" Kay asks.

"I ask first to know who this is," Gustav says gruffly. "Who is this woman accompanying you?" He motions at Mom.

"Scarlett Catachresis," Mom says. "I suppose you remember me as Scarlett Soliloquy."

"This is an impossibility. You are a dead woman, Mrs. Soliloquy!"

"Apparently not," Mom replies.

You glance to your side; Rose is wearing a deep, serious expression.

"Is that the power of Sand Reckoner?" Kay asks. "Can it do even that?"

"No. Of course it cannot. Sand Reckoner enhances knowledge. It cannot alter reality. Such is the stuff of wild daydreams."

"But here she is, a dead woman," Kay says. "Are you so certain?"

He isn't, apparently; and he doesn't have an answer.

"We need to ask the important things first," Cerise says. All eyes turn to her: "Mr. Eichmann. Mara Darkbloom kidnapped Renee. We have no idea where she is -- either of them. We think maybe in Vail. Do you have any idea -- do you know of anyplace in that area she might be?"

"This is terrible," Gustav says. "No. No, I am sorry. I would tell you at once if I knew. Renee is a dear friend. Please find her at once. And kill Mara. And tell her before you do, that Gustav says: 'hello, you deserve it, you miserable bitch.'"

Cerise nods.

"What is the lighthouse?" Kay asks. "Sable talked it about before she died. I've seen some mentions of it in conspiracy forums."

"More wild daydreams," Gustav says, waving. "Soviet psyops, whispered rumblings of human experiments at remote Siberian gulags. Nonsense, pure nonsense."

"Once again -- are you so certain?" Kay says. She leans forward, elbows on knees.

"I suppose I can no longer know. David... he became obsessed with these ideas, they consumed him -- knowledge as power, and not in the aphoristic sense, you know. I am half convinced he wed Mara simply because he thought a Russian could get him closer to these Soviet experiments."

"Did she?"

"Mara knows less than nothing. She is a rich little girl who fancies herself a gangster. Contemptible, idiotic whore she is."

"David knows about the lighthouse?" Kay says.

"Knows, or knew -- or thought he did. What, by the way, has become of him? He is no longer haunting poor Cerise here?"

"with your help," Gal tells him. "thank you"

Gustav smiles and nods at her.

"David is still with us," Kay says. "But he's a liar, as always. It would be nice to hear from someone more trustworthy what he does or doesn't know."

"There is a rumor," Gustav says. "The Soviets believed that our universe is one among many. And also, that knowledge can be grown in a geometric fashion. With a runaway growth rate, you could achieve a level of knowledge prerequisite to permeate the boundary from one to another -- to slide between worlds, in a sense."

"What's a lighthouse got to do with it?" You ask.

"Supposedly they achieved their goal and then became frightened of what they had wrought. Familiar story, no? And genies once released from the bottle have a nasty habit of steadfastly remaining unbottled. They have quarantined their work, supposedly, in a remote location. It is an actual, physical lighthouse -- deep in the arctic sea."

"Where?"

"Perhaps ask David. I had no time for what I took in those days as idle delusions. I can affirm as much as this: it isn't on the open water. You would need an icebreaking vessel to reach it. Supposedly."

"This is all so much to process," Gustav says. "You are planning to spend the night, correct?"

Kay nods.

"Allow me to cook for you a dinner. You all could use a meal after subsisting on airplane food for so long. As American comedians say: what is the deal with the food on the airplanes?"

He waits for laughs. Gal is the only one to even try, awkwardly, but she trails off when no one joins her.

"Time alone has not worked wonders on my wit," Gustav says. He frowns, then says: "oh. A question for you, Ms. Vera. How fares Spancer Jardan? Do you know?"

"He's fine, I guess," Kay replies. "He still works for DBA. He's the new CHRM, actually."

"How wonderful. Spancer is such a nice person."

"'Nice person' is... not how I would describe Spancer Jardan," Kay says. "I mean -- he's a person, I'm pretty sure. Nice, though..."

"Nevermind. You know, I receive such little news from the outside world -- anything helps. Example: I am not even sure who the current US President is. The last I heard was of Barack Obama, but I believe he would have been term-limited as of 2016. I do not know who succeeded him."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Kay say. "It's--"

"Excuse me," you say. "Do you have a bathroom? I really could use a shower."

"Yes," Gustav says. "Down that hall there, the third door on the right. There are towels also."

"Thanks." You stand, and start down the hall.

"Anyway," you hear Gustav continue. "On the subject of the President."

"Right. It's crazy. The President..."

---

When you leave the bathroom, towel wrapped around your waist, you find Rose standing there in the hall. Arms folded, bitchy expression on her face. Did she stand there frowning at the bathroom door the entire time you showered? Christ.

"You're really gonna fuck your own Mom, huh," she says.

"Oh shut the fuck up."

Only then do you notice she's wearing a bikini. You arch your eyebrows appreciatively.

As if reading your mind, she answers. "We're at the beach, right? Might as well swim."

"There's supposed to be some kind of independence day thing today," you say. "Could be fun to go into town and check it out."

"Well we don't have time for both," Rose says.

"Why not?"

"We just don't. We can't stay here forever!"

[ ] Beach fun with the crew.
>[x] Go into town.

"You all go on without me," Mom tells you. "I'll stay here and help Gustav cook. I think the lack of company has made him just a little..." she cups a hand to her mouth and whispers: "a little batty." She stands back, hands on her waist. "Besides, I'd hate to be the third wheel on your honeymoon."

"You're not a third wheel, Mom, geez," Cerise says. "We love you. Don't we love her, Gal?"

Gal, blushing, makes a heart with the thumbs and forefingers of both hands.

"And you can love me plenty when you get back later on!" Mom says.

You think maybe that's a case of unfortunate phrasing, but she shoots you a meaningful, sly smirk.

"Okay, well," Cerise says, turning, shrugging. "We'll bring you something nice back from the main island."

"Just bring yourselves back," Mom tells you. "And speaking of which -- you --" she points at Rose. "Since you're the only one who knows how to steer a boat, I expect you to keep yourself sober."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Sure thing, Mom."

In-laws, right?

On your way past the living room with Cerise, Gal, and Rose, you hear Gustav crying out in despair.

"Oh, no! Oh god in heaven, no -- oh my god!"

Heart racing, you stop to see what it is.

Lady has one leg raised high in the air, and he's pissing like a horse all over Gustav's expensive carpet.

Kay, dashing in from the den, tugs the still-pissing dog by the scruff of his neck towards the nearby patio door. "I'm so sorry!" Kay shouts. "He's usually -- so much better-- better behaved--" she struggles against the weight and heft of her animal.

"My carpet!" Gustav booms, hand on his forehead. "Oh, Jesus Christ!"

You hurry out the front door. Now was a perfect time to leave...

Rose is a better captain than Gustav. Owing to her privileged upbringing, she's no stranger to seafaring, and it shows. She makes the ride as smooth and gentle as sitting peacefully in your living room; hardly a bump, shimmy or undulation. Gal, of course, remains terrified, and stays huddled in the center of the boat hugging her knees; Cerise consoles her.

Rose has to route you around a long barrier of buoys far from the shore of Koror. You wonder what the occasion is. But then you see it: windsurfers bounding around, doing tricks for a crowd of spectators. Some sort of competition, apparently. You think idly to yourself that Whitney might have appreciated it. As for you and the girls in the boat -- none of you really have any interest.

Back on the island, Rose docks the boat. Grumblingly, Cerise assists. You stroll down the length of the dock towards the parking lot while you wait for them to finish, appreciating the chance to get your land legs again. But soon Gal creeps up behind you and tugs your sleeve.

"What is it?"

"im sorry sir... i feel so naked"

She's wearing a bikini, same as Rose and Cerise. It's not exactly revealing -- as least not any more than what's being worn by anyone else around here. But she has that self-conscious, socially-anxious, agoraphobic... thing... so of course she must be feeling pretty exposed right now.

>[x] Offer her your shirt.
[ ] Order her to go as she is.


"Are you asking me for the shirt off my back?" You say.

"nnn-- i--"

Her lips are quivering.

She's so busy looking at the ground that she doesn't notice until you're slipping your shirt's collar over her head. You unfurl it and drape it over her like a poncho; she lets out a squeak of surprise. And then, finally realizing that you actually are giving her your shirt, she writhes around underneath the material, trying to find the arm-holes with her arms. It takes her quite some time. The tee is humongous on her little frame.

"th-- thank you so much sir, thank you--!"

The thing is damp with your sweat, and adheres nicely in a couple spots to her lithe torso. But mostly it conceals her form.

"I'm so nice to you, huh."

"yes"

"I'm too nice to you," you add.

She can't meet your gaze. So you force her to: you clasp her chin and make her look up into your eyes.

"Don't worry," you tell her. "I'll take my payment later."

She shudders.

"Oh..." you add, a perverted connection forming in your brain. "and I guess since you've got some nice outerwear on, you won't need this." You reach up under the hem of the shirt and find the tie of her bikini top against her back. You tug it loose, and pull the garment off her rail-thin body, out from under the tee.

She shudders again; and this time she even gasps. You pocket the little bikini top in your swim trunks' roomy pocket.

"sir..."

"Don't complain. I can still take the bottom, too."

The hem of your shirt hardly comes down low enough to conceal that part of her. She really would be exposed, if you did that.

Cerise, approaching from the docks, sees this all happen. As she finally reaches you two, Gal looks to her, hoping maybe for some kind of defense from her wife, against the cruel whims of Sir. What she gets instead is a hungry gaze.

"Did she do something wrong?" Cerise asks you.

"No. I'm just fucking with her."

"You're an ass," Cerise tells you. But she doesn't demand that you return the bikini top. Actually, she presses you to go further: "are you gonna strip her bottom off, too?"

"Later."

"Nice."

Gal looks about ready to faint.

"What even is there to do in Palau?" You ask, as you and the girls stroll down a promenade towards the picturesque little town.

"there's a parade," Gal says.

"The President is giving some sort of speech there," Rose says. "Tommy Remengesau. Corrupt bastard."

"There's a pig roast," Cerise says. "Luau style." She elbows you. "Lots of people -- lots of places to lose a bikini bottom, too. And fireworks afterwards."

"How do you all know so much about the intricacies of Palau's independence day celebrations?" You ask.

"dont you do research before going on vacation," Gal asks flatly.

"Okay. Lose the bottoms," you bark.

She makes a noise that actually comes out sounding like "eek."

"Not now. Draw it out a little," Rose advises sagely. "Make her really dread it..."

Gal is trembling all over. Even the sister-in-law has turned sadist against her. Well, that was no surprise. Rose is a sadistic bitch.

[ ] Parade.
>[x] Feast.

---

Renee thinks it would be kind of funny if she could appreciate it from the outside. Her mouse and keyboard are designed with ergonomics in mind, soft padding and sleek Germanly engineered curvatures and all. But with one wrist cuffed to the desk 14 hours a day, she's nonetheless on the fast track to carpal tunnel syndrome. She massages her sore wrist and the red welt the handcuff's cruel stainless steel has bitten into her.

Two of the programmers on the team are carrying on an animated argument in Russian, which naturally Renee cannot make heads or tails of -- nor does she particularly care. She's more focused on Alex, his blankly emotionless expression and jarringly fast typing. The boy has been coding for three, four straight days (time is so hard to keep track of) and shows no signs of slowing. In their cell, she never sees him sleep. He just stares at the dingy concrete ceiling there -- his face, as always, blank. He looks so alien to her when he's lying there on his cot, pinstriped by an amber light shining through the barred window from a source Renee can't discern when she looks out. He won't speak. She tries and tries to get even a word from him, but it's like he's half phased-out from existence. He doesn't even acknowledge her presence. The only sign she has that anything remotely human remains of him, is this: every night, they both receive the same dinner, two grilled cheeses slid across the dirty ground and through the gap under the solid steel door; Alex eats his only after meticulously pulling the crust off, tearing it into pieces and setting them on the window's ledge. Before dawn each morning as the birds are stirring, he watches the ones that fly down to to eat.

"And you, Renee?" One of the programmers asks in his thick accent.

"What?" She asks.

His buddy is half giggling.

The first one asks, halitosis pouring from his yellow mouth: "We want a second opinion. The better captain. Kirk, or Picard?"

Renee shakes her head and looks heavenward. This is beyond absurdity -- it's like a practical joke perpetrated on her by the universe. But she wants to stay in the good graces of her captors, for the time being. So surreal as it is to have this debate, in this situation, she stakes her opinion. "Picard. That's obvious."

"See!" The rot-breathed programmer proclaims. "A cultured woman."

The two men go on bickering in Russian. A moment later, the programmer who Renee sided with draws a lighter from his pocket and unexpectedly slides a cigarette between Renee's lips. She gasps. She takes it between her index and middle finger as the fat man lights it, and savors that first, delicious inhalation. She's been without for days, cold turkey. Not even the federal penal system was so cruel. Eyes dreamily shut and lips parted, she cherishes a sweet burst of nicotine.

"All three of you are wrong."

Renee's eyes shoot open. Alex has spoken, at last. And even as he continues his frenzied typing, he adds: "Janeway is the best captain."

That night in their cell, Renee sits on the edge of her cot, hands gripping the sides, and asks: "are you working on Diogenes? I can't see your monitor where they have me sitting. Is that what you've been so focused on?"

Alex, supine, has his hands laced over his thin belly. "They listen to us, you know."

Renee chews the inside of her cheek. She already sorely wishes she had some more cigarettes. Yes, Alex is right; they listen to them. It's smartest to keep themselves compartmentalized. If Alex is plotting something, he has to plot alone -- lest he endanger them both.

"We're gonna get out of here," Renee says.

"Maybe you will. I won't."

"We both will," Renee insists. "I promise."

"I don't want to," Alex says. "When I'm through with this... I'll be through."

Renee feels a flash of anger: "You need to cut this suicidal-type talk, Alex. It isn't helping."

He finally looks her way. He sees the stern expression on her face, and rises to his butt, finally meets her eyes. His tone, at long last, sounds halfway emotive. "I'm sorry, Ms. Carte."

"Don't be sorry, either. Just keep focused. My daughters will come through for us."

Alex furrows his brow. "Daughters... I thought you only had Whitney."

"Vivian may not be mine by blood. But she's mine, too."

"How can you stand this?" Alex asks. "Here. This place. You're so sure it's going to be okay... how could you possibly?"

"I'm used to being in prison, I guess. And I got out once before, so."

He nods. He's so small and fragile looking. Renee loves this boy; if there's anybody on the planet who less deserves such torment, she thinks, she hasn't met them.

"Do you think we're here for a reason, Ms. Carte?" Alex asks. "Big picture -- like the universe has a purpose for us."

"I don't know anymore," Renee admits. "I used to think so. But maybe we're just lost."

He shakes his head. "I know my reason now."

---

You sit with David Darkbloom in Vivian's living room. He's at the plate again, bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded, and so you're all rooting for him not to strike out again.

"What is this I hear about a new CIO?" Mara asks over the phone.

"It is beyond all words," Darkbloom says. "She is hiring the girl who perpetrated the 3/10 hack. So truly absurd..."

He gives Whitney a meaningful look. Although he's playing the role of Dalton, that remark there -- that was also his true opinion.

"Unbelievable," Mara says. "David's bastard is surely a mental defective. His genes were as weak as the rest of him."

The hatred that shadows Darkbloom's face is more than a little scary. Maybe that comment on its own can make Darkbloom do a 180 on his opinion of Gal being a member of the board.

Whitney shakes her head at him -- silently advising 'bio-dad' not to take the bait Mara threw his way.

He asks Mara: "do you want me to turn on Sand Reckoner?"

It's an Oscar-worthy performance. The way he asks the question threads the needle between suggesting a new idea of his own volition and dithering over a directive already received. Whitney, turning and taking a seat beside her little sister, has her knuckles pressed to her lips, expression grim.

"We must," Mara says. "Do not back down now, Dalton. Your success in this is critical. Sand Reckoner must be activated."

Whitney closes her eyes and shivers. How close she came to catastrophe -- it's a sobering realization.

"I have a guest with me," Darkbloom says.

A long, heart-stopping silence on the other end of the line.

Armstrong at bat: "We need to get rid of Whitney. She's off her fucking rocker."

"A little late to see reason, Steven," Mara tells him.

He laughs. "I'm a slow learner. You know that."

"And Nelson -- where is his mind?" Mara asks.

"He needs some convincing," Armstrong says. "Dumb Jew still likes Whitney. But I think I can swing him to the other team before this Galatea cunt gets on the board. We can force Whitney and Vivian out. But... that said, I'd like to have sit-down, you know -- you, me and Nelson. Work out what's in it for us."

"So mercenary," Mara says.

"Oh, don't you start," Armstrong laughs.

"I am quite busy here," she says. "Mr. Hamilton can be your point of contact."

"Understood," Darkbloom says. "He should be on his way from London as we speak."

"I will be incommunicado for a few days," Mara announces. "Please continue your progress."

Whitney buries her head in her hands, boiling with frustration. Vivian seethes too, but more subtly -- just a small tic of her facial muscles.

"I trust Rowan Hamilton will relay the critical details to you?" Darkbloom prods.

"Yes. He will speak with me after he leaves Palo Alto."

"Good," Darkbloom says. He's smiling. And that smile is genuine.

Mara hangs up. Fazil, sitting at the PC, and Nelson, standing over Fazil's shoulder, glance your way.

"Well?" Whitney asks.

"She is indeed at Vail," Fazil says. He spins the monitor. "Somewhere within this radius."

"You tracked her better than Gal?" Whitney breathes.

"This was my second doctoral thesis -- deanonymizing Tor relays."

"Shit," you say. "You didn't hand that to Erdoğan, did you?"

"It's a pretty wide radius, though," Nelson says, glum.

You walk over and check it out from up close, where you can read the scale bar in the bottom right. Wide, shit. It's a radius of 2 miles. In mountainous terrain... talk about a needle in a haystack.

[ ] Go ASAP.
>[x] Be patient; follow Mara's point of contact back to Vail.

---

That evening, you pass the time out by the front gates of Whitney's mansion. You're sitting the wrong way on a hard wood chair inside a little guard shack with Noelle, sipping a beer. You play gin rummy with her, a game she's stupefyingly good at.

"Are you of age?" Noelle asks between hands, tallying up her massive point lead across the three simultaneous games. The scoring in gin rummy always fucks with your head.

"100% underage," you tell her. You burp; she cringes. "Can't drink, can't smoke, can't vote, can't lose my shirt in Vegas, can't get blown up in the desert for the military-industrial complex, and definitely can't fuck."

"Can't rent a car, either," Noelle adds.

"That one's waaaay in the future," you say. "You have to be fucking ancient before you can do that. Crypt keeper ancient. That's, what, 25 years old?"

Noelle grimaces. You shuffle the deck and begin the deal.

"So how long are you and your Mom stuck here?" Noelle asks.

"Who knows."

"Put in a good word for me with her. She hates my guts."

"You're a pig. So I hate your guts, too."

Noelle shakes her head. "Former pig," she corrects.

"Once a pig, always a pig. Oink oink, bitch."

"They might have burned me, but I still believe in the mission. The FBI does good. It does. We've -- err, they've -- taken down some of the world's most vicious drug lords, stopped mass shootings before they happened, foiled terror plots..."

"So they make the world a less interesting place," you say.

"Ancient Chinese curse," Noelle says. "May you live in interesting times. Better to live an easygoing life, with nothing interesting happening outside... lots of snacks to eat and things to watch on TV."

You take your cards up and look at your hand. Pure unrefined shit, as usual.

"It's a three-parter," you tell her, discarding a king. "Each curse is worse than the last. May you live in interesting times. May you be recognized by those in power. May you find exactly what you seek."

"Spooky," Noelle says. She throws away a queen. "Anyway, that's all just the stuff I'm allowed to tell you. Some of the things the FBI does behind the scenes would blow your socks clean off."

"Oooh," you say, genuinely intrigued. You kick, scuffing your tennis shoes against the floor. "Top secret. I like top secret. What can you tell me?"

"I just said I can't tell you--"

"Come onnnn. They fired you. At least stick it to them this much."

Noelle sighs. "Well. Let's see." She gazes up at the little A/C unit wedged in the corner, thinking. "There was that group of venture capitalists in the 1990s trying to engineer a synthetic chemical to make their semen literally addictive--"

"Oh, gross."

"They're gone now. And that ring out of Omaha in the late '70s who were trying to create human-animal chimeras. Sick fucks."

"Whoa..." you think on that for a few moments. Could it be --? Naaah.

Noelle knocks -- another hand in the history books, and her score rockets ever higher. How does she do it?

"Do you like it here?" Noelle asks. "In the nail house? I hope everyone in there is keeping their hands off you. I don't need to be on the wrong side of an FBI visit."

"It's fine," you say. You deal out another hand. "But you're right. I can't wait to get back home again."

It's a lie, but you hope it placates Noelle's worry over your chastity.

"All of this, just because Rose2 couldn't sit still and had to show up at the Sapphire Club, huh?" Noelle asks as she rearranges her next hand. You can tell she's quite happy with what you dealt her. Mother shitter. "You must be pretty pissed at her."

"Don't call her Rose2 in my presence. She's my sister."

"Still Rose2," Noelle says. "Forget about always the bridesmaid, never the bride... she's so low on the totem pole it's more like always the flower girl, never the bridesmaid..."

Literally, you think.

"Plus she's got shit taste in anime," Noelle adds.

"Any taste in anime is shit taste in anime."

"So you're one of those. I would have thought weeabooism runs in the family. Especially a strain as cancerous as hers."

"Let's get one thing straight here," you say. "I'm allowed to talk shit on Rose. You aren't."

"It's hard not to talk shit on her, is the problem," Noelle says. "She puts the dummy back in dummy thicc."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're attracted to her," you laugh. You rest your chin and your elbows on the chair's back, leaning forward. "Are you a lesbian, Noelle?"

"Ghh-- that's ridiculous."

You press a palm to your lips. "You aaaare. Oh my goodness. I thought I remembered Rose saying something about your obsession with yuri."

Noelle pounds a fist in her palm. "2D is totally separate from 3D! It's not the same!"

"Don't be so tsuntsun~"

"For a little brat who says she isn't into anime, you sure know the lingo."

You laugh long and hard. You jerk your thumb in the direction of the window with a view to Whitney's long winding drive. "Hell, I like you. You can come over to my house and fuck my sister."

---

You find your way to a cabana housing rows of extremely long beachwood tables, where hundreds of the festival attendees are already being served. Men with carts walk up and down the aisles, handing out paper plates of roasted pork and plastic cups of kava.

Summer's swelter beneath the thatch roof here is as just powerful as being in direct sunlight; the shade helps not at all. You cool yourself with a paper fan that a volunteer handed you. But now Rose, who was too fucking stupid to grab one for herself, steals it when you aren't paying attention.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" You demand.

"I'm dying," she moans, head thrown back as she trudges along. "I'm literally dying..."

Fat beads of sweat run from underneath her massive udders, down her untoned torso, and over her pale upper calves. You gulp, and glance away.

Gal is even worse off than you and your wife. Let's see: a redhead who anyway never goes outside, walking around a tropical island at the height of the afternoon -- yeah, she's turning a bit pink already, despite a copious application of SPF 10 trillion before she embarked. She'll be nursing horrible sunburns for the next week or two. She swoons and sways, and Cerise has to help her walk.

"is this hell" she wants to know.

"Heaven, supposedly," Cerise says.

Cerise's skin is also starting to turn shades. But... yours, too. Face it: the four of you are about the least athletic and outdoorsy people on Earth. Among honeymoon destinations, this could have been the worst possible choice.

You usher them to a spot at one of the long tables that's vacant enough to fit four Americans suffering sunstroke. You sit at the end. Gal, the poor little thing, is wedged between her bride on one side and yours on the other.

"too many people" Gal says.

"Too hot," Rose says, still fanning herself. You grab the fan from her and use it for yourself. She tries to wheel on you, her knees knocking your thigh, and pounds your leg with a fist. You kick her under the table; she shoves you.

"Too..." Cerise begins. But she can't think clearly in this jungly heat. "Too," She says. "Just too."

"im so tired" Gal complains. She lays her cheek on the tabletop. "i could... really... use... a boost... oh..."

"Boosto?" You say, glancing over.

"what"

Cerise laughs through her nose. She nudges her wife and explains the joke. In her deepest and most masculine voice "Boooooossssstooooo."

"oh"

"This is the part where you laugh," you tell her.

"i used my fake laugh for the day already"

You glare at her.

"im sorry Sir"

A pause.

"mostly"

>[x] Give her a boosto.
[ ] Cerise, give your wife a boosto.

>[x] Give her a boosto.

You circle around behind her. "Up," you command.

"please... just let me res--"

You loop your hands under her armpits and force her to stand. She tries to be dead weight, and sags forward towards the table as you hold her. But Cerise is your partner in crime. She kicks one of her shapely legs up, and blocks the gap between her and Rose, so that Gal would not be able to sit again even if she got loose from your grip. 

"cerise..." Gal pleads.

But Cerise just smiles cruelly up at her. "Why don't we help her cool off, huh?" She asks you, arms spider-walking up one of Gal's thin legs.

"Oh yes," Rose purrs, cottoning to what the game is. Her hand is going up Gal's other leg in much the same fashion. Gal is about to phase into a different existence on an atomic level, with how hard her entire body is vibrating from the fear.

You keep Gal held fast, one arm wrapped around her chest, as your sister-wives do your dirty work. Together they each take one side of Gal's bikini bottom and untie it. From sweat, and likely arousal, it sticks to Gal's crotch even after they have it undone, and has to be peeled away. Rose ends up with the garment in hand when all is said and done. You motion for her to give it to you under the table. But grinning evilly, she hoists it up high so that it dangles off her pinky, in plain view of the dozens and dozens of festival attendees seated at the galley table. There are murmurs of surprise and confusion all around.

"Did you want this back, Gal?" Rose asks her.

"p-- p-- p..." Gal stutters incoherently.

Rose, tauntingly, still holding the damp garment, mimics Gal's stuttering back at her. "P-- p-- p-- ... What? Do you want it back or not? Speak clearly."

"y- y--"

"Y-- y--" Rose repeats. "Fuck. Don't you know how to speak? I guess you don't want it." She hands it to you; you pocket it. 

Meanwhile, Cerise begins to molest her. Hand creeping under the tee, Cerise has two fingers buried in Gal's pussy. Gal, already weak in the knees, now is nearly bowled over. The only reason she's not a gibbering heap on the dirt ground is because you're supporting her entire weight. She's light -- too light -- you make a note to keep tabs on how much she eats tonight, because it probably won't be enough if you don't.

"Okay Cerise, that's enough," you tell your sister. "Let's be nice to her."

"You're one to talk about nice," Cerise harrumphs.

"My poor little slave needs a boosto. She'll be a lot more fun to play with once she's got some energy."

Gal weakly peers up at you. "what do you--"

You squat down and shove your head between her legs. Keeping her center of balance steady by holding her around the knees, you stand -- not without a bit of effort, but hey, you did get her up. She wobbles back and forth, shocked, and frightened, but finally her hands find the top of your head and she holds on for dear life.

"what are you doing!" she cries -- the loudest voice you've gotten from her all trip.

"You wanted a boosto."

Cerise and Rose are laughing among themselves -- this is highly entertaining. Worth the trip in and of itself, judging by their expressions.

Gal is madly trying to peer over her own back; to see whether the hem of the tee covers her bare ass. It doesn't. She's mooning every man, woman, and child in Palau. You feel her over-warm, smooth, sweaty and sticky skin against your shoulders. Her tiny legs hug you tight, her leaky pussy rubs up against the nape of your neck. It's a good feeling. She's got her hands dug in, gripping your hair at the roots, and the pressure of it is not unpleasant. (Huh. So that's why Rose likes it so much.)

"Okay, scrawny fuck," Cerise tells you. "If you can lug Gal all the way up and back to the end of this copacabana, I'll give you a reward."

"I'm doing this for Gal's sake, but now I'm interested. What kind of reward?" 

"You'll see," Cerise says, winking.

"You heard the woman," you tell Gal, rolling your eyes up to try and see her. "Let's go."

"Sir please -- please don't--"

"Booooosto!" You intone. And then you're off. 

Leg over leg, you dash as fast as you can. The breeze it creates is oddly refreshing, and you try not to think about how exhausted you'll be once you stop moving. You push your way through the crowd underneath the cabana's roof. "Boosto!" you say. You part shocked onlookers like Moses at the Red Sea.
 
"please don't shout like that Sir" Gal begs.
 
"Boosto!" you shout, even louder.
 
"im sorry im sorry im sorry" Gal says on your behalf, glancing back and forth between the people you're shoving aside. "please forgive my Sir -- please -- oh no -- dont look -- hes really not himself right now -- eep-- dont look at me -- im sorry"
 
"Boosto!" You hold your arms in front of you, imitating a jet, to amp up her embarrassment. "Boosto! Boosto!"

Gal wobbles to and fro, fighting just to keep from falling. Occasionally she reaches back to grab the hem of the shirt and try to tug it lower, but no use. She's on display, and there's nothing she can do about it.

As you reach the end of the roof's cover, you feel the tiredness beginning to set in. You need a bit of a break, but you don't want Cerise and Rose to see you tucker out so quickly -- and you especially don't want to have Gal see you so weak. You need to improvise. 

You, yourself, need a boosto.

You go past the end of the cabana by a few yards, and lean your backs against a tall palm tree. 

"Sir?"

With your hands still holding Gal's legs, you can't wave to Cerise and Rose, who are quite distant indeed at the other side of the cabana; but you do tilt your chin up at them. They smile and wave back. 

You twist around -- making sure Gal stays with her back pressed up against the tree bark.

"Sir!!"

You've got your face right between her legs. The swampy heat of her pussy, created by being trapped against your neck -- not to mention her own mounting arousal at being so publicly embarrassed -- almost blows you back. Her smooth innie of a cunt is dripping wet already and smells so inviting from up close. It's so dirty and lewd, that heady mixture of sweat and girl-cream. Gal runs her hands through your hair. "Sir... you cannot be for real..."

You are for real.

You blow a puff of air against her hard nubbin of a clit. She grits her teeth and hisses. Then, you dive in. 

You are vaguely aware of shocked voices behind you, as you put on this very public display of affection towards your slave. She flexes her thighs around your ears over and again. She arches her back, and painfully scrapes it against the rough bark, in her vain attempt to escape the pleasurable torment of your tongue licking her from the inside. She tastes so fucking good -- so unbelievably good for a dumb shut-in with a shitty diet. Her juices are tangy but not sour, and stick to the back of your throat in a wonderfully persistent way. The unblemished smoothness of her in-turned pussy lips only accentuates it. She's a girl of contrasts; so pure-looking, and such a fucking slut bitch.

"ah -- ah -- ungh, ffffuck..." 

Her voice is soft and yet needful, breathy but greedy. She's hardly more than whispering; she wants only Sir to hear her pleasure. She runs her hands through your hair and squirms. But she's fully giving in to you, she isn't trying to get away anymore. On the contrary, she's rubbing her pussy against you. Naughty slave, using your tongue to get off in broad daylight and for everyone to see. 

"fuck, Sir... fuck... youre going to make me cum Sir..."

You stop, only long enough to issue a command. "Tell everyone you're cumming."

"i--"

"Do it, cunt. Or you don't get to cum."

"oh fuck--"

You start licking her again.

"i-- i--" she stammers. Volume mounting, then: "i -- iii-- I -- I -- I'M CUMMING! I'M CUMMING SO FUCKING HARD! OH MY GOD! SIR IS MAKING ME CUM!! I'M CUMMING ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!"

Nevermind just Gal, you don't think you've ever heard anyone scream so loud before. She screams obscene things until she loses her voice.

She isn't lying, either. She sprays your face with her cum. It's torrential, seemingly never-ending; she squirts all over your head, your shoulders, your body, and the ground below. It's so good. You could drink her forever.

When finally she's done spraying her cunt juice all over the place, you turn slowly back around between her legs. Everyone, for as far as your eye can see, is watching. Aghast.

What can you do, but lick the cum off your lips, smile, and say: 

"Boosto!"

You jog with her back to where Rose and Cerise still sit. They're doubled over with laughter. Gal, for her part, is having a miniature freakout: 

"prison... we're going to prison... oh my god Sir... why..."

You deposit her back on the bench.

As you stand again, rubbing the small of your back, a couple Palaun men come by -- to shake your hand -- and give you a high five. 

"Are you trying to get on the Palau sex offender registry?" Cerise asks.

"Sure," you say.

"If you get arrested--" she starts.

You hold up a palm. "Cerise, Cerise, Cerise. I told you already. We've got fuck-you money. If I need to get busted out of Palauan jail, it's fine." You take a cup of kava off a passing cart and gulp it down. Not a care in the world. "Anyway, I won your bet. What was the reward?"

Cerise worries her lower lip. Then, apparently deciding that the safety net of fuck-you money is guarantee enough, she says: "I guess I can give it to you right now."

She spins around, sitting with her feet on the other side of the bench -- facing you. She undoes the ties of her bikini bottom. Brazenly she tosses it aside -- far out of reach -- leans back onto her tailbone, parts her legs as wide as she can, and spreads her pussy with the thumbs of both hands. "Come get it."

You don't need a second invitation. You tug your trunks down enough to free your rock-hard cock, get down to your knees, and ram yourself home up your older sister's lovely cunt. Like a couple of animals. You fuck without any heed towards the dozens, no, hundreds of people who can see all. 

Rose, elbow on table and chin on palm, leans around to watch the incestuous show. Idly she gets her hand in her own bikini bottom, and diddles her cunt. 

"you-- oh my god -- please--" Gal is the only one trying to be sensible here. Easy for her, she's the only one who got to cum already, so of course she's trying to be the spoil sport. You tell her to shut the fuck up as you continue to nail your own sister. The lewd squelching of it fills the air.

People around you are jeering, catcalling, and braying -- hooting and hollering, even clapping -- Cerise is rubbing her tits through her bikini top and making loud, high cries of pleasure all her own. She bounces back against you, enjoying the friction of your brotherly cock sliding in and out of her sweaty cunt. You keep hold of her thick thighs and fuck her for all she's worth. 

"youre all being too-- too--" 

Rose takes one of Gal's wrists. She guides Gal's hand down, towards her crotch -- and gently, but firmly, forces Gal to do her masturbating for her. Rose takes a few moments to enjoy the sensation of Gal's thin fingers stirring up her pussy. Then Rose takes off her own top, letting her giant tits flop free. Sweat drips off the flesh, even off the tip of one bright pink nipple. She rubs her cowtits luxuriously, almost smugly, and enjoys the hungry eyes gluing themselves to her. She cups one of her wet breasts from the underside, and raises it, the heft of it nearly swallowing her hand. And as Gal masturbates her, she licks her own nipple. She makes noises like a sow from the pleasure.

Cerise grabs you around the waist and hugs you tight. "Cum inside me," she begs.

"I wouldn't cum anywhere else--"

"Fuck, oh fuck, Alabaster..."

You hump her like it's your last day on Earth. The silky texture of her pussy is enough to kill for. You feel your nut coming on -- and what a spectacular orgasm it is. It feels like it won't end. It comes first as a single, voluminous blast straight to the back of Cerise's suckling womb. Then a few moments before the next spurt, punctuated by some hard, fast thrusts as Cerise, tongue wagging like a dog, clamps her pussy down at the root of your orgasming cock. Finally then another series of squirts, smaller but rapid fire: pulse, squirt, pulse, squirt, that paint her insides white. There's so much that it begins to spill out of her, staining the bench and the muddying the dirt. You rear back, about halfway, and ram home -- and cum again. This time Cerise, screaming, also cums. There's no more blissful feeling than this, of cumming in unison with your sister. Your balls draw up towards your body and keep spitting fresh cum as deep as you can put it inside her. You're not sure if you've ever cum such a huge volume, it's honestly like you've grown a horse's cock; it just keeps surging and surging from you. You're only somewhat cognizant of Rose, beside you, also cumming her brains out. It's a family affair; you're all cumming yourself stupid. Isn't that nice: to throw all higher intelligence away, to turn into a mush-brained idiot, with only one singular goal, to cum and cum and cum and cum. Maybe this was the right honeymoon destination, after all.

---

Fucking works up an appetite.

Rose, Cerise, and even Gal hork some pork, sans fork -- plates and plates of it. It's wonderful fare, with a slightly sweet glaze over tender, succulent meat. You eat too, and wait for the constabulary to arrive. You can picture it: a stern man saying "Sir, you'll have to come with us" -- now there's a "Sir" you don't want to hear -- but other than a steady stream of goggle-eyed locals who come by to register their appreciation for the afternoon's entertainment, you don't face any consequences. The pace of life in Palau is different than in America. And more bohemian it seems, at least at celebrations like this. It's kind of traditional, you reason. What's a tribal-style cookout without tribalistic public fucking?

The sun is beginning to get a bit lower in the sky, and you're looking forward to the fireworks.

When you're reasonably sure none of you are about to be collared by the local cops, you excuse yourself, to go find a port-a-john. Here's where the festival's planning committee could have done a fair sight better. There aren't any places to drain the vein nearby. You ask a man for directions; after congratulating you on your "big fucks," he tells you it's up the beach -- that-a-way -- a long ways. You begin the unhappy trek. You're godawful tired right now. So much for boostos.

You get to the appointed potty and do your business. On your way out, as you trudge back onto the white sand of Palau's almost virginal shore, you nearly take a faceplant. No. It can't be.

But it is. Further up the beach, at an isolated spot near an outcrop of rock. Sitting on a towel beneath an audaciously expensive-looking parasol. Wearing a bikini, and lounging on her elbows facing the sea. Qiangxiang Xi.

As if she has ESP, she looks in your direction the moment you notice her. She smiles, and waves in a fey sort of way.

You shouldn't approach her.

You approach her.

Your form shadows her; she glances up, raven hair rustling in the breeze.

"Hello, Alabaster," she says, as if this is all the most normal thing in the world.

"What are you doing h--"

"I am considering to buy Palau. What do you think? What would the UN say to that? If I were to offer half a trillion dollars, say -- to the government of Palau, to dissolve their parliament, rescind their constitution, and hand their population over to our company?"

"A slave island?" You sputter.

"We haven't had a good one since Haiti. Such a pity. Do you want to take a seat? There is room on my towel."

"You followed me here," you say, still standing.

"Yes. Your pet reporter chartering a plane to such a remote location piqued my interest. I do not know for sure, but... if I were forced to hazard a guess, I would guess that you have come to speak with Gustav Eichmann. Yes? No?"

You glance around, panicked; Qiangxiang, laughing coolly, tells you: "Calm yourself. I am quite alone. Not even uncle knows I am here. Will you sit, please? You are blocking my sun."

The way she says "my sun" -- isn't like just anyone says it. More like she literally thinks that the actual, entire sun belongs to her and only her.

You sit.

She hoists up two bottles. One is suntan lotion, the other is sunblock.

"Alabaster... do you like a girl tanned, or pale?"

>[x] Tan.
[ ] Pale.

She drops the sunblock. She shakes the bottle of suntan lotion vigorously, with the force of a paint mixer. Then, uncapping it, she spurts a few dollops of it into her cupped palm. She slathers it between her hands, and languidly begins to apply it to both her thin arms.

"A commendable choice," she says, holding the lotion bottle steady between her knees as she works. "I see you have varied taste in women."

"Why did you come all this way? To intimidate me?"

"Oh my, no. No. I want to be a colleague. We work together now, Alabaster -- I am your Chief Technical Officer. I want to know about the workings of the company I help lead. That is all. And what better way to do it, than to take a pleasure trip. That's all this is. A pleasure trip." She looks you over. "That's what this is for you, also, it seems."

"I--" you begin, but then she's pressing the bottle into your hands. She takes her hair, gathers it up into a ponytail, and ties it back over her shoulder. She turns around. "Please," she says, "my back."

Trembling, you squirt the lotion into your hand, begin to rub it into the space between her shoulder blades. She hisses gently at the cold sensation, eyes closing.

This is the most surreal moment of your entire life, and you've had plenty.

When the lotion warms up from the contact, Qiangxiang's eyelids come open again, and she regards her from her peripheral vision.

"There," you say finally.

"Mm."

She turns again, sits cross-legged, and smirks -- just slightly, almost imperceptibly.

"Well?" She says.

"Well what? Tell me what you want. What are you trying to do?"

"I am going to lure you with sex, Alabaster. And I am so confident in my ability to do so that I am telling you this openly, because you will still fall prey."

You sit back on your knees. "I had a feeling you were an egomaniac, but that's a bit much. You know I've got about 14 or 15 girls I fuck on a regular basis. Why do I need some slut from China?"

"Because I am the best."

"Seriously? Even if you had the best pussy on all of planet Earth, I st--"

"I do."

You give her a bewildered look. Then continue: "I still wouldn't fuck you, because I'm not stupid."

Qiangxiang picks up the sunscreen now. She dispenses some into her hands.

"You're beginning to burn. I don't think a tan would suit you, Alabaster, and anyway I like men to be white. Please, turn."

You turn. Like her, you hiss at the cold sensation of the cream pressing into your tender back.

As Qiangxiang works, she finally rebuts your claim. "You are stupid. Men are stupid -- their cocks make them stupid. You get an erection and then all you can think about is mating. You in particular." Her tiny hands work in tiny circles, from the broad expanse of your shoulders down to your hips, and back up. "It comes as no surprise, given what I've been told of your blessings, and which now I can verify with my own two eyes." Her gaze diverts downwards, and she stares openly, over your shoulder, at your package in your swim trunks. "It must be a terrible tax on your brain to supply blood to such a thing."

"I actually think that I'm at my cleverest when I'm horny."

She's still staring. She's applying the lotion to your sides now, both of them at the same time, tickling you. Her chin rests on you. "Does it disgust you, the sensation of sweat trapped between your testicles and anus? The stickiness of your foreskin against your thigh? Such a disgusting thing to carry about all the time. How can you endure it?"

"I really like it. You can take it out and give it a feel if you w--" you stop, realizing yourself. You've already propositioned her, just as she told you you would. Her smirk is back in force; you want to punch it from her face.

"You can kill me," she says.

"...What?" You turn again, face her.

"No one knows I am here. I am all alone; defenseless. You can kill me and leave my body in the surf, and you would get away with it. Shouldn't you?"

She reaches into her purse, and pulls a dagger. Your heart palpitates. But she spins it in her hand, holding the blade, and presents you with the handle. "Go on," she says. "Slip it between my ribs." She taps her chest. "Right here. Into my heart."

You gape at her, speechless and terrified.

"Maybe I should kill you instead," she says. The dagger is pointing the other way, now. With her elbow cocked and wrist turned up, she keeps the blade level with her face, staring down its length, up at you: "Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in your eye... I should kill you now and pull that strange device from your skull and take it home with me. Should I not?"

"If you kill me, Whitney will kill you," you say.

"Whitney Darkbloom is a stupid cunt. We have established this. She is no threat."

Still with the dagger pointed at you.

"You haven't stabbed me," you say. "Are you sure you're not afraid of Whitney?"

She laughs, a long tittering that doubles her over, palm pressed to her lips, her upper body vibrating. Finally she stows her dagger. You can breathe a bit easier.

"What fetishes do you have?" She asks.

"I -- I don't know. Into anything, I guess. I'm a pervert."

"Oh?" Qiangxiang says. "Anything? So you would like me to defecate into your open mouth? You would like to see me copulate with a dog?"

"What? No-- Jesus, no."

She daintily rubs the nails of thumb and middle finger together. "You would like to see me forced to ingest roaches and worms? You would like to vivisect me, and tinker with my vital organs as I shriek in indescribable agony upon your table?"

"No-- oh my g--"

"Do you want me to castrate you, Alabaster?" She reaches suggestively for her purse.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"These are not my interests. But you said you enjoyed all fetishes. I am just naming some of the common ones."

"Those aren't fucking common. And I have normal fetishes. Not that darkweb shit."

"By definition no fetishes are normal. The evolutionary purpose of sex is to procreate. Anything beyond a man ejaculating inside a woman's vagina is a human-made foible, and an aberration; none any more or less inherently normal than another. Which is to say, abnormal in totality. What repels you about one and not another lies only inside your mind. It is your personal, psychological bias."

"Sex is social, too," you say. "It's not just to make babies. I would call the fetishes you're listing antisocial. I like social ones."

"Such as?"

"Such as putting on a show for the people."

"You are an exhibitionist. Yes, I gathered."

"And I like group sex, too. It reinforces social bonds..."

"True. This is a new perspective for me, Alabaster. You are right. Sex is also a social activity." She clacks the sunscreen's cap back on. "We are no better than the bonobos who spend their entire lives in estrus." She stares into the sand for a moment. "However... you enjoy fetishes which I would class as antisocial, also."

"How would you know?"

She circles you, lays a hand on your thigh, leans in close with her chin nearly touching your chest as she peers up at you. "Imagine tying me down against my will -- face down on a table, with my ass in the air. Imagine taking a whip to me until this tan skin you like so much is streaked angry and red."

You swallow, but it's dry.

"And thus I have proved my thesis," she says.

"I've dealt with people like you before," you say. "Paper tigers. I helped kill David Darkbloom -- turned my accomplice into my cockslut -- I can deal with you, too."

She tilts her head. "Do I frighten you, Alabaster? I hope I do. I hope that tonight your rest is uneasy and that every distant creaking in the dark startles you awake."

"If you could scare me half as much as you're scared of us, I think you'll be doing okay," you try, putting up an aggressive front.

But she only titters at you again.

"Go on now, please," she says. "Go back to your wife and sister and the slavegirl you want to install as my peer. They will grow worried if you dally much longer."

You stand. She watches placidly. You turn, and leave.

"Alabaster..." Qiangxiang calls after you, when you're a few yards down the shoreline.

You stop, wait. She rises to her feet. Shocking, how short she truly is. She's just a kid.

"I am not an enemy. I only want things to be interesting. This is my theory of the world: that money and power stay only with those who are interesting. Look at us. You and I, we are the interesting people of the world. Do you need my assistance in striking back against Mara Darkbloom?"

[ ]Yes.
[ ] No.

"I would never say no to someone who wants to help kill Mara Darkbloom." You bow slightly to her.

"Is that a yes?"

"Tentatively. I'll discuss it with my associates."

"We are associates," Qiangxiang says.

"I'm sorry. Let me correct myself. I'll discuss that with my trusted associates."

She smiles.

"We'll have terms," you tell her.

"Good businesspeople always do." She waves. "See you Monday, Alabaster."

---

Qiangxiang has a way of making return trips a lot more dour than outgoing trips. You don't watch the fireworks on Koror; instead, you watch them in the privacy of Gustav's beach, in the warm sand, from very far away, so that the pyrotechnics are just tiny points of light on the horizon.

"I wish things were simple again," Cerise says, eyes on the sky. "I wish we could go back... can we make it all simple again?"

You take the beer from her hands and finish it for her. She's had enough.

"Remember watching fireworks with me on the 4th?" She asks. "On the beach, back then?"

"Yeah."

"I thought for sure you'd run away..."

"How come?"

"It's just the way you were. The way I was." She strokes your arm. "I'm glad you stayed."

"Wow. This was a formative moment, huh?"

She makes a sour face. "Don't be so dramatic. It's not like it would have been the most disappointing moment of my life if you turned me down. It's just -- it was just a happy memory."

Gal, head in Cerise's lap, snores softly.

Rose, on your other side says: "simple would be so nice. I remember when the worst problem I had was that you stole my Volt."

That Volt is still parked in Whitney's garage at home. "You can have it back," you tell her.

"Really?" She says, hopeful.

"For the low price of $500 million."

"Oh my GOD--"

"What? It's appreciating in value every day, you know. Better strike while the iron's hot... I'm sure Whitney would loan you the cash."

She slugs you.

A long silence passes, and you appreciate the bursts of fire in the sky.

"Gustav is an expert at what he does..." you begin.

"Huh?" Cerise says.

You sigh. "Gal and I. We still have these implants in our heads."

Cerise pets her wife's hair.

"You know how I feel," Rose tells you.

"Yeah. I know."

Cerise is less decisive.

>[x] Keep both.
[ ] Take out both.
[ ] Keep yours, take out Gal's.

Cerise gently pets Gal awake.

Gal, curled up in the sand with her head still on Cerise's lap, groggily stirs. "mmmhh?"

"Were you listening just now, babe?"

"sort of. im so tired"

"Gustav could take your implant out," Cerise says. "We could have him do it for you, before we leave."

Gal doesn't answer.

"What do you think?" Cerise asks.

"tell me what to do" she begs her.

"I can't tell you what to do," Cerise says. "It's your choice to make."

She appeals to you, then. "tell me what to do Sir... i want to be told"

It's not a sexual domination thing. She just really needs someone, anyone, to tell her what to do.

"Take it out," Rose says.

"not you"

Okay, not just anyone.

"I'm keeping mine," you tell her, by way of answering.

"Alabaster, please--" Rose begins.

"if you keep it then i have to keep it too"

You sigh. "It doesn't have to be that way. There's no rule that says that. Just because I want to keep mine in..."

"i need to. for what lies ahead... for everything im going to be doing..."

"You decided, then?" Cerise asks. She parts the bangs from Galatea's face where it lies in her lap and gazes lovingly down at her.

"yes. im going to be on the board with that awful girl... and david darkbloom... and we still have to find renee and alex too. people are-- going to count on me-- youre going to count on me, Cerise-- and you too, Sir... i cant let you down. i need to keep this, in case i need it..." She's quiet for just a beat. Then, voice clearer, firm and unusually decisive: "I need to keep it. I need to keep my implant."

Cerise continues to pet her.

Rose is close to crying. Hand clutching your knee, she says: "Please don't make that mistake."

"I'm sorry," you tell her. Words you rarely utter to Rose, but it's the least you can do; you're countervailing her on such an important choice, which for all your bickering over petty matters, almost never happens.

She does cry now. Not vocally, but you can see the tears trickling down her cheek in the moonlight.

"I don't want to lose you," she tells you.

You tell her that she won't. She makes you promise. You hug her close and watch the rest of the fireworks in silence.

Cerise, whose magical power is apparently the ability to conjure beer from nothing, has another bottle, and sips it slowly. As the fireworks die down and only the thin wisps of smoke drifting across the flat expanse of the ocean remain, her eyes focus instead on the massive full moon just above the horizon. "It's so big tonight," she marvels.

"its an illusion" Gal tells her.

"What do you mean?"

"the moon is the same size no matter where it is in the sky. it only looks so big because its closer to the horizon right now"

Cerise glances your way for confirmation. Being a walking trivia almanac gets people into the habit of using you that way. "She's right," you say.

"of course im right," Gal says.

Cerise pinches her cheek.

"ow"

Cerise hunches way down and kisses her wife tenderly on the lips.

---

Mom claims she has never cooked with taro before, or even eaten it herself. Which leaves you utterly perplexed at how her candied taro root pie, a recipe she concocted from scratch, is so good. And you're not the only one; Gustav begs her throughout the night to consider moving to Palau.

"You are eligible, yes?" He says, pouring her another glass of Grand Cru from his wine collection, a rare treat, he tells you all, for rare occasions. "I too am also eligible. I never considered to take a wife -- but for this, maybe I might!"

You glower at him, but you needn't answer on Mom's behalf. She playfully swats his chest and says: "I could never deal with this isolation. And German accents do nothing for me. Thank you anyway, Mr. Eichmann."

"There is much about you that does nothing for me, but the dessert makes up for all!" Gustav booms. He takes a swig of his drink. "Ah, nevermind. It is for the best."

After dessert, you reveal to Gustav the unhappy news that Qiangxiang followed you to Palau, and that now because of this, quite possibly the Chinese know his hidden location. He sobers up pretty quickly when you tell him.

He stands, strides to the bay windows at the back of his dining room. Hands behind his back, he says: "I have hidden from the world for so long... but one cannot hide forever. If a Chinese hit squad wishes to come and spirit me away in the night, so be it. If Mara finds me and exacts a deadly revenge, no matter. If international authorities decide I belong at The Hague, perhaps I do. I will face whatever comes my way with the dignity I lacked when I fled from California."

You nod, although he can't see you.

"Young Vivian had a favorite poem, maybe you can ask her of it. I have spent many, many hours thinking of it in this lonely house of mine."

"What is it?" Cerise asks him.

"T. S. Eliot. Prufrock."

"I know that poem," Mom says.

"I think just about everyone knows it," Kay says offhandedly.

"Well, she was only 9 years old when she cornered me at David's house one day and began to explicate the parallels between the narrator's feelings of sexual inadequacy and the spiritual malaise of continental Europe during the interwar years. So you may take this into account, also."

He's quiet for a turn, then he begins to recite: "I grow old, I grow old..." He looks down, and realizing his attire, he smiles. He pinches the material between his fingers: "White flannel trousers. How apt. Perhaps I should go and walk upon the beach."

---

Gustav is nakedly and pathetically desperate for none of you to retreat to bed. He would probably like for you to stay in Palau forever and ever. He's got stir fever, all right -- and he's so, so lonely. So you all stick around in his den for a bit to play a favorite game of his -- one he shared with Renee, apparently.

"Am I a woman?" Rose asks.

"No," you say.

"Am I a man?"

"No," Mom says.

"...Child?"

"no" Gal says.

Rose furrows her brow. "What the -- am I an animal, then? I must be."

"No," Cerise says.

She huffs. "What. This makes no sense. What could I possibly be?"

"I believe the object of the game is for you to determine that," Gustav says.

She idly runs her fingers across the card taped to her forehead. "I am a living creature, right?"

"sure," Gal says.

"...some kind of bush or something?" She finally asks.

"Y--" Kay begins, but you cut her off.

"No."

"What do you mean no," Kay demands. "She's a plant."

"She didn't say plant. She said bush. It's a separate category."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Kay fumes. "Are you a professional hair-splitter, or what? She said bush or something."

"Well fuck," you say, "'or something' could be anything. Then sure, if you want to be totally unhelpful, yes. Every single character qualifies as a bush, 'or something'. Great answer. So useful."

"You are such a shit," Kay says.

"She's not a bush! The whole point of this game is to give the right answers -- to be precise! You can't just say, oh, sure, close enough, you're a bush -- when you're NOT a fucking bush--"

"I think it's close enough," Mom says.

"Of course," you fume. "You're defending your new best friend, rather than your own son--"

"I mean, it's basically the same idea," Cerise says. "It gets her closer to the answer."

"plant. she's a plant," Gal says. "it's part of the plant kingdom. bush is close enough"

"This is absurd," you begin. "You're giving her information she didn't even ask for because you don't know how words are defined--"

"Am I the Giving Tree?" Rose asks.

"Yes!" Gustav says, pounding his palm on the tabletop. "Congratulations."

You grumble, beyond frustrated; Rose smiles smugly as she peels the card off her head and confirms her answer.

"Oh, this is wonderful," you say. "Just wonderful. See what you bumblefucks did? Rose is gonna win now."

"Was there ever any doubt?" She says.

---

When finally you do sleep, it isn't restful. You've only been out for a couple hours when a distant creaking startles you, and you wake in a cold sweat. Rose is in the fetal position, wrapped around one of your arms like a macaque at a petting zoo -- but snoring like a barnyard animal. You often compare her to a pig, but does she need to sound like one, too?

You're parched and your heart is thudding; you need some water. You try to pry your arm loose from her grip, but in her dreams she clings tenaciously. You break free only after disturbing her sleep, too. Her eyes drift partway open and she confusedly mumbles the first couple syllables of your name. The exhaustion and the liquor slur her speech so that it comes out: "Al-lly...?"

"I'm just gonna get some water. I'll be right back."

"Mmmokay..."

You stand and toss your shirt on and start for the door. On your way out, Rose, already 90% of the way back to sleep, murmurs: "I love you..."

She says this to you now. Usually in moments like this one, with her guard down, when she's not fully conscious. It still sends a weird thrill through your heart to hear it, and you're not sure you'll ever get used to it.

In the kitchen, you pour a glass from Gustav's tap and stand at the sink guzzling it down. Soft pattering draws your attention: Mom steps into view. You watch her from over your shoulder.

"Can't sleep either?" She says.

"No."

She saunters up to you. You turn fully towards her now, setting the glass behind you on the countertop. You smile.

She slaps you.

Reeling, you begin: "what the f--"

But then she grabs you and kisses you: forehead, cheeks, lips, a barrage of maternal affection that takes you a some moments to fend off.

"What's wrong with you!" You hiss.

"Cerise told me about it. Alabaster -- you're such an idiot! You're such a useless idiot! Why do you want to keep that thing inside your head?"

You groan. "You're the one who -- just forget it. It could be useful, that's why. We've got so many people who want to hurt us. We need whatever help we can get."

"It's my fault," she says. "You're right. I'm the one who had David Darkbloom put that terrible thing in you."

"Why?" You ask.

"Just money... just for money. I'm... so terrible."

She puts her head in her hands and takes to trembling. You hug her and pull her close to your body. As before, she's so warm. "You can't change the past. And you didn't know what you were really signing up for anyway... it's fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Everything that ever happened in my life led me to where I am today. Right? If even one thing changed, I wouldn't be here right now, in a beautiful house in Palau, hugging you."

She frowns with one side of her mouth. "I'm not sure I buy that butterfly effect theory, honestly--"

"Well, neither of us are scientists. So I wouldn't risk it. I wouldn't change a single thing -- just for this. I love you, Mom. I never said that enough before."

She sniffles and nuzzles your chest.

When she's composed again, she asks: "Was I... too much... back there, in the car?"

You clear your throat.

"Oh God. I was. I'm such a terrible mother."

"I guess I'm a terrible son, too," you try awkwardly.

"You..."

You put one hand on your hip. "It was -- it was good. Really good. I don't have regrets."

You stand there like that in silence, both of you sort of staring down at each other's feet.

Mom is the one to finally break it. Her voice is soft and shaky. "Would you... want to... do something like that, again, sometime?" She asks.

"Something like having to waddle half a mile up the beach with a mess in my boxers? No."

Even in the moonlight, you can see the neon red of her grimacing, mortified face.

[ ] Let's try something better than dry humping.
>[x] You said you were curious about me and Cerise, right?

>[x] You said you were curious about me and Cerise, right?

You sneak into the guestroom where Cerise is sleeping with Gal, and drag her from bed. 

"Huhhh?" Cerise says as you tug her to her feet, still a little tipsy, and slow on the uptake. She's halfway to the door before she notices that you're stark naked.

"Alabaster--" she whispers. She glances back towards her wife. 

"Just us," you say. "C'mon."

Cerise can't help giggling a bit, and is happy to follow you. Does this count as her cheating on her wife? Whatever.

As you lead her down the hall, your cock hardens all on its own with thoughts of what you're about to do. Even for you -- even for you, this is depraved. Cerise can't help noticing it. She mischievously reaches down and plays with you as you walk. She slowly jerks you off as you take her to Gustav's living room.

When you get there, you sink down onto his lounger, and spread your knees. Cerise understands implicitly what you want, and is only too happy to be of service. She sinks to her knees before you, scooches up close, and smiles at you from between your legs. 

"Fuck. I love sucking your cock, Ala--"

Mom, also on her knees, leans forward, from out of the shadows. Cerise notices her -- jumps back, eyes bulging, and shrieks: "AHH! AHHHH! AHHH!"

Mom quickly claps her hand across Cerise's mouth. "Shhhhh! Don't wake everyone!"

Mom keeps her hand over Cerise's mouth until Cerise's terrified expression subsides, then she lets go of her and sits back. 

"Wh-what are you--" Cerise stammers. "M-Mom? ... T-this isn't what it--"

"Oh, it's exactly what it looks like, all right," Mom says. "You were about to suck your brother's cock."

Cerise, thunderstruck, swivels and looks back to you for a bit of help in explaining her way out of this compromising situation. 

You shrug. "It's true. I got you out of bed because I wanted my cock sucked."

"It's all right, baby," Mom says. Cerise's head snaps back in her direction now. She rubs Cerise's shoulder. "I know you two are involved. I..." Mom takes a deep breath, and then commits: "I fully approve."

"You -- approve?" Cerise repeats, still having difficulty processing all of this. The shock of being caught must be keeping her from wondering why Mom would have been here to begin with, on her knees, waiting for you.

"I more than approve," she says.

She reaches over and wraps her fingers around your cock shaft.

Just this, on its own, sends electric thrills surging through your body. Your mother's soft hand, tenderized by years of housewifery and baking, is playing with your dick. 

Her voice now is husky, and lustful. "Show me. Show me how you suck him. I want to see."

Cerise gawps at her. 

You insisted to Mom, just a few minutes earlier, that Cerise would take very little convincing -- that she would jump fully on board after the initial shock dissipated. That Cerise, like you, and like her apparently: is 100% a hopeless, sex-crazed degenerate, and would happily make you cum for her debauched entertainment. 

Now is the moment of truth. This is the most perverted thing you've ever exposed Cerise to, by far. Hell, it's the most perverted thing you've ever done, by far. Will Cerise follow you, even past this taboo?

Cerise's hand creeps up. Slowly. And finally joins your mother's around the throbbing shaft of your penis. Mom grips you down near the root, and Cerise, hand stacked atop, tickles the sensitive part of the underside. 

Cerise and Mom wordlessly gaze into each other's eyes, half hypnotized, as they begin in tandem to masturbate you.

"Y-you're sure?" Cerise asks.

"If my baby boy and girl are going to fool around," Mom purrs, "I'd better make sure they know what they're doing, right? That's only logical..."

Cerise pivots and centers herself between your legs once more, while Mom pulls her deliciously soft hand away. It's a bit frustrating to lose that sensation, but you'll be trading it for something better, you know: your sister's tongue snaking itself around your prick.

Mom, in her extremely revealing bikini, watches from close, way up close -- propped on her hands, with her chin almost on your knee. Her leering face is a mask of unconcealed lust. 

Cerise tries to stay focused on you, as she leans in, and darts her cute wet tongue out to tickle your foreskin. You grip the armrests of the chair and sigh. Along with the fun of the pleasure itself, and the taboo of doing these things with your Mom and Cerise -- is also this: the thrilling risk of getting caught. Here you are, naked in your host's living room, getting sucked off by your older sister. Anyone could walk in on this disgusting scene at any time.

"Is that how you do it?" Mom asks.

Your cock twitches at random in Cerise's warm hand as they speak.

"I..." Cerise stutters. "I mean."

"You can't just lick it like you're afraid of it, Cerise. A cock like this -- it needs to be sucked... it needs to be sucked, all the way down to the back of your throat if you want him to feel good. Even if it gags you."

Cerise's brain is on the fritz right now. She can still hardly deal with the surreality of the moment, now compounded by the deliberately obscene way your mother is describing it. 

So you answer on her behalf. "She does that too," you tell Mom. "Maybe she's just a bit shy right now."

"You deepthroat him?" Mom asks.

Cerise nods.

"Don't be shy," Mom croons. "Show me what you really do with Alabaster."

Cerise's moist lips part and wrap around the bulging tip of your prick. You breathe hard through your nose and feel a little dollop of precum ooze from the piss slit. Cerise swallows it unquestioningly. Then, flattening her tongue to rub it against your shaft in that practiced way you love so much, she begins to sink lower and lower. One, three, five inches -- your enormous Coke can of a dick is disappearing down your older sister's throat like she's a sword swallower. Mom presses a hand to her own cheek and watches approvingly, a sly smile on her lips, and a warm blush spreading across her cheeks. 

"You're very good at this, Cerise..." She looks your way. "How long have you two been doing this?"

"Pretty long," you grunt. 

"Good... very good..."

Mom can't help herself; she begins to masturbate. Slowly at first, and as if she doesn't want you to know what she's up to. She lightly brushes her hand against the crotch of her bikini bottom, pressing down on it, then moving away, before returning again. A little abashed, it seems, despite her enthusiasm for seeing you with Cerise. But as Cerise, getting into it herself now, bobs ever more quickly up and down on your dick; as your dick begins to shine in the moonlight from her saliva, and to pulse and throb and turn red; as the noise of Cerise's skilled fellatio becomes dangerously loud and sloppy-sounding in the quiet house; as the pheromone laden scent of your cock and balls fills Mom's nostrils from up close; Mom starts to abandon the last of her shame. Her fingers run down across her belly button, past the elastic of her bottom, and down towards the naked cunt beneath. She starts to finger herself inside her underwear.

"Are you playing with yourself?" You ask boldly.

"Ghh-- I--" She stutters, busy fingers suddenly pausing in place. Cerise pauses too, cock still buried in her mouth, looking askance at her. "Yes, I'm playing with myself," Mom finally admits. "How could I not, when I see you fucking Cerise's mouth like that... you perverted boy..."

You grab a tuft of Cerise's hair and gently begin to hump. Cerise, eyes going half-lidded, exhales sharply and starts to bob on you again. And Mom, transfixed, keeps finger-fucking herself.

"I wanna see your pussy," you say. "Take your bottom off."

"Alabaster--"

"Come on. It's only fair."

She sighs like you're asking too much of her, but she follows the command. She leans way back, hooks her fingers in the bikini bottom, and kicks it off. She doesn't bother to fully remove it, though, and leaves it wrapped around one ankle. Still leaned back, she parts her legs, and shows herself off to you. The well groomed bush above her cunt is so nice-looking, and such a pretty contrast to the dark, wet lips below. It's a wonderful sight to accompany the hot confines of your sister's esophagus clamping down on you. 

Still resting on one hand, Mom asks: "when you fuck her face... do you cum in her throat?"

Cerise shudders.

"Sure," you say.

Mom is jilling herself off again. She rocks her hips back and forth as if fucking an invisible dildo. "But you don't just use her mouth?"

"I fuck her in the ass, too. Yeah."

She gulps, licks her palm, and starts to masturbate even harder. "Do you... do you... do you fuck her pussy also?"

"Yes."

Mom's hand becomes a blur against her cunt. She's playing with herself so rapidly that it almost sounds like she's slapping herself. Cerise begins to tickle your balls with one hand, and stroke your thigh with the other.

"R-raw?" Mom asks.

"Always raw."

"Oh god... you... you fuck her raw? Do you -- do you--"

"Yes. I cum inside her."

Mom throws her head back and cums herself silly.

"I came inside her earlier today, actually."

"FUCK!" Mom screams, not caring who overhears.

"She's probably still got my cum inside her womb right now."

"OH FUCK! OH FUCK, BABY!" She falls to her back, and tweaks her nipples while she diddles orgasm after orgasm from her motherly cunt.

Before you know what's happening, Mom has her hands on Cerise, and is tugging her back. Cerise, only clad in tee and panties, face covered with her own drool, is defenseless. "Mom?" She says.

Mom's got her hands on the waistband of Cerise's panties, and tugs them down. She pushes Cerise to her back and gazes with crazed eyes at Cerise's pussy. 

"Oh my god..." Mom moans. "It's really true... there's cum in here... you blew your load unprotected in Cerise's pussy... inside your own sister, Alabaster..."

"Mom..." Cerise gasps, a fingers to her lips. "You're-- ohhhh--"

Whatever she was about to say dissolves into an almost painful sigh, as Mom, totally out of her fucking mind, buries her face in Cerise's cunt, and starts to suck your cum out.

While Cerise deals with whatever conflicting emotions that stirs, you've got another problem. Mom's fat ass is wagging in the air, bare, right in front of you. And your cock, so recently enjoying itself in a warm, tight hole, is now unattended, and unfulfilled. You didn't get to cum; you've got blue balls. And that hole of Mom's, dripping lewdly and shamelessly down her meaty thighs, being waved right in front of you... it's impossible to resist.

You sink off the lounger, to your knees, and grab Mom's hips in either hand.

Her head snaps up, your semen dribbling from off her chin. She looks back at you. "Are you gonna fuck me? Are you gonna fuck your Mommy?"

"Yes," you grunt.

"Cum in me raw like you cum inside your sister." She looks back down at Cerise's smooth little pussy. "It tastes so good..."

"It really does," Cerise agrees, dreamy. She runs a hand through Mom's hair, and directs her face back down. She likes the feeling of Mom's tongue in her, clearly, and wants more of it.

You rub your cock against the soft, inviting folds of Mom's cunt. Even this is almost enough to make you blow your load. Unable to wait any longer, you rear back, and slam yourself nuts deep into the soft interior of your mother's pussy. You bite your lip and stifle a long, agonized groan. 

The jiggling twin globes of her ass are too much of a temptation, though. Even though you don't want to make too much noise; as you begin to fuck in and out, you spank her. Mom screams, muffled by Cerise's pussy. Cerise is holding tight onto Mom's hair and basically fucking her face, getting off really hard herself.

You told Mom so, and you were right; Cerise is a pervert. Now here you are teaming up on her, fucking her from both ends. Mom loves it. You and Cerise grin at each other. 

With an animalistic roar, you lose your jizz inside her. You pump her full of incestuous sperm, straight into the place that birthed you. Mom, gasping and heaving and sweaty, takes it all, even as her mouth wrings yet more climaxes out of Cerise. 

When finally you pull out of Mom's cunt, you're still hard, and throbbing, and weirdly unsatisfied. All this utter depravity, insane as it is, has lit a fire in you. Cerise is the same way, it seems, because seeing your glistening prick, she says: "me too?"

You pull her away from Mom's mouth, towards the interior of the living room, and line yourself up with her cunt slit. Mom rolls to her back, struggling for breath, palm to her forehead.

As you did with Mom, you fuck your sister, too. You lie atop her in a true missionary, and start to hump. You kiss her sweetly and ask: "you really like this, huh?"

"Yes... it's so good..."

"You like her mouth?"

"I LOVE her mouth..." 

"You like seeing me spunk her?"

"Oh god, yes..."

"You--" 

But you pause, as now comes a new sensation. Mom's mouth is sucking on you from behind. She's lapping at the union of yours and Cerise's bodies. 

"Oh my fucking God," Cerise moans. 

"I could... get used to this..." you pant, as you fuck her, and relish the sensation of Mom's tongue hungrily lapping your combined fluids. At points she spreads your ass cheeks, and rims you out -- without even asking for permission first -- your mother's tongue deep inside your asshole. She rims Cerise, too, which draws cute yelps and mewls from her. But mostly she focuses on the space between, the point where your genitals are mating.

And when you cum inside Cerise, there's just as much as when you came inside Mom; and Mom, delighted, like she's eating her favorite dessert, sucks that out, too. 

"That's it, baby, that's it," Mom grunts, voice harsh, hand massaging your balls, tongue lapping at Cerise's cunt. "Knock her up. Make her pregnant. Do it... do it..." She drinks down the sperm that splashes out and makes sure your balls get empty, completely, inside her. When you dismount, Mom's head is right there: first to lick you clean, then to get seconds from out of Cerise's spunky cunthole. Cerise is not to be outdone, though, and wiggles herself around a full 180 degrees. She pulls Mom into a 69, hands parting Mom's thighs with a mission Appreciatively, for the next half hour or so, you watch the wonderful view of your sister and your mother lying together on the floor, heads in each other's crotches, eating your sperm from each other's pussies.

GIRLS FUCKED: 15/12
RANK: /SS/
Can you mount the final peak?

---

"Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!" Gustav calls from where he stands by the driver's side of his truck. "Do keep in touch, assuming I have not been horrendously murdered!"

"Of course," Kay says. She repeats with him the gesture from your arrival: a big hug and twin pecks on the cheeks.

"Just do not bring your mongrel with you, if you come back!"

Lady, as if he can tell that Gustav's talking shit, growls.

"You needed new carpet anyway," Kay says. "Very 90s aesthetic in your living room. I hope you use that cash to spruce it up."

He laughs, but you can tell he's just being nice. Despite Kay compensating him for the damage, he's still pissed... no pun intended.

"Frau Soliloquy," he says warmly, hugging her next. "Or Catachresis, or however you like to be styled now. When at last the dust settles, I hope you and your family are safe."

"Thank you."

"Alabaster!" He shakes your hand. "Keep your head above the water. You have quite the little harem, eh? -- make sure to keep them well!"

You feel yourself flush a little. You nod at him but aren't sure how to respond.

The flight home is boring. Blessedly so. You could use a boring day or two in your life.

You and Cerise sit with Whitney in her office.

"We're finally out of Palau," you say. "Felt like we were there forever..."

"How was it? Did you do a lot of fuckin'?"

"Yes," Cerise says.

"Your wives or each other?"

"It was all kind of a big love pile," you say.

"Heeh. So hot. You guys owe me, big league. Love pile at my place tonight."

"There's a love pile at your place every night," you say.

"Then it's settled," Whitney says. She turns to Cerise. "Hey. Is Galgal coming to work today or what?"

"Tomorrow. She's still recuperating. Love piles can be a bit... oppressive."

"Too true," Whitney says with a chuckle, "too true."

She's much less happy when you tell her about your encounter with Qiangxiang.

"This Chloe bitch is really getting on my last nerve. She can't just fly to Palau and bully you."

"I wouldn't say I was bullied. It was more like -- well. On the bright side, she did pledge her bannermen to us."

Whitney scrunches up her face. "Huh?"

"What Alabaster is trying to tell you, in the most obnoxious possible way, is that Chloe said she would help us against Mara."

"Great." But Whitney can't move on. "What do banners have to do with it?"

"Forget it," you say. "There wasn't much to do on the flight back but watch a bunch of TV shows on Rose's tablet... the point is... the enemy of my enemy, right?"

"They're both enemies, fuckwit. And while you were out playing Art of the Deal with the stinkin' communists--"

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you--"

"--I was busy tracking Mara down. Or bio-dad was. He's got a meeting with her point-man on Wednesday." She makes a walking motion with two of her fingers: "We can follow him... all the way back to Vail. Let him lead us straight to Mara." She suddenly pounds her fist hard against the desktop, making the entire desk shudder, startling you and Cerise. "Bam. Like that. Operation Jigglypuff is a go."

"...Jigglypuff?" Cerise asks.

"It's a code name."

"Well, yeah, but why?" She presses.

"'Cause Mom is jiggly, and Alex is cute as a creampuff."

"I'm glad you're so optimistic," you say. "But we can at least hold Qia-- Qiang-- Chloe's forces in reserve, if nothing else. Never hurts to have a Plan B. Or even two."

"That's dumb," Whitney says. "Why would you need two? Anyway, it's Plan A or nothing. Plan B is for chumps."

---

You still eat in the main cafeteria at work rather than the executive dining hall. Not because you want to remain humble and in-touch with the lower-level employees at Darkbloom Analytics. But rather because Mom's patisserie is served in the main cafeteria. And you're not the only one in love with her offerings. Her cooking is now recognized across Silicon Valley as one of Darkbloom Analytics' chief employee perks. Mom's turnovers alone have reduced turnover by almost 95%.

You sit at a table, busily popping creampuffs into your mouth. Hey, what can you say? Whitney made you hungry to demolish some creampuffs.

As you eat, a TV mounted on a nearby wall catches your eye. The thing that draws your attention isn't the giant red "BREAKING NEWS" chyron, because every meaningless "news" item is BREAKING NEWS on cable TV these days. Rather, it's the portrait of the man on the right side of the screen, beside an aerial view of a smashed car on the freeway.

You recognize him: Devin Isstein, your very own congressional representative, and beneficiary of Darkbloom Analytics' largesse.

The volume is muted, but the closed captioning is going.

>...REPORTEDLY DEAD ON THE SCENE. NO CONFIRMATION AT THIS TIME REGARDING THE CONDITION OF KAREN ISSTEIN, THE CONGRESSMAN'S...
>...WIFE, WHO WAS RUSHED TO STANFORD UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER WITH MASSIVE...
>...INJURIES. AUTHORITIES ARE LOOKING FOR THE VEHICLE THAT STRUCK THE CONGRESSMAN'S...
>...CAR, WHICH FLED THE SCENE AND IS DESCRIBED AS A BLACK SUV, POSSIBLY A CHEVY OR FORD...

You glance away to find Cerise standing at your table.

"Did you hear about this?" You breathe.

She sits across from you. "Isstein?"

"Yeah."

"Just now. Up in Whitney's office. And she started going on about the weirdest fucking thing--"

"Weirder than usual?"

"She's saying that when they replace him in congress... I should run for his seat."

END OF EPISODE 3.

December 21, 2018

Whitney, being carried around on a chair by a bunch of employees, bottle of champagne in her hand sloshing its contents across the floor as they tote her around, is drunk, and slurs the lyrics: "Oh, the fire outside is fitful-- but the weather inside's delitful--" The chair yaws forward. Whitney's eyes bulge and she gasps at the sudden forward momentum. She windmills her arms wildly, trying to find purchase, but there's nothing to hold onto. She somehow steadies herself, though, and the people under her get the chair level again. Triumphant, she throws her head back, takes a gulp of her drink, and croons: "since we've got no place to goooo-- let it snow, let it snow, let it snoooow~"

She sings this song, despite the fact that playing over the radio right now is "Jingle Bell Rock."

Everyone cheers for her.

Ebeneezer Scrooge she isn't -- the raucous scene in this cafeteria is on account of the absolutely massive Christmas bonus she just doled out, 10% of every employee's annual salary. With over 500 employees at the main branch, pulling a median salary of $200,000... well, do the math. It's an extravagance that everyone around her, you included, argued she couldn't afford. But she insisted that it was a necessary boon to keep people from leaving the battered company. And maybe she was on to something. You haven't seen the workers here at Darkbloom Analytics smiling like this since... well, since ever.

You, though -- Ebeneezer Scrooge you are. Bah humbug, fiddlesticks and hogwash. You hate parties and you especially hate Christmas parties, the tinsel, the chintzy music, strategically placed mistletoe and compulsory yuletide cheer. You cast your eyes about the room in search of someone to share in your misery. Rose, you know, also hates Christmas; but you see that she's busy vomiting into a potted fern in the corner, having gotten suitably sloshed herself. Armstrong and Nelson, who were the most vehement after Mara in insisting that DBA could not possibly afford the bonuses, now lock arms and launch into a joint (and jointly off-tune) rendition of Deck the Halls. 10% looks pretty good to them, too, after all. Fazil, having apparently jumped feet-first into apostasy, helps Dr. Carte set a tree topper on the giant tree in the center of the cafeteria.

Kay. She has to be against Christmas on principle, right? You try to find her. But what horror. She's at the buffet table, eating a big old bowl of cranberry sauce, sipping a glass of sweet wine, and she's deep in conversation with Stackleford. Awful. Tyrus is playing dreidel with Noelle, and it looks like they're playing for keeps; Saul and Charlotte make out under some of that strategically placed mistletoe; Spancer is mechanically doling out small wrapped boxes from a sack over his shoulder, Santa hat and fake beard and all. 

Vivian... surely, of all the people at Darkbloom Analytics, surely Vivian is having a shitty time. She loves having a shitty time. She constructed her entire personality around having a shitty time. But no. Tonight, Vivian is feeding carrots to the reindeer that Whitney hired a zoo trainer to bring in for everyone. The two have developed a rapport it seems; and the beast nuzzles Vivian lovingly, allowing her to scritch it on its head between the antlers.

Everyone here is having fun. You hate it.

If Cerise were here, you think, she would be miserable just like you. You could be miserable together. Then you'd be having a good time.

Whitney stumbles past, at the head of a conga line, wearing an elf hat. Her employees sway and sashay behind her. She glances your way. "Ally! Do me a flavor!"

She's congaing past already, and you make no attempt to keep pace with her. You simply remain on the room's periphery, standing around, moping. She's out of range before you hear what her, uh, "flavor" is.

Whitney isn't so easily defeated, however. She snakes the line back around now, among laughter and drunken tripping. As she congas the other way, her head swiveling to its limits to keep her eyes glued to you as she passes, she calls: "Assmunch! I want you to go-- guys, stop-- GUYS, really, hold on-- Ally! I need you to go--"

Your eyes track her out of earshot, but none of the rest of your body follows suit. The line of revelers passes a second time. Cha cha cha.

On her third return, Whitney is livid. "You fucking bitch, Ally! Will you listen to me! Go find Alex! That ungrateful little twinkie pie is worse than you! He didn't even show up!"

She's out of range once more, and the procession disappears into the throng of non-conga celebrants. You figure she'll find her way past you at some point again. Meanwhile, you just keep hanging out. And in the interim, the music takes an agonizing descent from hell's eighth circle ("Jingle Bell Rock"), directly into hell's ninth circle ("Wonderful Christmastime").

"Why aren't you gone yet!!" Whitney howls on her way back around, when she notices you. Still kicking her legs in tune with the music, though, what a party trooper.

You shrug. "Where is he?"

"Where do you think! Probably down in his fucking basement! I'm handing out free bonuses like I'm a Gameshark and he can't be bothered to take a five minute break to party! It's reindeershit!"

You shake your head. Sometimes you wonder how Whitney stays so goddamn Whitney all the time.

She gave you a task, though, and it's as good an excuse as any to excuse yourself. Out the cafeteria, down the hall, into the elevators -- only then do your ears get respite from the dulcet tones of Paul McCartney's Moog synthesizer. 

You rarely prowl the halls of the R&D labs these days. Too many bad memories. Tonight it's especially eerie, because it's mostly dark, and totally empty; it reminds you of the night when you were down here for very different reasons, six months ago. Still, you have a mission, and you'd be remiss if you didn't see it through. Besides that, maybe you'll find a kindred spirit in Alex, who's often as mopey as you are these days. Maybe you can hate Christmas together.

You know where to find him, the same place he always sits: his workstation just outside what used to be Sable's office. The office is now technically his, having ascended to the CTO position in Sable's absence. But he refuses to claim it, refuses even to remove Sable's placard from the door, so convinced he is that she will return. So he works among his own employees as if he never graduated from being the underling.

The workstations outside Sable's old office are quite public, just PC setups arrayed at long tables, side by side, back to back -- no privacy. Which is why as you enter the room, the first thing to register in your brain is raw shock. Shock to hear pornography blasting at full volume from Alex's speakers, and to see Alex himself sitting at his computer, naked below the waist, onahole in hand, jerking off. 

Your shock only heightens when Alex, noticing your presence at the threshold, merely swivels in his rolling chair and waves. He stops masturbating, at least. But he doesn't cover himself up, or so much as take the onahole off his cock. Rather, he leaves it wrapped around his dick, the wet pink material of it translucent enough to show the outline of his still hard and twitching shaft nestled inside.

Some slut on the monitor is making shameful animal-like grunts as she gets fucked hard against the floor of a bathroom. You look, slackjawed, from the obscene action on-screen, back to Alex, who's just smiling up at you as if this is a normal visit between coworkers.

"What's up?" He asks.

"What's up?" You hiss back at him. "What the hell are you doing?"

He blinks a few times, then glances down at his own genitals still mated to the plastic pussy. Like he himself is suddenly surprised to realize he was masturbating. He shrugs at you. "It's been stressful lately, so I thought I'd use the chance while everyone is at the party to blow off some steam..."

"Jesus," you mutter, mostly to yourself.

"You don't mind -- right?" He rubs the back of his head. "I mean, we do so much worse stuff at work!" A blush spreads across the ridge of his nose, then -- and he glances tempted back at his screen. The porn starlet in the movie is some tarted up little teen in pigtails and thick makeup and gaudy neon-colored stockings. At the moment she's getting her face pressed cruelly into a urinal by the muscled stud pounding her cunt. 

You didn't realize Alex was... so into women? So into seeing women fucked like that? 

This is a lot to process.

Alex wraps both hands around the thick, soft-looking onahole, and slowly starts to tug it up and down on his glistening shaft. Almost like he's daring you to stop him.

"Alex--" you begin. "--you shouldn't..." You look over your shoulder, down the hall, panicked that someone is going to come walking by. But it's as deserted as ever out there.

"Everyone's upstairs, Ally, it's fine." Rather than heeding your advice and stopping, Alex is going a little faster now. The slick noise of his dicksleeve bringing him pleasure fills the room, mingling with the lewd sound of the blaring porno. "I really wanna cum, so... please just look away, if it bothers you..."

He turns fully towards the PC now, slightly hunched over, and begins to hump back up against his onahole even as he pistons it up and down. His eyes are misty and his lips are parted. He's utterly transfixed. You recognize that pose, and that pace; the desperate onanistic bliss you yourself have known so well.

You try, one last time, to talk some sense: "You can't do that here!"

Alex shivers in frustration, his climax interrupted. He slumps his shoulders, spins back in your direction now. "Don't be so lame, Ally. We've fucked and sucked, and done SO much other stuff here! What's the matter if I play with myself too?" 

You're not really sure how to respond.

He grins playfully. "What are you gonna do, anyway? Tell on me? Report me to my boss? I bet she'd approve. Bet she'd ask you to help, even..."

His eyes drift downwards, towards the tent in your jeans. "See?" He says. "You're not so against it."

You clear your throat. "You're such..." you begin. "Such..."

"Such what?"

You narrow your eyes at him. "You're such a fucking slut. That's what."

Alex giggles. "Uh huh." He uses his feet to propel himself a bit back from the table, and stands. He pushes the chair totally aside now, and beckons you towards him even as he sits down on the carpet. 

You think you know what he's playing at and you fully approve. He made you hard, so he has to take responsibility; he's volunteering to suck your cock. You unzip, and pull it out, and present it to him. But he just giggles slyly again. "Sit down, Ally. And take your pants off first."

"...Why?"

He pats the ground beside him. You kick your jeans off and sit. 

Alex is wide eyed and wolfish and shameless in the way he stares. "You've got a really nice cock, you know that?" He says. He reaches across and pets it appreciatively. Just the softness of his hand is enough to make you almost purr in perverted enjoyment. 

"I know. And you made it all hard. What are you gonna do about it?"

"I was hard first~" he teases. He sticks out his tongue. "What are YOU gonna do about it?"

"Nothing. You need to--"

"Have you ever shared an onahole, Ally?" He asks.

"I-- no. Of course not."

"Me neither. I wanna try it."

You look appraisingly at the rubber hole still wrapped around his dick. It's pretty decently sized, but so is Alex -- it doesn't look exactly roomy in there. The other side of it isn't even open. 

By the same token, you can't deny how inviting it looks to your horny dick. The visible portion of Alex's cock that isn't buried in the onahole shines bright under the room's fluorescent lighting. Lube coats his smooth balls, and drips off his scrawny, feminine thighs. It all looks so squishy, and wet, and warm, and snug. 

Before you know what's going on, you feel a warm drizzle running down your prick. Alex is already dispensing lube from the bottle, copiously, all over your genitals. He keeps the bottle firmly squeezed and tilted forward so a laminar stream of it pours from the uncapped opening. It runs viscously all around your pulsing dick and soils your boxers, too. "My underwear--!" You snap, angry, to which Alex simply replies: "take 'em off if you don't want 'em to get messy."

You quickly wiggle out of them and toss them aside. Again, you're acutely aware of how compromising the situation is. This might be the Bay Area, but two people jerking off together at work in plain view of everyone is probably still forbidden. Anyone could come by, and the door isn't even locked.

"Open your legs," Alex says, "like this." Leaning back on his butt, he goes spread-eagle and scooches himself towards you. You mirror the gesture. Like this, you wrap your legs around one another. 

Alex pulls the onahole off his dick with a wet vacuous plop. He laughs mischievously at the lewd sight. Strands of sticky lube dangle from the well-used toy. His prickhead is cherry red and angry looking and drooling precum -- no, not a feminine dick at all. His hand, also wet with lube, presses your dicks together. You moan a little, and so does he, at the heat and pressure of the skin-to-skin contact. He bears the onahole downwards, and the elastic ring of its opening stretches taut, turning white from the strain, around your cocks. It seems you're pushing the device to the limit of its shear strength, and you're sure that it will rip in two along the seam. But unbelievably, it doesn't. The slimy orifice just yawns wide to accommodate the girth of your two meaty pricks invading it. Then in an instant it swallows up the entire bulbous head of your cock, Alex's too -- your pricks are mashed tightly together, between the ridged polymer walls of this pocket pussy built for one.

He doesn't stop there. He keeps forcing the tiny hole down, further and further, swallowing up more and more of your hungry dicks. Lube and precum mix together, and the closed-off hole traps the heat of it inside. It's like you're really fucking a pussy. But the rigid, velvety hard pressure of Alex's prick against you, so alien, is reminder that you aren't -- that you're masturbating shamelessly with another guy. At random intervals, his dick twitches against yours, which sends little spurts of pleasure through your own dick, and makes it twitch in response. It's like the two dicks are hugging, as they twitch back and forth against each other in a sort of syncopated, unpredictable rhythm. 

When your piss slit butts up against the ribbed top of the onahole, Alex doesn't stop. He keeps forcing the cocksleeve down, down, down, until you're both seated inside all the way to your nuts. It's stretched to its limit in all directions now; you feel the rubbery strain of it bearing down tight against your entire cock, choking it with a vicelike pressure.

Using both his hands, Alex begins to jerk off. You and him both. He bobs the toy up and down with a frenzied need. It's messy. Droplets of fluid spray out, onto the carpet; the viscous mixture coats your nuts and runs further down still, over your ass.

The porn on Alex's PC is still playing, although neither of you are watching. The sow-like oinking of the bitch getting fucked half to death on-screen is just background noise as you and Alex stare at the toy you're getting off inside of together. You lean forward, to tug Alex's shirt up and off his lithe frame. He helps you. His pale body is coated in sweat and his little pink nipples are rock hard. Overwhelmed by the pleasure coursing through him, he chews a pinky and moans girlishly, using his other hand to play with his boyish chest. 

But you need the slippery sensation of that hole bouncing up and down on your dick. So you take over. You grab the toy with both palms and pick up where Alex left off. You pound it up and down on your dicks with that same frenzied need, that need to cum inside, to inseminate a fuckhole -- even a fake one, even if you're doing it in tandem with Alex. Alex sighs and groans and giggles as you take him along for the ride and help him mount the peak of his orgasm. He throws his head back and laughs deliriously, and humps against the onahole the way you do, too. You're frotting within the hot, tight confines of this toy, and you're about to blow your load. 

"Allyyy~" he sighs. His voice is shrill and high and lusty. "Cum with me... let's cum together..."

You let go of the toy, and hug Alex tight. He hugs you back. You use the pressure of your bodies crushing together for leverage; the two of you, in unison, hands-free, hump the onahole. It's an erratic, uncoordinated effort, but it gets the job done. Alex rests his chin on your shoulder, and you on his, as your hips move at a blur. Your bodies are slapping wetly together as you fuck yourselves into an almost druglike high. The sound of your simulated twin mating session totally drowns out the porn, fills the room with nothing but sloppy slurping noises that bounce and echo off the walls. Only distantly are you aware, and even more distantly do you care, about the risk anymore. You just need to fucking cum right now.

"Ahhhn~" Alex mewls directly into your ear. You feel his nuts against yours tighten, then the awesome expansion of his dick as the cum courses up it, and then the unbelievably hot sensation of the cum finally shooting out in powerful spurts, straight into the too-tight interior of the onahole. It coats your dick and sets you off too. With heavy grunts and exhalations and moans of your own, your sperm is joining his. The undersides of your dicks are kissing, and the heads of your dicks are squirting, and your onahole is leaking entire rivers of excess cum and lube right into your humping laps. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull with the unabated pleasure of it all, as you fuck and hump together with Alex to wring out every last delicious millisecond of this mutual climax. 

When at last it's done, Alex seems to have gained his wits more quickly than you, although his voice is shaky. "That was..." he begins, breathless. "That was... oh gosh... oh, I made such a mess, didn't I... we did..."

You let him free of your hug, and lean way back on one hand. Alex grips the onahole tightly, and he lazily masturbates it up and down a bit -- enjoying the shudders of pleasure it incites in him as he stimulates his still sensitive dick against yours. The whole interior of the onahole is full with sperm, your cocks are pressed into a milky mess that even now stirs and sloshes with every stray pulse or twitch from your pricks. 

You finally find the wherewithal to unmount from the shared jerk-off device. You slide out, letting him have the now much looser toy to himself. He smiles wanly up at you as you stand, your prick dripping slop right in front of his face. "That was so much fun, Ally. We should-- hup--!"

He squeaks in fright, when you loop your arms underneath his and haul him to his feet. The toy is still dangling on his cock, which is still hard and jutting out from his body. You bend Alex over his desk at a 90 degree angle, and spread his plump little ass. 

"A-Ally... I j-just came, so... please d--"

You fuck your prick into his hot, tight pussy of an ass with one hard thrust. He seizes up with the sudden invasion, spine stiffening, and voice pinching off. 

Reaching over his thin back, you find his mouse, and close the porn movie. Not your type of thing. Instead you'll initiate Alex into the joy of something more your speed, a hentai doujin about a cute boy who dresses as a girl and, with a just a bit of coercion, accepts being turned into a girl by a hard cock... it's educational. You type the address by memory and find the right doujin quickly, even as you establish a slow, steady pace inside Alex's taut asshole.

"Ally... it's big... it's too big right now..."

You hand him his mouse. "Read," you sneer.

"W-what?" 

"Read with me while I fuck you."

You reach down and grip the onahole. You, Alabaster Soliloquy, you do have the goddamn common courtesy. You jerk Alex off for him while you fuck him. It doesn't take long before this breaks him down; he realizes that his choice is either to consent or get raped, but either way you're going to cum inside him. He wraps his hand around the mouse, and stares up at the monitor -- determined to enjoy himself, it seems.

"This manga is... so dirty..." he whispers.

"Yep."

He scrolls and clicks and reads at his own pace. You know the story by heart, so you just enjoy the art. All the while you enjoy the grippy insides of Alex's hole and the way your hands on the toy make his prick pulse. His voice is staccato and somewhat pained, but soon he's fucking back against you, the soft padding of his ass pressing into your thighs on every pump. 

"That boy is so lucky..." Alex muses to himself, as he reads the lurid tale of a boy being turned into a wanton slut.

"You are too," you say. "You're just like him..."

"Yes... I am..." He looks back over his shoulder. "Make me into a girl with your cock, Ally~"

You shudder. Then comes the Alex Best special, a move that always leaves you weak in the knees. The muscles inside him undulate like a sine wave, so that your dick seems to be fucking itself into a never-ending tunnel. It's as if he's giving you a massage from inside his body, milking you off. You groan and stare at the ceiling. When Alex breaks this move out, it means he's close, too, and indeed he is. You pick up the pace to a jackhammer thrust and your fingertips against the top of the onahole feel sudden waves of warmth, translated through the elastic rubber. He's cumming again, cumming like a bitch as you rape him. That does it for you too. You lose your load inside this cute boy and turn him into the girl he wanted you to make him. You turn Alex into your little girly bitch hole. You jizz and jizz inside him until it feels like you'll pass out. 

Sweaty and heaving, you collapse on top of him, and him atop the table. The doujin is open on a spectacular cumshot, but it couldn't possibly measure up to the load you just dropped in this boypussy of Alex's. You can't help nuzzling his neck. He coos happily back at you. 

Finally finding some air, he asks: "What... did you come down here for...?"

"Whitney wanted you at the party," you say into his neck, voice muffled.

"Mm."

"Are you coming?"

"Just did~"

"You fucking whore."

"Hee hee."

"Are you gonna come upstairs or not?"

"Christmas isn't really my thing..."

You ruffle his hair. "Huh. Me either."

He struggles to turn his head, with your weight pressing down on him, but manages. He smiles at you. "We could hang out instead. Me and you."

"Fine by me. What do you wanna do?"

"Hee. How about we lock the door this time."

"So--"

"I wanna read more of your dirty manga, Ally."

---

On a certain sweltering evening in the late summer, you lie on your back on Whitney's bed with her riding your hard cock. She always cranks the thermostat way up before she fucks you so it gets as hot and humid as a jungle in her room during the sex act. She likes to trap the body heat and really work up a sweat when you fuck. She likes to feel it dripping off your bodies, likes the way it makes you slide frictionlessly back and forth against each other, likes the sticky feeling of wet sheets beneath her when you're on top. And she absolutely loves the smell of pheromones saturating the torrid air. 

It would be a perfectly normal evening... if not for the fact that her mother is here too, kissing Whitney lewdly and rubbing Whitney's clit for her. 

What started as a wholesome visit from Dr. Carte to your house to watch movies together as a family has turned into a mother-daughter threesome, not that you're complaining. Beads of Whitney's perspiration pearl on her suntanned body, run down it in streams and drip in fat dollops onto your bare chest, as her hot cunt makes slurping noises against your fat dick, and Dr. Carte strokes the point where you're joined. There's no doubt that Dr. Carte is skilled with her hands. She uses one to masturbate her daughter, and one to sweetly massage your testicles. Her brow is furrowed in focus, and she's doing her best to make sure you orgasm at the same time; that you shoot your seed inside her little girl and that her little girl cums around your twitching cock. She's just as naked as Whitney. The downy landing strip above her vulva is matted down with her need, and her womanly cunt leaking on Whitney's bedspread. Playing with you two always gets her going.

Playfully, she leans forward, and bites Whitney's nipple. This draws a pained hiss from the younger woman, then a peal of laughter, and her pussy tightens nicely around you with her surprise. "Mom, don't do that!"

"Why not? Your titties are way too fun to play with."

Dr. Carte punctuates this by running her hands across the globes of Whitney's size B tits, mashing them with the heels of her palms and rubbing them in rough circles around the areolae. This extremely heavy petting, or more like outright groping, makes Whitney throw her head back in a wincing shudder.

"I am so gonna get even with you for that!" She insists to her mother, even as she humps your prick with renewed energy.

"I look forward to it."

"I'm gonna sit on your face and make you suck Ally's cum out of my twat."

"That's not meant to be a punishment, is it?" 

They briefly kiss before Whitney answers her mother: "no... I just like the way it feels..."

"Good. I like the way it tastes... I'll be happy to drink Alabaster's sperm out of your pussy for you. I'll drink your cum, too..."

They kiss again, more lingering and lewd. All this nasty talk between the two women has you almost ready to cum. It's too soon to cum, you want to enjoy yourself and draw it out... but you can't hold yourself back. You're too hot all over and your dick is feeling way too good inside Whitney. It's almost like she makes a game of trying to get you to orgasm more and more quickly each time you put your dick in her. She's so insatiably hungry for the feeling of your cum in her that she always wants it as soon as possible. Whitney, who tries so hard to present herself to the world as a serious, high-minded CEO, is privately a complete bitch for your cock -- and she loves it.

"Mmm," Dr. Carte moan-whispers in Whitney's ear. "I think Alabaster is getting close..."

"Uh huh," Whitney moans back. "I can feel his dick getting bigger inside me~"

"Lucky girl," Dr. Carte says, punctuating it with a pinch to her girl's clit that makes her giggle. "But that's not good, is it?" Dr. Carte fixes you in her gaze. "You don't want to be a quickshot, do you, young man?"

"I..." you grunt. "...Fuck... I can't help it..."

Dr. Carte uses her fingertips to tickle your nuts with frustratingly light circular motions. "Quickshot, quickshot," she repeats in a lilting tone. "Is my daughter's pussy really that good?"

"Yesss," you hiss.

"Well then." Dr. Carte laughs huskily. "If it's that good, do what you have to... cum inside her, then."

You tilt your head back and grab Whitney's hips and begin to pound upwards into her clamping cunt like you'll never fuck again. The meaty thwacking of it is nearly deafening.

Whitney, voice vibrating as you use her for stress relief, tells her mom: "I-it's f-f-f-fine..." She links hands with Dr. Carte and adds: "w-w-we'll k-ee-eep us-ing h-h-im aft-errr h-he c-c-cums--"

"Oh my," Dr. Carte says, putting a hand to her lips. "You don't want to tire the poor boy out, do you?"

"Oh y-yessss I d-dooo," Whitney says.

Even as she says this, you're losing your nut inside her, and Dr. Carte is massaging it out with one hand gently kneading your testicles. The sperm runs sloppily out of Whitney's hole and down over her mother's busy palm.

Once you're done spewing your load, Dr. Carte pulls her hand away and licks the mess off it. She swallows it greedily, and smiles while she does. 

You lie there on your back enjoying the afterglow, and the slow little tremors of Whitney's insides around your still oozing dick. 

Dr. Carte frenches her daughter while Whitney milks out these last dregs of your cum. "If you intend to wring him dry, I hope you find it in your heart to share him..." she tells Whitney.

"Of course. I'm not selfish." Their tongues entwine and swap saliva for a few moments. 

Dr. Carte pulls back. "I hope you intend to share him right now, is what I mean."

"Heeh. Yeah -- sure..."

She swings one leg up and dismounts you. Strands of your jizz spiderweb off her little pussy lips and then snap as she rises to her knees. You try to rise with her, but Dr. Carte's hands are on your bare chest, pushing you back into the damp sheets, and then she's atop you. 

"Give me a couple--" you begin.

"Shut up," Dr. Carte says. "Fuck me."

"I just--"

"I don't want to hear it. If you can cum inside my little girl, you can definitely cum inside me, too. Stop whining."

You shiver uncontrollably as Dr. Carte slips her mature pussy around your over-sensitive prick. She's really serious about it -- no rest for the weary. 

Whitney curls three fingers into her puffy cunt and lazily masturbates for a minute or two while Dr. Carte establishes a steady rhythm on you. The give and plumpness of Dr. Carte's ass and thighs is nice padding for her weight pressing down on you, which is a fair bit heavier than her daughter was. It's sort of smothering, being ridden like this. But it's a gentle smother. You kind of like it. The commingled fluids from your mating session with Whitney provide extra lubrication inside Dr. Carte's already wet cunt, and you slide in and out with a delicious ease that soothes the sensitivity of your refractory period. 

"Play with me, too," Dr. Carte says, half a command, half a plea. She takes your wrist and guides your hand to her massive, swaying udders. Her big pink nipples are too inviting to ignore, and you enjoy alternating between them, teasing them, which makes her grimace in pleasure. 

Whitney cums hard as she watches you screwing Dr. Carte. She leans way back on one hand and sprays you both with her squirting cunt, like an animal marking territory. She does it just for the sheer, depraved hell of it, it seems. You and Dr. Carte only laugh as she hoses you down. What's a little more wetness in this sweltering sweatbox that already reeks of sex?

Having had a nice orgasm of her own, Whitney scoops your jizz from out of her pussy. She pinches her thumb and fingers together and dangles her hand above her upturned face, letting the slimy jism seep off the tips and over her flattened tongue. When she's got it all in her mouth, she closes her lips and makes rather a show of swirling it around, like using mouthwash. And then she circles around, grabs the back of her mother's head with her cum-slick hand, and locks lips with her. Mother and daughter snowball your cum between them, mewling and cooing their enjoyment. 

"You naughty girl," Dr. Carte says gently, as she continues fucking you. "Alabaster made you into such a whore, didn't he."

Whitney nods. "Uh huh... and he made you a whore, too..."

Dr. Carte licks a dollop of your jizz off her daughter's lips. "How should we punish him?"

Whitney steals your cum back from her mother's mouth. "With our pussies, of course..." she whispers.

Dr. Carte's flattened hands form a diamond on your chest, and she presses down with all of her surprisingly considerable strength. She begins to hump you like a woman gone mad. You thought they were just talking dirty, but no, Dr. Carte is really trying to punish you with her pussy. These demented girls are using you as their living dildo, and you don't think you'll be getting free from this hard use anytime soon...

Whitney, returning Dr. Carte's favor of earlier, reaches between her mom's legs and plays with her clit while she rides you. Dr. Carte grins at her appreciatively. The extra stimulation makes her already swampy insides turn swampier. If you had to rate the differences between their two pussies, you would say Whitney's is tighter and more skilled at milking you; but Dr. Carte's is softer and hotter, and somehow more inviting. You can't put one above the other -- mother and daughter alike are a joy to nut in. 

And so you are. Without realizing that it's coming, you're cumming. Your snarl in delirious pleasure and squirt Dr. Carte full, just like that. She keeps bearing down on you, riding you at a blistering pace, your dirty cum splattering all over in fat droplets. Your searching mouth finds one of her nipples and suckles while you sperm her. She pets your hair like encouraging a favored pet. 

She gets off of you as soon as you're done orgasming inside her. You turn, rise to hands and knees, desperately try to crawl away. But Whitney is already after you. She grabs your ass and spreads it open and dives in, rimming you out while jerking your cum-coated prick with both her small, athletic hands. You shudder and groan, muscles weak. Meanwhile, Dr. Carte, sitting on her knees, strokes your chin. "Where do you think you're going?"

You respond only with ragged breaths and moans. Whitney's tongue inside your asshole leaves you utterly unable to speak. She's practically licking your prostate. And her corkscrewing hands are keeping your dick horny and hard while she orally services you.

Dr. Carte finally grants you a brief respite, though. She takes Whitney by the hand and guides her around. You fall prone, your muscles finally failing, you dick twitching. 

Dr. Carte sits on her butt, resting against the bed's headboard. Whitney is on her back, head lying in Dr. Carte's lap. Dr. Carte reaches down and spreads Whitney's legs akimbo, beckoning you.

"Let's do a Fibonacci sequence," Dr. Carte says. "You came inside Whitney once, and then me once... now, cum inside Whitney twice... and so forth."

And so forth. 'So forth' would be... Dr. Carte 3 times, Whitney 5 times... Dr. Carte 8 times... it only gets more horrific from there.

And yet Whitney's wet, twitchy, tiny little cunt and asshole, being presented to you by her leering mother, are so tempting that you would happily accept this sweetly painful dick-punishment.

You get on top of Whitney and fuck your still turgid dick to the root up her hungry twat. She gazes lovingly up at you; you hold Dr. Carte's shoulders for balance while you fuck. Whitney coos and sighs like a little girl, a dreamy smile on her lips. You and Dr. Carte make out over her. 

"Is this really punishment?" Dr. Carte wonders aloud. "Maybe we're being too nice to you, Alabaster... maybe we're rewarding this perverted dick instead of punishing it, huh?"

"Yeah..." you pant, like a horny dog. "Yeah, you are."

"That's okay," Dr. Carte says. "You're rewarding our perverted pussies, too..."

Whitney giggles. "Being perverted is fun, isn't it?"

"Extremely," Dr. Carte agrees. She thinks for a moment, then: "Baby, would you do me a favor? Would you eat me while Alabaster fucks you?"

Whitney is more than happy to oblige. You help turn her onto her stomach, and Dr. Carte spreads wide for her daughter's access. As you fuck Whitney doggy style, she feasts on Dr. Carte's motherly cunt. It's a meal Whitney clearly enjoys, because it has her pussy juicing up and cumming around your thrusting prick. You make out some more with Dr. Carte as you shoot your third load of the night directly inside Whitney.

Your head and shoulders slump, and you stop pumping. Dr. Carte isn't happy: "come on, now. You owe Whitney another load, young man."

You stare upward now, at the ceiling, silently praying for strength. 

Dr. Carte cums messily all over Whitney's face as you dutifully begin round four. Whitney drinks it up with the same gusto she drank down your cum too. She loves eating cum: from a dick or from a pussy, it doesn't matter. After so many orgasms, your cock is tender almost to the point of soreness, and you can tell Whitney's pussy is the same way. You've been battering it for the better part of two hours with your massive dick, and what began the night as an almost painfully vice-tight orifice is beginning to go slack and bruised. Who's going to break first, you wonder: you, or Whitney and Dr. Carte? Maybe you'll all break -- maybe you'll fuck yourselves into a broken stupor, your cock drained and useless, Whitney and her mother broken way up deep inside. Maybe your dick will snap and their wombs will bruise. But it'll feel so good getting there that you no longer care. They don't, either. You all just want to fuck forever.

Dr. Carte presses her thighs down around Whitney's ears and begins to ride her face. "How did she get so good at eating pussy?" she asks you.

"Lots of practice," you grunt.

"I can tell," Dr. Carte purrs. "I guess she does take after me, after all..."

"You like eating pussy too?" You ask. 

She kisses you tenderly. "It's an acquired taste... but yes... I like genitals, Alabaster -- and making them all excited with my tongue... gender doesn't particularly matter."

"Whitney really does take after you," you say. You stare into Dr. Carte's eyes. Then, spine going stiff -- "Ohhh fffuck-- oh, I'm cumming again--"

"So virile..." Dr. Carte breathes. She roots her tongue around in your mouth while you sperm Whitney once again, adding to the pool of milky slop inside her, while she herself tongues out her mother's gash. 

You pull out with a wet plop, your dick still hard, but its nerves singing out for mercy. This is surely a violation of the Geneva Conventions. You clasp a sweaty palm to your sweaty forehead. But soon Dr. Carte's sweaty tit meat is pushing it away, and she's forcing her sweaty nipple into your mouth again. She's mounting you while you're defenseless, and before you can put up a protest, she's slipping your prick into her. 

"Three for me now," she says in a deep, needful tone. "Don't pass out on me, now..."

She begins to slide wetly up and down on you. You're dripping, she's dripping, you feel like you've lost two pounds just through your pores and dick already. 

Whitney stands upright on the mattress, having difficulty balancing but managing. She spreads her sopping, jizz-splattered pussy with both thumbs, juts her hips forward, and presses herself to her mother's face. "Quid pro quo," Whitney says. "That's biz lingo."

Dr. Carte latches her mouth on Whitney's cunt and starts to suck. All the while she gyrates and writhes and fucks your prick. You're woozy, seeing stars... but neither of them are showing any similar signs of tiredness. It's going to be a long night.

April 22, 2012

Alex sits on the honeycombed back platform of a fire engine, a heavy blanket wrapped around him like a shawl. He stares at the ground, watching the little rivulets of water running from the bottom of a fire hydrant, over the lip of the curb and across the blacktop's cracks. The sweet smell of charred lumber hangs in his nostrils. The house, half caved-in, has only bits of the frame remaining above the first floor, and even this is singed black. The predawn air is partly opaque with all the smoke. It stings his eyes.

A gray hand grabs his shoulder. He can't meet its owner's gaze.

She sneers: "you did this, didn't you."

Alex doesn't move a millimeter.

"So this is why they wanted to get rid of you. God, you're so fucked up. I never should have let your mother talk me into letting you stay."

Alex doesn't move a millimeter.

"You can forget about ever coming back. I don't care where you go, but you won't be with us. Go die for all I care. Worthless little shitstreak. You're no grandson of mine."

May 21, 2012

It's the first warm meal Alex has had in weeks. How pathetic, to be over-the-moon for steamed green beans, pasty mac 'n' cheese, a gelatinous loaf of meat product and hardtack cookie, all on a stained, cracked, segmented tray. Still he wolfs it down.

"I saw you."

Alex, sporkful of green beans in his mouth, looks up in confusion.

"I saw you drawing that bird at the window. What kind of bird was it?"

Alex swallows, and takes a sip of his milk. "What do you want?"

"An answer to my question, gosh. What kind of bird was it?" The girl swings her legs over the bench and sits facing him. Alex notices that all ten of her fingers are wrapped in gauze at the tips.

"It was a kingfisher."

"Can I see?" She motions for the notebook sitting next to Alex on the bench. He picks it up, flips it to the page in question, and slides it across the laminated tabletop. She spins it 180 degrees using the frictionless surface of the table; then, picking it up, she wolf-whistles. She gazes at the sketch, holding the pad with her elbows locked, twisting it back and forth like a steering wheel.

"I didn't finish it," Alex says.

"This is good shit. You an artist or something?"

"Can I please have that back?"

She hands it to him. He closes it, puts it under his butt for safekeeping.

"What brings you here?" She asks.

"Got kicked out."

"Well assumably. Why?"

"Who are you? I don't want to talk about that."

The girl puts both hands on top of her head, holding one of her wrists with thumb and forefinger like a bracelet. "I'm no one. Been here for a while."

"What's your name?"

Now it's the girl's turn to pull out a notepad, hers much smaller. She takes it from her the right butt pocket of her shorts, opens it up to a certain page, and makes a tally mark -- one among many. Then, counting the sets of five, she finally announces: "30. New record. Went a whole month."

"...What?"

She swings the notepad closed with one hand holding it by the back, like a chef flipping an omelete. "Days since someone asked me my name. It's an interesting stat to keep track of around here. Don't though. It'll just make you depressed."

"That doesn't -- well, what's your name?"

"I don't like names. I don't like people knowing who I am."

He furrows his brow. Then, trying to force the matter by introducing himself instead, he says: "I'm Alex."

"Nice to meet you Alex," she says, and shakes his hand. She swings it theatrically up and down a few times, her arm forming a sine wave with his. "Hey. Listen. If you do decide to keep of track that stat, you don't get to reset it to zero now. You blew your wad too early. You didn't wait for me to actually ask."

"What should I call you? Don't you have anything like a nickname or something, at least?"

"Persistent. I like it. Well, I've been called L.A. Blue Girl." She twirls a bang around her finger to indicate the obvious reason why.

"That's kinda weird."

"True, true. Hmm. If you don't like that, you can always call me Camelia."

"So are you an artist?" Camelia asks.

"I'm not really anything. I like to draw, that's all."

"I mean. Do you wanna be an artist?"

"It doesn't pay the bills."

Camelia laughs. She points at Alex with a bandaged finger. "Those don't sound like your words. Those sound like the words of someone who told you not to be an artist."

"My dad."

"Dads are the worst. Fuck dads."

Alex eats his green beans.

"What do you wanna be if not an artist, then?" Camelia asks.

Alex shrugs. "I haven't thought about it."

"You're what, 14? And homeless. You might want to think about it, is all I'm saying."

"You know..." Alex begins. His frustration is apparent on his face, but he's too non-confrontational to tell her to go away. Instead he tries the diplomatic option: "I just got here. I don't want to think about stuff like that right now. I just want to eat."

"Are you good with computers, Alex?"

"Huh?"

Camelia pantomimes typing. "Ticketty tack. Coding. That's what they tell folks nowadays, right -- learn to code? And we're right next door to Silicon Valley so hey."

"Yeah. I'm good with computers. I did FIRST Robotics and took a class on programming, too. It was fun." He frowns. "What made you think I'm good with that stuff?"

"It's your style, you know? The way you draw isn't like some hippy dippy INFP type. You just straight up drew that bird exactly as it was -- like your hands are photocopiers. What I mean to say is you've got an analytical eye. Like me." She bows her head slightly forward and quirks an eyebrow, the one above the eyepatch, as if sharing an inside joke, but Alex is at a loss. She leans back again and stretches luxuriously, spine forming a right angle with the chair. Speaking through a yawn, she adds: "It's no surprise you're into techy stuff... if you're too much of a wuss to chase your passion, you'd make a really good code monkey. For sure, for sure."

"Well I want to do something I'm passionate about," Alex says. "Sure, I could make a good living as a programmer or something, but what's the use if I'm not happy?"

"Fair. Totally fair! I like you, Alex. You don't want to sell your soul for a buck. So... if that's the case, go be an artist. Nothing's stopping you."

"But..."

"But you're a pussy. No, that's fine, I get it."

Alex winces and looks away.

"Let's lick this pickle. You want to be passionate but you're afraid to fail. It's a classic catch-22."

"I guess."

"But you only think there's nothing in a nice, safe technical field that you can be passionate for," Camelia says. "You haven't even looked, have you? You haven't pushed yourself. You haven't done your research. You haven't found someone to aspire to!"

"Someone to aspire to? What, I should go and try to be like Bill Gates?"

"Fuck Bill Gates. There are so many cooler people in the world. Better people." Camelia stoops way in, supporting herself on one arm against the tabletop. "Find a person who's doing something really world-shaking. Someone who's got fire in them... someone who has passion. Someone who's got so much passion for what they do that it's actually crazy. And let her be your inspiration."

Alex nods, considers this. After a beat, he says quizzically: "Her?"

"Or him. Or xir or who cares. Whatever." She stands. "Man alive. I've been yammering at you way too long. Sorry. It's kind of my way."

"No, that's fine. I haven't really had a conversation with anyone in a while." He ruffles the hair on the back of his head, laughing. "I guess I kinda forgot how to talk to people!"

"You're sweet," Camelia says. "Watch yourself around here. There are people with a sweet tooth lurking. And keep an eye on your possessions too."

"Oh... yeah." Alex takes a sip of his milk. "Hey... we talked so much about me, but what about you? What are you passionate for?"

Camelia's friendly demeanor vanishes. Her face and voice alike go utterly blank. "I'm passionate about revenge."

"Re... venge...?"

She turns and goes. Alex watches her leave the little mess hall.

He stays in the shelter for several months, and never sees her there again.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, porn protag with a penchant for paizuri and international man of incestery. You survived Palau, and all you got was a qt shut-in wearing this T-shirt.

As you approach Whitney's office, you can hear voices beyond the closed door. It's precisely what you expected, and feared:

"...to select a campaign manager. One who can keep her focused on the issues--"

"Oh, sure, sure. I've got someone in mind--"

You burst in. At Whitney's desk sits David Darkbloom. Both stop talking, and look at you in surprise, Darkbloom swiveling in his chair.

"Alabaster--" he starts.

You grab him by the shoulders of his blazer and tug him back. His chair tips, and him along with it. He flails his arms to no effect -- topples, spills across the ground with a thud. You swing your legs over his supine form, wrapping his tie around your fist. Stooped over, with Darkbloom on the floor between your feet, you crabwalk him from the office, using the tie as a leash. You drag him into the C-suite hallway and down towards the conference room at the other end. He kicks and tries to fight himself free, but can't.

"Alabaster--!"

"You motherfucker!" You scream, still dragging him. "You're in jail, Darkbloom. You hear me? You're back in jail! I'm putting you back in the fucking superjail!"

Whitney briskly follows, and stands at the threshold of her office; Kay, Nelson and Armstrong are already at theirs -- all watch on with bewildered expressions. Noelle races up, hand on her holster, but she isn't sure what to do in this instance. She was charged with protecting you from danger; what should she do when you are the danger?

You stop at a random spot in the hallway. Darkbloom grabs your arm and uses it to haul himself up to his butt. "What the hell are you--"

You punch him in the teeth, knocking him flat onto his back again. "It wasn't enough for you to live inside my sister's head for a year! You have to fuck with her life even more now?"

"For god's sake! Stop!"

"Did you just murder a congressman, Darkbloom? You fuck! Answer me!" You're on your knees on the floor, straddling his chest, as you wail on him.

Darkbloom, bloody and battered, manages to spin himself onto his side, dumping you to the ground. He wrenches his now ruined tie free of your grip and rises punch-drunk to his feet. You're upright too -- just in time for Darkbloom's fist to make contact with your forehead. You go stumble-hopping backwards; Darkbloom charges. He barrels into you and knocks you down, looms over you: "You utter depraved buffoon!" He thunders. "You out of control brat!"

With gritted teeth you grab his ankles and trip him. Somehow it pops into your head to take off one of your shoes, and climb atop him, and beat him with it. You slap him over the skull again and again, leaving dirty streaks in the shape of your sole's treads on his cheeks and forehead. Darkbloom, grunting like an enraged caveman, swats at the air between the two of you in an attempt to fend off the vicious shoe-slaps and protect his face. He finally catches it with the back of his palm and knocks it loose. It spins like a frisbee into the nearby wall. Seizing the advantage, Darkbloom hauls back and punches you two times in quick succession, square in the eye socket.

Reeling, literally seeing red, you wrap your hands around his throat and press down with your thumbs. Darkbloom grabs at your wrists and tries to pry your fingers away. His face turns colors, first a harsh crimson, then a deepening purple. Sweat pours down his forehead and mingles with the blood and grime.

"I'll kill you," you growl. "I'll kill you every single day from now until the end of time, until it sticks, you piece of shit. I promise that I will not leave this fucking Earth until I SEE you die!"

Your vision fills with stars. When it clears you're staring straight up at the ceiling.

Then, delayed, there suddenly comes the crackle of pain radiating like a fireball from the back of your skull, all the way around your head. Whitney is holding a fire extinguisher like a golfer after teeing off, her chest heaving, face a grimace of anger. After a moment she lowers the makeshift weapon, then drops it entirely. It clangs against the thinly carpeted floor.

Your speech is slurred and you just know a concussion is already beginning. "Yoooou--" you say, glaring up at her from where you lie.

"ME?!" She wails. "YOU! You stupid fucking fuckshit! If you kill Dalton's body, we're all dead! All of us! Are you trying to get us killed, Ally? Jesus fucking crimminy Christ!"

You sit up. "What did you know about this?" You demand. "Did he tell you that he was doing this? Did you help him murder a sitting member of congress?"

"You're bucking fughouse, Ally. Crazy. Crazy!"

Darkbloom is on his feet. He circles you, pulls his jacket straight by the lapels. "Whitney is right. You are completely off the reservation. Get yourself together."

You're bounding after him again -- it's Noelle now who comes between the two of you, gun drawn and held down at her legs, other hand pressing against your chest with thumb and forefinger. "Step back. Calm down."

From behind you, Rose's voice, as she comes stomping into the C-suite: "I am for certain fu--"

She trails off, as she realizes what a scene she just walked into. Striding up and standing by your side, she finishes the thought: "I am for certain fucking hallucinating right now, because there is no way in hell that David Darkbloom was allowed to murder a congressman while we were in Palau."

"Apparently so," you fume.

Rose looks from your face, to Darkbloom's hiding behind Noelle. "Did he attack you, Alabaster?" She asks, appalled.

You point at him over Noelle's shoulder. "You're in jail, Darkbloom! You're in jail!"

"This is a farce," Darkbloom says. "You are a paranoiac and a lunatic."

"Oh!" Rose shouts. "That's pretty goddamn funny coming from the king of mass surveillance. The rank hypocrisy--"

"Are you really gonna let this happen?" You ask Whitney. "Are you seriously letting David Darkbloom manipulate you like this?"

"Manipulate--" Whitney says. She balls her fists and stomps. "You dickweasel. Manipulate me!"

"What else should I call it," you say, "when you're just going right along with this-- ludicrous idea of his, to run Cerise for congress--"

"It's my idea!" Whitney snaps. "It's my fucking idea, Alabaster!" You wince at hearing her deploy your full name. "You think I'm some sort of idiot. No, I get it. You don't think Whitney, stupid little Whitney can come up with anything on her own. You don't trust me. You think I'm going traitor just because I have a two second convo with bio-dad. Asshole! You stupid asshole! You're the stupid one!" Her eyes are welling up and her voice is shaking.

"Whitney," Rose begins.

"You shut up, too! Fuck you both!"

Darkbloom tries to lay a consoling hand on Whitney's shoulder; she slaps it away. "Go to hell," she sneers. "This isn't your in, David." She wheels and returns to her office, slams the door.

"Should I ask why everyone is treating Dalton Cantor as if he's David Darkbloom?" Noelle asks. No one responds to her.

"You killed him," you say. "I know you killed Isstein, David. And somehow or another you put that idea in Whitney's head. This has your name written all over it."

"I did no such thing," Darkbloom says.

"You're in jail!--"

"I am not in any goddamned jail," Darkbloom roars, stepping past Noelle. He squares up to you. You stand your ground, ready for round 2, and this time you've got Rose on your side, who's just itching to go as well. "You had better adjust to your new reality, Alabaster, or you will alienate yourself from everyone around you. Even your insufferable shrew of a wife here. I am trying my very best to help you all save this company, and yourselves, from utter ruin. That means working with me. Cease these temper tantrums and violent outbursts."

He pushes past you, and goes to his office now, and like his daughter, he slams the door.

---

You're bent over a sink in a bathroom at school, shorts and panties stowed in your backpack. Vivian, wearing only her skivvies, sits on her knees on the grimy tile floor beneath you, licking your quim from behind. 

You're not sure how you ended up like this, lezzing it out with a pervy billionaire in a public restroom, but you are. Maybe worse than that is it isn't even the ladies' room -- Vivian led you by the hand into the men's bathroom, saying that it only made sense to do it there. Why? Because she intends to fuck you like a man.

Of course Vivian is no man -- she's an extremely short girl. You have to keep your stance wide to lower yourself enough for her upturned face to reach. You grip the sink's porcelain tightly, afraid that if you slip, gravity will force your legs all the way apart and you'll wind up doing the splits with your naked cunt against the dirty ground. 

"Why can't we just fuck in your limo like every other mor-- ghh--" Your complaint gets pinched off by Vivian diving deeper. Her button nose penetrates your asshole and her tongue buries itself up to the root in the tight chute of your pussy. You feel the wet seal of her mouth latching itself to your fuckhole, the connected orifices both drooling. She suckles sweetly. But over the course of a few moments her suckling becomes desperate and erratic. She sounds like a dog at its water bowl as she inhales, exhales, whines, laps at you. You reach back to stroke her hair. Although you might put up some token resistance, you'll never say no to a tongue wiggling around inside you, and she knows it. Alabaster Soliloquy, Vivian Darkbloom, and the rest of their demented friends have turned you into a dirty whore. No -- rather, they awakened the dirty whore that was always there, and now you're having fun exploring the limits of your own depravity...

Jutting up from between Vivian's legs is a lifelike rubber cock, secured around her waist by a harness. Chin touching your chest, you peer down at it. Vivian paws at your thighs and eats you, oblivious, lost in her own personal heaven. But you're focused on that monster. It's as thick as her fucking leg. About the size of Alabaster's dick. The reason Vivian is kneeling down below you and sucking out your cunt right now isn't just because she loves the taste so much -- although she does -- but also to get you ready for a violent fucking.

She recently told you her philosophy of life: she's interested in anything that helps her orgasm. If something helps her orgasm, it's good; if it doesn't, it's bad. Her goal is to orgasm as many times as possible before she dies. And so that's what this is: her quest to cum, even if it means risking her reputation or even her very freedom, and debauching a teen girl in a filthy men's toilet. You feel like you're being led astray, taken advantage of -- and that, itself, is also fun.

Vivian stands. With a dainty foot, she pushes a stack of three of your textbooks into position. When you put your drawers in your backpack, you took these out, because you knew Vivian would need the extra height to fuck you properly. She steps up onto a copy of US Government: Democracy in Action, and promptly fucks the dildo into your pussy with a hard, fast thrust. You'll never get used to that first thrust of a cock spreading open your little pussy hole -- forcing its way in. It's beyond pleasurable. It's divine, enough for you to understand why Vivian has her hedonist's worldview.

She slowly sinks the cock into you. Despite the booster she's using, you still have to practically squat, and she still has to fuck at an awkward upward angle. Looking into the streaky wall-mounted mirror, you can hardly see the top of her head behind you as she fucks you. It honestly feels as if you're being raped by a little girl. And since it's a role you're fond of yourself, your brain is swirling with unwholesome flashes of imagery -- a playdate gone terribly wrong, a tea party turned lewd... it's like you're being tricked into doing something awful with a too-precocious neighbor girl...

"Have you been sleeping around, Amber?" Vivian asks. 

"Huh?" You're half delirious from the wonderful squishy feeling of your cuntal walls peeling back to make way for Vivian's thrusting dick, so you're slow on the uptake.

"I asked, have you been sleeping around on me?" She gets seated in you to the base, holds your hips with two weak, pale hands and begins to pump you in and out. You feel every fake vein and ridge of the plastic cock scraping your insides in that delicious way you've come to love. "This penis is slipping in much too easily. Are you having sex with Alabaster Soliloquy? Answer me truthfully."

"Yes!" You spit. "He fucks me. Got a problem? Jealous? Fuck me better if you want to take me back, huh?"

"Whoever said anything about taking you back?" Vivian asks, haughty. "Perhaps I would enjoy passing you back and forth between us."

You let your head droop. The pleasure of getting pounded is taking over the higher reasoning centers of your brain. Vivian's reach is just long enough for her to snake her hands underneath your thin tee, and find the little buds of your breasts. She squeezes them cruelly while she uses you. Muttering half-incoherently, to egg herself on more than to egg you on, she lets loose a string of degrading obscenity: "you nasty, repulsive whore... two-dollar prostitute... beautiful, communistic terrorist... darling little cunt... you would even let me fuck you like this... you would throw away your ideas just for me to rape you, wouldn't you..."

The door opens. A student you recognize steps partway in. And he must recognize you too, class president, getting railed by another girl in the boy's room. His jaw hangs open as he stands there with his hand against the open door. 

Vivian is still ranting and raving, having not even noticed the intrusion. "Beautiful, adorable... your low-class pussy is so bewitching, Amber, you filthy slut temptress..."

The boy turns 180 degrees and leaves without a word. The saloon-style door swings back and forth in his wake.

"Vivian!" You call over your shoulder, trying to snap her out of it. "Someone walked in--"

"...and wet, and whorish... do not lie, you would spread open your legs for anyone... unbelievable... amazing..."

You find the strength to stand fully upright, and the plastic dick slides out of your horny pussy. Vivian is panting, and undeterred. As you step past, she just circles you, and hops up, settling her butt into the sink's basin. She fits like it was made for her specifically. 

"Fuck me please," she says. 

You shake your head in utter bewilderment. But that giant cock which was so recently plowing your internal walls, still dripping with your juice... and the awesome cameltoe the dildo's harness gives Vivian... your brain is turning to mush again looking at it all. She's like some sort of evil hermaphrodite succubus demon, come to use you up and spit you out -- a wealthy 0.001%-er hungry to devour you for fun. 

You lean over the sink again and wrap your lips around the toy. You go down on Vivian, the way your older sister taught you to go down on a dildo. It's an important life skill. You gag and sputter, an expert in self-degradation. Vivian holds your ears. She wants you to put the dildo on and fuck her next, but she'll settle for this, for now... she likes the spectacle.

Your tongue, swirling around veined rubber that's tangy with your own cum, finds that the dildo's piss slit is actually real -- it's a real hole. You pull your irritated esophagus off the cock and peer at it, confused. Vivian, noticing, explains: "this model ejaculates. Watch." 

She reaches behind her and grasps a handheld pump that you hadn't noticed. When she squeezes it, a blast of creamy white cum hurtles from the dildo's tip and splatters you in the face. It's some sort of lotion or something, you guess -- but unscented, and with the sticky consistency of semen... Vivian must have shopped around for just the right analogue. It's like she really blew a load on you just now. It runs in clumps down your cheek and over your lips and chin. A couple stray gobs stain your shirt. Your heartbeat quickens and you feel the thrill of adrenaline... this is amazing. You scoop some of the stuff off your face with three fingers, and gaze at it.

"...Amber?" Vivian says, maybe noticing a strange look in your eyes. You're standing tall again, and grasping the fake cock. 

Getting the picture, she unhooks the clasp of the harness from her ass and allows you to pull the dildo off her. As you take it in hand, she hooks her thumbs in her panties and slides them down, baring her pretty little cunt that looks 1,000% illegal. It's shiny with arousal, especially under the garish lighting of this school bathroom. 

"Why didn't you tell me this thing cums?" You demand. "Sheesh."

"Apologies. We are in public, after all. I preferred not to make too much of a mess... it seems I've already soiled your school clothes..."

"Oh, forget about that--" you begin.

"Fine. Then, please, if you will..." She wiggles her butt and parts her stocking clad knees for you. 

She wants her fuck, all right... but you've got something else in mind. "Hold on," you tell her. You use the suction cup at the base of the dildo to steady it on the sink's rim. Hoisting yourself on the balls of your hands, you raise your body just enough to slip your pussy over the angry-looking, hyper-realistic head -- then let it slide all the way in. The shaft of the cock slams into you with gravity's assistance and disappears into you entirely. You can see just the slightest cylindrical bulge in your tummy from the outside, evidence of how this massive tool is distending you beyond what you were made for. With your pussy kissing the cold porcelain, your height is only barely enough for you to stand impaled on this giant cock against the sink. You have to stay on tiptoes to do it. But... fuck... it feels so, so good.

You grope blindly beneath you for a few moments, before finally finding the dangling hand pump. You clasp it tight and give it a hard squeeze, like trying to juice a grapefruit. You can actually feel the toy buried inside you expand a little, as the synthetic cum races up its internal tubing -- and then a split instant later, the utter bliss as it rockets out and paints your deepest parts. It's almost as good as getting cummed inside for real.

You steady your weight with a palm against the sink and use it to pull yourself up just a little. Your feet leave the ground. You gaze lovingly down at the mess you just made inside your own cunt. The small part of the dildo you can see is glistening, the sink's edge is greasy with fake cum and your crotch looks like you just got back from a gangbang. 

You should really stop at this point. Vivian is right. You're in public, and you've made enough mess as it is. This is about the volume Alabaster cums whenever he drops a load in you anyway, so you've gotten your fill and it would be greedy to go for more. You'd be like a fat kid who doesn't know when to stop chowing down on cake. Plus, keeping it going might be dangerous. You could definitely get addicted to this feeling. You're hooked on it enough already.

You squeeze the pump again. 

You watch, sighing, as the white slime overflows from you and spills everywhere. It runs in ploppy clumps down to the floor. "Oh fuuuck," you breathe, "that's it... that's it..."

"Is this your particular fetish, Amber?" Vivian asks. But you're too busy sperming yourself to answer. You squeeze a third and fourth time and delight at the sensation of getting full, so full you feel like you'll burst. You fantasize that you can actually see your tummy bulging even worse with the volume of it. You want to make yourself look pregnant. You lift yourself slightly up and down on the cock as it cums, to make sure that it coats your inner walls completely. And you even swear you can feel, up at the tip of the cock, a pocket of cum that's trapped up there, between it and your womb. And you swear you can feel the opening of your womb drifting open, parting like a mouth, to kiss the cock-tip, and greedily suck its cum out. You're the one in your own oblivious, personal heaven now.

But Vivian puts a temporary stop to your fun. She takes the pump from your hand and holds it out of your reach. You can't pry it back without getting off the cock... and getting off the cock would be like pulling a plug from a hole in a dam... 

"Is being inseminated your fetish?" Vivian asks again.

"That's not really a fetish, is it?" You answer. You're high on the endorphin rush of having a cock blowing inside you, but you've got a feisty, argumentative spirit anyway. "That's basically the whole point of sex, right? So actually it's the opposite of a fetish."

Vivian squeezes the pump. A blast of sticky, warmed-over lotion joins the bucketful of slop already sloshing around inside you. Your lip quivers, and you bite down hard on it. Your eyes cross, rolling up towards the back of your skull. Your muscles seize and tighten.

"I think in your case, it is a fetish," Vivian says.

"Do that again," you beg. It's even better when you're not the one in control of exactly when it happens. 

She squeezes. Once, twice... she keeps filling you past a point you didn't know existed. You cum on the cumming dick. "Fuck!" You wail. "Oh fuck, that's so good... again, please, again... just keep going..."

But no joy. "It's empty," Vivian says.

"Oh come on," you beg, irrational, out of your mind. "I need it... there's gotta be more."

Vivian twists herself into a pretzel, getting on her belly in the sink's basin and reaching way, way down below for her purse on the ground. She finds what she's looking for, though -- a large bottle of the lotion that was in the hand pump's reservoir. She unscrews the dispenser cap from the lotion -- and runs the tubing of the dildo's ejaculation mechanism past the hand pump's other side, directly into the bottle.

"Yesss," you hiss, "yes! Give it all to me!"

You lock your elbows and use both hands to hump your entire body up and down on the sticky, seemingly ever-expanding toy cock. Vivian slowly plays with her pussy as she pumps the bottle's contents into you. You close your eyes, enjoying the contrast of the cock's oppressive rigidity and the soft, gooey explosions cumming at random intervals from its tip. This dick is beating you up inside and soothing the hurt at the same time with its warm jizz. 

When you open your eyes again, you gasp; Vivian is peeing. Even as she digs her fingers through her pussy, the piss is shooting in a hard, steaming stream from her urethra, against the shallow basin's bottom. Since her butt is over the drain, there's nowhere for the mess to go. The sink quickly begins to fill, until Vivian is sitting in a yellow pool of her own hot pee. She just keeps masturbating, tiny jaw slack, knuckles splashing in the liquid, while she jizzes you with the lotion.

Under your feet is an equally disgusting mess. The entire floor is slick with fake cum -- your books and backpack are practically swimming in it. To add to your perverse enjoyment, and increase the insane risk, you throw off your shirt, and kick off your shoes, to stand totally naked in the middle of the room. Vivian rubs her piss into her cunt and cums her brains out. Her voice is small but extremely loud, echoing off the tile walls. The rank smell of Vivian's pee fills your nostrils, joining that of your mingled arousal, and it gets you higher, if that's even possible. You say to Vivian, adopting that girlish tone you like to use: "I'm so lucky... he's cumming so much..."

"Pee on me, too, please," Vivian instructs. Her voice is much deeper and throatier than normal. "We're in the toilet, after all..."

You drawl, playing at naive reluctance: "Hmm... are you sure? Okaaaay..." Not breaking your pace on the spurting cock, you use your thumb and forefinger to part your pussy lips. You flex your abdomen and force your bladder to empty. First as a trickle, but building force, you hose Vivian with a golden arc of piss. It travels upwards, from her wet cunt, across the length of her nearly emaciated torso, staining her black bra, and then all the way to her neck, and her face. You're pissing all over Vivian Darkbloom's pretty face while she fucks you full of cum. She lets her mouth hang all the way open and catches what she can in the back of her mouth. She gargles it, swallows some, and spits the rest out. The rest that she doesn't catch in her mouth she just lets run all over her, down into the sink, to join hers. Her twat is now totally submerged. 

"Daddy's cumming so much inside me," you mewl, even as you piss on Vivian. "He must have been ree-eeally backed up today..."

Vivian doesn't even blink before playing along with the fantasy you just laid on her. "You have a hole made to please him. This is why he fucks you."

"Hmm, yeah," you giggle, "you're right, huh."

Piss is dripping from her raven hair as she presses the bottle and fills you with the almost infinite liquid slop. "Is this your highest aspiration in life? To be a receptacle for semen?"

"Uh-huhhhh," you agree in a singsong voice. "What else is there?"

"What if he grows disgusted of you, Amber? What if your pathetic, revolting behavior makes him throw you away when he's done ejaculating?"

"Ohhh no," you say, and a genuine pang of grief tinged with weird erotic thrill passes through your entire body. 

"Are you okay to be used even like that? To be used up and tossed aside like garbage? As long as you get the semen you love so much?"

You're orgasming harder than ever before, but your face is wet with tears too. Smiling through it all, you nod: "Yeah... at least I'm a good spunk hole while he wants it, right?"

"He wants to urinate inside you, too. Will you be his meat toilet, Amber?"

"Uh huh... I'll take anything he wants to put inside me..."

She chucks the finally empty bottle away, and it clatters unheeded across the ground, under a stall. She dunks the hand pump beneath the steaming pool of your mixed urine, to fill your gash full of pee. It's a much thinner, but hotter liquid, and you can feel it scrubbing the inner walls of your uterus clear of the viscous lotion like a power washer. Then it all mixes up and swirls around and you can't tell the difference from one or the other anymore, you're just full of this nasty, smelly, dirty, frothy mixture -- all the way full, into your deepest parts, and leaking it out like the messy bitch you are. 

Into the room walks another male student. This one you also recognize, and he most definitely recognizes you. Auburn Brantly. 

"Amber--!!" 

You grin wolfishly, lecherously at him. Ear to ear. Vivian continues to fill you, and you continue to leak all over the place. "Hey Raisin Brant," you say, winking. "Sup?"

He turns a shade of red you've never seen, and flees the room in... shame? Jealousy?

Not long later the sink is empty... there's truly nothing left to pump your quim with. It's sad moment when you realize that the fun is winding down. Vivian helps you off the fake dick, and as you come off it, a torrential wave of piss and lube comes pouring out of your well-used fuckdump. If the ground wasn't already in a gross state already, it definitely is now. Your things are ruined, too.

"We will need to clean this up," Vivian says. "And quickly... your first period classes will probably let out soon, and we have already been seen, several times..."

Smilingly slyly, you drop to your hands and knees and beckon Vivian to join you.

"Amber..." she says uncertainly. But you're tugging her by the wrist and all but forcing her down. You can be the bad little girl too. She already knows what you're intending, but you demonstrate anyway, and start to lick the slimy brew up. Vivian's face is a shifting canvas of emotions. First genuine disgust, shock... then piqued interest, mounting lust. The idea of doing something even this depraved clearly gets her cunt juicing too, because she reaches between her naked, baby-smooth thighs and begins to diddle herself. She slithers to her belly with you and joins you in cleaning it up with your mouths. 

You turn your head this way and that while you work; your face and body become totally coated in it, like a pig rolling in mud. As you slurp and suck and lick the stuff up, your tongues frequently meet, and mingle, and you kiss each other tenderly. You exchange loving smiles; so lucky to be sharing in this perversity, together.

---

Rose and Darkbloom are seated directly facing one another beside the boardroom conference table. Rose holds a small clear tube of concealer up next to Darkbloom's cheek, comparing the tones. She shakes her head, puts the tube back in her purse on the table, and digs noisily through it for another. Finding what she wants, she compares his skin to the new shade now, and this time she comes away satisfied. She uncaps the tube so she can start applying the concealer to Darkbloom's twin black eyes.

But you, standing over your wife's shoulder, disagree with the selection: "That's too dark."

"Just a hair," she says. "And the other shade was too light, so this one will have to do."

"You should go lighter if you have to go one way or the other."

"What are you talking about?" She glares at you over her shoulder. "Do you know how faces work, Alabaster? It's more natural-looking if the skin around the eye is darker, not lighter. I'm going to blend it anyway."

"I know how faces work. Fuck. The whole point is to cover up his black eyes. Not accentuate them."

"This is how you do it. It's so much more natural if-- God. Do you honestly have to stand there and give me makeup advice, too? Could you maybe let me do one fucking thing without trying to one-up me?"

"I'm just saying. I always go a little lighter. And no one ever noticed---"

"Well I go darker and no one ever noticed mine, either."

She turns, and puts the brush to Darkbloom's orbit, and applies the makeup. The expression on Darkbloom's face could not possibly be more judgmental -- of both of you.

Darkbloom leaves the room, headed, he says, for his office.

"You're in jail!" You warn him on his way out. He grumbles.

"Well, Ally," Rose says when you're in private again. "I guess in Whitney's brain we both fucked up, somehow."

"Darkbloom did this, right? I'm not crazy?"

"Of fucking course he did it," Rose says. "There's no such thing as a coincidence. Awfully suspicious that convenient deaths just keep happening whenever they benefit Darkbloom financially or politically, isn't it?"

You arch an eyebrow.

"Do not even. I am not in the fucking mood."

You move on. "Do you think Whitney--"

"Based on her reaction? No. She's oblivious, as usual. Where's Cerise?"

"Took an early day. Having a congressional campaign dumped in your lap is pretty tough to deal with."

"Is she running?" Rose asks.

"Is she -- fuck, I don't know. No? She shouldn't. A, it plays right into Darkbloom's insane... whatever the fuck it is he's planning. B, she would be a shitty congresswoman. C... no. Just no."

"You don't want her to move to DC," Rose says.

You massage the bridge of your nose. "That's assuming she wins. Which she wouldn't. She'd be a total loser. It would be a disaster, believe me."

Rose puts her things back in her purse. "Well, flip a coin. Who wants to go play cleanup duty with Whitney?"

[x] Go talk to Whitney. [[x]On your own / with Rose / don't go yourself, send only Rose]
[ ] Let her cool down.

Whitney didn't lock her door, so that's a positive sign. She stands at her window with one hand behind her back in that extremely executive pose she adopts whenever she's ruminative. You wonder whether it's an affectation she picked up to act her part a little better, or whether it just comes natural.

"Take a look," she says, not glancing back at you, but jerking her head in the direction of the wall-mounted TV.

You turn and look. A reporter is speaking: "...stunning footage captured by a bystander of this PIT maneuver being executed on the suspect's vehicle." A shaky vertically-shot cell phone video shows exactly what the reporter describes, a police cruiser forcing a black SUV with a totaled frontend to fishtail and spin out at a 90 degree angle. Then, rushing from the vehicle, the driver gets all of about 20 feet before going down, dogpiled by policemen.

The anchor is still speaking. "...identified as Deshawn Washington, who police describe as a known associate of wanted gangster Tyrus Kang. Kang, who was ousted from the board at tech giant Darkbloom Analytics when his criminal associations came to light, is currently wanted in connection to a shootout that happened at a property he owns."

"Tyrus?" You breathe. "Why would Tyrus do this...?"

Whitney strides to her desk and shuts the TV off with the remote. She sits. "Think about it."

"I am thinking about it."

"Two reasons, maybe. A, it's a message. Everyone called Isstein our bitch-boy, right?"

"Not in those terms, usually."

"So he kills our bitch-boy because he wants us to know he's coming for us. Or option B... you said Tyrus has a freaky eye implant now, right?"

"Probably. I saw him pick it up in the Sapphire Club."

She motions at you with a palm. "There you go. If he's got an implant, he's got, like, a data uplink. He's playing 4D chess with the rest of us now. Probably knows bio-dad's alive. Probably wants to drive a wedge between us. What better way, than to do some crazy shit using bio-dad's same mopus on a Hyundai?"

"Modus operandi," you correct.

"Fuck you, Ally. Fuck you. You almost ruined everything just now." Real anger drips off her every syllable.

"I still don't believe it. This is too convenient -- maybe Darkbloom is working with Tyrus, somehow--"

Whitney pounds the desk. "Fuck you! And do you think I'm working with him, too? You accused me of murder just now! Fuck you! How dare you! You know who I've killed, Ally? One person. Vasily fucking Kerimov. I killed him for you. How dare you. How dare you!"

"You need to look out around Darkbloom," you say. "We need to keep our eyes on him. He can't be trusted. Just remember that."

"You do think I'm stupid! How many times are you going to tell me not to trust David Darkbloom? You think 'cause I've got his DNA, I'm like, under his spell? Or you don't think I'm bright enough to talk to him without him pulling Darth Vader mind tricks on me. As if you're so much smarter. Get out of my office, Alabaster, I swear to fucking god."

She's sobbing.

Instead of leaving, you go over to her and hug her. She weakly tries to push away, but you won't relent. "I love you," you tell her, over and over. You kiss the crown of her head. "I love you."

"I'm so fucking scared," Whitney sobs into your stomach, hands to her face. "I'm so scared of everything. I'm losing it... I can't take this anymore. I need my mom. I need everything to be normal again. I need you... I need you to fucking trust me... I'm gonna fall apart if you don't trust me, Ally. You're like the only person I can trust, so... if you think that of me... if you think I'd be like that... why... you stupid fucking asshole..."

You rub her back. "I trust you," you say.

"I'm losing it," she sobs.

"We'll get your mom back. Alex, too."

She cries for a long time, and you do your best to soothe her.

"Was it really your id--" you begin, but think better of asking that. Instead, you try: "Why do you want Cerise in congress?"

"Bio-dad had this plan, right, for me to run the company and Viv to be President. That was his idea. But the truth is, he thought too much of me. Way too much. I can't run this place. I can't even work the fucking coffee makers. I need Viv right here, and I need her here forever. She's the real CEO. I'm just sitting here playing Freecell." You glance at her monitor -- she really does have a Freecell game open. "I need Viv's help. Now more than ever. So my idea was different. Maybe our girl in Washington could be Cerise, instead... right?"

"But why her? Of all people."

"She's got everything... people love her. They wouldn't shut up about her after she testified at the Senate. She's the one and only person connected to us who has anything like popularity. Isn't she? She'd win liberals with the whole gay wife thing. She'd win the alt-righty *chan types with the NEET feet thing. She'd win men by being cute, women by being all, this-is-my-fight-song. Silicon Valley dorks with circuit bending. Idiots by being smart. Smart people by being cool. Cool people by not really being cool at all and so not actually a threat to their own coolness. Politics is all about, like, triangulation, right? Cerise is the Bermuda fucking triangle, Ally."

Whitney has rarely made a more startlingly cogent series of points. You're awestruck.

"Tell her to think about it, at least," Whitney says, snorting back her snot, and wiping her nose with the back of her hand. You grimace.

"Sure," you say.

"Are you feeling any better?" You ask after she seems somewhat composed. You want to be sure.

"You're an assmunch."

"Okay, but are you--"

"I'll tell you what'll make me feel better. Let me fuck your sister tonight."

"Which one?"

"The gay one."

"That doesn't narrow it down."

"Cerise, fuckwit."

"Love pile's not canceled?"

"I fuck even when I'm mad. Especially when I'm mad. Anyway, Cerise didn't piss me off. So yeah. Love pile is still a go."

---

Whitney needed some space, and you needed some lunch, so you're riding the elevator down. At the lobby, as you step forth, you encounter a spongy barrier; you step face-first into Charlotte's sweater puppies.

Rebounding off them, you step back, and cock your head. Her arms are folded, and she's got a look on her face that you recognize. You've seen it on her daughter countless times, but never on her. That blank, dull-eyed gaze that signals violent jealousy.

"M-Mrs. Mallory?" You stammer.

She leans forward, squints at you.

"Are you--" you begin.

"You can call me Mom," she says flatly. "We've been over that. Haven't we?"

"Y-yeah."

She stares.

"...Mom?" You try.

But she doesn't say anything. After a few moments, you turn, and step sidewise past her. Only as you pass does she turn, and only to track you with her suspicious eyes.

You hurry off, feeling freaked out.

You eat your lunch, and by the time you're done, your freaked-out mood has been replaced by antsy energy. You've got a bit of time to kill before the end of the day.

[ ] Find Mom in the kitchen.
[ ] Find Rose2 in the theater area.
>[x] Find Noelle in the gym.
[ ] Find Charlotte in her office.

You stand and walk to the windows separating cafeteria from gym. What a sick joke it was to construct the building this way, taunting the indulgers with this constant view of the self-deniers.

Inside, a sight you didn't expect. Noelle is jogging on a treadmill. Well, that makes sense, on reflection. She's a former agent, and current bodyguard; she needs to keep in shape. You never thought of her as particularly fit, but then again, you've never seen her physicality put to the test. Right now she's maintaining pretty well at a cruising pace of what's got to be a 6-minute mile or so, not too shabby -- and other than the sweat pouring off her, she doesn't seem any worse for the wear. The expression on her face is serene and untroubled.

She seems to be winding down. The machine slows automatically, and she adopts a looser, less determined form to match the slower rate. Then, a shark circling in the water. That absolute motherfucker. Saul gets on the treadmill next to hers, and strikes up a conversation as he begins to jog. Doesn't he pull enough action from this gym without edging in on your own personal bodyguard?

She tugs the earbuds out of her ears and perks up as he talks to her. You feel ill.

He says something that makes himself laugh, but Noelle's face is just mildly perturbed, perhaps a bit annoyed to have her music interrupted. A quick back-and-forth ensues, then, followed by another laugh from Saul, this one obviously more awkward. Noelle says something quick, that leaves Saul momentarily speechless. Then he's rambling as Noelle's machine draws to a stop. He rubs the back of his head, laughing, eyes closed; and Noelle uses the opportunity to walk away. He's still talking by the time he opens his eyes to find that she's gone.

---

You find Noelle at the benchpress machine, doing reps. You circle and stand over her.

"Oh boy," she says, peering up as her muscles heave and flex with the load. "I guess the entire Mallory family is gonna try to fuck me today."

"I'm not a Mallory," you huff, insulted. "I'm a Soliloquy. Always have been, always will be." You watch for a moment. "Don't you need a spotter or something?"

She laughs at you. "Okay, fine. Spot me."

You puzzle over how to spot her on a machine like this. The weights are all contained inside a rack and move on a connected steel pulley.

"You don't need a spotter on a machine like this, dumbass," Noelle finally informs you. "Wow. How have you gone your entire life without knowing that? Don't you ever work out?"

"I work out all the time," you lie.

She sits up, and uses the terrycloth rag around her neck to wipe the copious sweat from her brow. The black leather of the seat she was lying on is coated with her perspiration too. She stinks -- in a way that's not unpleasant. "All right. Show me."

You eye the weights. She was lifting 100 pounds. That's not too hard, right?

>[x] Show her.
[ ] Uh, this is my rest day. Hey, let's relax in the sauna.

>[x] Show her.

Noelle stands. You're already swinging your legs over the workout bench when you notice her grabbing a nearby roll of paper towels and a squirt bottle. You don't mentally connect what you see to a reason why she would be doing that; and as you lie down, she grimaces at you, aghast. "Don't you want me to wipe the bench down first?" She says. 

"Uh."

"You fucking freak."

You shrug that off. You wiggle yourself into a comfortable position beneath the hand-grips, and do some deep breathing to center yourself. It's just 100 pounds... no big deal. You grab hold of the bars, curling and uncurling your fingers around them in a way you suppose looks like this is something you do regularly.

She goes over to where the weights lie in the rack and asks: "How much do you lift?"

"Huh?"

"Where should I set it?"

"Uh. This is fine," you say.

She frowns at you.

You try to lift. And you succeed. 

You even do a couple reps. 

My God, Alabaster Soliloquy, you're the strongest man on planet Earth. You're doing it. You're goddamn doing it, just as you claimed you could. You're lifting a--

"Oof," you grunt, as Noelle sits down on your chest. Her butt, through her cotton shorts, is wet against you.

"Need a spotter?" She asks.

"No," you wheeze.

"Your form is absolute shit," she says, leaning in. "You don't lift, do you."

"Uh... not usually on a machine like this."

"Not ever."

"You don't know that." Man, this is getting tough. How many times are you supposed to do this before you quit? 10? 20?

"Do you like a sweaty girl, Alabaster? Is that the whole reason you're doing this, to wallow in a pretty girl's sweat like some kinda pig?"

"Please," you say, rolling your eyes. "I've got enough dominatrices in my life, as I'm sure Kay made... abundantly clear..." you puff and huff with the exertion. Talking isn't the best idea right now, especially with Noelle's weight pressing down on you.

"That's all right," Noelle says, sitting back again, shrugging. "You don't need to be submissive to appreciate the delicate scent of a girl after working out."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"--What?"

"You sounded wistful just now, that's all."

She rises up onto her heels, and then lets her butt come down again. The force of it makes you gasp, and you drop the weights. They clang in the rack. 

"You bitch!" You snarl.

"This bitch is protecting you, so watch it. You scrawny weeaboo. You couldn't lift your way out of a paper bag, admit it."

"I just lifted as much as you did!"

"This is my warmup. It's 100 pounds, Alabaster. And you're all winded just from that."

"I'm winded from your fat ass sitting on my solar plexus."

"I'm not fat," Noelle pouts. She glances around as if scoping for eavesdroppers, then grins down at you. "Hey, is it true? Your wife pegs--"

"Shut the fuck up. That's fake news. You're fake news, Noelle."

She cackles. "You know, working out always gets my blood pumping. How about you?"

"Sure."

"Pffthaha. Okay. It's been a while since we had sex, hasn't it?"

You frown. "You said you weren't going to fuck me again. Your words."

"Yeah, and I'm not. That's no excuse not to fool around if I'm horny, though, right?"

"What has gotten into you?" You say.

"Blame it on the nail house. Or just the hormones stirred up by working out..." She leans on you with both palms and slides her butt back and forth across your chest, suggestively. You can feel the warmth emanating from her crotch like the output of a furnace.

"Let's go back to my office," you tell her.

"No way. You're gonna try to bend me over and get your dick in me again. I already said I won't fuck you."

"Make up your mind."

"Play with me. Right here."

"You have got to be out of your goddamn tree, Noelle."

"Hey, if Kay Vera is good enough to screw in public, and your other girls get to caterwaul like a bunch of bitches on heat all day in their offices... you can play a bit of rub and tug with your bodyguard during her break, right?" 

She looks all around again, this way and that, to make sure the coast is clear. You do, too. This machine is a bit out of the way and the few people nearby are intently focused on their own workouts. If you do it discreetly...

She hooks her thumb in the leghole of her shorts and pulls it way up. She doesn't have panties on. She winks. "Go ahead, Alabaster, you freak. Feast your eyes."

You feast your eyes.

"But do more than look," she adds.

It would be hard not too. A cunt as pretty as Noelle's is just begging to be toyed with. You part it with the fingers of one hand and explore it. It's the first time you've seen it in such bright lighting, all of its folds and crevices, and the merest hint of stubble on her bare, puffy mound. It drips, with sweat, and feminine arousal. 

As you play with her, you notice that her eyes are fixed firmly forward. Tilting your head back, you glimpse why: she's looking into the mirrored wall that's only a couple feet away from the machine. Her eyes are glazed over.

"Keep going," she says pleadingly. "Put your fingers in me."

"That's pretty vain--"

"Yes it is. I like my pussy. And I like seeing things inside it. Put your fingers in me, please... I feel really empty right now, you know."

You won't deny her. You slip a couple fingers past the tight ring of her hole. She grins in perverted enjoyment as she watches it happen.

"I feel like a fucking charity worker here," you grouse. "What's in it for me?"

Without missing a beat, Noelle reaches back and slips her hand into the waistband of your trousers. You gasp. "Noelle--"

"Shh. If you don't make too much noise, no one will notice. Just keep doing what you're doing."

You close your eyes and just enjoy the sensation of it. If you're seen, you're seen. It wouldn't be the first time someone at work caught you getting your rocks off. And Noelle's petite hand wrapped around your dick in your pants is the sort of delicate relief you need right now. It soothes all the anxiousness in your heart and replaces it with the buzz of sexual pleasure. 

"You're pretty good at this," Noelle whispers. Your chest is totally soaked with her sweat and joining it now is her cream. You're going to have a tough time explaining this to the fucking bloodhounds who live with you, but you don't care at the moment. You masturbate each other to your hearts' content. Noelle watches the action in the mirror, sighing and occasionally wincing as you jab your fingers a little deeper than she's comfortable with. The inside of her pussy is hot, extremely so, probably from all the physical exertion she's been doing. Your ministrations are only making her hotter inside, too, and wetter. As she gets more aroused, she gets softer also, like her muscles are tenderizing in preparation for a cock to enter. She could really use a cock, you think -- yours -- she could use your load of cum inside her.

You're getting carried away. The efforts of your fingers are beginning to make a noise that people could overhear. And Noelle's hand pistoning up and down on your shaft is the same way; the steady fapping of it it noticeably loud. You pray for a quick ending because you just know that someone is going to figure out what you're up to. 

"Okay, we can fuck."

Your eyes widen. "What?"

"I changed my mind." She stands, and takes off her shorts -- right here in the middle of the gym. You look all round, half disbelieving. But no one is paying any attention. She quickly settles back onto you, smiling devilishly, and puts a finger to your lips. "Shhh," she says, "remember. Quiet. We'll get away with it."

"Jesus Christ, Noelle--"

She reaches back and unzips your pants and frees your cock. An instant later, her hot, sweaty pussy is swallowing you up. 

"God, that's nice," she mutters. Her eyes roll back. "You really don't deserve a dick this good..."

"You're crazy. You've gone absolutely crazy."

She falls to her elbows against you, and shuts you up by locking lips. In a reverse missionary, she humps back and forth, her perspiration providing a sort of lubrication for your bodies to glide with ease. Meanwhile, you tongue each other like teenagers. You've been an exhibitionist, but somehow this feels more dangerous than usual... more daring. And the risk of being caught only thrills you, and makes your dick throb harder.

"Remember when I joked about being pregnant?" She asks, pulling back a bit.

"I-- well, yeah..."

"What if I told you it was true?"

"Fool me once... you're fucking with me."

"Yeah. But it might be true after this, huh?" She fucks up and down atop you, and you feel her little pussy fluttering around you. "Are you gonna cum inside me on a dangerous day, Alabaster?"

You half choke. "Don't pull hentai cliches out right now--"

"Oh, sure, fine..." she sighs. "But really, though. This is a pretty dangerous day."

"Then don't let me cum inside..."

"Huh? Shouldn't YOU take responsibility?"

"Fuck--"

"Unless you stop, your cum is definitely going to wind up inside me."

"Fuck. I can't stop."

"All right then," she purrs, and kisses you again. "Stir up my baby room."

"Goddamn it--" Your nuts tighten, and you feel it happening. Noelle does nothing to stop it, and neither do you. In full view of anyone who would care to glance your way, you sperm Noelle's overheated pussy on a fertile day. She grins deliriously and writhes atop you as if to make sure it goes especially deep -- and watches the action in the mirror the entire time.

---

You eat ice cream with Noelle in the cafeteria. Hey, you burned enough calories for a little extra snack, right?

"So I take it that somehow David Darkbloom lives inside Dalton Cantor's brain now," she says. "In an implant?"

"Yeah."

"You need to tell me these things if I'm supposed to protect you and Whitney and the rest." She stirs the ice cream with her tiny spoon and frowns at you, cheek on fist. "How am I supposed to keep you safe if you're not giving me all the info?"

"Excuse me for not trusting you--"

She groans. "Oh, get bent with this trust spiel. Either retain me as your bodyguard or fire me, but if you retain me, trust me."

"Fine," you agree. It's maybe a bad time to be responding to ultimatums, because you're definitely not going to fire the owner of a pussy that nice right after you just got done fucking it.

"And I gather that you're planning a half-cocked mission to Vail to rescue Renee and Alex," she adds.

You nod.

"I'm coming," she says. "I'd like to see Mara dead myself, anyway."

>[x] Okay.
[ ] No, you're not.

---

You're naked in the back of Vivian's limousine. Not for any particularly sexual reason -- just because your clothes are ruined.

Still, you idly play with each other while you talk. You get a bit lovey-dovey sometimes.

"Hey," you say. "Why are you so obsessed with me, anyway?"

"You're an interesting girl, Amber. That is all."

"I think it's because you've got daddy issues."

She paws at your tits. "I am thinking of stones and glass houses at the moment."

"Haha. No, really. You think I killed your dad... and what's more rebellious than shacking up with the bitch who iced pops?"

"Perhaps," Vivian agrees. "Or perhaps I just adore this little orifice of yours..." she pets you down there, and you have to push her hand away. You're too ticklish from all the use earlier to go again for real.

You keep her at bay by kissing her, and she hungrily returns the gesture. Skipping school to dyke it up with her was a pretty swell idea, if you do say so yourself... but you just know you're going to be sore tomorrow.

When you pull back from the kiss, a little trickle of blood is coming down Vivian's cheek, from her tear duct. She doesn't seem to notice. You can't help gasping in fright.

"Viv -- your eye..."

She blinks, and rubs her cheek with her thumb. The blood smears across her skin. She pulls her thumb away now, and glances down at it. "Oh. Pardon me."

"For what? Your eyeballs exploding?"

"It's... these terrific migraines I've been getting. Along with that I'm also getting a terrible pressure behind my eyes... I apologize if you're worried. It is really nothing to be concerned over."

"Worried, shit. YOU should be worried. You should, I dunno, go to a doctor if your eyes are bleeding. Just a thought."

She only shrugs, and wipes the rest of the blood away.

"Are you seriously not gonna get that checked out?"

"I know why it happens," Vivian says. "A doctor cannot help."

You feel more than a little uneasy, but you know well enough to drop the subject.

The limo pulls up to the gates of Darkbloom Analytics, and she steps out. She turns and leans in through the rolled-down window. "My chauffeur will take you back to Alabaster's," she says. "...Unless you would like to spend the night with me, at my home?"

"Mom would be too worried. Anyway, it's Alabaster's turn with my pussy tonight."

"Mm. Then I will reserve it for tomorrow."

>[x] "Hey, wait -- skip work and hang out with me today."
[ ] Go back to D-- to Alabaster's for now.

You get dressed at Vivian's house -- or try to, between her attempts to fuck you. This girl is insatiable, a total slut. And her wardrobe is utterly bizarre. There is nothing even close to normal -- or comfy -- to be found in her many closets. Only business formal and her weird gothic Lolita gear. You decide to doll yourself up, and go for a ritzy dress. You don't get the chance to wear stuff so audacious -- or expensive. This outfit has got to cost north of $10k. Vivian is only too happy to help you with it, and even does your makeup for you. You look like Pippi Longstocking got crossed with Wednesday Addams in a freak teleportation incident, but hey, you pull it off.

You spend a few hours together at an arcade. It feels like a date -- you're not sure you've ever had an honest to goodness date before. Unfortunately, no one else seems to realize it's a date, because about two dozen different guys try to hit on either you or her, or both, during the excursion. Oh well. You've got a pretty mean tongue, but nothing can measure up to the way Vivian turns potential suitors down. She can say volumes with a withering stare, and if the guy is too dull to get the message from that, she can end his entire life with a few choice words, delivered properly. "How disgusting," is a favorite of hers. You'll have to use that one.

Vivian is bizarrely good at claw games. She wins you three stuffed penguins before you have to inform her that you're all penguined up for life and don't require any further penguins. No more penguins. Really.

You get the chance, in turn, to show her that you're a monster at DDR. Even in a dress, you've got it. She watches transfixed as you perfect clear several songs.

At the end of it all, you take her somewhere you think she ought to see. Vivian isn't particularly athletic, and she struggles to climb the tree, but you help her up.

You're perched together at a distant remove from Dalton Cantor's sprawling backyard, and you watch through binoculars. Dalton, or the man his family assumes is Dalton, plays and tussles out there with a young boy, while his wife tends a grill.

"Have you been spying on him like this since day one?" Vivian asks, more curious than anything.

"Someone's got to keep an eye on him."

"Whitney is doing so," she says. "She keeps him bugged around the clock."

"Never hurts to have a second set of eyes on him," you say.

But the truth is, you feel weirdly disturbed by it all, and can't take your eyes away even if you wanted to. It feels unfair. This man who ruined your life, in two different timelines apparently, or whatever -- gets to have a second chance with a loving family. You wanted Vivian to see it because you wanted to know you weren't alone in feeling this way. She watches as he tosses the old pigskin back and forth with the kid, who's all of about 8. They laugh and joke and play-tussle.

"Father never showed such affection to me," Vivian says.

That's all you needed to hear -- you're not alone.

"Of course, it is part of the role he has to play," Vivian says, reasoning it out to herself, to justify it. "Dalton was always a... very loving father."

"What an asswipe," you mumble.

She looks at you. "Would you hate me, Amber, if I told you that I still love him?"

"I dunno. He's your dad. Can't help that." But you feel a pang of resentment in your heart regardless.

"I try not to," she adds.

"Do you have an implant?" You ask her. "Is that why your eye -- you know."

"Yes." She clasps your hand, and holds it tight. "Please do not tell anyone. Some suspect -- none know. It can be between us."

"Okay," you say, and kiss her.

---

Alex lies on his cot in the cell he shares with Renee, staring at the ceiling. "What's your happiest memory?" He asks.

Renee, sitting on the edge of her own cot, doesn't need to think. "Seeing Whitney and Vivian after I got out of prison," she answers. "Seeing how beautiful they were... how much they had grown and all the things they had accomplished."

"That's so nice."

"What's yours?" Renee asks. This is a positive sign, she thinks, and she wants to encourage it -- to lift Alex's spirits.

"Did I ever tell you that I was homeless? As a teenager."

"No... no, you didn't. But that can't be a happy memory, can it?"

"Why not?" Alex asks. "I was at this one shelter for a little while. Homeless youths, you know. A lot of mixed-up kids... well, I guess I was a mixed-up kid too. They wanted to keep us occupied so we wouldn't get into trouble. Every few months as a charity kind of thing, they had a bake sale. Proceeds going to funding for the shelter. And we had to bake a bunch of goodies and then sell them out front of a grocery store. I was only there long enough to do one bake sale, myself."

"How did it go?"

He smiles at the recollection. "It was amazing. I'm no good with cooking, but apparently I'm good with selling. I got more sales than anyone else... more than anyone at the shelter had EVER gotten at any bake sale. Everyone was so happy and proud of me for that. And then because of that, the manager of the store gave me a job, and when I went into the foster program, he took me in."

"That's really sweet of him."

"Well he..." Alex trails off. Instead of elaborating, he moves on. "The sale itself was just so fun. I think about it a lot." He pulls himself up into a sitting position and faces Renee. "I keep thinking that some day I might want to set up another bake sale. You know?"

Renee smiles. He's talking about the future -- a future beyond the walls of this cell. "That's a wonderful idea, Alex."

But Alex is deathly serious. "Ms. Carte... Renee... would you want to be in a bake sale?"

"Why not? I mean, I've never been much of a chef myself either but--"

"You have to be careful when you cook," Alex says, "or you might end up burned."

"Sure. I'm not that bad of a--"

"Are you sure you'd be okay with being in the bake sale I set up?"

It finally clicks in Renee's head. Her heart drops. She steadies her voice and says: "Well, we need to think about logistics. We want to make sure it works with everyone else's schedule too."

"Sure," Alex says, "but I don't want to wait too long."

"I understand. We've still got a bit of time to sort it out."

"Okay," Alex agrees. "Just let me know, though. I wouldn't want to set up a bake sale if you're not on board."

"Thank you, Alex."

Alex lies back down and moves the conversation on -- this exchange is a brief interlude among many other normal topics, slipped in as discreetly as possible so that any eavesdroppers might miss its real import. Renee feels ill for the rest of the night regardless.

The next morning, while Alex and Renee work at their stations, Mara visits.

"Give me a status update," she demands of Renee.

Renee answers, with hate in her eyes: "I am still several weeks out."

"Bullshit," Mara sneers. "You have your project files from Penelope, you should be more than capable to adapt those in a shorter period of time. You are purposely delaying."

"Think what you want."

The armed men surrounding Mara do not have a friendly demeanor to begin with, and Renee's impudence only makes things worse. Renee knows she's on thin ice, but isn't sure how to proceed.

"You will be ready by Tuesday or I will kill you," Mara says simply.

"I guess you're going to kill me, then," Renee says, shrugging. "You're asking the impossible. I can't be ready by--"

"I will kill Whitney and Vivian, too."

Renee exhales. "Vivian -- oh my God. You would. Even your own daughter, Mara."

"You said it yourself. She is more yours than mine. She cast her lot in with you people. So she can die with you too. It makes no difference. Will you be ready to operate by Tuesday or not?"

Alex pipes up: "We'll be ready."

Mara wheels on him. "You. I heard your sneaky little code speak. You are plotting something."

"Huh?" Alex says. "The codebase for Diogenes is nearly complete... it will be ready to go by Tuesday. I promise."

Mara motions at a man behind her: "This is Lev. He will be helping you debug your code. If he finds any discrepancies or errors, he will report them directly to me. The people you love will pay for your mistakes. Remember that."

"He's welcome to take a look," Alex says. "I could use the help anyway. The rest of the programmers here are awful."

Lev, an unbelievably corpulent and pigfaced and odorous man, circles and sits beside Alex in a wheeled chair that creaks beneath his heft.

"You are trying to be too clever by half," Mara warns Alex. "You are not ready for the retribution that stepping out line brings. You will finish your work and hand it over like the servile worker bee you are."

Alex turns wordlessly towards his keyboard and begins again to work.

"Are we understood?" Mara demands. When Alex does not reply, she adds: "You are just begging to get someone killed, Alex. Answer me."

He turns to her again. "I know what I am now," he says. "Maybe you don't."

Mara smiles. "You're just a brainy little fairy in over his head. Nothing more. Don't forget yourself."

"See? You're wrong." He leers at her. Her breasts. "Maybe before I kill you, I'll show you how wrong you are."

It turns out even Mara Darkbloom can be taken aback sometimes. After all her threats and vicious treatment, he would say even something like that without compunction.

"Lev can look at my code all he wants," Alex says. "He won't find anything out of bounds. The thing I'm planning involves slipping a knife into your eyeballs after Ally comes here and frees me. I don't need malicious code for that."

"I will enjoy watching you die," Mara says, voice quaking with rage.

Alex, unbelievably, befriends Lev.

Although Lev personally heard Alex threaten Mara with rape and death, although Lev is charged with sniffing out the subterfuge that Mara believes lurks in Alex's work, although Lev is not meant to trust Alex even one iota, it is hard to resist the charm. Alex has that effect on people. Because the person Lev actually discovers banging away at the architecture of the Diogenes platform is totally different from that first impression: he's a sweet, toothless, harmless, jovial -- feminine -- young boy. Not a mutineer.

Lev does his job, though. He reviews Alex's work in keen and painstaking detail. But he finds nothing untoward; hovers over Alex's shoulder day and night to watch the boy work and never sees him do anything besides diligently add to the program logic of Diogenes.

Lev is quite clearly impressed with Alex's vision and efficiency as a coder, and soon finds himself frequently praising the work. Alex turns pink and smiles at the praise every time, batting his eyelashes, giggling -- stroking Lev's arm, saying it's really nothing special. Lev takes to calling Alex "little bird," a nickname Alex warms to and blushes to hear. Sometimes Lev comes out with an idea of his own, usually a stupid or unworkable one; Alex unfailingly praises it as a great one, and thanks Lev for the help.

On Saturday evening, the blooming relationship hits a minor snag. As Alex types, Lev notices what Mara might call a discrepancy. "Go back up to that line," Lev commands, pudgy finger streaking the screen. His voice is harsher than it's been in quite some time.

Alex shows him.

"What is the purpose of this?" He asks. "Explain yourself. I am not following."

"It's a placeholder for now," Alex says. He sounds oblivious to Lev's suspicion. "Ugh... I should comment my code better! Hee hee. I'm so awful at that kind of thing. I'm sorry if you're confused here. It's all my fault. Anyway, it's going to monitor the clock speed of the grain and lower the amperage draw if it goes too high. That's all."

"Have you not already put that protection in place? I saw you working on similar code days ago."

"It needs redundancy. The worst thing would be if the processor overheats and burns your eye. That could ruin the device and maim the user... anyway, I need a little bit more progress on Ms. Carte's design to know where the right limits should be."

Renee, from across the table, at her own station, frowns at him. She wonders what he's playing at.

Lev suspiciously reviews the code for several long minutes, looking for the trick. He can't discern it. It's finally Alex who interrupts, asking: "Are you hungry, Lev?"

"A bit."

"I'm starving! Look, I know it isn't when they usually give me lunch, but -- I would be SO appreciative if you could--"

"Hmmph."

"Lev?"

"I can feed you, little bird," he says. "I have a cabin here. Plenty of food. You are right, we should take a break."

"Oh -- thank you! You're too nice to me, Lev."

Lev stands, and uncuffs Alex from the table. The other programmers in the work area seem a bit uneasy with the favored treatment being bestowed upon the hostage, but they don't dare to speak out of line. There's an organizational hierarchy at play; Lev is way too high up the food chain to countermand or so much as question his decrees. He leads Alex out by the hand. "Let's go get you a worm, little bird."

"Hee hee."

Renee watches Alex leave, speechless.

He doesn't return until much, much later that night, dropped back off at his cell by Lev himself. And he won't speak when he does get back, although after Lev is gone, he passes the sleepless Renee three packs of cigarettes plus a lighter before lying down.

---

Darkbloom Analytics has a small auditorium which is used for media functions and pressers. Today at a dais stands the new CIO, Anna Soliloquy. Although Darkbloom Analytics is one of the most important companies on the planet, the constant shuffling of its C-suite is only a minor news item in and of itself by this point, par for the course that it is. And so the outside interest in Gal's ascension is pretty low-level. There is only a smattering of reporters here to ask some softball questions. The entire thing is slated to last 10 minutes or so.

To support Mrs. Soliloquy, at her side stands Mrs. Soliloquy -- Cerise, that is -- as well as the rest of the board. You and Rose are way off to the side, ancillary to the ancillary; here to be quiet and observe, Armstrong made abundantly clear.

Gal stares doe-eyed and thunderstruck at the maybe two dozen journalists sitting randomly dispersed in metal folding chairs in the otherwise empty room. It's even weirder, you think, seeing Gal in a dress suit, than it was the first time you saw Cerise in one. It just simply doesn't look right. Like seeing a linebacker in a tutu.

They lob a couple questions her way: Are you excited to accept the position? What can you tell us about DBA's new pivot towards the restaurant industry? How will you beef up cybersecurity? Are you worried about foreign interest in Sand Reckoner?

A couple flashbulbs go pop. The questions subside, replaced by silence. Gal is quivering, and gripping the edges of the dais so hard her knuckles blanche.

"We're all super excited!" Whitney says, to fill the silence. "Ga-- Anna is going to be great. Just fantastic."

"She's a brilliant woman," Armstrong agrees. "A real super lady."

"I bet -- but we'd love to hear from her!" A journalist jokes.

"i--" Gal begins, leaning forward to speak into a small mic mounted in front of her. It shrieks feedback through the room. You, Rose, Cerise and the rest of the board bodily wince -- all save Spancer, who seems unfazed.

Gal turns whiter, if that's possible, and her head recoils like she just touched her forehead against a hot stovetop. She tries again: "i--" A beat passes. Attempt #3: "i-- i... BLEGHH" She vomits all over the dais, the floor, and herself.

---

Inside the executive dining hall, Gal sips hot cocoa, which Cerise even put marshmallows in. She's wearing a fresh change of clothes and seems not okay again after her little vomming episode.

"im sorry" she tells you all.

"It's fine. You did fine," Armstrong insists. "Believe it or not? Not in the top 5 worst press conferences I've ever personally witnessed. Not even top 20."

"thank you"

"You're not PR," Whitney says. "That was the flast time you'll ever have to face the public."

"THANK you," Gal says, much more emphatic and actually putting a bit of affect into her usually affectless voice.

"We have much to discuss before Chloe's arrival," Vivian says. "Your main task will be to ensure that her access is suitably restricted -- and to countervail any trickery she might deploy to get around it."

"yes"

"We're all counting on you," Nelson says. "Good luck."

Gal sips her drink and keeps her eyes cast firmly down. She picks a marshmallow out and chews it sadly. She doesn't particularly like to hear that she's being counted on, even if she knows it.

Into the room bursts Fazil -- rushing towards you all. "Yes! Hello! May I introduce myself?"

He holds out his hand for Gal to shake. She reluctantly accepts the gesture.

"I am Fazil, yes, pleased to be meeting! I wanted to avail myself right away of anything you might require. But! More to the point! I am gathering that you, yes you, Mrs. Soliloquy, you are Galatea?"

"i..." Gal murmurs, looking from face to face, unsure whether Fazil is a person who should be kept in the loop. You intercede for her: "Yes, she's Galatea."

"My goodness!" Fazil says. "Let me tell you, this is not the countenance I expected to match to the name! You caused no end of ruckus, you know, back in the day!" Gal blushes. Fazil laughs it off. "No matter! That is not meant to be taken harshly. We are meeting today as friends after all. Yes? Oh, I am so excited. You simply must tell me your methods, how you devised them -- to remain anonymous despite my very most studious efforts to demask you! Are you really Galatea? How fantastic. I was picturing a 200 kilo man in his mother's basement in New Jersey. You are maybe the opposite of that! Please do not be shy, there is so much I want to learn from you! I am your student, Mrs. Soliloquy, or should I say Galatea? I am in your tutelage!"

Gal is looking like she might vomit again, so you gently lead Fazil from the room. "Let's give her a bit of time to onboard before we overwhelm her with lots of questions, huh?" You get him back out into the hallway.

"Oh. Yes, of course!" Fazil is genuinely remorseful: "I am being so impatient and inconsiderate. Tell Gal to forgive me, if you can. Please understand, this moment for me is as if I am a novice basketball player who has met Scotty Pippin!"

You're not the world's biggest sports buff, but you think there are probably better NBA superstars to have used in that analogy instead of Scotty Pippin. Michael Jordan? LeBron James?

Back in the dining hall, Whitney wants an answer to the question: "So, Cerise? Are you gonna be a congresscritter or what?"

"Erm," Cerise says.

"I don't wanna push," Whitney says, "and plus we've got time to figure it out. We'll hold the announcement until after Operation Jigglypuff, even if you decide to go for it."

"Would you please stop calling it Operation Jigglypuff?" You grouse.

"No."

"Do you know me?" Cerise asks Whitney. "I hate the public almost as much as Gal does."

"it's true" Gal says.

"So how am I supposed to be a politician?" Cerise asks.

"That's fine," Armstrong says. "Politicians all hate the public. That's bog standard. The few freaks who care about serving the public good always end up burning out."

"I think you'd make an excellent congresswoman," Nelson says. "And it would be so historic. You'd be the youngest woman ever elected to the House!"

"That's all well and good," Rose says, "but we need to do what's right for the family. It has to be Cerise's choice."

But Cerise is uncertain. "Alabaster?" She says. "What do you think?"

>[x] You should run.
[ ] You shouldn't run.

Cerise sighs. "I guess I'm outvoted."

"You've got exactly the kind of shitty personality that goes far in Washington," you say. "We'll have a President Soliloquy sometime soon. Exciting, right?"

She flips you off. You flip her off.

"Think of the frequent flier miles though," Whitney says. "You'll be jetting back and forth between DC and Palo like every couple days."

"You're doing a great job of talking me out of this," Cerise says.

"Heeh."

"I'll get the necessary preparations made for your announcement," Armstrong says. "We want things squared away when we decide to pull the trigger. There's a lot of scandals we'll be playing whack-a-mole against."

"Scandals? Like what?" Whitney asks.

Armstrong wildly, frustratedly just motions at all of you with both his hands as if that alone is enough elaboration. And it is.

"Congratulations," Rose says, laying a hand atop Cerise's. "You'll need a campaign manager, of course. I volunteer."

"Fuck no," you say. "You can't even win a high school student council election. If any of us should manage her campaign, it's me."

"What? You cheated. That hardly counts. I know you cheated--"

"Blah, blah, blah with the cheating shit. Christ. Get a new act, Rose."

"I'm gonna prove it, Alabaster, you fucker, watch me. I'll have you retroactively impeached."

"You have got to be shitting me. You're still going on about impeachment? Five years later? Does it drive you up the wall that bad to know you couldn't get it done? To know you lost--"

"I didn't lose--"

"You lost--"

"I won. I fucking won that election. I got more votes--"

Armstrong bangs the table with his fist. "Shut the fuck up," he barks.

You shut up.

"I'm gonna manage her campaign. Me and Vivian."

Vivian nods. "A professional campaign requires professionals to run it," she says. She looks from you, to Rose. "Your talents, such as they are... would be better suited to... other things."

"Our best path is to clear the primary field of opponents," Armstrong says. "Keep them out of the race so you clinch the nomination uncontested. Pure warchest fundraising, gladhanding, backroom kind of battling, nothing public. Since you'll be running as a Democrat, it'll be a cakewalk come the general. You'll hardly have to campaign at all. If you don't win it by at least 70 points, it's because I'm rusty."

"Hold on," Cerise says. "Can't I run as an independent?"

"Why?" Armstrong says.

"Becuase... that's what I am?"

"Okay, but why?" Armstrong repeats.

"Because -- now hold on a second," Cerise says. "I can't just join a political party I've never been a part of, to win an election--"

Armstrong laughs like he's hearing a favorite joke. "Okay. Okay. You've got a lot to learn. That's fine. Listen, let's talk later, all right? Meanwhile I'll fill out the paperwork for the Dem primary."

"Wait--" Cerise says, but Armstrong is already on his way out the door.

"Learn to dodge the concerns of your constituents like that," Nelson says as he watches Armstrong depart. "You'll be well on your way if you can master that."

---

In her first act after arriving on campus, Qiangxiang had all the employees in her department from VP to coffee boy line up in the lobby like enlisted men at boot camp awaiting room inspection. Now, she walks down the line with clipboard in hand, checking off names, asking the occasional question, and doling out the occasional firing. It's more than a little bit creepy. Whitney accompanies her to countermand any decisions she doesn't like.

"Kenichi Takagawa," Qiangxiang says with a frown, coming to Ken Smith.

"Howdy."

She looks him slowly up and down, from his Stetson hat to his bolo tie to his snakeskin boots. "I see you've traded one degenerate culture for another," is her assessment.

"Horse apiece I reckon."

"What do you do?" She asks.

"I work with our robotic units. SMATTERS in particular."

"We will not require your services any longer," she says. "You may go."

"You're not firing Ken," Whitney tells her. "I like him too much. He's such a character."

"Retaining employees for sentimental reasons is precisely why there is so much organizational rot within this company."

"Suck my asshole," Whitney sneers.

Qiangxiang ticks Ken's name off the list -- but there will be no firing for him today.

She begins towards the next person down the line, but Ken speaks up, staying her. "I got me some mighty impressive units down in the R&D labs. I suppose seein' 'em might change your tune about how useful I am."

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Never say never, little lady. I've got over 1,000. There's bound to be one you're fond of, too."

"Mm."

"Me? My favorite is unit 731."

He grabs his belt buckle with both hands and tugs it a bit from side to side, to straighten it. He smiles at her. Qiangxiang isn't fazed, but nor does she find a biting insult to lob back; she just moves on.

You watch the proceeding from atop the second level hallway overlooking the lobby. Most of the rest of the board is there, too, to scope out the scene -- only Gal, who's busy with the tasks set out for her, and who anyway doesn't like open-air public spaces, is missing.

"Ice bitch," Armstrong mutters. "Fuck, she creeps me out."

"She's 16," Nelson says. "How bad can she be?"

"She is extremely dangerous," Spancer answers. "I advise maximal caution."

"Let us stay our assessment until we meet formally," Vivian says. "She should be up in the conference room presently."

Down below, Qiangxiang stops in place, to tip back a small tin of mints to her mouth, and chew them. As she chews, she looks up, and makes eye contact with you. And the way she chews something as innocuous as a breath mint is at once disturbing and alluring... you get the eerie sensation that it's a gesture directed specifically at you. Then turning, she continues with her quest to rival Whitney for the highest rate of employee termination at Darkbloom Analytics.

"I should be there at the meeting as well," Darkbloom says.

"No," you sneer. "Fuck you. You're in jail."

"The last thing we need is for Chloe to suspect the truth of our current situation," Darkbloom says. "As far as she knows, Dalton Cantor is a normal board member in good standing. To bar me from a board meeting, the first in which she takes part -- would raise suspicions--"

"We'll come up with an excuse," you say. "We'll say you've got important business, or something."

"Vivian," Darkbloom pleads. "Tell your obstinate boyfriend to be reasonable."

"I will not intervene," Vivian says. "Fight your own battles, father."

>[x] Let Darkbloom attend the meeting.
[ ] Bar him from coming.

"s-suck m-my dick, m-m-m-m-mother... m-m-motherfucker" Gal says.

"Good try," Armstrong says. He's giving Gal some last second coaching before the meeting, sitting together with her in the boardroom. "Now some people -- some people put emphasis on the 'suck' and some people put emphasis on the 'motherfucker'. It's a matter of personal taste. For instance, I'm a motherfucker guy. Suck my dick, motherfucker. Nelson, he likes to put emphasis on the suck."

"Suck my dick, motherfucker," Nelson says.

"Like that."

"You're both idiots," Kay says. When the fuck did she show up? She freaks you out worse than Qiangxiang. "Suck my dick, motherfucker." She cups her crotch obscenely. "That's how you do it."

"Okay, that's another option," Armstrong says. "Kay puts emphasis on the dick. It's a bit unusual. But valid."

"s-s-suck my dick.......... motherfucker"

"Good, good," Armstrong says. "We'll keep working on it."

"does anyone put emphasis on the word my" Gal asks.

"Huh?" Armstrong says. "No. That would be... very strange. No one does that."

"maybe that can be my thing"

"Your thing?"

"you know like my gimmick"

"That's pretty advanced territory. Maybe once you master the basics."

"but hear me out"

"Fine. Sure."

"you put emphasis on the word my -- because then it's like they've been sucking so many dicks that you need to tell them which dick specifically to focus on"

Armstrong nods. "Huh. Well, I see your point. But that's kind of a stretch, for the other person to figure out."

"It's all in how you say it, I guess," Nelson tries.

Vivian enters. "She is on her way. Are we ready?"

As ready as you'll all ever be, you suppose.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you all," Qiangxiang says as she shakes your hands each in turn. When she gets to Gal -- who's her typical flighty and frightened self -- and takes her hand, she grips it so hard that Gal's knuckles shift one over the other and it looks like Qiangxiang is only seconds away from shattering the bones. Gal squeaks. "Are you going to keep your eye on me?" Qiangxiang asks in a mocking tone. "I suppose you are up to the task."

You lay your hand on Qiangxiang's arm and scowl at her. "You won't make friends here by pulling this power move bullshit."

Next she shakes Armstrong's hand. Armstrong is maybe taking a sort of fatherly shine to Gal, or maybe he just likes to one-up people, because the iron grip he gives Qiangxiang actually causes an audible crunch. Qiangxiang just smiles at him, and doesn't let on even a hint of pain. After a few moments, Armstrong finally lets go. Qiangxiang steps back, hand already bruising badly. From her purse she pulls that same tin of mints, and eats another couple, maybe as a way to distract from the pain she must be feeling.

"Restaurants," she says, pulling the hem of her dress forward and sitting at her chair. The rest of the board seats themselves too, you included. "I hear this company has decided to waste its time and energy on restaurants."

"It's a pivot," Whitney says. "Oh, yeah -- meeting is in session." She bangs a little gavel on the table. You have no idea why she got it in her head to start doing this, but she did; she formally announces meeting by gavelling them in and out.

"You needn't concern yourself with those things," Vivian tells her. "Your task is to help us complete Diogenes. This will take 100% of your time and energy. All else will remain under our auspices."

"Why am I to take orders from a girl who is little taller than a thimble?" Qiangxiang says. "What shall you do, Vivian, if I refuse your directives? Gnaw at my ankle?"

This is going to be rough. You've had the sense for a while now that Qiangxiang is a sort of mirror-universe Vivian -- Vivian through a scanner darkly. Their clash is going to threaten the rocky partnership before it even truly begins.

"I am your COO," Vivian says. "If you refuse my directives, you will be replaced. We are partnering with Broad Dynamics on a purely voluntary basis. Such partnership can be ended voluntarily as well."

See -- there it is.

"i will onboard you with all the needed project files," Gal offers, speaking as if from a memorized script, which you assume it probably is.

"Speak when spoken to, slave," Qiangxiang says without glancing her way.

"She can speak whenever she goddamn w--" Whitney begins. But it's Gal who cuts her off, speaking on her own behalf:

"everything is routed through me -- chloe. your workstation, your personal cell phone, all of it. in hacker terms: i own you. so in that sense... in that sense it's you who is the slave"

Armstrong arches an appreciative eyebrow. Darkbloom, who is far from thrilled to have to work alongside the girl whose hacking led to his ruin and death, is less impressed.

"Did Sir give you permission to wear that outfit?" Qiangxiang asks with a smirk. "It is so awfully conservative. I thought he liked to show you off."

"suck my dick motherfucker"

Qiangxiang titters in her smug, self-satisfied way. Gal blinks rapidly, holding back tears -- it was a nice try, but Armstrong was right, it's a weird way to say that.

Whitney is more straightforward. "Go fuck yourself, Chloe. If you want to come here and play Roast Me with us, we can just get rid of you, like Viv said."

"You cannot get rid of me," Qiangxiang tells her. "I understand that the investors are already running scared, now that Mara has left the board. Imagine how scared they will be once I make clear to them that I intend to tank every single company in their portfolio if they do not divest of their holdings in this firm."

"I--" Whitney begins.

"We can crash and burn whole sectors of the American economy just by calling in debt -- and directly shutter our own domestic firms on our shores that so many of your investors hold stock in. Even suggesting that we could do it will make every single one of your investors dump you like a sack of refuse. Do you even understand what I am saying, right now, Ms. Darkbloom, or have you lost all focus like the ADHD sufferer that you are?"

"We understand perfectly well," Vivian says. "We understand that if this company fails, your own research will falter. We are in a MAD scenario, to speak in game-theoretic terms."

Whitney glowers.

"This is the carrot," Qiangxiang says. "Working together. If we do not come to an amicable relationship, there is the stick. I can order you all killed on my whim."

"I'll beat your ass before you make the call," Whitney thunders.

Qiangxiang ignores her. "Let us discuss the terms of our agreement to help against Mara."

"She's a common enemy," you say. "The terms are that we all kill her because it benefits us all."

Qiangxiang smirks. "Hmm. What reason is there for me to ally with you, Ally, rather than ally with Mara?"

"Because we're the winners," Whitney says.

"I believe that Mara has a great deal of research of her own," Qiangxiang says, "conducted by people under her command, as well as Renee Carte, and Alex Best -- probably they are working on a new generation of ocular implant. The fruit of that work, when we seize it, will belong to me, and to Broad Dynamics. Those are our terms."

"No," Vivian says. "We will mediate your access to those materials the same as any other. Moth-- Mara's work products, if she has any, are developed from ours as a basis, and belong to Darkbloom Analytics."

"I have a small strike team of 10 well-armed and well-trained men, augmented by our Xi Shi implant, at the ready to assist you," Qiangxiang says. "They are the favored black operations team that Broad Dynamics uses for risk-fraught, time-sensitive assassinations. Mara can be dead by this time tomorrow if only you agree to grant me unmediated access to the future of the Diogenes project. Otherwise, you can continue with whatever ill-conceived shoot-em-up scheme you have planned."

[ ] Deal.
>[x] No deal.

"We've got all the strike team we need," Whitney says. "You're not getting your hands on our shit, Chloe, unless we say you can."

Anger shadows Qiangxiang's face. "You are so confident for a girl who is so unbelievably beyond her mental capacity. You could hardly succeed as a cashier at a grocery store last year. Now you think you can run a company with costs to rival a small nation's GDP. No wonder your organization lies in ruin -- it has you at the helm."

She takes her little tin of mints out again, and dispenses another couple into her mouth.

Drawing his line of sight from the tin in her hand, up to her face, Darkbloom regards her wryly. "Freshening up?" He says.

Qiangxiang doesn't respond, does not even acknowledge him. She continues to Whitney: "I should not be surprised that you refuse my help. Why should I even waste the energy to threaten you, when you will ruin yourselves of your own initiative? I am--"

"Does your uncle still make you suck his cock?" Darkbloom asks.

You have never seen Qiangxiang wince until this moment. She snaps her head in his direction. Her voice is shaky: "Pardon me?"

"I said does your uncle still make you suck his cock. Does he still ejaculate down your throat the way he did when you were little?"

Qiangxiang stands, trembling all over, and tears are streaming down her face. She spins, and exits the room without even an "excuse me." She just goes.

The boardroom is awash in stunned silence for several long moments before Whitney finally breathes: "holy shit."

Darkbloom sips at a glass of filtered water before turning to Whitney and saying with the air of a tutor: "know your adversaries. Surface-level insults can only try the weak. For those like Chloe, you must find the things from their personal history that hurt the most -- and twist it into their gut like a dagger."

"How did you know that?" Whitney asks.

"Broad Dynamics has been a thorn in my side for several years now. I am of course well familiar with the peccadilloes of its board -- its CEO in particular. And Chloe has been an up-and-comer for quite some time, herself. A prodigy, that one." He nods at his other daughter: "of course, not as impressive as you were, Vivian."

"Thank you, father."

"Guess I'm chopped liver," Whitney says.

"Now now," Darkbloom says smoothly. "If you were not also impressive, I would not have named you CEO."

---

Noelle, helpfully, has a map of Vail and its surrounding countryside printed out and lying on the desk in a meeting room, a couple stories down from the C-suite. You stand over it with everyone at the company who's in the know, save Qiangxiang -- this is an all-hands-on-deck powwow.

Amber's here, too.

"Will's Golf seats five if ya squeeze," she says.

Noelle dutifully writes this on a whiteboard with marker: TOYOTA GOLF, SEATS FIVE

"Can't we use something with a little more horsepower?" You say.

"He likes the way it handles. He's used to it. It'll be fine, trust me."

You shake your head. You don't like the idea of fleeing Russian mobsters in a hatchback from 1999.

"It is nondescript," Vivian says. "If you are to be tailing a man all the way from California to Colorado, you would do well to use vehicles that do not draw attention to themselves. Whitney's supercars are... not suited to such a mission."

"Aw, come on," Whitney says. "Every other asshole in the valley drives a Lambo or a Ferrari. The rest drive Teslas. And from what I hear, Vail's the same way."

"Mm. And interceding that is hundreds of miles of hoi polloi who drive hatchbacks from 1999. You do not want to be detected before you get there."

"We'll take our Volt," Rose says. "It seats five."

"We?" You say. Then: "Our?"

"That car is a marital asset now," Rose says. "It belongs to me, too."

"Oh no no nooo you don't," you growl. "It's mine. I paid for it."

"Thank you for paying. You got a lot of value for your half of it."

Noelle is already writing on the board: CHEVY VOLT, SEATS FIVE

And under these two models, she's writing seating arrangements:

>TOYOTA GOLF
Will Levy
Amber Catachresis
Alex/Renee
----
----

>CHEVY VOLT
Kay Vera
Alabaster Soliloquy
Noelle Keki
Alex/Renee
----
----

>Who, if anyone, will fill out the rest?
>Spancer
>Darkbloom
>Rose
>---

---

Mara picks the grain up from Renee's desk.

"Is it complete?" She asks.

Renee nods.

"A new generation for a new platform of mind-machine augmentation. What have you designated it?"

Renee shakes her head. "I don't know. It doesn't make a difference what you call it, honestly. David always came up with those silly names."

"Oh, don't be so modest," Mara says, setting the grain back down. Suddenly, she kicks her foot up, onto the seat of Renee's chair, right between Renee's legs. Renee startles.

Mara, leaning in, and leering evilly, says: "He let you name one. Didn't he? So nice was he to his favorite mistress. Greek, Greek, Flower, Greek, Greek -- one of these things is not like the other."

Renee glares right back at her. "Yes. You're very smart, Mara, congratulations. One night after we fucked, while he was lying in bed with me instead of you, I told him the name to use. I've always liked camellias. Shame that he misspelled it, but then, I guess he had other things on his mind."

Mara laughs. "Camellias are gauche, though, aren't they? I prefer dahlias." She eyes the grain. "Yes. Dahlia is apt. An upgrade over the inferior model."

---

Mara lies on an operating table. She is sedated, and her eyeball is on her cheek.

Renee has the power of God over her right now. In her surgical mask, with forceps in hand, she knows she can stab Mara right in her brain, and end this nightmare.

But it's not so easy, is it. Of course it means death, instantly, from the coterie of armed goons who surround Mara at all times, now included. Which she would not be so hesitant about -- she would gladly give her life to save the lives of the people she loves in California. But she wouldn't be the only one to die. Alex is assisting the operation, and they would kill him, too. And then... and then after that, the retribution. You can cut the head off a snake and still be poisoned. The people in California won't necessarily be safe just because Mara is dead.

She looks to Alex for guidance. After all, he was thinking in the same desperate terms not too long ago.

Alex locks eyes with her and shakes his head, just ever so slightly. It's a no-go, then.

She installs the grain and puts Mara's face together again.

---

In their cell that night, Alex is frank:

"They'll kill us in a couple days, maybe. As soon as they're reasonably certain there's nothing left for us to debug."

"You're right."

"We don't have a lot of time. What you wanted, back there -- the reason I didn't..." he trails off. "It isn't only Mara. Her servers and all. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

"Yes."

"What do you think, then?"

"One more day," Renee tells him.

"Okay."

---

"Well, it's time," Armstrong says after lunch. He stands, and beckons Nelson to stand with him. He glances down at you. "Thanks for eating with us today, instead of down in the mess hall with the commoners. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to go see a man about a whore."

"We will let you know when the meeting with Rowan has concluded," Darkbloom tells you. "Be ready to tail him."

"Where are you meeting?" You ask.

"He wanted to meet off-site, naturally -- away from Whitney's prying eyes. He suggested a cafe on Middlefield, near Hoover Park--"

"Oh my fucking god," you say.

"Is there a problem?" Darkbloom asks, confused.

"Nevermind. Yeah, we'll be there."

Darkbloom nods. "Amber and her strange little boyfriend--"

"They're just friends," you cut in.

"Amber and her strange little friend who's a boy should get ready, too. First changeover in Gilroy as planned. I will meet back up with them in Bakersfield at changeover two."

Your car and Amber's will leapfrog the journey. One will remain behind Rowan's car for a period of a hundred miles or so, then stop off to refuel. The second car will take the first car's place behind Rowan -- while meanwhile the first car hurries ahead to the next fuel stop, and so forth. This way, Rowan will be less likely to notice that he's being followed.

"Good luck," Darkbloom says, and means it. "See you in Vail."

---

"I don't see what's so important about that thing," Hugh says, handing the bat over to Tyrus. He stands with him in the middle of a deserted lot in San Fran. Deserted save for them, and about a dozen of Tyrus's men. "I had to break my balls to get this out of evidence at the FBI field office. Can't believe you're paying me a million bucks for one Louisville slugger."

Tyrus takes the bat in hand, and practices swinging it a few times. The sonic crack of air is vicious sounding all on its own. "Sentimental value," he says between swings.

"Yeah, I get it. Your gay husband used that sucker to murder people, so you want to pay him some kinda--"

Tyrus takes the bat to Hugh's Achilles heel, with form befitting a PGA golfer. Hugh collapses to the dusty ground, howling in agony.

"You fuck! You broke my fucking heel bone!"

"You show Marquis the respect he deserves," Tyrus sneers. "God rest his soul. I will not have you talking in that tone about him in my presence."

"My fucking heel! Oh Christ, fuck!"

"Say some more shit, and next time it's your skull," Tyrus says. He nods at one of his men. "Get this asshole to a hospital." Then, to his other men: "Let's go. We've got a date in Colorado."

---

"Hey, Will?"

"Sup."

You lean over the center console, one hand on that strange robot motherfucker Spancer's shoulder in the passenger seat. "Can you stop at my place before we head to the gas station? There's something I gotta pick up."

"Yeah, no sweat."

---

Your house is so creepy, when you walk through it with no one else inside. You hurry through the foyer, up the stairs, into your room.

You stand in front of a picture of George W. Bush.

You're not sure what it is that's making you do this... but somehow it feels like you need to. You pull the picture back, and open the safe, look down at the glowing red implant.

You stare at it for a long moment, as if expecting it to speak.

"Are you me?" You ask it.

Of course, it can't reply.

"Do you want to take a road trip?" You ask.

Through your window, Will is honking his horn like a madman -- he must have gotten word that Rowan whoever-the-fuck is on his way.

You take the implant and put it in your back pocket.

END OF EPISODE 4.

MEANWHILE...

Whitney anxiously checks the clock on the wall. It's 10 PM, which means that the caravan should be getting close to the halfway point. She hasn't heard anything from them, but that's by design; radio silence until the deed is done. Vivian, under the restaurant's table, squeezes her hand.

It's been a while since they ate at Baumé. Not since Cerise woke up. It was Qiangxiang's suggestion. She's treating the entire board to dinner -- the ones who are here, anyway -- as a way, she says, of smoothing over the difficulties of their first board meeting. They're assembled at a long table in the restaurant's private dining hall.

"And congratulations," Qiangxiang says to Gal, "on your wife's political aspirations. What an excellent cost-saving measure to simply install one of your company's own in the capital, rather than buying your legislators from a third party vendor."

Cerise gives her a feigned smile.

"I want to apologize for my behavior earlier," she tells the assembled guests.

"Don't mention it," Armstrong says, in a way that tells her she literally shouldn't.

"No, I insist," Qiangxiang says. "I am too stern and brash when I am stressed -- and of course, beginning a new job is stressful."

"Well, a free dinner helps," Whitney says, raising her champagne glass. "Cheers and salud and shit. As long as we all know where we all stand."

"Indeed," Vivian agrees, also toasting, and the rest of the room follows suit. All except Qiangxiang.

She stands. "In my culture, it is customary to use gifts as a way of apologizing for slights. I assume this is a fairly universal cultural practice."

"Sure," Whitney says.

"You have a competitor here in the valley, correct? The Lightflower Corporation?"

Whitney shakes her head. "Oh, man. That Muskfucker. Don't get me started."

Qiangxiang holds up a palm. "Never you worry. As my gift to you, Whitney Darkbloom, I have taken care of it."

"Yeah? How?"

Qiangxiang whistles. Into the private dining room storms a team of men: and they're carrying, hogtied, mouth duct-taped, that guy who Whitney said not to get her started on. His face is beet red and sheened with sweat, and he's wild-eyed, and though he can't speak, he's obviously pleading for help. He writhes around in his bondage, looking from face to face of the board members. He's bleeding a bit from a wound in his head already.

Whitney jumps back from the table. "What the fuck--"

Cerise's jaw is slack; Gal is cowering into her breast. Armstrong is standing too, and Nelson, sitting beside him, has a hand clasped to his mouth. Vivian is oddly passive, and makes eye contact with Qiangxiang; the only signal of what she's feeling right now is her frown of disapproval.

The men dump their hostage onto the long table, right atop their plates and glasses and silverware and food, among clatters and thuds.

"Mmmmf mfff mfff mmmmf--"

Qiangxiang pulls a knife from her purse, and crawls up onto the table, hands and knees. She grins, and slits the hostage's throat. Blood sprays all across the room, over the walls and ceiling, and across Whitney, who starts hyperventilating.

Climbing down from the table now, Qiangxiang smiles. "His yacht has sunk, such a tragedy, a brilliant young magnate and his pop star girlfriend drowned in the Pacific... at least, this is what the world will think." She scans her eyes across the table now. "Oh dear. I've ruined dinner."

END OF EPISODE 4 (For real.)

December 18, 2011

In the well-appointed foyer of their home, David is there waiting for Vivian as she comes through the front door. She so doesn't expect it that she nearly bumps into him. She startles when finally she does see him.

"Euripides?" David says.

"Yes!" Vivian says, eyes lighting up. "Eumenides?"

David squats, knees cracking, to bring himself to eye level with his little girl. "How was Vail?"

"It was wonderful. Uncle Vasily taught me how to ski."

Through the door now walks Vasily himself, toting Vivian's bags for her. As he passes David, he smirks at him, a gesture David responds to with a hate-filled glower. Behind Vasily is his sister, who stands at the threshold with her arms folded, watching the happy reunion of father and daughter.

"However, I am glad to be back in a warmer clime," Vivian continues. "The frigid and rarefied air of the Rockies does not agree with my Pacific constitution."

"And I am glad you are back in a warmer clime," David says. From his coat pocket he produces a cherry cordial, and hands it over to her. Her eyes light up a second time. Intently focused on the candy, she unwraps the foil covering. Her thin little fingers are slow and exacting in this, as everything.

David uses the moment of her distraction to pull her into an enormous hug. He holds her so tight that she can hardly breathe. He nuzzles the top of her head with his scruffy beard.

"Father..." She says into his chest.

He pulls back now, holding her by both shoulders and looking her over, head to toe, as if inspecting a precious heirloom for damage.

"You worry too much," Vivian says. "I am fine. That maniac did not actually run us off the road."

"I love you, Vivian," David says. His voice is somewhat desperate, and almost sorrowful, so utterly uncharacteristic of him.

Vivian is shocked. Her mouth hangs open for a moment or two. "F-Father -- I... yes. Yes. I love you, too."

She hugs him of her own volition this time, and this one lingers. Neither wants to let the other go.

But there is always something practical to attend to, that gets in the way of these moments. "Go and catch up on your studies, now," David finally bids her. "Your tutor is waiting."

"Yes father."

David stands, watching her go, as Mara fully enters the mansion and shuts the door behind her.

"You are a stupid ass--" Mara begins, but that's all she manages. David is on her. He suddenly looks like an escapee from the asylum: face flushed red, eyes bulging, sweat pearling on his brow. He hauls back and punches her in the teeth, a vicious, full-force blow that knocks her to the floor. He's never been a violent man, certainly no wifebeater, but for this, he makes an exception. Then he's straddling her, and his hands are wrapped around her, and he's trying either to strangle her or snap her neck bone, whichever happens first.

David's murderous rage only escalates the longer this goes on. Because rather than allow her face to be shadowed by mortal fear, Mara instead only grins evilly back up at him -- even as she turns a shade of blue to contrast with David's red.

And indeed the only thing that saves Mara's life is Vasily's return from Vivian's room. He pulls a pistol out and presses it to David's temple. David knows he has a gun on him now and still he doesn't stop. What does stay this act of uxorcide, though, is what Vasily says to him: "I will go into the next room and shoot Vivian, also."

Like a piece of industrial machinery with its emergency stop triggered, David relinquishes his unmerciful grip on his wife's throat. He straightens his posture, still straddling her. He glares from one to the other, physically capable of finishing the job, and yet powerless all the same.

"I will kill you both," David promises. "To involve Vivian in this -- to put her in harm's way --"

Vasily helps his sister to her feet. They stare down at him. Mara's neck is already badly bruised. "You will do no such thing," she sneers. "As long as Vivian lives, you will never be able to kill me. Because now you know what happens if you do."

David snarls. Literally, like a rabid dog.

"You have gotten too big for your britches, as the idiom goes," Vasily says. "You forget your place, David."

"I swear on my life--" David begins.

"Maybe instead of making idle threats, you should go and check on your mistress," Mara says.

David's heart palpitates in a convulsion of world-distorting terror. "You--!"

Mara laughs at him. "Oh, no need to worry, David. She is quite alive."

Vasily checks the time on his wristwatch. "As of this moment, she should currently be receiving kindly a visit from the police."

"Police?" David repeats.

"What an awful turn of events," Mara says with faux sadness in her voice. "Everyone always knew the whore you loved so much was envious of the wife you refused to leave... but to take it out on your only daughter -- to go so far as hiring a hitman to kill them? What an evil woman. She will spend the rest of her life in prison for that."

David, usually so cool, cannot hide his ragged breathing. He's having a panic attack.

"This is a cheap lesson," Vasily tells him. "You should honestly thank us. We could have done so much worse. We still might."

With twin smirks, they go, back towards Mara's room. David sits there in the foyer on his knees for a long time, shoulders slumped, head drooping, like a king who has returned from a long journey to find his kingdom burnt to ashes. That night he puts together his last will and testament.

---

Whitney anxiously checks the clock on the wall. It's 10 PM, which means that the caravan should be getting close to the halfway point. She hasn't heard anything from them, but that's by design; radio silence until the deed is done. Vivian, under the restaurant's table, squeezes her hand.

It's been a while since they ate at Baumé. Not since Cerise woke up. It was Qiangxiang's suggestion. She's treating the entire board to dinner -- the ones who are here, anyway -- as a way, she says, of smoothing over the difficulties of their first board meeting. They're assembled at a long table in the restaurant's private dining hall.

"And congratulations," Qiangxiang says to Gal, "on your wife's political aspirations. What an excellent cost-saving measure to simply install one of your company's own in the capital, rather than buying your legislators from a third party vendor."

Cerise gives her a feigned smile.

"I want to apologize for my behavior earlier," she tells the assembled guests.

"Don't mention it," Armstrong says, in a way that tells her she literally shouldn't.

"No, I insist," Qiangxiang says. "I am too stern and brash when I am stressed -- and of course, beginning a new job is stressful."

"Well, a free dinner helps," Whitney says, raising her champagne glass. "Cheers and salud and shit. As long as we all know where we all stand."

"Indeed," Vivian agrees, also toasting, and the rest of the room follows suit. All except Qiangxiang.

She stands. "In my culture, it is customary to use gifts as a way of apologizing for slights. I assume this is a fairly universal cultural practice."

"Sure," Whitney says.

"You have a competitor here in the valley, correct? The Lightflower Corporation?"

Whitney shakes her head. "Oh, man. That Muskfucker. Don't get me started."

Qiangxiang holds up a palm. "Never you worry. As my gift to you, Whitney Darkbloom, I have taken care of it."

"Yeah? How?"

Qiangxiang whistles. Into the private dining room storms a team of men: and they're carrying, hogtied, mouth duct-taped, that guy who Whitney said not to get her started on. His face is beet red and sheened with sweat, and he's wild-eyed, and though he can't speak, he's obviously pleading for help. He writhes around in his bondage, looking from face to face of the board members. He's bleeding a bit from a wound in his head already.

Whitney jumps back from the table. "What the fuck--"

Cerise's jaw is slack; Gal is cowering into her breast. Armstrong is standing too, and Nelson, sitting beside him, has a hand clasped to his mouth. Vivian is oddly passive, and makes eye contact with Qiangxiang; the only signal of what she's feeling right now is her frown of disapproval.

The men dump their hostage onto the long table, right atop their plates and glasses and silverware and food, among clatters and thuds.

"Mmmmf mfff mfff mmmmf--"

Qiangxiang pulls a knife from her purse, and crawls up onto the table, hands and knees. She rips the duct tape from the man's mouth, and the sound of it alone is cringe-inducing. She sits down on his chest, peers down at his face.

"Whitney!" The hostage pleads. "What on Earth have you done--"

"Look at me," Qiangxiang says.

"Please let me go!" He's begging Whitney. "Don't do this-- you can't--"

"Look at me or I will be forced to put this knife into your neck," Qiangxiang says, as placidly as she might tell a waiter to refill her water.

He looks at her.

"Hold this, please. Thank you." Qiangxiang puts the dagger into the man's mouth, blade pointed down. With his hands and feet bound, and with her sitting atop him, he has no choice but to bite it and hold the flat of the blade between his teeth. It's just long enough to trigger his gag reflect intermittently.

"What the fuck are you doing--" Whitney begins, beginning to hyperventilate. But Qiangxiang shushes her with an upheld palm.

"I understand that you are working on a platform to rival Sand Reckoner," she tells the man. "Is that so? Nod or shake your head, please."

The man nods his head.

"That is over as of tonight," she tells him. "There are two companies in the world who are permitted to work with Sand Reckoner. Darkbloom Analytics, and Broad Dynamics. Lightflower is through. Go back to digging holes or making bottle rockets or whatever hobbies you occupy yourself with."

The rage in his eyes is plain.

"Speaking on behalf of Darkbloom Analytics," Armstrong says hastily, "I want to make clear that our CTO is acting on her own right now. We absolutely do not endorse--"

"Are we understood?" Qiangxiang asks her hostage. "Nod or shake your head."

The hostage refuses to respond.

Qiangxiang, frowning, puts a dainty forefinger against the end of the dagger's handle, and presses down, ever so slightly. The hostage gags particularly badly, and the entire knife almost disappears down his gullet.

"Are we understood?"

The man nods. Qiangxiang takes the knife out of his mouth and holds it threateningly. It's coated in his drool.

"I spared you because you are an interesting person of the world," Qiangxiang tells him. "For that and nothing more. Please do not make me regret that decision. I am vengeful when I regret things."

"I will--" he begins.

"You will do nothing," Qiangxiang tells him. "You will go home and be thankful you still live. I could have scuttled your yacht in the middle of the ocean with you and your pop star girlfriend aboard. I could have had your entire family killed. I could have told the world that..." She leans in close, and whispers in his ear, so only he can hear. His eyes go wider, if that's possible.

"How do you know that?" He says.

"Lightflower is through. Go home and be a family man now, Mr. Musk."

She dismounts him, and the armed men whose help Whitney and the rest of the board refused earlier in the day take the battered, terrified man away.

The dining room is awash in silence, save for Whitney's shallow breaths, and Gal's whimpering. Qiangxiang takes her glass of water and sips it.

"You may thank me later," she tells them all. Then, looking at the mess of smeared food and tipped dishware and scattered utensils all along the table where the hostage got dumped, she murmurs: "Oh dear. I've ruined dinner."

---

EARLIER THAT DAY.

"You've been such a help, Rowan, really," Darkbloom says, shaking the hand of the gangly, bucktoothed, yellow-toothed man. They sit at a table at the back of the Rutabaga Cafe, eating paninis, sipping cokes, like this is all a typical working lunch. "Thank you for agreeing to step in as interim CEO."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine," he says airily. "I think Mara will be quite pleased to have the opportunity of buying back Darkbloom Analytics IP at bargain basement prices."

"As long as we get our cut!" Armstrong roars, laughing.

"Of course, of course," Rowan says. "Everybody wins."

"What about Broad Dynamics?" Nelson asks, playing the worrywart. "They won't be happy."

"They can be unhappy!" Rowan says. "With Diogenes and Sand Reckoner under our control, they won't have a leg to stand on. They'll be out in the cold with no recourse."

"Yes. When Americans, Brits, and Russians work together, we can do great things," Darkbloom says.

"Here's to that," Rowan replies with a halitosis-y laugh. He checks the time, then: "Excuse me. I have a flight to catch."

Darkbloom exchanges uneasy glances with Nelson and Armstrong. "Flight?" He says. "But you were going on and on about how excited you were to see the American countryside by vehicle!"

Rowan shakes his head. "Shame, that. Mara is antsy to be through with this business as soon as possible. Apparently they have already made great strides on Diogenes since she resigned... the road trip will have to wait for another day."

"Of course," Darkbloom replies warmly. "What Mara wants, Mara gets..."

Rowan stands.

"You aren't flying out of SFO, are you?" Darkbloom says. "I can have my chauffeur take you if you are, but it's really such a dirty place. Even the first class lounges."

"Oh, no," Rowan says. "I would never dream of using such a horrible port of call. Worry not."

He doesn't elaborate any further -- just shakes their hands again and goes. They watch him exit through the front doors with a ding, step off the curb into his waiting black sedan with his driver, and depart.

"We are fucked," Armstrong shouts.

Darkbloom slowly taps his forehead with the flat of his fist, beyond frustrated, and scared. "If they are finishing Diogenes already..." he mutters. "Then... Renee..."

"This was our only shot," Nelson says, voicing what Darkbloom can't. "We can try to have them intercept him in Vail, but he could be flying out of any airport... and landing at any airport... and he'll definitely get there by air quicker than they could get there by car..."

"We are so monumentally, utterly fucked," Armstrong says. "Fuck!"

"Shut up, Steven," Darkbloom says, pulling out his walkie talkie. "I'm thinking."

"Oh! Thinking!" Armstrong says. "What are you gonna do, David? Gonna radio Alabaster Soliloquy? Gonna see if he can pull his wife's dick out of his ass long enough for a new plan to fall out?"

"I'm not calling Alabaster," Darkbloom says. He looks conflicted, though, and pauses for a moment before continuing: "I need to confer with someone who actually has some damned brains."

"Who's that?" Nelson asks, just as pissy as Armstrong. "No one here has brains. We're surrounded by morons and incompetents."

"Amber," David says. "I'm calling Amber Catachresis."

---

When you get down to the car, Will is still honking his horn like an idiot.

"I heard you the first trillion times!" You howl. "Christ!"

Will, hands on the steering wheel, sticks the upper half of his body out of his rolled-down window and calls to you. "Yo! You've got a call!"

He nudges Spancer in the passenger-side seat. You approach the car as Spancer rolls the window down on his side, and hands you the walkie.

"What happened to opsec?" You grouse. "I thought we weren't gonna--"

"It is an urgent matter," Spancer tells you. "It requires your attention at once."

---

"I understand."

"And we have no time to--"

"Yes."

"No time to waste. We must find a way to keep eyes on him--"

"Yes. Yes."

"This will be our only opportunity to--"

"I -- fuck. Shut up already. I get it. Loud and clear."

You're on the walkie with David Darkbloom, a man physically incapable of shutting the fuck up. You roll your eyes at Will, and make a jacking-off motion in the air. He chuckles.

But you finally have the chance to get a word in edgewise. "Is Daddy still following this Rowan asshole?" You ask.

"...Whom?" Darkbloom responds, lost.

"I said is Ally still following Rowan."

"Alab-- yes. They're tailing him. As far as they know, the plan hasn't changed."

"Well Jesus, that's just peachy. He's following that prick right now? And doesn't even know the plan has changed? How about someone from the brain trust call him up, huh? Tell Daddy that he's on his way to the airport and not to Vail."

"...Tell whom?"

"Ally! God! Are you listening to me? And tell him to let me know what airport Rowan stops at. That's all I need."

"What is your plan of action?" Darkbloom asks.

>[x] Find a way to ground Rowan's plane at the last second and force him to drive.
[ ] Stow away on Rowan's flight.
[ ] Abduct Rowan and force him to bring you to Mara.
[ ] Write in?

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, sophisticated senpai and top of your class in the Navy SEALs.

"Where is this guy going?" Kay says, following several cars behind Rowan's on the highway. "He's headed in the complete opposite direction. This is bad."

Noelle, in the passenger seat, chews a mozzarella stick. Long strands of warm cheese dangle from her lips. "Could be lost. He looks like one of those boomers who doesn't know how to use GPS."

Kay glances at her. "How do you eat like that? Honestly. All those fried, over-processed foods... that stuff is bad for your health, you know."

"As bad as smoking is?" Noelle asks. "You smell like a chimney stack, Kay."

"Better than smelling like Alabaster's old jizz," she mutters.

"Yeah. You've got that going for you, too."

Next to you, in the back, Rose suspiciously eyes Lady who's curled up on the floor at her feet.

Noelle tries to crank the A/C, but Kay swats her hand away.

"What the hell!" Noelle says.

"I'm sorry you're going through menopause already, but the rest of us aren't having any hot flashes. Hands to yourself, all right?"

"Alabaster. Come in."

You startle at the sudden voice through the walkie talkie sitting beside you. Darkbloom.

Rose gives you a severe look. She likes this as little as you do, working with Darkbloom. You shrug at her, then pick the walkie up and press the button to speak. "I'm here. What is it?"

"Listen closely. The plan has changed."

"What?" You bark. "You motherfucker -- what the fuck did you--"

"I said to listen. Not to talk. Save your petulant whining for later."

---

You follow Rowan long enough to see him leave through an off-ramp whose reflective green sign directs drivers towards a regional airfield. Kay continues down the freeway, and hops off at the next exit, then doubles back, headed south -- on the route to Vail. "We can make good time to the second stop while they delay the plane," she says, glancing over her shoulder.

You radio back to Darkbloom with the details.

"Thank you, Alabaster. Continue on to changeover two."

"You don't need to micromanage us," you say. "We're already on our way."

"Good."

"How is Amber going to make sure the plane doesn't fly?" You demand.

"If I knew how that girl's mind worked, I would still have my own body right now. I trust her to get the job done." There's a long pause, and then Darkbloom adds: "Alabaster. When this is all said and done, I hope that--"

"Don't you fucking talk to me about what you hope," you say. You turn the walkie talkie off.

"Alabaster," Rose chides.

She's right. You turn the walkie talkie back on again. Darkbloom dropped whatever he was going to say to you anyway.

---

"Hey toots."

"h-hi."

"I know we said not to call and all that but I super need a favor."

Wearing a hoodie, standing at a payphone, you glance back to the waiting car. Will is eating handful after handful of mixed nuts. What the fuck.

"where are you calling me from anyway"

You turn back towards the phone, hand gripping the grimy aluminum edge on one side. "Payphone. Crazy, huh? That these things still exist in the year of our Lord two thousand and nineteen."

"mm"

"My memory of back then is, let's say, hazy at best. But I thought... now correct me if I'm wrong, Gal. Did you own an ISIS site?"

"yes... i took some over... replaced their homepages with hardcore gay pornography... it's how you first found me"

"That is hilarious. Do you still own them?"

"no but it's not hard to get in. bad opsec."

"Yeah. Those Muzzie terrorists are dumb, huh."

"uh"

"That was very racially insensitive of me. Listen. I need you to publish a list. If you get what I'm saying. Put a bunch of airports and seaports on your list, and make sure you include this one in particular."

"no"

"What?"

"no that is a terrible idea"

"Now I know my memory isn't the best but I sure as shit don't remember you back-talking me. Cut that out."

"no it's a terrible idea no im sorry no"

"We're gonna lose Rowan, Gal. If you ever want to see that Renee broad again, we need to act now."

"i gathered. give me the airport."

You tell her. "What are you gonna do?" You ask.

"I will make sure his plane has technical difficulties," she says, voice as clear as crystal.

You hang up, and return to the Golf where Will is still munching. You try to open the back door, but it's locked, and Will is too busy eating to notice. You tap on his window, gesticulating at him. He rolls it down, mouth full, staring stupidly at you.

"I'm sorry, am I interrupting snacktime?" You say.

He swallows. "It's my new diet."

"This ought to be good."

"Have you ever heard of GOMAD?" He asks.

You gawp at him. "What -- like going crazy?"

"Huh?"

"Like going mad?"

"GOMAD."

"Yeah, like going crazy?"

"You're not making any sense. It's called GOMAD."

"You're gonna drive ME mad if you don't--" you stop, massage your face. "Nevermind. Just tell me, then."

"It's a diet. It means 'gallon of milk a day.'"

"A gallon of milk?" You breathe. "Every day? You'd be shitting like a pissing racehorse. You especially."

"Well yeah. I can't do it because of my lacto intolerance."

"Lactose."

"Right, my lacto intolerance means I can't do it. So I invented something new. The GONAD diet."

"Sweet Jesus Christ in heaven, give me strength."

"You wanna know what's it stand for?" He doesn't wait before revealing it: "Gallon of nuts a day."

"Nuts are a solid, Will. You don't measure them by the gal-- oh my fucking GOD." You cut yourself short as Will produces from between his lap a gallon jug of what was formerly Arnold Palmer lemonade, but which is now filled with mixed nuts: peanuts, almonds, pistachios and cashews. Will unscrews the cap, upends the jug, and drinks them like water.

"Itff freally hardfff," he says through a mouthful of nuts, grimacing, and spewing crumbs everywhere. "Fffefe nutff maffe me firffty."

"You honestly amaze me. Not being sarcastic."

"Fankf"

"Unlock the fucking door, Will, before you choke to death. We need to get going."

---

Sitting on the hood of the car, you watch through binoculars. Spancer watches from beside you, standing guard or some shit, eyes as always shielded by sunglasses. Supposedly this guy was black ops in the military at some point, but you have your doubts. Your running theory is he's a secret government cyborg.

You have a clear view of Rowan's sedan parked at the edge of the tarmac near the private plane that sits ready and waiting. Rowan, figure tiny at this remove even when magnified 50x, is pacing back and forth, rubbing the back of his head, having an animated phone conversation with someone.

He turns and barks something at a pilot, who shrugs and says something back. They get into a quick back-and-forth. Bored, you fill in their conversation:

"No sir, sorry sir, but this bitch ain't gonna fly today."

"Oi! Ya yank bastard, you listen 'ere! The governess ain't gonna be 'avin no delays!"

"I'm sorry your highness, forgive my lowly American impudence, but we cannot fly."

"Cor blimey yer a bloody rotten bastard! I oughta 'ave yer 'ead!"

"What are you talking about?" Will asks.

You lower your binoculars. "I think my favorite lesbian hacker did her job."

"Who's your second favorite lesbian hacker?" Will asks.

"Is that--" you're not sure whether he's ribbing you or being sincere. You decide to drop it. You look back through the binoculars in time to see Rowan finishing his phone call, hanging up dejectedly, and stepping back into his sedan. The driver pulls the car through a 180 and exits the airfield. Looks like it's time for some over-the-road trucking.

---

Noelle may not have gotten her hands on the A/C but she has managed to seize control of the aux cable.

"Real human being~" she croons along with the music, "And a real hero~"

"I hate this fucking song," Kay grumbles.

"What?" Noelle says. "It's aesthetic."

"It's shit."

"I can put the Cowboy Bebop OST on again, if you'd rather. Bad Dog No Biscuits?"

Lady perks his head up.

"Not you," Noelle tells him. He settles back in again and sighs.

"Do you listen to anything other than anime and vaporwave?" Kay asks.

"This isn't vaporwave!" Noelle says. "Wow. And Cowboy Bebop isn't just any anime soundtrack, either. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about, do you."

Noelle and Kay keep bickering, but it's the kind of gentle bickering that develops between fast friends.

"I can't believe you actually hired a fascist to be our bodyguard," Rose whispers to you.

"What? Noelle?"

"Yes."

"Rose... you can't just call everyone you don't like a fascist."

"She's literally a fascist--"

"Okay. I'm checking out of this conversation."

"She's--"

"No. I'm out. Goodbye."

Noelle glancing up in the rearview, smiles at you. "Your wife is such a dildo."

"Excuse me?" Rose sputters.

"You heard us talking, huh?" You ask Noelle.

"Of course. You two wouldn't be able to hide a conversation from Helen Keller."

"I guess you're used to spying on people," Rose sneers.

"Oh, and you aren't?" Kay chimes in. She grins at Noelle. "Did I ever tell you about the tracking app Rose bugged Alabaster with? Psychotic bitch."

Noelle laughs. "Oh shit. No. Tell me more."

"Pinned and pegged, 24/7," Kay laughs. "Stalked him right into my apartment one day..."

You gaze in frustration up at the ceiling. You definitely prefer their bickering over their teaming up.

When you make it to the stopover point to refuel and recharge the Volt, Noelle volunteers to go get some food at the McDonald's attached to the gas station. You and Rose both, at the same time, ask for a Filet O Fish. Abashed, you each glance away from the other.

"Yuch. Gonna be some makeout session," Noelle says. "Anything else, fishbreaths?"

"Medium fries," you both say. ...Goddamn it.

Noelle laughs. Then: "How about it, papergirl?"

"Nothing for me, pig, thanks," Kay tells her.

"Your funeral."

Kay furrows her brow. Then: "Hey, but since you're going -- take Lady for a walk too."

"No fucking w--" she begins, but seizing the opportunity to get even just a little for all the ribbing, you open the door. Lady -- having heard his name in conjunction with "walk" -- bounds out towards Noelle. She grimaces, stepping back and shielding herself, but can't fend the beast off. He nearly tackles her before she manages to get his leash in hand and lead him away.

Maybe it's Noelle who gets the last laugh, though -- on Kay. She tethers Lady to a pole outside the McDonald's rather than walking him. And Lady, shivering, looking anxious, squats -- then drops some watery turds right there on the sidewalk in full view of the disgusted patrons passing by.

Kay gets out and starts to fuel the car. Alone-ish with Rose for the moment, you nudge her.

"It's going to be okay," you tell her. But your tone has a lilt to it -- as if you're asking rather than telling.

"Yes," she says.

"Yes..." you agree.

You kiss her.

It would be a sweet moment, if not for the sudden growl Rose's tummy makes.

"Uh," she says.

"Nevermind."

[ ] Stay out here with Rose and Kay.
>[x] Go inside with Noelle.

>[X] Go inside with Noelle.

"I'll check on our food," you tell Rose.

As you pass by Lady tethered to the pole, he looks pitifully up at you, and whines. You pet him between his ears. "Yeah, I know. I'll save you some fries for your trouble."

The inside of the McDonald's is dingier, you suspect, than the national average. The smell of stale grease hangs heavy in the air, and grime coats the tile floor. Disinterested teens are manning the counters and the grilltops. Noelle waits beside the drink fountain, chewing ice.

"If you knew how dirty the insides of those things really are, you would never use an ice machine again," you tell her.

"Shouldn't you be out there with your loving wife?" Noelle says. She tosses an ice chip at you. Her aim is impeccable: it slides down the front of your shirt and makes you jolt with the sudden contact of cold against your flesh. 

"She's hungry. Wants to know where her food is."

"And so you're her errand boy," Noelle laughs.

"No. I'm hungry, too."

"Okay. And do you think you're going to make the food come faster by being here?" Pointing at you, and calling to a kid whose nametag is visible, she says: "Hey, Cody! Yeah you. This guy's hungry. Can you tell everyone back there to hurry it up so that this guy and his dominatrix can eat sooner?"

The boy is more confused than anything. "Uh sorry. It's gonna be a while."

"Aw man. He's gonna get whipped for sure, then."

He just awkwardly kind of shrugs at her. 

"Let's get one thing clear," you say. "I don't know what Kay told you, but Rose is NOT my 'dominatrix'. If anything, I'm HER dominatr-- uh, HER dom."

"Hey, it's fine," Noelle says. "I don't judge. Really I don't. I hear she likes to cut loose on the other girls in your harem, too."

You narrow your eyes. You aren't sure what she's playing at by broaching the topic, but honesty is the best policy. "Sure. Yeah. She can be pretty rough."

"Now THAT I wouldn't mind seeing," Noelle says. 

"Are you 100% certain you aren't a lesbian?" You say.

Noelle folds her arms. "I like getting cummed in too much to be a lesbian," she says. "I'm not into girls... I'm just into girls who are into girls. Especially cute ones."

"You think Rose is cute?"

"For a lardass SJW, yeah."

The gears in your head rotate backwards a bit: "Hold on. What was that you said about getting cummed in?"

"It's super tanoshii," she says flatly, unfolding her arms, putting her hands on her hips. "Getting dicked down in general, really. I'm a fan."

"This is kinda lewd. Even for you."

"You made me lewd," she says. "Are you gonna take responsibility?"

"Noelle?" One of the wage slaves behind the counter says, order in hand. She winks at you, turns, and takes the grease-sodden paper bag of food. 

She starts for the door, but you grab her arm, staying her. "I'll take responsibility," you tell her.

She glances towards the bathrooms. "Food's gonna get cold, though," she warns you. 

"I'm not going to fuck you in a bathroom. Dirty bitch. We've got places to be, anyway."

"Then where?" She asks.

---

When you get back to the car, you load Lady into the front seat alongside his master, and take Noelle with you into the backseat. Kay wordlessly pets Lady and watches with interest through the rearview. She puts the car into gear and pulls out of the parking lot, back onto the road.

"What the hell is she doing back here?" Rose wants to know.

"I'm gonna fuck her," you say.

"What." Rose's voice is flat.

"She wants to get cummed inside. So I'm gonna cum inside her."

Noelle is already taking off her pants and panties, right there in the back of what was formerly Rose's car. Her bare ass rests against the faux leather.

"You're joking," Rose says. "Even for you, this is..."

But you're not joking. Your pants are coming off, too. You rest on your knees in front of Noelle's seat.

"Get me hard," you command Rose. 

"Go fuck yourself," Rose says.

You grab a fistful of her hair and force her face towards your crotch. "That wasn't a request," you tell her. "Get me hard."

Noelle, hand to her lips, giggles at Rose's predicament. She spreads her legs wide for you as she watches you manhandle your wife. Idly, she plays with her pretty, dark pink pussy.

Rose has no option but to service you. She opens her mouth and swallows your member. Rose, for as haughty and bitchy as she can be, is an excellent cocksucker. Her warm, wet mouth gets your dick nice and hard almost immediately. The sight of Noelle masturbating to Rose's degradation helps, too. And Kay, driving, watching on approvingly as well, is another a turn-on. This is becoming sort of a tradition, it seems, raping Rose for Kay's amusement during road trips.

Even though you're fully hard already, you take a few moments to enjoy the pleasure of the inside of Rose's throat tickling your cock. She hardly has a gag reflex anymore. As you pump in and out of her mouth, using her hair for a handle, you throw your head back and sigh in contentment. On her own initiative, she reaches between your legs and strokes your balls for you, too. She knows it's something you love... she's going to bring you off at this rate. And that's probably her plan, to get you to cum down her throat, rather than inside Noelle. Greedy fucking cunt.

Anxiousness makes you horny, and you know you'll be able to go more than once today, especially on such a long trip. Rose can have the cum she wants so much. For a moment, anyway.

"I'm gonna cum in your mouth," you tell Rose through the sloppy wet noises of your irrumatio. 

"Aww," Noelle says, still tickling her clit. "What a gyp. I thought you were going to fuck me."

"I am," you promise her. "There's enough to go around." Then, to your wife: "Don't you dare fucking swallow my cum. I know you want to. But don't. I'll beat the shit out of you if you swallow it."

You live for the anger you see in Rose's eyes as you hump her fuckhole of a throat. That look alone, the simmer in her light brown irises, is enough all on its own to make you empty your nuts. You pull most of the way out, so only the bulbous head of your prick is trapped between her lips. Fisting your cock to help your nut along, you pump a thick load against her tongue and the ridges at the top of her palate. She stays obediently in place, lips wrapped around your pulsing prickhead, and accepts your seed. She doesn't swallow. 

When at last you're done cumming, you pull back, and command her to open her mouth for you. She follows the order, despite the anger still shadowing her face. Your milky white semen jiggles in the bowl made by her tongue. 

"Put it in Noelle for her," you tell Rose.

"W-what?" Noelle stammers. 

Rose is already on hands and knees, and her head is moving towards Noelle's naked lap. 

"Hold on," Noelle says, trying to close her legs. But it's Rose who forces them open. She's not going to let Noelle's resistance stop her from following orders; she doesn't want you to beat her, and she knows you will if she fails.

From point blank, Rose peers at Noelle's messy cunt. "Ugh," she says through her mouthful of your jizz. "There's already cum in here."

"Yeah. I blew a load in her earlier today."

"Gross... so gross..." Rose groans.

But then despite her disgust, she's pressing her lips to Noelle's pussy hole. Noelle hisses, and her eyes go wide. "What the fuck-- this wasn't the deal!" She complains. Then -- she shivers. You can guess what's happening: Rose is using her tongue to push your cum directly into Noelle's cunt.

"I..." Noelle sighs. "Fuck.... I TOLD you... I'm not a lesbian--"

"Don't think of it as being with a girl," you tell her. "Think of it as getting cummed inside. Just in a different way."

Noelle can't hide the obvious pleasure she's feeling from Rose's experienced mouth. She flexes and unflexes her thighs and strokes Rose's hair despite herself. "Oh my God... it's really warm..." Noelle sighs. She's giving in even quicker than you expected. Throwing her head back, closing her eyes, she basks in the sensation of it. "Warm... and wet... and sticky..."

When you glance towards the front again, you see that Kay has one hand down the waistband of her pants -- playing with herself even as she drives.

"Oh--" Noelle says, voice catching. "Ohh-- shit, I'm gonna cum like this--"

You nod at her, and that's all the permission she really needs to cum on your wife's face. She lovingly pets Rose as she squirts on her. "Yeahhh," she hisses at Rose, "yeah, put it all in me... get it deep..."

She rubs her cunt against Rose's face and smears some of your jizz all over her. When she's finally done orgasming, Rose pulls away, grimacing, disgusted. 

"You're all a bunch of fucking PIGS," she grunts.

"Yeah..." Noelle says dreamily.

"Want some more?" You ask her.

"Uh huh."

"Straight from the source, this time?"

"Oh, yes."

You scooch forward and mount her. As you sink your cock into the already cum-coated interior of her pussy, you grin in delight. You really can't get enough of raw-fucking pretty pussies like hers. But when you begin to thrust, she stops you. 

"Hold on..." she says.

"What?"

"Can you lie on top of me?" 

You climb up into the backseat with her, and get her turned around so she's on her back with her head propped up against the door. You sink down on top of her and press her with all your weight. She likes it -- she gazes back up at you with that same dreamy expression. 

When you begin to pump in and out, she stops you a second time. 

"No, wait... let's take our time... let's enjoy it." 

"You don't want me to fuck you?"

"Just stay inside me for now... kiss me..."

You settle down with your cock balls-deep up the tight crevice of her pussy, and make out with her sweetly. Her mouth tastes like honey. This must be something like a fetish for her, the sensation of a man's weight bearing down on her, the sensation of having her little vagina stuffed totally full with a cock that stays mated to her as deeply as possible, pulsating and throbbing. It's still a novelty for you, who's usually too impatient to do anything other than slam-fuck a bitch as hard and fast as you possibly can. This more languid style of sex has its own perverted fun to it, too, though.

You break the kiss just long enough to glance back towards Rose. She's wiping your cum from her face and licking it off her fingers despite her protests of how gross it all is. "Lick my asshole," you tell her.

She purrs in contempt, but doesn't bother trying to dispute you. As you turn back to Noelle and resume the kiss, you moan into her mouth at the sudden invasion of Rose's tiny pink tongue into the pucker of your asshole. It really doesn't matter whether she's using it on a dick, a cunt, or an anus; Rose's mouth was purpose-made for sexually servicing people. 

For what feels like hours, you lie in the backseat of the car on top of Noelle, enjoying the silky feeling of her wet pussy clenching you tightly, while Rose rims you out. Just this, without even thrusting, is enough to make you lose a couple loads deep inside Noelle. You don't warn her when you cum, you just keep kissing her, and let your cock go off. Her staccato moaning into your mouth is all the signal you need that she doesn't mind being treated this way. Rose, ever the diligent slave, is again tickling your balls; helping you breed this "fascist" again and again. This lazy style of fucking, if it can even be called fucking, is how you all occupy yourselves for the hundreds of miles between the gas station and your next stop. Rose's tongue inside your asshole and your cock spurting inside a cute girl's warm wet orifice... is there any sweeter feeling? 

Noelle was right, though. By the time you reach your next stop, the food is cold.

---

The only illumination on the lonely desert road comes from the hi-beams of Will's Golf. Save for the few dozen yards or so of asphalt these lights reveal, the rest of the landscape is nothing but a shadowy inkblot whirring by.

Will himself snores softly in the back. Beside him, awake and alert as a hawk, sits Darkbloom -- who met up with you back in Barstow as promised. He's gazing at the Milky Way, lost in contemplation.

You sit up front beside Spancer.

"Why do you fuck?" Spancer asks you.

"...Huh?"

"Why do you fuck?"

You goggle at him. "Why do I... what? What the fuck kind of question is that?" You prop your cheek on one fist and gaze out the window at the nothing to your south. "God do you creep me out. Big time."

Darkbloom tears his eyes away from the sky. "Have I missed something?" He asks.

Spancer drops the line of questioning.

But, hell, maybe it's a good question after all. Why do you fuck? Well, you suppose, the obvious answer: because it feels good. And why do you go on a dangerous mission across state lines, to rescue people you hardly know, from an evil Russian bitch who wants to rule the world or some shit?

Well, you suppose, the obvious answer... it feels good.

Up ahead, dimly, you see the outline of Rowan's sedan. It pulls off the road towards a rest stop; Spancer, humanly incapable of fatigue, continues on.

At a gas station much further along the route, you steal someone's license plates and swap them with the already fake ones you had put on Will's in advance of this trip. If Rowan or his driver see a car with California plates behind them the whole way, it might flag his suspicions. Darkbloom makes some disapproving comments at this act of petty theft and fraud, but you give him the finger. Then, all together, you get back on the highway.

Darkbloom radios to the other group Rowan's whereabouts. Daddy and his fuckmobile will bring up the rear, and resume following Rowan whenever his car sets out on the next leg of the journey. But yours will be the one behind him when at last you cross the finish line.

Vail awaits.

---

"Alabaster. Come in."

"Boy, everyone wants you to come in today, huh?" Kay says.

You frown at her. Picking up the walkie talkie, you respond to Darkbloom: "I'm here."

"And so are we," Darkbloom replies. "Rowan has arrived. We have the coordinates of Mara's compound." He tells them to you, and Noelle diligently writes them down.

"What do you see?" You ask him.

"From the outside it appears to be a server farm. It's gated off, though, and well-manned. Rowan turned down a private access road, so we couldn't follow him without alerting him... but Amber scouted it out on foot. She says the compound is quite impenetrable."

You hear Amber in the background. "That's not what I said. I said it's closed off tighter than Mara's cunt."

"She doesn't think we can sneak in," Darkbloom says.

"Tell him that. Tell him that thing I said," Amber pipes up in the background.

"Will you be quiet?" You hear Darkbloom hiss at her.

"Tell him, though--"

"We need to make a decision," Darkbloom says. "We can try to brute force our way in or prod for an opening."

"What kind of opening are we prodding for?" You say. "If it's as impregnable as you say--"

"Impenetrable. I said impenetrable--"

"That's not what I said," comes Amber's voice.

"If it's so impregnable, then what are we going to do?" You demand.

"There are some cabins just up the highway from here. There's nothing else for miles around, so I think perhaps they belong to the people in Mara's employ. We could rendezvous there and try to find a weak link."

"Pros and cons?" Noelle asks.

"Hello Agent Keki," Darkbloom says wryly. "Pros and cons... well, if successful, we can potentially reach Mara's inner sanctum before she knows it. If unsuccessful... we can potentially end up on the outside of a locked-down facility that's as impenetrable as a medieval fortress... with armed men coming after us all."

"Okay, and the other option?" Noelle continues.

"Violence. We get in touch with the security firm I recommended -- mercenaries, you know. Wait an hour or two for their helicopters to show up... from there it becomes all-out assault. Follow behind them and hope no one we love gets caught in the crossfire..."

[ ] Guns a-blazin'. Kill All Russians.
>[x] Stealth. Find a way in all sneaky like.

Finally, the two groups are one; your Volt and that weirdo Will's Golf are parked together atop a hill overlooking a small cluster of cabins in the woods. The autumnal foliage gives it all a quaint sort of picturesque quality -- it would be perfect scenery for a cheap oil painting in a doctor's office.

"Daddy~" Amber says, hugging you.

You try push her away, but weakly, and she clings on with a hungry tenacity. "I told you to cut it out with that shit," you say.

"Yeah, sorry, but I'm just super jazzed that we all made it here in one piece."

Rose laughs. She nudges you. "This is rich. You're the big bad Camelia's daddy now?" She casts a glance in Amber's direction. Still laughing, she adds: "I guess that makes me your Mommy now, too? Haha."

"Yeah, I guess so," Amber replies, still hugging you, one side of her face pressed to your chest.

Rose blinks rapidly, confused and taken aback by Amber's unquestioning acceptance of that jokey premise.

"I don't get it," Will says, "he's like barely a few years older than you. How can you see him as, like--"

"Shut it," Amber barks. She's still hugging you.

Spancer points. "Target sighted."

Darkbloom, thankful it seems to have an excuse to stop listening in on this lurid conversation, raises binoculars to his eyes. He huffs. "Of course," he mutters.

"What is it?" Kay asks.

"Lev Kerimov," Darkbloom says. "He's a programmer who used to work for me before I fired him. He's of some relation to Mara... second cousin, I think."

Kay, gazing upward and thinking for a moment, finally replies: "No... second cousin, twice removed, to be precise."

Darkbloom looks askance at her. "Really? You can recall her family tree that precisely?"

"Sure. I've only been elbow deep in your dirty business for the better part of two years, David. I've got a pretty good mental map of it all."

He seems sincerely impressed. He turns and resumes his lookout. "Lev is surely working closely with Mara on this project. He's competent in technical matters, but an utter buffoon besides... he could be our pathway in."

"All right," you say. "What do we do next?"

"Let's go knock on his door."

---

Darkbloom literally knocks on his door. You, Rose, Noelle, and Amber huddle just out of view; Kay, Spancer and Will are back by the cars, waiting, should anything go wrong.

From inside the cabin you can discern the shuffling of heavy feet, then the unlatching of deadbolts and sturdy locks.

"Dalton?" Lev says when at last the door is open. "I did not know that Mara had sent for you so soon."

"She didn't tell you?" Darkbloom says, feigning surprise. "Well, that's disappointing. You should have already been apprised -- there is a lot to discuss. We've hit a snag with the activation of Sand Reckoner. Your assistance is required to fix it."

"Of course." He steps back and lets Darkbloom inside.

The door shuts. You can hear only faintly then their voices, nothing intelligible -- but whatever smooth diversions Darkbloom works on the man, it's enough to get him to forget to relatch all the locks.

You, Rose, and Amber sneak in. Noelle remains outside, to scope for threats.

You scurry through the foyer with your girls, past the doorway facing the living room, where Lev and Darkbloom sit on recliners before a cozy fireplace. He doesn't notice you passing by, but you sure do notice him. Lev is unbelievably obese, and clad in only a tanktop and sweatpants, and his hairy chest and arms look more like they belong to an ape than a man.

It stinks like wet feet in this cabin, and the kitchen you find yourself in is piled high with old cartons of takeout and moldy dinner plates. Flies buzz all around. Amber and her new Mommy both plug their noses in disgust.

Darkbloom is prattling on, keeping Lev rooted in place with technobabble. You hear them through the thin walls.

"What level of access do you have to Darkbloom Analytics internal systems?"

"None at all!" Lev says. "You should know that, Dalton. This is why we are booting Whitney Darkbloom from the board, to then sell back the things we need to Mara."

"I'm just so concerned," Darkbloom presses. "This awful woman Whitney hired to be CIO... she has the entire Sand Reckoner platform on lock. Encrypted and fragmented... I fear that even once we get our hands on it again, it will be useless for our purposes."

"Anna Soliloquy!" Lev laughs. You wince to even hear her name in that piggish asshole's mouth. "Is it true that she is the Galatea who set this entire crazy last couple years into motion?"

"Yes she is."

"Haha! I saw her on television, you know. This is no problem. She would be easy enough to break. I would happily take a rubber hose to her myself, for the encryption keys... and maybe a hose of a different kind... if you know what I am saying."

You're headed for the doorway to the living room before you realize it. It's Rose who, grabbing your shoulder, stays you. She silently shakes her head at you.

Amber points at a staircase leading from the dining room up to the second floor. You and Rose follow her, treading lightly.

Lev's room is small but densely packed -- with soiled laundry scattered all around, nerd paraphernalia like Star Trek figurines and unopened Funko Pops littering the desktops and dresser drawer-tops; and a giant waterbed taking up most of the floorspace.

Rose roots through the drawers of his nightstand. Finding nothing useful, she moves on to the dresser, while Amber scouts out his closet. You're not sure what you're all looking for, honestly; but if you find something worthwhile, you'll all know it.

While they scour the room, you notice, sitting in the corner, a camcorder mounted on a tripod. Curious, you go over to it and turn it on, and begin to scan through its memory.

"There we go," Rose says, pulling a lanyard from a pegboard on the wall. "This looks like a security badge. They must have doors you can scan into."

But you're hardly paying attention. Instead you're watching the video on the camcorder's tiny screen. Sick revulsion courses through you, a dark and murderous rage you've only rarely felt, as you witness what the video shows you. Why does he... why does he look so happy...?

"Alabaster...?" Rose says. "Alabaster? What's wrong?"

You're thudding down the stairs like an elephant, gun in hand, while Rose and Amber impotently follow in an attempt to stop you. Then you're through the kitchen, straight into the living room, and Lev and Darkbloom alike are staring up in surprise at you.

You point your gun at Lev. He holds both his hands up, petrified. "Wh-- M-Mr. Soliloquy--?"

"Alabaster!" Rose shouts, stomping her foot, almost crying in frustration. "Goddamn it! Goddamn it, Alabaster! What are you doing!"

"Where are they?" You demand.

"I do not know--" Lev begins to lie.

"Where are Alex and Renee!" You roar. You point at him, repeatedly, wildly, with your gun. "Where are they! Tell me right now, motherfucker!"

Darkbloom is rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm, utterly at a loss for words, but clearly angered.

"Th-they are working at the moment... debugging the final pieces of Diogenes. Please -- please do not shoot --"

You shoot him. Right in one of his fat, crusty feet. Blood and bone fragments spray everywhere. He bowls over, falling to the floor with a thud, clutching his wound, howling in agony. The pistol's report rings in your ears. Noelle, hearing it, rushes into the cabin with her own gun drawn. "Oh my god," she says, when she sees what she's walking into.

"Jesus Christ!" Darkbloom shouts. "You stupid, irrational, rash, unaccountable--"

"Owww-- owww--!" Lev repeats over and again, then a string of Russian obscenity, as he rocks back and forth like a giant infant. Darkbloom is on his feet, pacing back and forth, so mad he can't produce enough synonyms and insults to lob at you.

You squat and look Lev square in his beady eyes. You get your gun up under his chin. "We'll get you patched up. Lev. Lev. Lev!" You hit him with the butt of your pistol to put a lid on his melodramatic wailing. He gets the message. "We're going to patch up that bullet wound. And then after that, you're going to take Dalton here into your little server farm. You'll get Alex and Renee from where they're working, and bring them back here for me. And after that, you'll help Dalton kill Mara."

"I... I..." Lev snivels.

"If you fail to do any of this," you sneer, "I will slowly -- oh so fucking slowly peel the flesh off your bones. If you want even a 1% chance of living out the rest of your life in an un-degloved state, you'll do exactly what I fucking tell you to do. Are you listening to me?"

"Y-yes," he says, cowering from your gun.

"Do you have a first aid kit?"

"The bathroom," he says.

You nod at Noelle, and she goes to get it.

You stand tall again and peer down at this fat, pathetic fucking turd whose hopes you've pinned everything onto. Darkbloom begins to say something to you, but stops, finally and ultimately speechless at what you've done to the plan.

"Can I just say?" Amber asks, sidling up to you. "I'm really fucking wet right now."

---

Noelle finishes dressing Lev's wound. She can't hide the disgust on her face at handling this man's bunions, even with gloved hands, and Lev's babylike weeping and moaning isn't helping matters. Alabaster keeps his gun on Lev just in case the fat fuck gets any funny ideas. Lev, lips all aquiver, asks Darkbloom: "did you know about this?"

What a stupid twat, seriously. What kind of subbasement-level IQ does it take to witness this string of events and not think "Dalton" is a conspirator too?

Darkbloom is quick on the uptake, and plays innocent: "No, I didn't... they must have followed Rowan and me here. We had better do what they say... these are violent people."

Lev nods.

"You have half an hour," Alabaster tells Lev. "Bring Renee and Alex back to us safe, and you two might get out of here alive."

"Yes... yes," Lev says.

"Where is Mara?" Rose demands.

"I do not know... in all honesty I don't. She may be at the server farm or she may be somewhere else entirely... she doesn't keep me informed."

"She's here," you say. "That Rowan fucker came to meet her." You look at Lev. "Is there anything like a head office or something in there?"

"Sure, yes."

"There's your best bet," you say.

---

You lie with Noelle on the floorboard of Lev's beamer. Up front, good old David Darkbloom rides shotgun alongside the fat ugly bastard himself. Trojan horsing your way inside was your idea naturally, and Noelle volunteered to be your meat shield. What a nice girl. Really working overtime to change your opinion on cops.

Space back here is limited, which is real fucked up given how pricey a BMW is. The least they could do is give people legroom. You have to lie curled up with Noelle, limbs intertwined. You're pretty used to getting too close for comfort with other girls by now, but Noelle is a bit gun shy. She has a look on her face like someone who just got a Fabergé egg hurled at them -- a doe in headlights -- she's unsure what to do or how to move. Her whole body is tense and her breath is catching.

"Are you nervous?" You whisper.

"How could I not be?" Noelle whispers back. "We're on a suicide mission--"

"Not that," you say. "I mean about holding a pretty girl in your arms."

"That's awfully vain," Noelle says. "Anyway, redheads aren't my type."

"You have a type?"

"I -- will you stop it already?"

"If this really is a suicide mission, don't you think you ought to come out of the closet before you die?"

"Just because I like cute girls doesn't mean I'm gay," Noelle hisses.

"That is literally the dictionary definition of gay."

"I'm moesexual. There's a difference."

"Oh, and I'm not moe? That really hurts my feelings. I'm gonna tell my older sister on you for that."

"Tell her. What the hell is that pink haired weeb gonna do about it?"

You shrug. "I'unno. March up to you and yell something like, 'anta baka!'"

"Ugh. Don't do that."

"Anta baka! Anta baka!"

"I can't believe this is the last conversation I had before I died."

"You're not gonna die," you tell her. "But... just in case, here's one for the road."

You give Noelle a kiss. Just a peck on the lips, but it's enough to steal her breath. She turns a vibrant red, about the right shade to blend in with that hair of yours she claims not to like. She chokes on her own surprise and trepidation. Her brown eyes, usually so steely, are big and bashful.

"You wanna try that again?" You ask.

"...O-okay."

You kiss Noelle a second time. This one lasts. Your lips drift apart, your tongue slips into her mouth. She exhales hard through her nose and stops resisting -- lets you do it to her. Squirming against your body, she begins to loosen up until she's like putty in your grasp. It isn't long before she's kissing you back. You and Noelle make out together without shame. She's an excellent kisser despite a purported lack of experience. Either she's a dirty liar, or years of yuri anime taught her a thing or two.

She pulls away from your kiss long enough to say, "this is wrong... you're too young."

"I'm legal in the state of Colorado," you tell her. "It's fine."

"You're not really involved with the others back at the Nail House too, are you? That's just a front you're putting on, right?"

"Do you wanna know?"

She's unsure.

"You worry too much," you finally tell her. You tickle her cheek with your nose. "Let's just enjoy each other's mouths, huh?"

She shivers as you press yourself to her and force another series of deep, loving kisses on her.

Lev parks the car in a gravel lot just outside the facility. He and Darkbloom step out. Poking your head up like a prairie dog from between the console, you peer out the windshield and scan your eyes around. There are several dozen cars parked out here. At the other side of the lot, standing against the facility's long, white concrete wall, are a couple armed men. They guard a singular, normal-sized steel door, which is white like the walls -- looks like a back entrance.

Bummer about the heat. It'll be tough to get in without those mooks seeing you. Darkbloom also realizes this, because before he leaves, he tells you through the corner of his mouth: "stay here for now."

"You're not my real dad," you tell him with a middle finger.

He shakes his head and closes the door. He motions for Lev to lead the way. They go, and exchange some pleasantries with the guards -- who let them inside without incident. So far, so good.

"Guess we're stuck here, huh," Noelle says. "Joy."

"Naaah," you say, lying back down with her. "There's tons of cars. All we have to do is skulk around until we find one with a burglar alarm. Set it off as a distraction... sneak in while Rosencratz and Guildenstern investigate."

"Risky," Noelle says.

"Riskier than trusting the Incredible Blob to free the hostages? Besides, it's not like we're safe just because we're hiding out in this car. Anyone could walk by and see us lezzing out back here."

"Lezzing-- ghh-- you are absolutely--"

"Forget it. Your lily hasn't fully bloomed yet, it's fine."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know." You nod at her with raised eyebrows, but she doesn't take the bait. "Well, what do you think, then? Stay put or skediddle?"

"You're the brains of this operation. Apparently. I'm the muscle. It's your call."

>[x] Stay put with Noelle.
[ ] Sneak in.

You wait anxiously on the hood of Will's car, binoculars trained on the cabins below. And further along the road, you can see, just barely through the treetops, the server farm's south side. Rose, perhaps a bit uncharacteristically, rubs your shoulders for you. You wonder whether she's trying to sooth your anxiety or her own.

"Wanna know what's it stand for?" Will is saying to Kay, somewhere behind you. He doesn't wait before revealing it: "Gallon of nuts a day."

"Oh, I see you and Alabaster have the same diet," Kay replies.

"You do GONAD?" Will asks you.

"Shut up," you bark. You can hardly stand to breathe right now -- literally, given the altitude -- nevermind deal with this moron.

Spancer suddenly announces: "Alabaster. Vehicles at 3 O'Clock."

You swivel your head around and look where Spancer directed you, but you don't see anything.

"That is 9 O'Clock," Spancer says.

Fuck. You look the other way. There they are: a small caravan, and at their head a car you recognize -- Tyrus Kang's. The cars park just to the side of the access road leading towards the server farm. Confirmation, then: out hops the man himself, along with a whole cadre of equally vicious looking men, all of them toting rifles. They're not here to make peace, that much is certain. And strapped across Tyrus's back, something else you recognize: a baseball bat. Not just any baseball bat.

"What is he doing here?" Rose breathes.

"You know what he's doing here," Kay says.

"Why now..." Rose says. "Why now, of all times... goddamn it. God fucking damn it."

Any hope of a stealthy extraction just got blown to pieces.

>Who, if anyone, will go down there? (Alabaster, Rose, Spancer)
>Will you try to scramble the PMC Darkbloom recommended? (Yes)

There's a second walkie-talkie in Will's Golf which Darkbloom says can be used to get in touch with his contact at the PMC. It's a man you know -- he was Darkbloom's personal driver, but he wasn't just a driver after all. You know him as Damon. He quite resembles another Damon you've known. And given everything you've seen in the past year or so...

No time to think about that now.

"Come in," you say into the radio.

There's a long, agonizing silence on the other end. Finally, then: "Aye. This Alabaster?"

"Yes."

"Dalton and Whitney and 'em said you might be getting in touch. Need a helping hand, then?"

"How soon can you get everything you've got to Vail, Colorado?"

"Ehhh..." he says, thinking on it. "For a million dollars a head, two hours. That's ten heads we're sending by the by. For double the price, one hour."

You hear the whir of helicopter rotors overhead and feel the wind rushing all around you. Your shirt and your hair billow.

Looking up, shielding his eyes from the sun, Will says: "Now that's what I call freaky fast."

But it isn't Damon's PMC. More like PRC. The copter has a Chinese flag painted on its tail. Sitting at the open door is a man in an armored vest, and he has those ghostly blue, cataract eyes. He looks blindly down at you as the copter passes not even 50 feet overhead. It's flying towards the facility.

"You get here as fast as humanly possible and I'll pay whatever price you name," you tell Damon.

"Aye."

---

Lev leads Darkbloom to a small series of workstations arrayed in front of the nearly infinitely vast rows of server towers. The setup is reminiscent of Mercury transiting the sun.

The programmers here all seem to be packing up, ready to head home for the day, although it's not even lunchtime. Renee and Alex are nowhere to be seen, although Darkbloom can clearly see where they used to be -- at the workstations with handcuffs dangling from them.

Lev says something in Russian to one of his only slightly less rotund colleagues, then relays the bad news to Darkbloom: "We've missed them."

"I can tell that, you--" Darkbloom begins, then stays his tongue. He can barely hide his fear and anger. He presses for information. "Are they back in their holding cell?"

"Erm..." Lev says. "I think the plan for after Rowan's arrival was..." He draws a forefinger across his throat in the universal signal for execution.

Darkbloom balls his fists. The fear and anger have morphed into panic and rage.

"We should find Mara and tell her we have been compromised," Lev says. "This is the intelligent move."

"Yes... yes," Darkbloom agrees. "Let's do that."

From bad to worse -- into the area now comes Rowan himself, and he's obviously surprised. "Dalton? What are you doing here?"

Even in the grip of animal panic, Darkbloom can thread the needle of deception gracefully. His answer is suitable for both Lev and Rowan, preying on their lack of coordinated information. "I just finished meeting with Lev. Something terrible has happened -- I came at once. We need to discuss it in private."

"Of course," Rowan says, "but how did you find--"

Darkbloom leads him by the shoulder towards the server towers. Confidentially, to Rowan: "Mara told me to speak with you. This is urgent." Then, over his shoulder, to Lev: "Please go and check on Alex and Renee in their cells. See whether you might intercept them. Come back with them if you do."

Lev is confused, but compliant.

"Why are you concerned over those two?" Rowan demands, walking back with Darkbloom into the forest of servers. "Their work is finished. And -- honestly." He stops in place. "What are you doing here? This is highly unusual. You weren't supposed to know this site's location."

Darkbloom glances back, to make sure they're out of view of the little hive of worker bees at the front. They are.

"Dalton?"

Darkbloom pulls a knife from his pocket and sticks it into Rowan's side. Rowan gasps in pain, and Darkbloom covers his mouth with a palm to muffle the cries. Squatting, he follows Dalton as Dalton slumps against one of the servers and slides down onto his butt.

"Shh. Shh. Be quiet. If you make a sound, I will kill you."

Rowan nods his understanding. Darkbloom uncovers his mouth.

"Tell me where Renee and Alex are," Darkbloom says.

"I... I don't know..." Rowan wheezes. "They're finished... probably dead by now... what does it... ahh--" He groans in pain, unable to stop it, and Darkbloom covers his mouth again.

"Your life hinges on this, Rowan. Where are they?"

When he lets go of Rowan's mouth, again: "I don't know -- this is the honest truth--"

"Where is Mara?"

"Upstairs... she has a room there... but it's well guarded... Dalton -- why--"

Darkbloom covers his mouth again, and this time the knife goes into Rowan's heart. He keeps Rowan muffled until he's sure the last of his life is gone from him.

In the silence that settles, as Darkbloom stands, he notices a strange whir in the air. He's never been a hardware specialist, but he does know a thing or two about how a server farm should sound. This isn't it.

He puts his ear up against one of the towers -- and almost singes it. The metal cases are blazing hot. He tests a few more of them down the line, this time with his fingers -- all the same. There is something dreadfully wrong here... these server towers are beyond overclocked. Their processors are burning up, and there's nowhere for the heat to go. With stomach sinking, Darkbloom realizes he's standing in the middle of a funeral pyre.

---

"Okay, we'll stay put." You nuzzle Noelle and kiss her again. But when your hand drifts south, she swats it away.

"No," she says.

"Don't be so stuck-up."

"We can't get carried away in the middle of what could very well become a warzone any second. The last thing we need is to get literally caught with our pants down."

"I'm noticing here that you aren't refusing my advances on the basis of my being a girl."

"Shut the fuck up. Just shut up," she repeats, between searching kisses.

"Do you think girls can love girls, Noelle?"

"Shut up."

"You're right..." you finally agree. Her breath is minty and hot against you. "It's not the time for--"

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."

"Calm down, Keki. Now is not the time for fucking. That comes later."

Whatever Noelle was about to retort, gets cut off by the whine of a helicopter overhead... followed almost immediately by the rapid pings of automatic gunfire from the ground level.

When you peek your head up, you see a whole squad of strapped-down black dudes straight up murdering the fuck out of the handful of guards at the back exit. Their brains paint the white walls red. More of Mara's forces are responding, though, streaming out from the building, and the parking lot is fast turning into the warzone Noelle warned you of. Meanwhile, the helicopter is setting down on the rooftop. Chinese. They're headed for the vents.

You settle back in with Noelle. "I wish I was naked right now. I think I just shit my pants."

---

"Drive us down to the access road," you tell Kay. "Down by where Tyrus and his guys parked. Slash their tires, then come back up here and wait. Will, you too."

"For sure, for sure," Will says. He salutes you.

"We'll go on ahead," you finish, indicating Rose and Spancer. "On foot from that point."

"This is a monumentally stupid fucking idea," Kay says. "What is it you think that you, Mrs. Third Wave and Sapncer-bot are going to do against not one but three armies?"

"Save the people we love," Rose says, toting her shotgun.

"We'll be closer to the extraction point anyway," you say. "Everything's going to shit, so we need to be able to get out of here as soon as we have everyone back."

"I know a thing or two about warzones," Kay says. "When it goes tits up like this, you don't get everyone back."

"Yeah, well you should know that no one gets left behind either," you spit.

Kay shakes her head in exasperation. But she knows she won't win.

---

At the mouth of the access road, Kay watches the trio depart.

She and Will set to dutifully slashing the cars' tires, to head off any high-speed chases.

"We're gonna fucking die," she mutters under her breath as they work.

"Nah," Will says. "Amber's got this."

"Amber is a teenage girl who thinks terrorists are cool. That's it. If she didn't idolize Emma Goldman, she would have latched on to one of the boys in One Direction instead. That's who we're relying on? We're gonna fucking die."

"Why are you smiling?" Will asks, confused.

What Kay says to him cannot be repeated. He meekly returns to the Volt. A few moments later, Kay finishes popping tires and rejoins him, and they drive back up to the hilltop to wait.

A few minutes after Kay returns to the top of the hill, with the firefight in full swing down below, she hears a harsh voice from behind her: "Yo! Who the fuck are you!"

She twirls -- sliding down off the hood of the Volt at the same time as she spins 180 degrees, so that she's squatting, behind the cover of the car, facing towards the interloper.

"You slash our fuckin tires, bitch? Who are you?!"

From the gap between the car's chassis and the ground, can see his feet approaching. Will is ducked down in the driver's seat of his Golf, trying not to be seen. Will is not so confident all of a sudden, it seems.

Kay pulls her gun, stands quickly, and fires half-blindly. But in her fright, she only manages to nail him in the stomach -- not a fatal shot. Howling, the man dives behind the cover of the Golf, and Kay can hear him on his radio: "Yo, we've been made... some bitch slashed our tires... I tracked her back -- we're on a hill--"

Kay whistles, and Lady comes bounding, slobbering, slathering. Kay points her animal towards the target -- "sick!" she says -- and he obeys. The man's report of their location becomes a bloody, wailing gurgle as Lady jumps on top of him and tears into his esophagus.

Kay beckons Lady back to her. The tawny fur around his mouth is stained crimson. "Fuck, that was close," she says to him. She squats down. "Good boy. That's a good boy. Let's clean that off, huh?" She takes a handkerchief from her purse and wipes his mouth. He keeps trying to push it back with his snout, to lick her face. He's proud of himself, and happy that his master is safe. She laughs and pushes him back. "Come on. Stop it. Yuck."

She finishes cleaning him off, then ruffles the fur around his neck. "Good job. You stay here with mommy, okay? Be a good boy, Lady."

Lady bobs his head in agreement, smiling in his doggy way, still loving on his master. He pushes his cold nose past her upheld palms and insists on licking her face. His stubby tail wags like mad.

"Good boy. Who's a good boy?" She repeats, petting him.

And it all happens so quickly: a bang, a yelp, Lady's paws collapsing out from under him. Kay falls back to one hand, shielding her face with the other arm. The man Lady killed was not alone. And now his vengeful partner has a shotgun leveled at Kay's face.

Kay's life literally flashes before her eyes -- she sees her entire life from her earliest memory up to today, and she regrets it all.

This isn't the day she dies. Lady is on this man, too. A blur of black and tan flies through the air like a targeted missile, and tackles him, and viciously tears into his face. Lady mauls the the man beyond recognition.

Kay scrambles forward over the dusty ground, hands and knees. Lady is done -- the last of his strength sapped, used up in defense of his master. Kay pulls the bloody animal off the dead man. Human and canine blood intermingle -- Lady's fur is darkly matted all over with it. Horrified, Kay runs her hands along Lady's stomach, and finds the enormous wound there. Lady yelps again, pitifully, when she touches it. When she jerks her hand away, there's so much gore coating it that the blood drips black instead of red. His intestines aren't fully on his inside anymore.

She shakes her head, tears streaming down her face, and locks eyes with her dying pet.

"Lady... Lady, no--"

He tries to rise to his feet again, to lick her -- to love on her -- but he can't. His chin hits the dirt. Kay gets down on her stomach in front of him. She's weeping. "Lady--"

He whines at her. She pets him. The glimmer in his beady eyes is uncomprehending, and full of pain, but there's love there too -- and Kay returns it. Then he's gone.

On wobbly legs, Kay stands. Her entire front is covered with blood now, too -- jeans, shirt, and peacoat. Her face, though tear-streaked, has gone completely blank. She stares down for a moment or two at the grisly sight before her.

The she turns, gets into the Volt, and fires it up.

Will is out of his car, shouting. "Yo! Hold on! We're supposed to wait! Where are you -- Kay! Kay!"

But Kay is already burning rubber, peeling out, down the hill, and back towards the server farm.

---

Spancer leads the phalanx, such as it is -- you and Rose finding some measure of cover behind his wall of muscle. You depart with him down the long, winding access road, which is lumpy, and not well paved. The walk takes longer than you expected. Five, ten minutes pass, and as you draw closer, the sound of gunfire and shouting fills the air. Tyrus and his men have drawn first blood.

"Watch your six," Spancer warns you.

You at least are capable of telling where your 6 O'clock is, thankfully.

A couple minutes later, down the road, running the opposite way, come a few enemy noncombatants -- men in polos and khakis who are lumpier than the road. They freeze when they see the three of you marching forward with guns at the ready. These must be some of Mara's little helper-elves. Spancer, keeping his shotgun on them, asks you over his shoulder: "Should I shoot them?"

"Please..." they beg. "Please... we are not armed..."

You think about it for a moment or two. You and Rose confer wordlessly, making eye contact, considering pros and cons.

Finally: "Let them go--" you begin, but stop when you hear the whine of an engine behind you, its Doppler-warped sound fast approaching.

You, Rose, and Spancer only barely manage to jump out of the way. Your Volt comes barreling down the road, kicking up plumes of dust in its wake. The men you just tried to spare aren't so lucky. The car mows them down. It only slows a tiny bit as it plows through them. You glimpse Kay behind the wheel, bloody, and wild-eyed. Then the car is gone, and you're coughing as the plumes of dust surround you like a whirlwind. When the dust settles again, you see that the men Kay hit are alive, but suffering some pretty serious injuries. Broken bones, a cracked head... they're groaning and bleeding, and need a hospital.

"What the fuck," Rose shouts. She kicks at nothing like an NFL punter.

"Come on," you tell her and Spancer. "Let's just keep going." You step gingerly past the men who are begging for help with outstretched arms.

---

You watch from inside Lev's beamer. Tyrus Kang and his men have prevailed, at least in this skirmish -- Mara's people aren't contesting the perimeter of the facility anymore. Probably they're too busy with the sneaky Chinese inside.

Tyrus, walking in wide lazy circles, pulls his baseball bat from his back. "Mara! I know you're listening in there, cunt bitch! I ain't here for you! Send Alex Best out and we'll get going! That little cocksucker belongs to me! You give him up and I'll be finished with you! You hear!"

The door opens, and men inside fire out at them. Tyrus's men fire back, and force the defenders back in.

"Don't make this shit harder than it's got to be!" Tyrus yells. "You're a smart lady, Mara! Gimme what I want!"

In the midst of the distraction -- a car comes screaming through the lot. Tyrus and his men scatter, but not soon enough. They're shooting wildly at the sudden intruder.

It's Kay, in Daddy's Volt, and she runs two of the gangsters fatally down. Then, stepping forth from the car, a boomstick in hand, she dispatches three more with a Terminator-esque efficiency that Spancer fucking Jardan only wishes he could have.

Tyrus, jogging in reverse, whistles through thumb and forefinger. He and his men retreat, into the facility, guns a-blazing. These dozen or so armed men have decided to chance it with whoever is in there rather than stay and fight a single woman.

Maybe Tyrus's tactical decision was informed by what's in his head. His eyes are blue.

And Kay, unbe-fucking-lievably, follows them into the building. No hesitation.

"Jesus! What the hell did I just see?" Noelle yells.

"You just saw Pulitzer prize winner Kay Vera, covered in blood, going on a murder spree."

>[x] Go help her.
[ ] Stay here.

Into the bluishly lit interior of the facility, fingers on your triggers -- you and Noelle are ready to ice any motherfucker who comes at you.

Kay is only a few yards ahead, and she's already busy with the icing. A litter of dead Russians are scattered around the floor, the blue tile streaked red with blood.

In fairness, some of these dead men -- a mix of programmers and soldiers, it looks like -- are probably kills belonging to Tyrus's goons. But Kay is definitely a gleeful participant in the slaughter. As you enter, you see her getting the barrel of a shotgun under one scruffy man's chin and blowing out the top of his skull.

You guess these people probably deserve it for working for Mara, but fuck, that guy wasn't armed, and he definitely wasn't a threat.

"Kay!" Noelle calls. "Jesus tittyfucking Christ, what are you doing!"

"Leave me alone!" Kay yells.

Noelle, then, spins -- there's a man charging you at you 3 O'Clock, one of Tyrus's. Noelle shoots him in the head before he can fire. He collapses the ground, momentum unarrested by his death -- his body skids with a cringe-inducing squeaking noise, across the floor, chin-first, to settle at your feet.

The ozone-tainted stench of singed electronics fills the air. You guess that all these ruined PC workstations, riddled with bullets, are the reason... but the smell is pretty strong. Somehow it seems like there's something else, something more than a few blown-apart computers causing it. And god is it hot in here. You're sweating like a hog.

"They killed Lady!" Kay shrieks. "Those fucking nigger bastards killed him--"

"Okay, whoa--" you say.

Kay, with a savage grunt, raises her shotgun and fires -- up -- at the mezzanine overlooking the bloody floor, where black and Russian gangsters shoot it out. Kay wants in on it. She's running towards the stairs, forward towards the carnage -- so you and Noelle, with no other option, follow.

On the second story, you run after Kay, into a hallway that adjoins some offices and meeting-rooms. The fighting continues unabated in these cramped quarters.

You're quick enough to grab Kay by the shoulders before she gets too far down the hall, and together with Noelle you haul her back. She kicks and screams but you manage to force her into one of the rooms. Right now, the only people up here are all trying to murder each other, so you and Noelle both implicitly understand that the best thing is to hunker down, get Kay calm again, and regroup.

It's a conference room with glass windows, so maybe not the best cover; but then again, it lets you keep eyes peeled on what's happening outside. You hide beneath the long table with Noelle and Kay, watching. A few men, Russians, walk backwards past the windows, firing at unseen assailants; the illumination of muzzle flashes lighting their faces up, before they're hit, and fall in lifeless heaps. One of the Russians escapes death, though -- comes sliding into the room with you like a baseball player stealing second. When he sees he isn't alone in here, his eyes bulge. You fire at him, and miss. Noelle's aim is much better. She's notching kills almost as ruthlessly as Kay.

Across the hall, you can see into another meeting room that's identical to this one, save for the lights being out. There's a person in there hiding under the table just like you, though, you can tell -- and in the murk it's hard to make out, but you're pretty sure it's Dr. Renee Carte, MD, PhD. She seems to notice you at the same time as you notice her. She crawls forward, just far enough for you to see -- yep it's her. No sign of Alex Best, though.

You smile and wave. She gawks back at you and the other two, awestruck for a moment. And then she mouths something -- "get out"? You think that's what she's saying. You mouth back, "what?" to confirm -- but suddenly she shrinks back, fear on her face. You only realize why a split second later. Striding down the hall, cool as a cucumber despite the gunfire all around her, comes Mara Darkbloom herself. She passes by the conference rooms and out of view without taking heed of you cowering there, headed for Christ only knows where.

[ ] Chase her.
>[x] Let her go.

Noelle is trying to stand and go after her already, but it's Kay who drags her back.

"Let me go!" Noelle shouts. "What are you doing? I thought you were all murder-lust, huh? We kill Mara, and this is over! That's the mission!"

"It's not fucking over!" Kay yells. "And that isn't the mission! Listen -- we've got heat on us from all sides -- I don't want to see anyone else I care about fucking die today!"

You hear the mechanical chatter of servo-modulated legs. Down the hall, following Mara like a pack of obedient hunting dogs after their master: a whole horde of SMATTERS robots. Some of Tyrus's men who are foolish enough to contest them get jumped, and receive icepick-like legs through their skulls amid horrible shrieks of agony.

"Jesus," you breathe. Kay glances at Noelle -- that glance is wordless "told ya so" enough.

When the robots clear out, the coast is relatively clear for the moment, so the three of you hurry across the hall to where Renee is. You duck into the dark room with her.

"Heard you needed some help," you say.

"You need to get out of here," she hisses. "This whole place is about to go up in flames."

"Where's Alex?" Noelle asks.

"I don't know. We were getting taken out of our cell when this asshole Lev came by... he's got this thing for Alex, said he needed to see him about something... took him away. Then all this shit went down. Look, there isn't time -- you need to go. I'll find Alex, I'll be right out."

"No. No, no, no," Noelle says. "You don't have any combat training. I'll find him -- do you have any clue at all where he might be?"

"I -- why are you even here?" Renee asks Noelle. "Is this an FBI raid? I thought you got shitcanned, though--"

"It's a long story," you say. "Nevermind that."

"Is there anyone else with you?" Renee asks.

"Yes," Noelle says. "Alabaster and Rose. And--"

"Fuck," Renee grunts. "Where are they? We need to get them out, too."

"No idea," you say. "We all got split up..."

"What's this about the whole place going up in flames?" Kay says.

"Fuck, fuck, goddamn it" Renee repeats. "We need to get Rose and Alabaster out too. Bake sale -- Alex set it up -- earlier this morning. I don't know how. But we don't have a lot of time before--"

The whole building shakes, and you hear the whoomf of explosions down below. The shockwave ripples up through the second floor and shatters the glass walls of the conference rooms. The pressure differential nearly deafens you, literally. And then, below your feet, you feel the intense heat of the incipient fire.

"You weren't shitting about the not a lot of time thing," you say.

---

Right as you get to the gravel parking lot, running past the corpses littering the ground, past the still-idling Volt that is, itself, sitting on top of two dead men -- you get blown back by the shockwave of a massive explosion inside the facility. Rose and Spancer get knocked over too.

Dazed, you roll onto your stomach, clamber to your hands and knees, and look back up at the building. Through the blown-out steel door which now lies several yards away, you can see that the interior of the server farm is totally engulfed in flame.

Amber, and Kay, and Noelle, and Renee, and Alex -- are all inside that building. And it's burning.

You find your gun again where you dropped it, and stand, and start towards that doorway into hell.

"Alabaster!" Rose says, chasing after you.

"Wait here," you tell her sternly.

"No! No, I won't! I'm not letting you go in there on your own!"

You stop, turn, and grab her. "I think I'm going to lose some people today," you tell her. Your voice is catching. "I can't let you be one of them. Stay here."

"I'm not staying. I'm not staying."

"Rose--"

"No matter what happens, Alabaster -- no matter what! We stick together!"

She's crying. You kiss her.

"Together," you say.

"I love you, Alabaster."

"I love you too, Rose."

Spancer, gun in hand, passes you by. He leads the way. You and your wife follow him into the smoke and fire.

---

When Renee tries to stand, she wobbles, and has to brace herself against the conference room's table with a wince.

"What's the matter?" You ask.

"My ankle. They broke it when they kidnapped me... it's still in a lot of pain."

You bend over and pull up her pantleg to look at it. Her ankle is horrifically swollen, stippled black and blue, striated by burst veins. Broken, shit. More like shattered. It's a wonder she isn't screaming in agony right now.

"Let's get your weight off it, yeah?" Kay says. She gets the back of her neck under the crook of Renee's arm and steadies her, helping her to limp from the room. Renee struggles even in spite of the help. It's a hell of a sight. Kay looks like she just got off her shift at a slaughterhouse and Renee looks like a reject form Charles Dickens, face all grimy from days upon days of no access to a shower, stinking from having to wear the same clothes all this time.

"Just because you're helping me, doesn't change the fact that you're a two-bit MSM hack," Renee says.

"Yeah, yeah. Save your breath, old woman. You'll need it."

The hall beyond is empty of all save the dead. The firefight has shifted, to the stairwell at the hall's opposite side. You can see, past its entryway, a few steps up, the jackboots of some of the Chinese mercenaries who landed on the rooftop. Whatever goal they have is in there, and they're pursuing it ruthlessly, against the return fire of two factions of gangsters. Best to leave them to it.

You and Noelle keep eyes on Renee from both front and back as Kay leads her out of the hall, across the mezz, and down the stairs to the lower level. The blazing inferno grows by the second, but the stairs are still navigable thank god, and through the billowing smoke you can see your way clear to the exit.

"I knew you were here. Camelia."

You do an about-face -- there before you, emerging from the smoke, stands Mara Darkbloom. She's surrounded by her little army of battlebots. Skittery, four-legged steel nightmares like decapitated rabbit skeletons. A hundred or more. She snaps her fingers, and they lunge as a single coordinated entity, all towards you. Wildly, you foxtrot backwards a step or two and fire your gun, but you hit nothing. They floor you. Their metal bodies, scorchingly hot, burn your skin all over. They're so much heavier than they look, their feet are so much sharper.

One of them, reared back to its haunches on your chest, rights itself again and looks at you -- with no head, no face, and no eyes, but you can tell it's looking, all the same. It raises one of its forelegs, and the drillbit of its foot is pointed at your eyeball.

You scream.

But even as you cry out, suddenly the SMATTERS unit disappears with the tink and the spark of a bullet hitting the side of its body. Noelle shot the thing off you.

The other five or six of them that are still holding you down, plus the dozens of others, now have their ire set on her. As one, their bodies swivel and set their sightless sights on her. They fly at her. She's a quickdraw and a crackshot; levels her pistol and and hits three or four in the miliseconds before they have her on the ground. There's just too many, though. "Go!" She shrieks as they drag her down. "Run!"

Kay, with Renee in tow, follows the order, and they limp madly for the exit. You don't. You make a break for Noelle where she lies on the floor, and pry one of the SMATTERS from her face. It takes all the strength you knew you had and some you didn't, as it digs into Noelle's flesh and clings tenaciously, like a cat with its claws out. She howls with the pain of it, but finally you wrench the thing free.

You spin with it in your hands, all 20 or 30 pounds of it, and dropkick it into the fire. Two or three more are marching up Noelle's torso, and one of them, bladed foot whirring, stabs her right in the tummy. Noelle's neck tendons go taut and looking at the gushing wound she yells out: "NOOOOOO!" -- in despair more than pain.

You kick it away, but it's a hopeless situation, and now you're getting swarmed again too. Mara is already retreating.

More gunfire, again. But this is the friendly type. Mommy and Daddy are back, and they're pissed. They're firing into the sea of chittering robots surrounding you, point blank. Daddy even manages to march through them, even as they bite at his ankles, and he kicks a couple more of these metal abominations off Noelle with savage grunts. Rose2 meanwhile turns her fire onto Mara herself -- but misses. She pumps, and fires again, misses.

Mara doesn't even turn to look back at her, just keeps walking.

"How... how..." Rose2 repeats. She fires again. Misses.

Just before Mara's form fully disappears beyond the curtain of smoke, she finally does turn her head, and regards you all from her peripheral vision. "I'm only going where the bullets aren't."

Rose2 fires again. And misses again. Then she goes down, too, tackled by drones as well.

---

You only had a brief moment with Dr. Carte. Just the time it took for you to pass each other; you on your way in, her on her way out with Kay. She told you not to come in here, but you didn't listen.

Now Rose is going to die for it, and you won't save Amber or Noelle either. You've wasted the lives of the people you love.

You fire your gun at this mass of metal that moves with hivemind efficiency, and may as well be trying to finish off a hornet's nest with a slingshot. All you're doing is pissing them off. Noelle is already passed out from the blood loss, and Amber, kicking and screaming, tries to pull one of them off her as it hugs her face and shrieks at her. Rose twists around on the floor, trying to roll herself free, but can hardly move. You fire and fire again, hitting a couple, but every one you fell gets replaced by three more. It's over.

You yowl, then -- as one of the bots stabs you in the calf. You fall, too. You're covered with them, too. There's no one left to fight. This is it, Alabaster Soliloquy. This was your life.

tt -t- -t --- t-- -t --- t-- t-- tttt -t-- -t-- --- tt- tt-t tt- -t-t -t-

Spancer is marching backwards, towards the burning servers, clattering his shotgun against the tile in a strange syncopated rhythm. The robot that was so recently staring you in the face now is staring up at him, as if hypnotized.

You have no idea what it is, or why it works, but it does. It works on all of them; all these horrible robots turn their attention on him and follow like rats after the pied piper. They leave you, and Amber, and Noelle. As they stream towards him, he occasionally pauses to lift his shotgun, and blast some of them away, never breaking his reverse stride. The ones he doesn't hit just step right over their dead comrades, docile and transfixed.

"Spancer--" you begin.

He just nods at you.

Finally the robots seem to realize the deception. They stop; Spancer stops. Then they let loose an unholy screech in unison, and charge -- Spancer, arms wide open, lets them latch onto his body, his limbs, his face -- and carries them backwards at a sprint straight into the flaming wreck of the servers.

He's on fire; he's burning alive with the SMATTERS units, and the last you see of this strange man you hardly really knew, is his gloved hand, giving you a thumbs up.

"Noelle -- Noelle!"

You try to nudge her awake, but she's out. She's still breathing, but she needs medical attention right away or she won't stay breathing much longer.

"Amber... can you carry her out?" You ask. "I need to--"

"Fuck no I can't," Amber cries, standing. You can see red welts all over her where the SMATTERS units gave her some first degree burns. "Let's go, Daddy, please --"

"No... no, Alex is still in--"

Tyrus comes running down the stairs with the last couple of his lieutenants still standing. He's gunning for Mara, but when he sees you, he decides you'll do. "Motherfucker!" He shouts.

Rose is quicker on the trigger. Falling to her knees, she fells one of his two remaining cronies. The man totters forward, dead before he hits the ground. His top-heavy corpse tips over the stair's railing and into the fire below. The other of his mooks dives for cover as Tyrus himself, fearless, charges you like a bull.

Amber is quick on her feet too. She punches him. This 90-something pound little girl punches Tyrus Kang in the jaw. It sends him reeling. Not from the force of the punch, but the force of recognition. "Period blood..." he breathes. "No... no, you're -- you were Cripple -- not Period Blood -- how the f--"

Rose gets her shotgun against Tyrus's back. Tyrus, with agility you didn't think was possible, spins and shoves the gun from Rose's hands. It flies like a frisbee into the bullet-riddled PC workstations to her left. Weaponless, Rose goes wide-eyed in fright. But his back is to you now instead, and you do shoot him.

The bullet passes cleanly through him, from back to chest. He stumbles to one side, knocked off balance by the force of the gunshot, trying to stay upright. When you try to finish him off with a second bullet, he breaks into a stride, and disappears among the burning servers.

You step past Rose to give chase, but she takes your hand and stays you. "Don't -- just don't -- let's get Noelle out of here first."

Through the smoke now, another figure. Darkbloom. He's been shot, at least twice, once through the leg, and once through the shoulder, but it doesn't seem mortal -- just enough to make him pallid and uncoordinated.

"Renee," he gulps at you, tone of begging in his voice, stumbling to a stop before you. "Tell me... tell me you have seen her..." his face is streaked with tears.

"Help me get Noelle out of here," you tell him.

"Renee--"

"She's outside! Help me with Noelle!"

Darkbloom helps you unquestioningly at that. You carry Noelle by the arms and he carries her by the feet, out of the building.

Dr. Carte, waiting outside in the Volt with Kay, is aghast to see the man she assumes is Dalton Cantor working with you. You dump Noelle into the car, where her gushing blood quickly stains the backseat red.

"Oh god," Kay gasps.

Dr. Carte, immediately falling into surgeon mode, takes her coat off, wads it up, and applies pressure with it, to stanch the blood loss.

"Take Noelle back to Lev's cabin," you instruct Kay. "Do what you can for her and wait for Damon's team. I'll meet back up with you."

"Renee..." Darkbloom breathes, mind on one track. "You're safe..."

Face sweaty, hands bloody, she looks up in confusion at him. "No thanks to you, you worthless fucking--"

That's when she must notice it. Darkbloom didn't bother to wear contacts today since he isn't with Dalton's family; his eyes are a brilliant blue. He nods at her.

She looks back down at Noelle and keeps the pressure on her.

You run straight back into the burning building with your wife and wannabe daughter.

"Stop following me," you tell her. "Go back with the others--"

"No way. No fuckin' way. I'm in it to win it."

"You stupid goddamn zoomer... why do you always -- tch... fuck..."

Where would Alex be? If he even still is alive, that is. You have no idea the actual contours or layout of this facility, you've seen so little of it, and now half of it is burnt down. You wipe the soot and sweat from your brow and press onward.

Somehow, up seems like a good bet.

You pass over the half-collapsed staircase, Rose and Amber close behind -- down the body-strewn hallway on the second story -- into the bloody stairwell to the third story.

There are men still alive inside the stairwell. Chinese. They're finishing off the last of the Russians, and doing so methodically, marching from one to another of the gasping, wounded men and stabbing them through with combat knives.

The three of you level your guns on these Chinese mercs as soon as you see them. But they have hardly any reaction. They pause just a moment, straightening their spines, looking at you quizzically -- then return to their ghastly work.

You hold up your palm to stop your girls from shooting. They're going to let you pass. You walk by the carnage. The squelching of blades thrust through skin, the death rattles of wounded men, and ruffling of the mercenaries' kevlar vests as they slowly move around, are the only sounds.

Up you go, up two flights of stairs, ending at the double doors of an executive suite. You try to open them, but they won't budge. They're blocked from the other side.

Someone is barricaded in there.

You, Rose, and Amber push against the door, heaving, trying to get in. No use.

"Bāngzhù tā," one of the mercs shouts. Two of them come tromping up. They get on either side of you and your girls, pushing the door as well. With their strength, the doors drift easily open, as the table propped against it from the other side topples.

As soon as the doors are open, the mercs step off, and return to their slaughter.

You step inside. Alex is in here. He's cowering, and he's being bodily shielded by Lev. And Lev has a gun. And Lev fires the gun.

Rose startles, fires back, basically simultaneously with Lev's shot. It's over in an instant; she nails him in the gut, he falls to the side with a thud and a wheeze. Yellow-flecked gore seeps from his belly. Alex shrieks.

You hear a weird sort of gurgling noise to your left. You glance sidewise at Amber, source of that sound. Her upper body is swaying in a woozy sort of circle like a spinning pendulum. She looks up at you. One of her eyes is gone -- the skull and bloody orbit is visible in its absence. Her other eye locks with yours.

"Daddy?" She says. And then she falls over.

"She's alive!" Rose yells over and again. "She's still alive! Alabaster -- come on -- let's get her out of here -- Alabaster!"

The mercenaries are back. They march in, grab Amber by either arm. They drag her unconscious body out into the stairwell.

Rose is pitiless. She kills one of the kidnappers. You yourself are so beyond shock that you've passed to numbness and you cannot comprehend what you're seeing. Another mercenary just replaces the one who died, and they continue carrying Amber away. The others are in the room now, guns on you, to make clear that they won't tolerate another death.

"We take her now," one of them tells you. "No worry."

Rose follows them out, shotgun still raised. And you numbly follow her.

"Put her down! Give her back! I'll kill every last one of you!"

But her threats are empty. She can't shoot without signing your death warrants.

The mercenaries carry Amber up a final landing, then out a steel door to the rooftop where their heli is parked.

Approaching now is another helicopter. Damon's men. Moments too late to save Amber from being maimed, but maybe soon enough to save her life. The two Chinese mercenaries toting Amber get domed -- first one, then the other, with an efficient zip-zip of sniper fire from the moving copter overhead.

The remaining force of the Chinese merc squad, 7 or 8 of them, raise their guns at the circling craft. But their leader calls to them: "Chètuì." And with that, they just drop Amber to the ground, climb into their own helicopter, and fire it up. A tactical retreat. And Damon's group makes the tactical decision to let them go without a dogfight.

Rose, craning her neck up, shouts at Damon and his people. "This girl is injured! We need to get her to someone who can help her! We have a doctor with us--" She points at the cabins on the distance.

"Aye," Damon says. "Let's get her in, then." He has the pilot bring the heli down so it hovers just a foot or two above the gravel rooftop. A couple armored soldiers hop out and take Amber and load her in.

You turn back towards the door.

"Alabaster -- stop!!"

"You two coming?" Damon asks.

"We still have someone in there!" Rose tells him. "Keep a couple of your men here and help us!"

"We're not leaving our bird. Bad recipe for getting stranded. Either the wounded girl and the heli stay, or we go with it. Your pick."

"Take Rose too," you tell Damon.

"What?" Rose snaps.

"Get them both safe. Wait for me at the cabins north of here."

Some of the mercenaries hop out and grab Rose too, and force her in. She fights uselessly against them.

"Alabaster, don't do this -- Alabaster -- goddamn it--"

You're headed into the building again as the helicopter begins to ascend.

---

Kay races on foot to the hilltop to retrieve Will.

"You're alive," he says. "Holy."

"Holy is right," Kay says. "Let's go back down to the cabins. And be ready for anything."

He salutes her.

Kay looks around. "Where's Lady?"

"You wanna pay last respects and shit, right? I put him in the trunk for now... hope that's okay."

Kay blinks. "I... yes. Thank you... thank you, Will."

They set off together.

---

"Oh my god... oh my god..." Renee says as Damon's men drag Amber, half-moribund, into the cabin. They get Noelle off the hastily disinfected dining room table and put Amber on it: surgery patient #2 in less than half an hour.

Darkbloom looks down at her, as Renee wipes the gore and bits of blown-apart eyeball away, and tries to cauterize the bleeds. She comes hazily to, then--

---

There's that asshole. David Fucking Darkbloom. You're dying, and this fucker is going to be the last image you see. Not if you can help it.

You try to speak, but your throat is so goddamn dry. Your voice is barely a croak.

"Put it in me," you manage.

Darkbloom narrows his eyes at you.

"You know what," you tell him. You feel the warm blanket of sleepiness tugging at you again.

---

"No..." Renee says. "No. I will not. Not again."

"You must," Darkbloom says. He tries to hand her the grain, but she refuses it.

"Stop it! I won't do it!"

"Our situation requires that we do this."

"Fuck you! You bastard!" She's swatting his chest with balled up fists.

He presses the grain into her palm. "Think of where Mara might be headed next. We must intercept her."

Renee, crying, circles the table, and takes the grain's wire, and threads it into the socket, and begins to work.

Amber jerks, spasms -- begins to flop around. "MY EYE!" She wails. "MY EYYYYEEEE!"

Darkbloom holds her down.

---

Alex is on his hands and knees, crawling away from the morbidly obese man who's shitting himself as he dies.

You tug Lev by the collar of his shirt, get him onto his back. He looks uncomprehendingly up at you.

"I'm sorry," Lev says. "Don't wanna die... Please no..."

You get your gun under his chin and fire it. Again, and again, and again. You shoot him in the head until there's nothing left of it but mush and you're coated in a fine mist of blood.

When you turn around, Alex is gawking at you.

"Ally..." he says. "Are you..."

"You," you growl. "YOU." The rage and revulsion and bitterness and betrayal bubble up, biliously, and you're trembling with the seething anger of it. "You hid here up all this time, behind this, this, this..." You breathe raggedly, at a loss, then start again: "What you did with him-- and because of you--" you're standing. You haul him to his feet, too. "Because of you-- Because of you! Everything! All of this! You did this, didn't you!"

"A- A--" He doesn't move a millimeter.

"Go die for all I care! Worthless little shitstreak!"

The emotion drains from Alex's face. The fear and sadness return to nothing.

"Okay," he says softly.

You shake your head, almost shivering from the adrenaline of the moment, but confused by that response. You let go of him. "...What?"

"Okay Ally. I'll go die."

He steps past, slowly, and disappears down the stairwell.

You set after him, but the last of Tyrus's men lies in ambush. He tackles you at the first landing, and starts to beat you. You tussle with him, rolling around, trying to fight back, but you're a mess, and no fighter anyway.

It's only by luck that you find a knife on the ground, left behind by one of the Chinese mercs... you blindly swing it around in an arc and stab him in his temple. He collapses atop you, dead. You heave him off.

When you stand, Alex is gone.

The floor beneath you is hot to the touch, and you know the whole building below is fully engulfed. If Alex went downstairs, he's as good as dead already.

>[x] Follow him.
[ ] Leave him.

You're choking on the particles of thick black smoke, and your eyes burn, and you're coated in grime and sweat, as you traverse this collapsing building.

You're not alone down here in the second floor hallway. Alex is just ahead, you can see the outline of his form trudging sadly forward. You try to call out, but you choke again, and cough, and he doesn't acknowledge the sound, if he even does hear it.

"Got you!"

A wild-eyed, bloody, raging Tyrus pounces from one of the darkened rooms and smacks you with his bat. You fall to the ground amid a pile of glass shards from the broken windows of a conference room. You feel the abrasions and lacerations all over your hands and face.

You find your gun in your waistband and raise it on him and shoot him again. This one nails him in the belly. He roars, and falls back. "How the fuck do you--" he sputters. "How come I can't--"

Clutching at his side, he turns and tries to run, dragging his bat along the ground with him, but you have the advantage now. He's a limping, lumbering, wounded animal.

But he's still a threat. With the last surge of his strength he barrels into Alex up ahead like a charging linebacker, and falls with him to the floor. He straddles Alex and begins to choke him. Alex doesn't try to fight. Just gazes placidly back up at him. Welcoming it.

He must not be strong enough to do it with that bat anymore. Tyrus Kang is on his way out the door, and wants to make sure Alex goes with him. You won't let it happen. You pick the bat up: "Huh. This is what we used to kill your husband, isn't it?"

Tyrus looks your way. He grits his teeth. Lets go of Alex. Lunges for you.

You make contact with his skull and knock him back. A clean hit. Then another. You beat him unconscious, and then you beat him dead, and then you beat him past dead. And when you're done, you find that grain-sized implant in the mess there, and you make sure to grind it to dust with the bat, too.

Flames are licking the walls up ahead as Alex rises to his butt and stares up at you.

"Are you real?" He asks you. "I can't tell anymore... are you real, Ally? Are you really here?"

You get down on your knees and pull him towards you. You hug him. You kiss him on the top of his head. "I'm real," you tell him. "I'm real... I'm really here, and I love you."

His tears come, then. Your shoulder becomes wet with them as he grips your shirt and hugs you back. "I'm sorry..." he sobs. "I'm so sorry... I'm sorry..."

"Later. We need to go. Right now."

---

Renee affixes a piece of gauze over the ruins of your eye and the glowing grain of circuitry there.

You sit up. You swing your legs over the table. You stand.

You're weak. But you're standing.

"Don't--" Renee says. "Save your strength--"

You ignore her. You turn and look at Darkbloom.

"Camelia," he intones.

"No," you tell him, firmly. "Amber. I'm just Amber."

You glance towards the couch in the living where somehow despite not seeing her from where you stand, you know Noelle is lying. "Is she okay?"

"Is she okay?" Rose2 breathes. "Are YOU okay?"

"No."

"Mara--" Darkbloom says questioningly. "Do you have any idea where Mara--"

"Yes," you say. "She's weak... alone... on the road."

Damon, ankle on knee, nods happily. "We'll find her if you can give us a bead on--"

"No," you say. "Needs to be me. You wouldn't be able to do anything against her."

"Can you get to her?" Darkbloom asks.

"I don't know," you admit truthfully.

"This may be our last chance," he says.

>[x] Go after her.
[ ] Regroup.

"Hrrrng, Colonel." Will smiles at you. "Hrrrng... Colonel. Say it."

"Go to hell."

"Come on. It's cool."

You fiddle with the makeshift gauze patch over what was once your eye. You're still woozy with the loss of blood and the trauma and whatnot, it's true... but this thing in your head is like a jolt of energy straight into your endocrine system.

There's also this, to help keep you up and at 'em: Will is racing down a treacherous mountain road, pulling about 80 or so, navigating the jackknife turns with ease. Up ahead is Mara's sedan, and Will's Golf is gaining fast.

"I just need one good look at her," you tell Darkbloom, who's riding bitch.

Darkbloom looks half seasick, and keeps casting worried glances out the window to the sheer drops below, that have only rickety guardrails to protect you.

Mara's car veers left and right, heading off Will's every attempt to pull alongside. The madwoman herself is driving -- the only person remaining of everyone who died back at her server facility. She's excellent at maneuvering the vehicle, aided no doubt by her implant, but her servers are up in smoke and with that, her grip on power is flagging. She needs the juice, and she's got nowhere left to slurp it from. Cut off from her homebrew, cut off from DBA. On an island. Stranded. You just need one good opening... just one... to finish her off.

"Redline it," you say.

"You got it, Snake."

He redlines it.

His front bumper hits Mara's rear fender and causes her to fishtail. Around a wide curve with yellow signs warning of falling boulders, Will tries to force her off -- but she regains control.

Unfortunately for her, this curve has an emergency pull-off for semis with failed brakes; and Will uses this to get even with her. Mara makes the mistake of a lifetime, then: she glances through the passenger side window of Will's Golf. You look back, peel away the gauze, and smirk. The pain grips you -- leaves you dizzy and breathless. It has the same effect on Mara. She loses control, this time for good. The car skids out, smashes into the guardrail, and then down, down, down -- tumbling end over end into the valley below.

---

Darkbloom helps you, taking you by the hand and guiding you over the rocky terrain, winding your way down the slopes wherever they're gentlest, until at last you come to the flaming wreckage.

Mara is trying to crawl free of it, but her leg is pinned, and she lies helplessly on her back. A little mountain stream trickles past her head, crystal clear water turning crimson from the blood seeping into it. Mara uselessly tugs and pulls at the bloody mess of her femur to wrench it free.

Darkbloom approaches her. His form shadows hers, and she notices him. Flabbergasted, she says: "...Dalton? What on Earth -- I had no idea you were here -- I --" She shakes her head. Then: "Forget it. Just help me! Help me out of here! That horrible red bitch came after me, and, and--"

Darkbloom kneels down beside his wife. He looks her dead in the eyes. They both wince in pain at the feedback.

When Darkbloom regains himself, he's smiling.

"Euripides?" He says.

Mara's breath catches and her face goes slack. "Dav--"

The knife is already in her heart. She gasps, and dies.

Darkbloom cuts his dead wife's dead eyeball out of her dead head, pulls out the still glowing implant, puts it on top of a rock, and bashes it to bits with another rock. He bashes it until there's nothing left but dust and then he sweeps it into the stream and watches it all wash away.

And when he's done, he just sits there on the ground on his knees, watching the pristine Colorado waters flowing by amid the dying brown crunchy autumn grass.

You step up behind him, and draw your pistol, and put it to his head.

"You can do it," Darkbloom tells you without looking back.

"I didn't need your permission to do it the first time. I don't need it the second."

"Do you love Vivian?"

"Yes."

"Keep her well, Amber."

[ ] Do it.
>[x] Spare him.

"It's done."

Whitney's voice crackles back over the radio. "Are you coming home, Ally?"

"Right now. We're all safe."

"Mom?"

"Hi," Renee says into the radio.

"Alex?"

"Hi," he says gently, head still in your lap.

"Did we lose anyone?"

"Spancer," you tell her.

"Lady," Kay says from up front, at the wheel.

"And Mara?" Whitney asks.

"Dead," you report. "Tyrus Kang, too. Just as a bonus."

"Get here soon," Whitney says. "I need you home."

And that's it, over and out.

---

You watch the tail lights of the Golf driving just ahead, where Will, and Amber, and Rose are... and David Darkbloom, too.

You alternate between petting Alex and Noelle. Noelle is snoring against your shoulder, drifting in and out of consciousness; Alex is awake, but enervated.

"What I told you..." Noelle says.

"Huh?"

"I... forget it." She falls asleep again.

"How did you do it?" Renee asks Alex. "The bake sale."

"Obfuscation," he says. "The code I needed was contained as substrings within the architecture of the Diogenes platform. Once I had it all in place, I just needed add a couple lines of code at the moment of activation... to scan back through and automatically delete the garbage, then execute the real code to overclock the servers..."

"Huh?" Kay says.

He looks at her in the rearview mirror, head still in your lap. He fiddles with your trousers idly. "Say I want to pass on a message that says Aloha. But I want to hide it... so instead of just Aloha, I write: 'Ally, oh Ally'... then later on I erase the letters that aren't part of the word Aloha. That's the basic idea..."

"You wrote two functional programs simultaneously?" Renee marvels. "With one contained in the other like a matryoshka doll?"

"Yeah."

"That's... how?"

"I dunno. I'm good at that kind of stuff... coding. It's just my passion, I guess."

Kay's headlights illuminate the sign that welcomes you back to California, the Golden State.

END OF EPISODE 5.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, baby room batterer and action twink rescuer.

Back home, as you finish explaining what happened in Vail, Mom finally stops idly tearing the tissue in her lap to pieces. She stands -- strides over to where Amber sits. Amber is truly shamefaced for maybe the first time ever. She can't even meet Mom's gaze, instead just fixing her sight on the dining room's beachwood floor.

Mom slaps her.

"What the f--" Amber begins, reeling. But Mom hugs her close, cutting her off.

"You idiot!" Mom yells. "You stupid, reckless little moron!"

Amber pushes against her, to no avail. "Fuck. You're getting your tit sweat all over me--" she complains.

Mom nuzzles the top of her head with one cheek. "You reckless brat! Putting your life in danger like that!"

"Mom..." you begin, also shamefaced. Mom shoots you a menacing stare.

"Don't you start!" She growls. "You let her go with you! You're her older brother, Alabaster, you need to take better care of her!"

"You're right," you admit. "I..." but you couldn't possibly say "I'm sorry" for a situation as horrible as letting Amber lose an eye.

"I raised nothing but idiots," Mom sighs, pulling back, inspecting Amber's eyepatch.

Charlotte, sitting across the dining room table alongside her husband, sighs too. "I know how you feel."

"I know you know that," Mom says.

Charlotte isn't precisely tickled by that jab.

"Well I think it's super cute," Rose2 says. "It suits you for sure, Amber! It makes you look cool and mysterious!"

Amber gives her the bird. Rose2 giggles. "See? Like that. You've got that delinquent look on fleek!"

"Don't say that," you tell her.

Rose2 is genuinely confused. "What? Delinquent?"

"Is this ugly business with Mara done or not?" Saul wants to know.

"Done," you say. "For good."

He points at you. "The next time you bring my daughter into something like this, I'll kick your goddamn teeth in."

"Saul," Charlotte chides. "You know how Rose is. Once she sets her mind on something, there's no convincing her otherwise... don't go too hard on Alabaster."

Saul pouts.

"Things are gonna go back to normal now," you insist. "We'll all have normal lives again."

From upstairs, you hear Dr. Carte wailing like a banshee as Whitney pays her a welcome-back present of her own.

"You're grounded, missy," Mom tells Amber.

"You cannot be--" she begins, but Mom is already directing her wrath at you:

"And you too, Alabaster! You're grounded, too!"

"You can't ground me, Mom. I'm almost 23 years old."

"No backtalk! And no video games for a month!"

You sigh. You can't remember when you had the spare time to play video games anyway.

---

You lie in bed with Amber, who's hopped up on painkillers to deal with her eye injury. She's sandwiched between you on one side and Rose on the other. You both pet her hair to soothe her to sleep.

Amber looks forlornly up at you with her remaining eye. The moonlight makes her look almost ghostly. "Are you mad at me too?" She asks.

"No," you reply, firmly, and certainly. Then, thinking: "Are you mad at me?"

"No," Amber says. "Why would I be?"

"Because..."

"It's not your fault, Daddy."

You nod.

"Is that really your thing now?" Rose asks.

Amber shrugs.

"Maybe I should make you start calling me Daddy too," you tell Rose.

"Gag me."

"Is that a yes or a no? I can't tell."

With you and Rose to baby her, Amber drifts to sleep with her little fists balled up against your chest and her head resting against your collarbone. She sleeps through the alarm for school and you let her stay home. She and Noelle can keep one another company while they recuperate.

Since you and Rose sleep together now, you wake up together at the same time, and get ready for work together, too. And since neither of you are quick risers, this involves a lot of bleary-eyed mumbling as you each stumble your way through your morning routines. You shower together -- no frisky business, too damn tired for that. You take a pee while Rose combs her hair in the mirror. You and she brush your teeth together, shoulder-to-shoulder in front of the sink, spitting foamy toothpaste into the basin together, flossing. When Rose sets the toothbrush holder on the right side of the sink, you take it and set it on the left. She takes it and sets it on the right again. You grumble but you're too out-of-it to fight. You comb your hair and get dressed while Rose does her makeup. And then as she gets dressed, you sit on the lid-down toilet, to read your emails on your phone. While she's distracted with dressing, you orient the toilet paper roll hanging beside the toilet back to the proper overhand style; you instantly sense the feng shui of the room drastically improve. You briefly let her know anything important you see in the morning's emails, which she briefly acknowledges with murmurs of understanding. Then the last part of the ritual before you head downstairs, Rose taking her small apothecary's worth of daily pills: multivitamins, supplements, and brain boosters. She grabs bottle after bottle, undoing the safety caps one by one, grabbing capsules one by one, knocking them back with sips of water one by one. Oftentimes, Rose tells you that you should also be taking these, which you typically beg off. You always point out that it's not exactly doing wonders for her physique, her complexion, or her general healthfulness... and let's not talk about the boosted versus unboosted status of her brain. You stand at the sink and sip at some water too, though, while she takes her pills. The last of them, as always, is from the little blister pack in the drawer right beside the sink, on the right: these are the pills you 100% fully support and agree she definitely should be taking, every day. But this day, she dithers. She presses against the plastic casing with a thumb, but stops short of forcing the pill through its thin foil backing. You notice that split moment of indecision. And standing there, she notices you notice it. So then the awkwardness of the moment is forced to blossom. You're standing there watching Rose standing there with the pill undispensed and untaken, you're watching her stand there hesitating. You don't say a word, and neither does she. She just stands there looking at the blister pack in her hands for a long minute or two. And then finally, wordlessly, she puts them away again. You don't tell her otherwise, which is agreement enough.

So here we go.

---

You and Rose keep checking the news, waiting anxiously for word of what happened in Vail to make headlines. But it never does.

Kay explains it to you. "Some things make the local news. Drug busts and school lunch disputes, and blah blah. Some things are so big they make national news... Presidential corruption, auto recalls, mass shootings. Then there are the things that are so huge, so un-pretend-it-didn't-happen-able, that they make international news -- wars, and rumors of war -- things that change the course of history. But then... then there are the things even bigger than that... things so big that they don't make the news at all."

"You think the media is covering it up?" You ask, gobsmacked.

"Oh god, no," Kay says. "It's getting covered up at a level much higher than that. Chinese, Russian, and Americans all dead at a massive hidden server facility directly linked to Sand Reckoner? This kind of stuff can't be allowed to see the light of day. It's--"

Kay stops speaking as Nelson pokes his head into her office. "Hi Kay," he says. "You got a minute?"

"No," Kay tells him gruffly.

Nelson ignores that. "I heard about Lady. I wanted to give you my condolences."

Kay's expression turns gloomy, but she doesn't respond.

"You've been really nice to me in all your writing," Nelson says, "so I wanted to do a favor for you." He jerks his head in the direction of his office down the hall. "Can you come next door for a little bit? Won't take more than a minute. 72 seconds, max."

Kay stands and makes a halfhearted "after you" motion.

In Nelson's office, he sets a tote bag on his desk. It's lumpy and misshapen from whatever lies inside it.

"Did I ever tell you about my pet Schnauzers?" He asks. "They're show dogs. Or at least show caliber... I haven't shown them in a couple years."

"Yeah," Rose says, the light of recognition flickering on her face. "Tutu and Roo, right?"

Nelson makes a finger gun at her. "You got it. They're brother and sister. Tutu isn't spayed since at one time I thought I might breed her, but Roo was supposed to be fixed. Apparently it didn't take. And there was a bit of an accident..."

He opens the tote bag to reveal a shivering little Schnauzer pup, no older than perhaps a couple weeks.

"That puppy is purebred, but she's the runt of the litter, and I would never be able to sell her. I was going to keep her myself, but I thought... well, if you want her--"

Kay makes a sour face. "I had a mean motherfucking Rottie, Nelson, who gave his life to defend me, mauling not one but two gangsters to death. That's the kind of dog I had. And you want to give me an incestuous toy Schnauzer as consolation?"

Nelson awkwardly shrugs.

The little pup is weakly trotting across Nelson's desk. She looks up at Kay and yips. Kay is petting her before she even realizes it as she says: "This is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard in my life. I hate yippy little dogs like this. Can't stand them. I'm not some carry-my-dog-in-purse pet-mommy who takes her dog to dog boutiques to get pedicures. I'm not a mincing little toy breed enthusiast like you are, Nelson. I'm an actual dog person, not a cat person masquerading as a dog person."

The dog is in Kay's lap now, and Kay is hugging it close, scruffing it behind the ears.

"I want a real dog. A dog that can defend me, a dog that makes me feel safe. A dog who takes care of me just as much as I take care of it. Not some charity case runt who's gonna be a huge time sink and nothing but a pain in my ass. I--" Kay glances down. "What the fuck, Nelson. Why did you dump this thing in my lap?"

"You picked her up," Nelson tells her.

"Liar."

He shrugs again. "Well if you change your mind. She's all caught up on vaccinations and so on. I've got some food and a bed and a leash here, too--"

"You suck," Kay says.

"Her name is Faris," Nelson says.

"Guy."

"Huh?"

"She looks like a Guy," Kay says, standing. She totes the newly christened Guy under one arm. "That's her name now."

---

Whitney is dribbling up and down the indoor basketball court, dunking on her underlings. As always, the employees at Darkbloom Analytics are too scared to play fair against Whitney, and tend to sandbag when they're against her.

"Don't go easy on me!" Whitney pants, sweat beading on her face and dripping off her hair. "If you go easy on me, I'll fire ya!"

This does precious little to allay her employees' obvious anxiety to be playing ball with the CEO.

Dr. Carte, foot in a cast, sitting propped on her elbows at the bleachers, watches. You sit down beside her.

"This Chloe bitch is bad news, huh?" Dr. Carte says. She pulls a cigarette from her coat pocket and lights it up.

"You aren't supposed to smoke on campus," you tell her.

"Oh, sure, sure," Dr. Carte says. "You wanna princess carry me out, then?"

"My back still hurts from the last time I tried," you tell her.

She slugs you.

"Jeopardy tonight?" You ask her.

She blows smoke. "Oh hell yes."

"Loser has to be the other one's slave tonight," you say.

"I mean if you want to do some mistress-slave roleplay, all you have to do is ask," Dr. Carte says, winking. "You don't need to suffer a humiliating loss first..."

Whitney calls to her from the court: "Hey ma! Did you see that? Did you see that sick three pointer?"

"Give 'em hell!" Dr. Carte hollers back, genuinely enthused. Whitney trots off, wheezing happily.

You stand to go, but Dr. Carte stops you. "Alabaster..."

"What is it?"

"Have you talked to Noelle at all?"

"No, she was still asleep when I left this morning."

"You should talk to her soon."

---

You lounge in the Nail House's living room, wearing just a baggy tee and panties, with Noelle. Who's down to her skivvies too, and has a grip of gauze wrapped around her midsection. What an odd couple you two make, the one-eyed monster and the gutted girl.

She's been in a downcast mood all day, which you fully understand and appreciate. She did get fucking stabbed, after all. But more than that... the glimpse you got of her through the implant's grain told you all you needed to know.

You've been trying to lift her spirits by indulging in some Japanime with her -- but all she's been doing for the past three-odd hours is complain about how anime these days is a barren wasteland of shit.

Rather than make her happier, this moe marathon is making her angry, and sad -- and soon she seems like she's about ready to have a full-on breakdown. Getting your mental breakdown triggered by bad anime seems kind of pathetic, so you make an executive decision; you pull the ripcord, and turn off the TV.

"What the hell?" Noelle pouts. "I was watching that."

"You were literally just saying that you would rather jump off a bridge than keep watching it."

"Got any bridges handy, then?" Noelle says.

You put one hand on your hip, peering down at her. "How are you feeling? Like physically. Can you stand?"

Noelle, with effort, pushes herself up off the living room couch, and stands. She holds her sore tummy with one hand, wincing.

"We need to get out of the house," you say. "Or we'll both go batty."

[ ] Just you and me.
[ ] Take your sister, too.
>[x] Take Kay, too.

Palo Alto Mini Putt advertises a family-friendly atmosphere with food and arcade games, but they do also serve beer for the over-21. When you and Noelle enter the swinging double doors and stroll through the cold, stickily concrete-floored lobby towards the registration counter, Kay is already there. She's waiting on a bench, ankle on knee, playing on her phone. She has a putter and a turquoise golf ball in hand already. This lobby has a sort of faux Jurassic Park theming to it, with rubber dinos and plastic forestry arrayed around, and walls in the shape of jagged rocks. You would never say it aloud, but you kind of like cheesy decor like this.

Seeing you, Kay stands, toting her purse over one shoulder. "Took you long enough," she says.

"So sorry to keep you waiting," you say sarcastically. "We raced here just as fast as we could... it's a shame our handicap sticker hasn't come in the mail yet, or we could have parked a little closer."

"It's been years since I've played minigolf," Noelle says. "This is going to be a disaster."

"I've never played at all," Kay says. "But how hard can it be? It's a kid's game. You hit the ball and aim for the hole. Easy peasy." She stares at the ceiling, forefinger to chin. Then: "Actually, it can't be much different from pool, right? Just with obstacles in your way. And I'm really good at pool, so."

"Of fucking course you're good at pool," Noelle says.

Kay laces both hands behind her head. "Hey, what can I say? Needed something to pass the time on base back in the day. I hustled so many of my fellow airmen that I practically didn't need the pay I got from Uncle Sam."

"That's a violation of the UCMJ, isn't it?" Noelle asks.

"Yep."

Noelle looks a little judgey.

"It's just how I am," Kay says. "The hustle's in my blood. Literally. You know, my dad once sued Fox because he claimed that Matt Groening heard him say 'ay carumba' in the 1980s and stole it for Bart Simpson's catchphrase."

"How'd that turn out?" You ask.

"They settled. The money from that suit would have put me through college... if the old man wasn't a degenerate gambler. Thus Kay Vera had to go and join the Air Force..." She scowls. "Fuck, that still ticks me off. He pissed away a small fortune on the ponies. Never apologized, even. Just kept saying the game was rigged and that's why we were poor. Couldn't fucking take responsibility for anything."

"Don't have a cow, man," you say.

She clicks her tongue against her palate.

You and Noelle go up to the counter, register, and take your balls and clubs.

[ ] How about we make it interesting? Third place has to be first and second place's slave.
>[x] How about we make it interesting? The two losers have to be first place's slaves.
[ ] No need for a punishment game. I'm sure we'll find something fun to do after we play.

Noelle tees her ball, and lays her club's business end down in front of it, and does a ridiculous little shimmy like she's a WPGA golfer squaring up to take a drive. But in actuality she's about three yards from the first hole, putting across pristinely smooth astroturf the color of the fake grass in an Easter basket, and the only obstruction she has is a slightly angled curve and an uneven downhill slope. The Masters this ain't. And yet with her dignity, perhaps her very chastity on the line, she's as serious as a heart attack.

She pulls her club back to take a putt. Kay sneezes.

Noelle chokingly gasps, angered. But her aim is true -- despite the sabotage, she sinks it in 1 on this par-2 course.

"Yus," she says, pumping a fist.

Kay is next. She licks her thumb and pokes it into the air as if checking wind speed.

"Get on with it," you grouse.

She shrugs. Then lining herself up, she whacks the ball. Whuppp, like that. Instead of putting it -- she gives it some air and chips the thing straight into the hole from where she stands. Another hole-in-one.

"Your turn, commie," Kay says, stepping back.

If they can do it, you can too. This is a kid's game, after all, Kay was right. You rear back and putt; Kay sneezes. And unlike Noelle, you don't have the steely determination bred by years of being a cop. The ball caroms off the far edge of the course's wooden perimeter instead of arcing around the curve, and rebounds up the straight you just putted it down. It comes to rest only about a foot from where you hit it.

You angrily take the ball in hand, and put it back on the tee.

"Hey!" Kay says. "What are you doing?"

"Taking my fucking stroke back," you say. "You cheating cunt."

"I can't help it! I have allergies!"

"Sneeze again. I dare you. I'll take this putter and turn your asshole into my caddy bag."

You try again, this time with no sneezing to distract you.

It doesn't help. You didn't give it enough juice and the ball rolls lazily around the curve, coming to a stop just behind the hole, at the bottom of the slope. You try to tip it in, but you underestimated the slope's angle, and don't make it. And so you wind up +1 over par against the wonder twins, who are each -1.

"That's some bet you made," Noelle says. "Overconfident, huh?"

You grouse. "I'm just getting warmed up. First hole doesn't count."

"Every hole counts," Kay says slyly. "You'll see."

The next two holes don't leave you in any better position. You putt a +2 and a +1 respectively on them, humiliatingly getting your ball caught in a giant clown's eye socket on the third hole. Both Kay and Noelle remain under par.

This is gonna be rough, unless you lean on the ace you have up your sleeve. The thing inside your head, covered by your eyepatch, could turn the tide. It's painful to use it, but times are getting desperate.

>[x] It can't be helped. You'll have to use "that."
>[x] You don't need to cheat. You'll do your best and face whatever fate awaits you!

On the next hole, Kay and Noelle get into a protracted debate about whether LaCroix is actually drinkable or not. Kay is a big fan, and Noelle insists that Kay is lying. Kay insists Noelle is a disgusting NEET play-acting as a functional member of society. The word "tendies" gets tossed around.

While they argue, you assess the course before you. A couple patches of sand and a fake lighthouse separate you from the hole. You slowly peel your eyepatch back, baring the empty ruin of your orbit just long enough to do a true assessment. You can consciously understand very little of what the grain shows you, but you gather at least enough to feel like you can sink the putt in one stroke.

You rear back, and take your shot along the trajectory you know will work. You sink the ball as predicted. Then you black out.

---

When you come to, you're sitting on a bench, upper half draped over a table in the little eating area of the minigolf course, with Noelle and Kay both fanning you.

"There she is," Kay says as you rouse. She adopts a chastising tone: "Did you use your spooky eye to cheat?"

"Fuck you," you snarl. "I--"

That's when you notice Vivian Darkbloom standing across the table, primly regarding you.

"Whoa," you breathe. You sit fully upright, but still feel a bit woozy from your little fainting spell. You gulp down air. "Where did you come from?"

"I was told that you intended to spend the day laid up, and resting," Vivian says. "Not over-exerting yourself with athletic activity."

"I hardly count minigolf as athletic activity," you say. You make a show of looking Vivian head to toe. "Well. Maybe for you."

"For you as well, apparently," Vivian says with a frown. She slides herself onto the bench beside you. "I am glad you are safe, Amber. Please do not foolishly do things that could change that condition."

"You're not my boss--"

"In this matter, I am." She thinks for a moment. "I am told that you made a wager against these women. Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"Allow me to assist. Together we will prevail, and punish them accordingly."

>[x] Please assist me!
[ ] I can win on my own!

You follow behind Vivian for the rest of the back 9. You hardly take any further putts -- what can a girl with no depth perception, and shitty aim besides, possibly hope to accomplish against a born hustler and an FBI-trained crackshot, anyway? It's Vivian who does the heavy lifting for you. The first time she goes to take a putt, gothic loli getup and all, Kay and Noelle both snicker at the sight of it -- but that haughty attitude doesn't last for long, because Vivian putts a -1, a -2, and a -2 on the next 3 holes respectively. She makes it look effortless as she gently sinks her ball with strokes that seem to have no kinetic force behind them whatsoever.

After Vivian makes a hole-in-one on a par 4, Noelle has seen enough. She clutches at her face. "How... how is that possible? Are you -- no. You're cheating, too, aren't you? You weird anemic little--"

"I have no need of cheating," Vivian insists. "I am merely superior in this endeavor -- as in all endeavors."

"She's a regular puttputt fanatic," Kay says. "Turned on to it by her dear sweet sister... they've been here many, many times over the past year."

"So you ARE cheating," Noelle says.

"Being familiar with the course is not cheating," Vivian says airily. "It is merely being prepared."

You smile at Noelle. Can't argue with that logic.

In the end, Noelle's deadly aim can't stack up against Vivian's familiarity and Kay's inborn hustle; she's a lock for third place. Kay has a shot at unseating Vivian on the final hole, a par-6 behemoth that requires putting through a semi-vertical pachinko board of sorts. But Vivian comes out on top, by 1 stroke.

"Son of a motherless cunt," Kay huffs. "Fuck."

Vivian laughs; it actually comes out sounding like "ufufufu." Then, folding her arms, she announces: "You two ladies made a wager. Now the time has come for the victors to collect."

"I'm sooo scared," Kay says, playing tough. "What are you gonna do, bully me?"

"Your ass belongs to me now," Vivian says, as simply as she would report the time. "Me and Amber."

Kay isn't so tough anymore all of a sudden. And Noelle is neon red.

As soon as you enter into Vivian's spacious, brightly lit home, she begins to disrobe. Kay and Noelle, trudging reluctantly behind you, are both appalled. 

"Oh gross," Noelle spits. She shakes her head. "Gross, gross, gross. I am NOT going to play a quote-unquote punishment game that involves--"

"Be quiet," Vivian snaps. She tosses her bodice aside. "You are a slave and will not speak unless spoken to."

You plop down on Vivian's couch and kick your feet up. Vivian, wearing only her signature flowery black undies now, sits beside you. She points at the tile floor: "Slaves. Kneel."

Kay shakes her head. "What exactly is compelling us to obey? Besides honor and all that bullshit. What are you two actually going to do if we don't play along with this dominatrix act?"

"What is it that you do at Darkbloom Analytics, again?" Vivian asks with a wan smile. "I think maybe the time has come to disinvite you from our premises. We could do without a reporter snooping around all the time."

Kay kneels. Unquestioningly, just like that. She gets down on her knees in front of the couch.

Noelle is a harder case. "Well you have no say in firing me," she insists. "I'm leaving before I get fucking raped. I don't need to stick around and get felt up by a bunch of dykes."

"You want to," Vivian says.

"I--"

"You do. You want nothing more than to feel the quiver of a cunt against your lips as you suck the orgasms from it. I can see it in your eyes, Noelle Keki. You are a lesbian. Dyed in the wool. A lesbian bitch." 

Noelle violently shakes her head, closing her eyes. "Disgusting. You're a sick freak."

"Get down on your knees this instant," Vivian demands.

Noelle, trembling, gets down on her knees.

"Jeeeezus, you're a bitch," you say. "This is so cool."

"You must not be lenient with sluts," Vivian tells you cooly. "Say the right words and they will bend to your will." She turns to her two new slaves, now. "Take off your clothes."

Blushing, they comply. You watch and lick your lips, as these suddenly docile women each a decade or more your senior, get naked for you and Vivian. They peel off the layers of clothes like unwrapping candy. Kay's peacoat, Noelle's jacket; Kay's jeans, Noelle's slacks. When they're down to their underwear, Vivian gives them a stern glare to communicate that the job is not yet finished -- and so comes the next humiliation, as they ditch these too, and sit fully nude on their knees on the cold tile floor for you.

"Kay, have you ever been with a woman before?" Vivian asks.

Kay shakes her head, eyes downcast.

Vivian laughs. "What shall we do with them?" She asks you.

"I taught Noelle how to kiss a girl yesterday," you say. "She should teach Kay..."

"An excellent idea." She points at them. "Get to work, slaves."

Noelle, walking on her knees, waddles to Kay. Face to face, she loops her arms over Kay's shoulders. Kay's eyes are wide, and her face is pale, as she stares back. 

"Y-you're okay with this, right?" Noelle asks.

"I... I don't know..."

"Don't get me wrong... I-I'm only doing this because I have to... I don't want to either..."

Kay gulps. "W-well then-- maybe we should sto--"

Noelle kisses her.

Of the two, Noelle is obviously the more into it. She throws her whole heart into that kiss, putting to work all the techniques you imparted while lying with her in that car in Vail. Kay, who was hardly expecting such enthusiasm, writhes around and halfheartedly tries to escape the violation. But Noelle is starting to heat up the longer this goes on, and won't let her go. You can see, from your vantage, the wetness stippling Noelle's inner thighs. She's getting this wet just from kissing another girl.

"Shall we play with each other?" Vivian asks you.

You swallow hard. "Uh huh."

Vivian takes your hand and guides it to the waistband of her lacy black panties. You slide your fingers in and find the sticky wet little hole there. She's all horny from ordering these two women around. But you can't say you're any different. Your little hole is all sticky and wet, too. And reaching down into your shorts, Vivian finds the sticky wetness of it with a happy smile on her face. You play with one another's cunts while you watch the spectacle Kay and Noelle are putting on for you.

Kay finally manages enough air to say: "Oh my god, Noelle... what the hell... what is with you all of a sudden..."

"I'm not a lesbian," Noelle says hungrily, as she dives back in for more lesbian kissing. "Shut up. Shut up."

Kay's resistance is quickly eroding as Noelle's tongue works its magic inside her mouth. Noelle, sighing to herself, says: "oh no... oh, no, no, no... they're going to make us do so many horrible things together... oh no..."

"You crazy bitch," Kay growls, glasses askew, kissing Noelle right back. "You're a fucking basket case--"

Vivian, tiny fingers digging through your tiny cunt, asks: "Would you like me to fuck you now, Amber?"

"Oh fuck yes," you grunt.

"Would you like to try a mating press today?" 

"Yes," you agree instantly.

Vivian retrieves her magical ejaculating strap-on, the one you've come to adore, and gets your body doubled over itself on the couch. She mounts you, pressing down hard on your thighs to keep your legs spread, and seats the fake cock in your puffy cunny with a single push. It's like she really is a sadistic dickgirl looking to get off inside your hole. The massive, veiny cock is such a bizarre contrast with her otherwise bony, slight build -- and that contrast gets you really fucking wet. With her dainty hands wrapped around your head, she has you locked in place. And as Vivian fucks the shit out of you, you and her watch Noelle and Kay give in to sapphic urges of their own. Noelle begins to flex her thighs as a way of stealthily masturbating. Kay is becoming less abashed, and with a hand between her legs lightly tickles her own naked cunt. The two older women make out and masturbate like bitches in heat.

The couch is squeaking beneath you as Vivian pumps you. "I so love this illegal pussy of yours," she tells you, staring deeply into your good eye. Her entire weight, such as it is, presses down onto you while she fucks you. 

"Rapist," you tell her.

"Correct. I want to rape you forever, Amber. Forever and ever. You were made to rape."

"Do it... do it..."

"Do you want me to cum inside you?"

"Yessss," you hiss.

Vivian pulls you into a seemingly never-ending kiss, squeezes the dildo's hand-pump, and nuts inside you. That wonderful, soupy, sloshy feeling of getting cummed in overloads your brain and makes you orgasm like a whore. You can't help it. Your little pussy just cums whenever you feel that hot squirt of semen inside it. When the stars clear from your vision, you dazedly rub your taut tummy with one palm, enjoying the sensation of warmth and fullness. 

"Ish sho good..." you slur. Vivian, as if to reward you, nuts inside you a few more times. Each milky spurt of it makes you cum harder and harder. You start to wonder if she likes inseminating you as much as you like to be inseminated...

When at last she's all empty, Vivian pulls out. She points at Noelle: "You -- slave. Eat my semen out of Amber's cunt."

Noelle gasps. "You... but--"

Vivian is high on sexual debauchery and won't be argued with. She strides over and grabs Noelle by the hair, and drags her -- although Noelle doesn't exactly resist -- over to you. Smiling, leering, you get your ankles both up on the couch, doing the splits, fingers laced through your toes. The messy, lumpy cum leaks out of your well-used hole, all over the leather of the couch cushions. It seeps out in a partially translucent stream that's disgusting and alluring at the same time. You simply love the way cum looks as it slides down out of your pussy.

Noelle clasps the edge of the the couch cushion and stares at the messy fuckhole, too. Her little breaths are cool against the overheated furnace of your twat.

"Come on, dyke bitch," you spit. "Get to work."

Gulping, Noelle leans in, and purses her lips into an O, and gets her first taste of another girl's cunt.

She's a natural cunt-licker. Or maybe this is another skill she's picked up from years of yuri anime. Like a porn star, she slurps up all the ersatz cum, and gulps it down -- from your insides and from the the outside. She flicks her cute little tongue back and forth across your puffy labia, over your engorged clit, into your steamy twat -- explores every nook and cranny, tastes your every crevice. She savors it. Her eyes are closed and her face is flushed deeply red and she's loving every second of it, the fucking slut.

Meanwhile, your partner in crime is making use of Kay's mouth. Vivian is naked from the waist down and is squatting over Kay's face, making Kay rim her out. 

"Oh," Vivian sighs happily. "Ohhhh. So this is what Whitney likes so much about it..."

"You nasty bitch," Kay growls.

"Be quiet," Vivian commands, and grabs a tuft of Kay's hair, and forces Kay's face even deeper into her ass. While Kay licks her asshole, Vivian masturbates too, rubbing her clit with a flattened palm so quickly that her hand  becomes a blur. Shamelessly, Vivian brings herself to a rolling orgasm, and squirts all over her own living room floor. 

Vivian Darkbloom, you've come to learn, really is the nasty bitch that Kay accuses her of being. And you love it.

It's rubbing off on you, too. 

"Admit it," you tell Noelle. 

From between your legs, her face shiny with cum both real and fake, she peers up at you. "W-what?"

"Admit you're a dyke."

"I'm... I-- noo..."

You push her face back, start to close your legs. "Fine. If you're not into it, you can stop."

"No!" Noelle shouts. There's real, fearful desperation in her voice. She presses your legs apart again. "I'll keep going! I'm a dyke! Okay? Please let me keep going!!"

You pet her and let her keep servicing you. "Good," you croon. "Gooo~ood~" The tension drains from her muscles and she smiles dreamily when you do that; when she realizes that you're going to let her keep feasting on your pussy. All she had to do was be honest. And now that it's out in the open, she can enjoy herself.

So she does. Noelle fingers her own quim as she sucks up the last of the dildo's fake cum and drinks down your juices. She sounds like a pig at a trough and she looks like one, too. A messy fucking bitch at your service. 

Vivian, her asshole full of Kay's tongue, smiles lecherously at you. It's good to be on top.

---

"There you are." You sit down beside Alex in the otherwise empty theater area of the DBA rec halls. "I've been looking all over for you."

"What's up?" He asks.

"I don't know. You tell me. You've been a ghost all day."

"Sorry," he says, rubbing the back of his head. "I'm still kinda getting used to being back at work. I didn't think I would ever be back after..."

He trails off.

"I wanted to make sure you're hanging in there," you say. "Things were really fucked up, you know... back there. But we're alive, and..." you sigh. "I'm really bad with this kind of thing. But I want you to know that I'm glad you made it. And that-- well. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine, Ally. Don't worry about me."

"Would you tell me if you weren't fine?" You ask him.

He smiles. "Uh huh! Of course!"

You somehow doubt him.

"There's a board meeting later," you tell him. "Whitney wants you there."

"How come?" Alex says. "I'm not on the board anymore."

"That's still up in the air," you say. "Just because of Chloe--"

"There you are."

Here comes the girl herself, now. She strolls down the long aisle of the theater and seats herself uninvited on Alex's other side. "This is the vaunted Alex Best, yes? A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Alex frowns at her.

"I understand that you completed your work on Diogenes and then burnt it down, all in the span of a week and a half?" She says. She crosses her legs. "What a magnificent mind you have. A truly worthy successor to Sable Guiteau."

"I guess you're the successor now," Alex says, voice level and inscrutable. "I report to you."

"Oh, but a demotion is such a sad thing," Qiangxiang says. "I fully believe you deserve your place on the board. Surely more than some of the people who populate it. You, Alex -- you truly are a peer. This afternoon I intend to propose to Whitney that she cleave the R&D division in two. I, in the CTO role, and you, in the newly created role of Chief Innovation Officer."

"CINO," Alex says.

"Yes."

"So you're a biter, after all," he says.

"...Excuse me? I am not following. Biter?"

"You want me to continue the innovative work that Sable and I sweated, bled, and died over... so you can reach across the table and take it off our plate when it's all finished."

"Mr. Best, we are colleagues," Qiangxiang says. "I am fully committed to the success of this company, and to your own personal happiness. I seek what you seek."

"Do you?"

"You have been through heavy trauma," Qiangxiang says. "This is not a fortuitous time to broach the discussion. Many apologies." She stands, and takes her leave. Alex watches her depart with suspicious eyes.

"That girl is evil," Alex tells you.

"Yeah, pretty much."

He looks at you. "What do you think, Ally?"

>[x] Keep Alex on the board in the new role of CINO.
[ ] Demote Qiangxiang, and reinstall Alex as CTO.
[ ] Keep Qiangxiang as CTO, and have Alex reporting to her.

With all the recent insanity, it's bizarre to go through the motions of a board meeting in which nothing insane happens. Qiangxiang makes her proposal, and Whitney accepts it, and the board welcomes Alex back to its ranks with very little to-do.

Whitney also announces another new board member.

You're not surprised that she got the nod -- but she is.

"I still technically outrank you," you remind her after the meeting as the rest of the board is filing out. "My role is somewhere around COO level, I think."

"Go to hell," she says -- but she's smiling, and can't hide it.

"Oh!" Whitney shouts, bursting back through the doors of the boardroom like a one-woman SWAT team. "One last thing."

You and Rose watch, somewhat perplexed, as Whitney breezes past you, towards the far wall, sharpie in hand.

She pulls a wheeled chair away from the table and props it against the wall. She stands on it, precariously, and uncaps the marker. She takes the fat felt tip to the giant portrait of David Darkbloom still hanging there.

Below the word ASSHOLE, she scrawls:

(mostly)

Darkbloom himself watches this transpire. When Whitney climbs down off the chair and leaves the room again -- Darkbloom wheels it back to its rightful place at the conference table for her. He turns and stares up at the portrait for a little bit.

He begins to say something to you -- but stops, and departs without a word, leaving you and Rose alone in the sunlit room.

---

"Second after the Volga," Trebek says.

A contestant buzzes in, but Dr. Carte is faster on the ball: "What is the Danube," she says. Curled up with you on Whitney's living room couch, face palely lit by the TV screen, she takes a confident sip from her snifter of brandy.

"What is -- the Danube?" The contestant says, much less confident, and lagging behind the good doctor.

"Correct. Board remains with you, Ji."

"I'll take Second Bananas for $800, Alex."

"Series with the most widely-viewed finale, after M*A*S*H*, of course."

The players are stumped -- but so are you and Dr. Carte. You seize on the opportunity to bring the score a bit more even, though: "What is... Seinfeld?" You try.

A contestant also tries Seinfeld, which is wrong. Dr. Carte sticks her tongue out at you. As the time ticks down, Dr. Carte raises her glass high in the air and says: "What is Cheers!"

Trebek is his usual empathetic self when no one else buzzes in before the clock winds down. "Ooh, time's up. What is Cheers -- what is Cheers. You still have the board."

You rub your forehead. Dr. Carte is the only person you know who can show you up in trivia. You wonder how the fuck she does it.

"Don't worry," Dr. Carte tells you, grinning. "Even if you're my slave, I won't peg you."

You choke. "You-- how do you--"

She giggles drunkenly.

On the sectional in the corner, Gal sits Indian style, with Cerise draped over her, chin on shoulder. They're focused on something amusing on Gal's laptop; they may be watching Youtube videos, but you can't tell because they're listening through a shared pair of earbuds. They occasionally stop laughing to kiss. On the other side of the room, Whitney and Rose2 play King of Fighters. Rose2's Mai is kicking the living shit out of Whitney's Geese. Whitney isn't usually so bad at fighters, but maybe Rose2's character pick is distracting her. You'd join them, but you're legitimately worried about what Mom's reaction will be if she sees you playing after her proscription on video games last night.

In the long space separating living room from dining room, which comprises a sort of secondary living room or lounge, Amber and Vivian take turns throwing darts at a life-sized cardboard cutout of Bill and Hillary Clinton. You've no clue where Amber found those cutouts, but that's fine. They're practicing Amber's aim, she says, in case of future minigolf outings or other tests of aim and depth perception. From the luxurious kitchen emanates equally luxurious smells of baking; Mom is going to make an accomplished cook of Rose if it kills them. And it might, judging by the volume of bickering coming from there.

Alex is missing. He was supposed to come by for dinner, but he never showed up; just sent a text that he was busy on campus and would catch up some other time. This is what's keeping an edge on your otherwise serene mood.

>[x] Go and drag Alex back for dinner.
[ ] Give Alex space and enjoy the rest of the night at home.

Alex has already evicted Qiangxiang from that old subbasement office you're so familiar with -- which, over the course of the past year, has passed from Sable, to him, and then to her. Now it's back to him.

Fazil is just finishing loading Qiangxiang's things onto a pushcart and taking it from the office when you arrive. He smiles and nods at you as you enter. "All is right on planet Earth, yes?" He says. "The best man's Best man has come back. That is wordplay."

You suspected Alex would be here, and you were right. He's sitting in Sable's old chair -- but not at the desk. He's idly rocking back and forth, twirling a dry erase marker in his hands, staring intently at a whiteboard on which he has some diagrams doodled. The diagrams are in two parts, separated by a dividing line. One shows a bunch of eyeballs with a cat's cradle of dashed lines between and betwixt them all; the other shows a bunch of eyeballs with dashed lines all leading to a central rectangle, which you suppose represents a server -- like branches dangling off the trunk of a tree.

"There's some pound cake with your name on it," you tell him, walking up. "You should come and get it."

"Thanks Ally," he says, not looking back.

"Chloe is gonna be mad," you tell him. You pull up a chair and sit next to him.

"Nah. She doesn't care where we put her. I already told her I was kicking her out of here... she doesn't deserve to sit where Sable Guiteau sat."

"What's with the doodles?" You ask.

"Those Chinese stormtroopers in Vail..." Alex says. "They were taking equipment out of Mara's office before Le-- before that man barricaded us in there. They've got parts and pieces of Diogenes, now... how much, I don't know."

You expected that already. Still, it makes your stomach curdle to hear confirmation.

Alex finally looks at you. "We've got something of theirs, too."

You raise an eyebrow. From his pocket, Alex pulls a grain attached to a long, thin wire. You see the dollop of hotmelt securing the wire to the grain -- you're no expert but you can tell shoddy workmanship when you see it. This this is a mass-produced knockoff.

"You... took that off one of the Chinese mercenaries?"

"Uh huh."

The sheer level of foresight and quick thinking to have done that in the heat of the moment -- the literal heat of the moment -- not to mention the obviously grisly method he would have needed to procure it...

"Remind me not to underestimate you," you tell him.

"I've been doing a little bit of tinkering with this thing. You know, there's two primary architectures that an SR based platform can rely on. Peer-to-peer -- no pun intended -- or server-based, which is what we've been using. These things, though, the implants Chloe's got installed in her serfs? They don't use either structure."

"Then what?"

"They're self contained. Not networked at all. They're weak, Ally -- it's like a Casio pocket calculator compared to a supercomputer. Broad Dynamics is years behind the curve. Xi Shi is a glorified AR platform, not even as advanced as the Gateway to Heaven that David wanted to use SR for."

"Is that good news?" You ask. "It must be."

"It's... interesting news," Alex says. "It shows why they're so intent on piggybacking off our work."

"What do we do?"

"We don't let them -- of course." He stands. "I wanted to tell you, Ally... that... all this time I was being held by Mara, I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry -- sorry for -- and I told you that, when you found me. But I don't want to just be sorry. I'm sick of just being sorry. I want to help. In any way I can. I want to be part of the solution."

"You are," you tell him.

He nods.

"There's one thing, though," he says. "I know it isn't him," Alex explains. "But it's his body. Mara gave the order -- but Dalton Cantor is the one who murdered Sable. Right in front of my eyes. Being in the same room as -- as that monster -- I can't stand it. It makes me sick. Physically ill..."

"It makes me sick to work with David Darkbloom," you tell him. "He killed my parents. I know where you're coming from here, Alex, really -- I do."

"There's so many awful memories for me here. Even in this office. You know-- earlier today, before the board meeting, I was even thinking about resigning. Moving back to LA."

"You--"

"I won't. Not unless you want me to. It would be so selfish... so horrible, after everything. I wouldn't leave you in the lurch like that." He fiddles with the eraser sitting on the sill of the whiteboard. "Still... that one thing, that man -- Dalton. I've never had hatred in my heart like this before, Ally. It hurts, and it won't go away, and it's weighing me down... I don't like it. I don't know what to do with it."

"I do," you tell him.

---

Darkbloom is just wrapping up for the evening, and is on his way towards the opposite side of the C-suite with Nelson and Armstrong. They don't notice you and Alex bringing up the rear.

As usual, Dumb and Dumber are having an argument:

"They're not!" Nelson cries.

Armstrong is beside himself. "I will throttle you. My hand to God. Crack a dictionary open, you'll learn something."

"They actually aren't, though. This isn't even up for debate. Did the syphilis finally spread to the language centers of your brain?"

"What are they, then?" Armstrong demands, gesticulating.

"Shorts are NOT pants. Period. Shorts are a different category of legwear entirely. Separate. Wholly disjoint. You might as well call skirts a type of pants too, while you're at it."

"'Shorts' is literally an abbreviation of 'short pants', Nelson. You goddamn trainable. Don't make me beat you."

"This is asinine."

"Fine. Enlighten me. That thing you rode to school when you were a kid, Nelson. The short bus. Do you consider that a type of bus? Or was that its own category of vehicle separate from buses, too?"

Nelson throws his hands up. "If you ask someone to get you a pair of pants, and they hand you a pair of shorts, what would you say? 'Thank you'? Or -- 'What the hell. I asked for pants, not shorts'? I rest my case."

"WHY would I ever ask for a pair of pants without specifying what kind of pants I want? If I'm ever in that scenario, the fault is on me. Doesn't change the FACT that shorts are pants."

"If only you could dodge DUIs like you dodge questions. You might still be a US Senator."

"I'm glad to see you two ladies are the same as ever," Darkbloom cuts in. "I'm giving this point to Steven, though. Sorry, Nelson."

"Whatever, bodyjacker."

Darkbloom stops to examine his face in the reflection of the elevator's stainless steel doors. He pulls at the skin around his lower eyelid. "These shiners are clearing up nicely," he says. "Alabaster punches like a Nancy."

It's at this moment that Alex taps Darkbloom on the shoulder. He turns. "Mr. Best. Hello. What do--"

Alex punches him in the jaw. Darkbloom stumbles back, into the now-open doors of the elevator, trying to catch his balance on flailing feet and not succeeding, finally falling over. Alex follows him in. Darkbloom shields himself with one arm, but Alex is quicker; gets on top of him and gives him a few hard wallops. Darkbloom, roaring, manages to land a strike of his own, which knocks back and floors Alex too. They lie groaning and defeated together on the carpeted ground of the elevator. Armstrong and Nelson watch on from the hallway with you, baffled. The door starts to drift closed; Nelson stops it with a foot.

"Uh..." Nelson says.

"Sorry," Alex says. "That was for Dalton. Not you, Mr. Darkbloom."

"Are you quite done, Mr. Best?" Darkbloom groans.

"Yeah, I think so."

Darkbloom struggles to his feet, and magnanimously offers his hand to help Alex up, too.

"You pack a harder punch than Alabaster, at least," he says. You glower at him for that jibe he couldn't resist. "I am going to start carrying mace," he adds. "Do not strike me again. Either of you."

Alex laughs, even as he rubs the quickly developing black eye of his own. "Oh, the Rose special? I don't know that that'll stop Ally if he decides to come at you again. He's got a lot of practice, I think."

Darkbloom has no idea what to say to that.

When you get back home, Noelle isn't at the guard shack by the gates; it's the other guy who covers nights for Whitney. That's nice to see, because you assume it means Noelle is inside eating with everyone else. But she isn't at the table, either.

You ask Whitney what's up. Through a mouthful of cake, she shrugs and says: "tired, I guess. Went to bed."

Alex takes his seat between Cerise and Dr. Carte. Cerise ruffles his hair.

"I heard you're gonna be a congresswoman!" Alex chirps as Rose serves him a plate.

"Ugh. Don't talk about that. I don't want to think about it."

Mom points at Cerise with a ladle. "You should! You'll be the best darn congresswoman who ever lived. Mark my words."

"I guess that means we can't do our streams anymore, huh," Alex says. He isn't glum about it, or at least he doesn't sound that way -- but you know it's probably a sad thought for him.

Cerise thinks for a moment. "I don't know. Why not?"

"...Why not?" Alex repeats. "Because--"

"Call it voter outreach," Cerise says. "People like a politician who knows their way around Twitch. It's the new hotness."

Alex grins broadly.

"Just, uh... no more extra content," Cerise says. She shoots you a look.

"Alabaster," Rose says. She hefts a plate in one hand; in apron and all, face still smeared with whipped icing from the baking, she looks like some unholy cross-pollination of Mom and Charlotte. "Are you going to sit down and eat with us too, or what?"

You glance Dr. Carte's way. She shakes her head at you; you know what she's wordlessly telling you to do.

"Just a ch-- uh, just a second," you say. "I need to go check on something."

"What!" Rose says as you walk out. Her voice carries down the hall. "You don't want this cake that I sweated and poured my heart into?! What the--"

"He's always been like that," you hear Mom rejoin. "Always! You'll get used to it..."

"A one-eyed birdie told me that you got crushed at putputt today."

You tap on Noelle's door even as you enter. She's sitting at her small desk, browsing shitposts, chin resting on the back of her wrist. She's naked. She murmurs to acknowledge your presence but keeps her eyes glued on the screen.

"Anything good on *chan today?" You ask.

"Has there ever, in the history of mankind, been anything good on *chan?"

"No," You admit.

"There's going to be a season 3 of Magical Witchy," Noelle tells you. "New studio, though."

"Which one?"

"Studio YEEN."

"Oh Jesus Christ."

"Yeah. Didn't think your day could get worse, did ya."

You sit on her bed. "I thought my day was pretty nice, actually."

"Huh." She's still staring at her screen.

"Are you okay?" You ask. "Dr. Carte said--"

Noelle wheels around in her chair. "Fuck. She told you? -- I... god fucking damn it. I don't want to talk about it. Okay?"

You shake your head. "She didn't tell me anything else... all she said was that I should talk to you."

"I don't want to!" She yells. Her eyes are welling up. She kicks the foot of the bed. "I don't want to talk about that! Go away, huh? I'm busy. *chan is a very important place, Alabaster, you know."

>[x] Press the issue.
[ ] Drop it and invite her back down to dinner.


A half hour of ugly sobbing later, Noelle is curled in the fetal position in her bed, and you have your arms wrapped around her.

"Were you planning on..." you begin. "You know."

"I don't know," Noelle says through the frog in her throat. "I was still deciding... it's why I never said anything. But that decision got taken away, didn't it."

"Noelle... I'm so sorry -- I would never have let you go to Vail if --"

"Don't. I made that choice... I wanted to be there. It's because I was there that you and your friends made it out... in some small way, at least... I helped. I helped bring down Mara Darkbloom. The world needed that. You needed it. I did too."

You have no idea how to navigate these waters, what words or actions will console her, and you say as much.

Noelle sniffles. She shrugs. And then her trembling goes still, and she falls quiet for a turn.

Finally: "Do what you're best at," she says softly. "Take my mind off of it."

Noelle tugs at your belt and zipper. You briefly resist with a couple murmurs of uncertainty. Given the recent trauma both physical and emotional, it seems like a bad idea. But the raw hunger and needfulness of Noelle's touch, the determined expression shining through the ruddy complexion of her face still streaked with tears -- you realize that she truly wants this right now. 

And you also can't deny that despite the circumstances, holding a naked girl has had an effect on you. You kind of hate yourself for it, but it did.

"There it is," Noelle says, a wan smile pushing at the edges of her lips. She finds your member in her soft hand. "There's that fat fucking dick I love. See? I can't be a lesbian if I love your dick this much, right?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Good."

You peel your shirt and pants off, then twist around, get on hands and knees above Noelle. You gaze down at her, her helpless body still weak from everything it's been through, and still bandaged around the middle. "I'll be gentle," you tell her.

"No," she grunts. "Don't you dare be gentle. Don't you dare treat me with kid gloves, Alabaster, I'll kick your ass if you do. I want you to FUCK me. I want you to fuck me harder than you've ever fucked any of those other bitches in your little stable. Fuck me like you mean it."

You blink.

"I'm serious. Knock me out with your dick. Ruin my pussy... cum in me like I'm a dirty tissue. Do it -- do it now."

You lean in and kiss her deeply, at the same moment as you ram your cock up inside her tender cunt. From either end you're suddenly connected to her, and from either end you feel the vital heat of her body. It rushes over you like the heat of a fire. She's hot all over. And she's wet, and she's tight, and her pussy is sticking to your shaft like it's hugging it. She was being 100% honest, she wanted you to fuck her -- no, rather, she needed it. Her body is crying out for your cum, and you'll be happy to give it to her.

Noelle is so desperate that as she kisses you, her teeth knock yours. You feel the vestiges of her lipstick smearing you, too. Her kisses are open-mouthed and land all over your face. You know that Rose is well enough used to you fucking outside the bonds of matrimony by now, but the thought of her reaction when you come to bed later, stinking of Noelle's body, and smeared with Noelle's makeup... somehow it makes your cock throb even harder. 

That thought, and the primal enjoyment of rubbing your cock inside a messy fuckhole like Noelle's, drives you further and further. You really wanted to be gentle. You really meant that. But you can't help yourself. You're pounding her out like a cheap slut. You're bouncing on top of her and pushing her deeper and deeper into the bed. You're fucking Noelle with a deranged lust only you're capable of, and your massive cock is stretching her to her very limit. 

And she loves it. Her pretty little pussy, only so recently cherry, stretches out and bruises up and breaks open just for you. This pleasurably painful experience makes her cum like a bitch. She cums again and again, shuddering, groaning in delight, humping back against you as the orgasms roll through her. You feel the wet explosions from her spasming pussy. Noelle's prodigious squirting stains her mattress and makes the room fill with her scent. It invades your nostrils, drives you even farther past that point of no return. You hug her around her lithe, sweaty back, feeling her perky tits mashing up against your chest. You lie over her and press down, hug her tighter still, grip her with a brutal forcefulness. You hold her like you're trying to merge your bodies into one. God, she's so slippery and hot inside. Her chin rests against your slick shoulder. She kisses your cheek between thrusts -- and the deep, guttural sounds emanating from the back of her throat signal her adoration and her passion. 

The raw force of your animal fucking seems to have knocked the wind from her. But she finds enough breath, just barely, to whisper gulpingly your ear: "Alabaster... so you know... I'm still not safe."

You pull back just a little, enough to look her fully in the eyes -- even with your cock still seated inside her and drooling freely into her womb. 

She grins up at you.

Grunting, you pull all the way out. She squeaks in shock, then, as you roughly spin her around onto her tummy. You tug her ass up, and admire the peach-shaped curve of her butt for just a moment before, yearning for that sweet relief of orgasm, you get back on top of her. In a speed bump position just as brutal and forceful as the missionary you were in moments ago, you give her jackhammer thrusts that push her deliriously grinning face into the pillowtop. You grope her tits and fuck her just as hard as she wanted.  The obscene, wet noises of your mating fill the room and echo off the walls; you grin ear to ear at the thought of what you're about to do. And yep, it's cumming. Your horny cock sputters, then shudders, and then your nuts tighten, and out it all goes, straight inside; you're squirting a hot load into Noelle's womb, and gravity ensures it stays there. Noelle scream ecstatically into the pillow, wiggling her butt, squeezing your dick with her pussy, trying to make sure you're empty. The sound of her squirting against her sheets is loud and satisfying as you pump your jizz into her body.

---

At work, as you walk down the hall in the C-suite, you hear muffled shouts from Gal's office. You're about to step in to investigate, when all of a sudden, out comes storming Cerise. You nearly bump into her as she bursts through the door.

"What's wrong?" You ask her, genuinely concerned.

"What's wrong? Oh, nothing's wrong, Alabaster. I just married a woman who believes in ancient aliens and preaches the healing power of Chakras. That's all!"

You look into Gal's office. Gal, peeking her head from around the monitors on her desk, tells Cerise: "your chakras are misaligned--"

"I was not talking to you!" Cerise yells.

"Hold on," you say. You arch an eyebrow at Gal. "You believe in ancient aliens?"

"i'm not saying i believe in ancient aliens. cerise isn't listening to me. as usual. all i'm saying is if it wasn't aliens, then how did they move those stones. how did they move them."

"Oh my god," Cerise says.

"how did they move the stones, cerise. you can't answer that. you can't"

Cerise stomps off. Gal, triumphant, takes a long drag off one of her vape pens.

When you step fully into Gal's office, you're surprised to find that Mom is there as well; and Mom is feeding Gal some of last night's leftovers. Literally: plate in one hand, fork in the other, all but doing Gal's chewing for her.

"thank you scarlett, but i'm full," Gal tries.

"No you aren't. You need to eat. Eat!" She presses another morsel into Gal's mouth. As she types, she chews. Reluctantly. But she chews.

You're a bit embarrassed on Gal's behalf. But Mom has the right idea. She does need to eat.

"So where do you stand vis-a-vis ancient aliens?" You ask Mom.

"Anna raises some points that I never considered before," Mom says. "I think it's perfectly plausible. Cerise is just being bullheaded and close-minded."

You cringe.

"Don't give me that look, young man. Anna is smarter than both of you combined! And she's done her research. She knows what she's talking about!"

"yes"

Oh joy. Mom has a new favorite daughter. Mom rewards her with another mouthful.

"You should be more like Anna," Mom continues. "They might bicker a little bit, but she really looks out for Cerise. It's so sweet. Do you know what she did? Tell him, Anna. Tell him what you did."

"it's really nothing"

"Go on, honey, don't be humble."

"erm... well... with cerise's announcement coming up and everything... i thought it would be best if someone kept a closer eye on all the... online discussions"

You squint at her. "/CSG/?" You say.

"yes"

"She volunteered to clean up that cesspool!" Mom tells you. "She got a job removing offensive posts about your sister from that godawful bulletin forum."

"Oh my God..." you mutter. "Gal -- you're a... you're a janitor?"

Her abashed silence speaks volumes.

"And guess what!" Mom says. "She isn't even getting paid for it. She's doing it out of love for your sister, and nothing more! For free!"

You stifle laughter. Then, you check *chan on your phone. Unfortunately for Gal, despite the recent move of /CSG/ to a containment board, or perhaps because of it, she has her work cut out for her. One janny alone, no matter how motivated by love, may not suffice. The place is worse than it's ever been.

https://i.imgur.com/yLS568H.png

---

Cerise's intention to run for congress "leaked" in the news media early yesterday evening. The reporter who got the scoop was Kay Vera; and of course, it was a coordinated leak designed to whip up some preliminary buzz and interest in the campaign. Her official announcement is taking place today at the Palo Alto Rotary Club, where Cerise will field townhall style questions from the crowd. Armstrong spent all morning and most of the afternoon prepping her for the event, the first time Cerise has spoken publicly since the Senate testimony that rocked the world last year.

You wanted to be there in support of her, especially since Gal won't be able to make it. But Vivian believes you and Rose alike should be kept at arm's length from the campaign, at least in its early stages. Too afraid of your cunning political mind showing her up, most probably.

You head down to Rose's office to field her thoughts on ancient aliens. The battle lines within the Soliloquy family are fast being drawn, and you need to know Rose stands on the side of facts and logic.

But Rose isn't in at the moment. Possibly she's down in HR getting herself up to speed on the department she now heads. Charlotte's office is on the same floor, though, and like a shark in chummed waters, she immediately senses your presence. She steps out into the hallway and waves you over basically as soon as you show your face on the 13th floor.

"Hi Mrs. Mall-- Cha-- hi Mom," you finally manage, wanting to keep on her good side for the moment, lest you incite that creepy dead-eyed stare from the other day.

She grins. So far, so good.

Charlotte's office is the kind of stereotypically cozy place you'd expect for an attorney's office -- bookshelves lined with dense legal tomes, a desk lamp with an oblong green glass shade, inoffensive art on the walls. Actually, one of the framed pictures hanging there is a charcoal sketch of a crested robin drawn by Alex himself, which Charlotte happened to see one day, and fell in love with, and subsequently demanded to pay him $1,000 for. He said it was the first time he had ever sold art.

"I suppose that makes you officially a professional artist now!" Charlotte had said; which made Alex so happy that he cried.

When you step inside the room, Charlotte closes the door behind you -- which is odd behavior. She never closes her office door, claiming that it makes the room feel stuffy and claustrophobic. Then this: when you sit in one of the armchairs in front of the little round table in the corner, Charlotte doesn't join you. Rather, she leans her coccyx against the edge of her desk, propping her weight up by her hands behind her -- still grinning at you. It almost feels a bit predatory, if you're being honest.

"I'm so glad you're back safe, Alabaster. You and Rose. I know I've said that already -- so many times -- but it's such a relief. I don't know what I would do if something happened to either of you."

"We've got you to thank," you say. "You helped us with Dalton and everything... because of that... we were able to get everyone home safe."

She nods. Then, getting the flash of an idea, she turns, and retrieves a small bottle of cognac from her shelf, and two intricately ridged shot glasses, and pours for you without asking whether you'd be into some day-drinking right now. Well, you would be, so that's fine.

She hands you yours. Standing before you, Charlotte toasts you, clinking the glasses together.

"To health," she says.

"To health," you agree, toasting back, and take a swig.

"And also your decision to try for a baby with Rose."

You choke, and cough, and spray cognac in a fine projectile mist. Charlotte laughs slyly.

"So it's true!" Charlotte says. "How wonderful."

"What did she--" you begin, wiping the spittle and droplets of liquor from your chin. "--Goddamn it. I can't believe she's going around just telling people--"

Charlotte laughs again. "Oh, don't be silly, Alabaster, dear. She didn't have to tell me. I just know."

"How can you 'just know' something like that?" You demand. "More to the point... what makes you think you know? I -- look. We're not trying for a baby, Mom."

Whether or not you really believe what you're telling Charlotte, you'd prefer for her to think so. You've always thought it was a bit creepy the way people announce that they're "trying for a baby" given what "trying for a baby" necessarily entails. It's mortifying. And anyway, you're not trying for a baby, so there's that...

"It's just something mothers know. Call it a motherly intuition. It was as plain as the noses on your faces when you came to work this morning!"

"No way. Rose told you something. Don't treat me like I'm stupid."

She just gives another one of her knowing little laughs, and refills your glass. You meekly accept it. You could use the liquor. She puts the stopper back in the bottle, returns to her desk, and leans against it again. Whether or not it really was Rose who let the cat out of the bag, you know you'll have to pay her back for this little humiliation later.

"I'm sorry, honey. I pry too much. I'm just so excited! I never would have imagined when I took you in, that you and Rose-- oh my goodness. Well in any case, if it's a girl, Charlotte is an excellent name! Don't you think?" You blanche; Charlotte giggles. "There I go, prying again. Sorry, sorry!"

She kicks off her flats, curls and uncurls her stockinged toes against the carpeted floor. When she sees you see this; she says: "These things are about half a size too small for me. I need to get comfy when I can. You understand."

You purse your lips. "Well, I really should be--"

"You never did tell me! How was Palau?"

"It was great," you say, sitting again. "I mean except for the part where Chloe came and threatened me."

"That's all right. She'll get hers." The way Charlotte can say such an ominous line with the same bright smile and warm tone, without batting an eyelash, is kind of scary. You sip your drink. "So you and Rose had a nice honeymoon?"

"Sure. Lots of... uh, fun on the beach."

"How sweet. I hope your mother didn't get in the way!"

You blink.

Charlotte drums the desktop with her fingers. "I mean... tagging along on your honeymoon? And you think I pry too much!" She pours herself another glass of cognac, too. She twirls it around, and then sips. "She can be a bit much sometimes, honestly. I love her to pieces, though!"

You decide to move past her little jabs in Mom's direction. "That's good. It's really nice that you two are--"

"She has such a predilection for tall tales. It's her major flaw. She told me some real doozies about the Palau trip! If you want the honest truth?" She holds the shot glass to her cheek, pinky held out, in lieu of cupping her hand, and whispers: "I think she's a bit jealous. You know. Of what she saw during the wedding." She winks at you.

You massage the bridge of your nose. "Char-- Mom-- I don't think--"

Her voice goes boisterous again. "But look at me, gabbing and gabbing. I'm not being attentive enough... to you, Alabaster. All this craziness of the past couple weeks, you must be under such an enormous amount of stress." She hoists herself up, sits her butt flat on the desk. Her black pencil skirt hikes up just a bit with the motion. "I always pride myself on being the best mother possible. And that means making sure I take care of my boy when he's under stress!"

You gulp. "Mrs. Mallory... you're trying to seduce me. Aren't you?"

She parts her knees, just a little, just enough to pull the smooth material of her skirt taut. "I think I've done that already. Haven't I?"

You finish your drink in one hard swig.

[ ] Succumb.
>[x] (Make her even more desperate) Speaking of Mom -- I should really go see her.

"What."

"All this conversation reminded me... I told her that I'd go down to the kitchen and spend some time with her today. I'm a man of my word, you know?" You set the empty glass down on the table. "Thanks for the drink -- and your little offer. I'll catch up later, Mrs. Mallory -- for sure."

You stand and nonchalantly exit the room. Charlotte's shocked eyes follow you out, her slack face swiveling. This is the look of a woman who's never experienced the sting of rejection, of her charms failing her.

You're not sure precisely what it is you've set in motion, but you just know it's going to be fun. 

Mom really is in the kitchen, the only person there; the lunch hour has come and gone, and the other cooks have all left for the day. Mom uses this time before leaving campus to prep for the next day's patisserie. She's busy making a sweet dough, hands folding powdered sugar into it, inside a giant mixing bowl, when you enter. 

"Oh!" Mom says, looking up from the chrome table as she senses your presence. "So there he is! The boy who never has the time to stop and visit his own mother!"

"I'm visiting you now, aren't I?" You grouse.

She blows a bang from her face, busy hands still kneading. Obviously, this response does not impress her.

You glance this way and that, slyly, making sure the coast is clear. While Mom slaves over her bowl, flour-flecked face deep in concentration, you circle behind her.

"Honestly," she says. "I cook and and I cook, and I work my butt off to feed everyone, and--" 

Whatever she was about to say ends in a choke as you run your hand up and across the contour of her ass through her jeans. 

"You work your butt off?" You say. "I dunno. Seems like it's still here."

"A-Alabaster..."

"Hmm?" You say, rubbing your cupped hand back and forth, appreciating the give and softness of her backside even through the denim. 

Mom is shaking. Her hands in the bowl stop in place. "We're at work. You can't just -- just do things like that to me at work--"

"I fuck so many girls right here at work and it's never a problem. Why not you, too?"

She gasps.

You play magnanimous. "But... if you don't want to... that's fine. I can go upstairs and have sex with Charlotte. She already said--"

Mom spins around, fists balled up, elbows locked. "What! What is that woman doing now?"

"Nothing -- geez. I'm just saying--"

"Why would you want a floozie like her? Listen, dear, I love Charlotte. But we have to face the facts: she's a complete bimbo! You don't need a woman like her to take the stress off. She wants to say you do, but you don't -- not when you've got me. So forget about her!"

You rub the back of your head. "Well, since you're offering. I am feeling pretty stressed right now... I could really use something to take the load off."

Mom's competitive streak falters again. "Right -- right here?" She stammers. "I mean... Alabaster, you might have sex with other girls at work, but I'm your mother. That makes it different. If someone saw us..."

You shrug. "I fuck Cerise at work. Is this really any worse?"

"Cerise--! You-- nooo. You don't. You really--"

"Yeah. In my office, usually. I bend her over my desk and drop a load inside her whenever I feel like it. She really likes to keep my sperm inside her during the day... she says it gives her energy." Mom's face is a shifting canvas of conflicting emotions. But shining through is a mounting lust. This is her weak spot: she gets all tingly when you describe the lurid details of what you and Cerise get up to. Today, you add a new angle to the depravity: "And I fuck Rose2 at work. She's basically my sister too, right? I usually get a little bit rougher with her. She likes it that way."

Mom clasps her lips with a flour-flecked hand. "R-rougher?"

"Heh. You know what the difference between Rose2 and a mosquito is? The mosquito stops sucking when you smack it."

Mom slumps against the prep table, tipping the mixing bowl to its side.

"That's just a joke," you allow, sensing you've gone too far. "I--"

"How hard do you hit her."

"What?"

She repeats, voice trembling: "how hard do you hit her."

You clear your throat. "Well, I don't go gentle on her. If she does something stupid... which is pretty frequently... I have to spank her. That's a big brother's duty, isn't it?"

Her voice is flat and low but husky all the same. "Yes. Yes it is... you're doing exactly what a big brother should, Alabaster... Rose needs discipline. You should be the one to dispense it..."

You smirk at her. "Is that something you'd want to see, too?"

She nods. 

"I'll rough her up extra hard just for you, Mom. Let's gang up on her tonight." 

Mom moans. You can actually see a small wet spot developing in the crotch of her jeans. She notices you staring. Unbuttoning, and sliding out of them, she sits bare-assed on the chrome table. She leans way back, and parts her thick thighs for you. "Fuck me, Alabaster, please... you said you were stressed... so go ahead. Use my hole to take the stress off."

You won't say no to an invitation as nice as that. You step out of your pants, too. Together, she and you, mother and son, commit for a second time that most ultimate taboo: you fuck. You slide you cock into the wet heat of her cunt and enjoy the sensation of your mother's body from the inside; the soft, silky smooth interior of her vagina. To steady yourself as you stand in front of the low table humping her, you grab her by either of her jiggling thighs. The hot, plump flesh in your palms, contrasting with the cold hard chrome of the tabletop against your knuckles, is a pleasure all its own as you saw your dick in and out. You don't go gentle on her, either; you pound her as fast and as hard as you can. You really have been stressed lately, and Mom's fuckhole actually is a wonderful stress reliever.

As you establish this brutal, selfish rhythm inside her, Mom licks the broad side of her palm and starts to rub her fat clitty. What a nice sight, Mom rubbing herself off, through her manicured bush, while you use her. The whole time you breed her, she stays intently focused on your face -- staring into it -- practically boring a hole into your soul. 

"Oh fuck, Mom..." you pant, tongue wagging, unable to contain your ecstatic grunting. 

She strokes your cheek with her other hand, even as she jills herself. "You love you Mommy's cunt, don't you, baby?"

"Yes-- fuck, yes--"

"More than that loose whore who only pretends to be your mother?"

You nod. That was all she needed to see. She smiles broadly, blushes -- happy. And then she quickens the frenzied pace of her clit-rubbing, and starts to hump back against you. Her cunt swallows your dick entirely, down to its thick root, with every forward thrust she gives. The cushiony pad of her pubic mound mashes against your crotch. You feel too the sticky lips of her labia pressing directly against your skin every time your cock sinks in. Her humping makes the table she sits on shake and shudder, its legs squealing against the tiled floor. She's squealing too, as she cums. 

Then you're grunting, like an ape, as you mash your lips against hers and dump an incestuous load of seed straight into the sloppy, juicy depths of her mommyhole. The cum spurts and spurts, and Mom accepts it all with her arms looped around your neck, pulling you closer. 

When finally you're done ejaculating inside your own mother, you pull back, and relish that delicious tingle as your over-sensitive prick slides out. Behind it, leaking from her unplugged pussy, comes the deluge of your jizz. It pools in a pearly white puddle on the prep table. She looks lovingly down at it, and twirls an index finger through it. "Oh my~ you were really stoppered up~..." Then, looking you in the eye: "Be honest, baby... is my pussy a better stress-relief hole than Charlotte's? She said hers is better -- but it isn't, is it? Mine is."

You know you've got an audience. And before you can craft a diplomatic reply, that audience is making herself known. Charlotte strides up. "Disgusting! You would have sex with your own son--!"

Mom, basking in the afterglow, just leans further back, down onto her elbows, and lets the cum leak out of her in a lewd, continuous stream. "Hahh-- haahhh--" she pants, breathing slow and ragged. "Don't lie. You're jealous, Charlotte... you wanted to be his mommy, didn't you... but you're not REALLY his mommy..." She runs her hand across her tummy and further down, to the cum-matted bush above her cunt, and further still, to the mess on the table, playing with it, while she stares Charlotte defiantly in the face. "You're too late... I already took care of him. But you can lick it up, if you want..."

Hand on hip, Charlotte leans way forward, scowling. "You don't know him half as well as you think. He would never be satisfied cumming only once! You're hopeless, Scarlett -- you're already an exhausted wreck after letting him fuck you only once! How could you EVER take care of his stress that way? A boy like Alabaster needs a pussy he can spunk into three or four times in a row, at least!"

Mom doesn't have that same haughty expression anymore. She's maybe realizing that she miscalculated. Charlotte, jumping up onto another chrome prep table opposite Mom, hikes her skirt all the way back and crooks a finger at you. "Come on, dear... let me finish what Scarlett couldn't. Use my pussy... and don't hold back, either... I can take it. Cum as much as you like."

You approach her. Behind you comes Mom's voice, who's clearly a bit hurt: "Alabaster... Alabaster, if you need to go a second time, you absolutely can use my pussy again! Fuck me as much as you want!"

Charlotte grins smugly at her. Now here too is an expression you're familiar with -- she really is her daughter's mother.

As you tug aside Charlotte's satin panties and admire the other way she resembles her daughter -- that bare, puffy cunt that hardly looks as mature as it truly is -- you tell your other mother, over your shoulder: "Sorry... but you wanted to know who's got the better hole, right? I need to be able to judge fairly..."

"Judge away," Charlotte coos, and sinks her cunt around your cock as you press into her. 

Charlotte's pussy is unbelievably soft. She knows it, too: "I should have been doing this the whole time," she says regretfully. "This is so much better for you than those silly rubber pussies you used when you were a teenager... isn't it?"

You nod.

"That's right," she continues. "I knew it. You need a real pussy to cum in or you won't be satisfied... it's okay, Alabaster, I understand. My pussy is your real number-one stress-relief hole, isn't it? Much better than hers... much better..."

"Ridiculous!" Mom shouts. "I'm sure he can hardly feel you, you're so loose! He doesn't need a loose, disgusting hole like yours when he's got his real mother to take care of him!"

Charlotte responds by hugging you around your back and pulling you close to her. "Ignore that silly woman," she whispers. "Just fuck your mommy and forget all your trouble... that's it, baby, just keep fucking me... as much as you need..."

"Fuck," you pant, "I'm gonna--"

"Ohhh baby," Charlotte mewls, rubbing your face with both hands. "You poor, poor thing. You really have got a heavy load inside your balls today, I can tell... don't you? See? Scarlett couldn't even come close to getting it all out... that's why you need me..." 

You kiss and nip at her neck, and she ruffles your hair. She says, more for Mom's ears than yours: "Oh, but... you wouldn't *really* spunk inside my cunt, would you?~ You wouldn't make such a terrible mess inside your mommy's pretty pussy, would you? Would you really mess my pussy up like that?"

"Oh god," you groan, "I can't-- I-- I'm really gonna cum, fuck--"

"Aw. It's all right, honey. Go ahead and do whatever you need to. Mommy understands. Spunk me up... make a mess. Cum in MY pussy."

You do as she commands. Your balls spew another thick wad of cum directly into Charlotte's rental-mommy pussy. Her internal walls flutter around your jerking cock and almost seem to be vacuuming up every drop of your sperm. 

Cumming two times in quick succession, in such deliciously soft, inviting holes, as they gently coax it out... it's left you feeling weak, and seeing stars. Charlotte is tenacious in clinging to you, and kissing you, and keeping her legs wrapped around your butt, but you need a moment to rest. You force her to let go of you, despite her cooing protests and insistence that you stay to fuck another load into her. You stumble backward, towards a little stool, and sit. Your two mothers, cunts both leaking your sperm, lie between you, each on either table, about equally wiped.

Mom is the first to stir. She gets down off the table, leaving a little snail trail of cum in her wake as she gets down on her knees in front of you, and stares sadly up at you. She pleads: "Really, though... my pussy is the best... right?"

Charlotte, then, is right there beside her, at your other knee. "Don't let her guilt you. You need to be honest with her. We both know that my pussy is the best hole for cumming inside of... far better than hers..."

You're still out of breath, and you wouldn't want to break either of their hearts anyway. When you don't respond, they take that as an invitation to further competition. 

"Oh dear... you're still all hard, aren't you?" Charlotte says. She lightly brushes the glistening shaft of your cock, where even now a little dollop of sperm is pearled on top of the piss slit. 

"I'll take care of that for you, baby, don't worry," Mom says, taking your dick by the base and beginning to slowly stroke it. 

Charlotte, not to be bested, grabs her sweater and peels it up, baring her huge chest; just as quickly, off comes her bra. She mashes her fat tits together, pink nipples pointing up at you. She shoves Mom aside with one shoulder. Then seizing the opportunity, Charlotte gets your prick in between the slippery confines of her cleavage. As always, it's wonderfully hot, and fleshy, and sweaty. You'll never get enough of that obscene sensation of a motherly titjob. You sigh happily.

Mom gets her balance back, and pouting, shoves Charlotte in retaliation. She tugs her own sweater off now, and her own bra, and you admire the even larger bust she has. Her giant udders are heavy-looking and tender... and when she gets your cock between them, they're just as nice to fuck as Charlotte's. Mom adds her own twist to this perverted proceeding, too; she uses her long wet tongue to pleasure your cockhead while she humps her chest up and down in your lap.

Charlotte's move now. From the other side of you she uses her chest to edge in. There's a brief tussle, as both women, tit-to-tit, push against each other. But they come to a stalemate, your dick still trapped in between. And like that, they've begun to give you an entirely new pleasure. Paizuri with two women at the same time. Their nipples rub one another's as, grimacing at each other, they both work to please your dick. Up and down they work, in tandem, and occasionally they even growl at each other. But they're not fighting anymore because they've got a higher priority: getting you to ejaculate. They're working together to do it.

The two-woman paizuri becomes a two-woman blowjob, too. They swap your spit-slick dick back and forth between them, messing up their makeup, getting their tits all covered in shiny saliva. They're making a real mess: of you, of each other. 

They're out of breath and desperate as they each demand, panting over one another: "tell her-- I'm the best--!" -- "no-- she's wrong -- I am-- tell her that it's me--" -- "Don't listen to her, Alabaster, you know I'm the better mommy... you know it..." -- "it's okay, honey, you can cum in my throat... just put your cock in my throat and cum--!!" -- "No, cum on my tits, baby... or, no... pin me down, fuck me! Cum in my pussy... You need to cum inside my pussy again, don't you..."

You close your eyes and relish the indescribable softness, and shifting contours, of four tits, and two tongues, swirling around and mashing against your prick. When you cum, you don't warn them, you just blast them both: their tits and their faces -- a geyser of sperm that smears and stains them both. As if they didn't look whorish enough, now they're coated with and dripping your incestuous jizz. 

Groaning and shivering with the decadent, lewd enjoyment of it all, you deliver your verdict: "You're both the best!"  

They can live with that, at least for now. A bit more placid, they stay there on the ground, at your knees, turning their heads this way and that as they swap your cummy dick back and forth, and work to suck out the final vestiges of your sperm. Occasionally their tongues meet, and they don't mind it, because they're so focused on their cleanup duty -- this, too, is a mother's job.

---

Cerise's expression is a mixture of mortified and gloomy, as you and Rose and Gal, sitting in Gal's office, watch the video of her townhall with her.

"Just turn it off--" Cerise begs. "I fucked it up. That's all you need to--"

"Shh--!!" Gal hisses. She wants to see her wife's performance. Good, bad, or indifferent.

The man on the video is just wrapping up his Boston Marathon of a question: "...similar architectures, all of which pose equally perplexing problems as regards our agreement on what constitutes objective reality in an increasingly fractured, polarized discourse -- how will you, as a a scion of this movement towards reality a la carte, if you will -- use legislative power to define the boundaries of what tech companies can be permitted to do in our brave new world? Can we trust you, with all due respect, to legislate with the public interest at heart and not that of Darkbloom Analytics? Thank you."

Cerise, at the lectern, coughs. The navy blue curtains behind her were a bad choice; they make her look especially pale and sweaty. The audience is pindrop quiet for agonizing moments as Cerise, also quiet, composes her thoughts.

She finally responds: "Well... I like technology."

There's another agonizing silence. All the scene needs is some crickets to complete the fremdschamen. The moderator begins: "Okay, well, uh, we'll have another question--"

But suddenly Cerise finds her rhetorical feet. She cuts in: "I like technology, but I hate Darkbloom Analytics."

She lets that sink in. Then, detaching the mic from the lectern, she steps away, and begins to pace back and forth across the length of the stage. "I hate Darkbloom Analytics. That company destroyed my entire life, if you want to know the honest truth. It did. David Darkbloom, God never rest his soul, he murdered my parents. He did. And I didn't know that when I first took my job there. I also didn't know that my own childhood friend Whitney was his daughter... that she would end up being the fu-- the dang CEO. So it was two times in a row that I basically got forced to work in a company I hate. I like technology but no, I don't like Darkbloom Analytics. And you know? Neither does Whitney. She hates that fu-- that dang company. We run it because we want to keep it in the hands of people who do hate it. Instead of people who think it's just peachy fucking-- peachy dang keen. The last thing you want is a Darkbloom Analytics being run by people who believe in Darkbloom Analytics. But buddy, trust me when I tell you: we've got competitors who do believe in what they do. We can't keep that at bay forever. Sand Reckoner is a genie out of the dang-- the fu-- the dang bottle. It is. We're at our limit of what we can do, in a business way, to keep Sand Reckoner out of the wrong hands. So I want to go to Washington -- because I hate Sand Reckoner. And Washington needs someone who understands Sand Reckoner enough to know how bad to hate it. So, ... yeah. Thanks for the question."

You glance up from the video. Cerise has her eyes closed, shaking her head; she obviously thinks quite dimly of her performance here. But glancing at Rose, you nonverbally confirm that it was the best possible response Cerise could have given to the accusation of being a Darkbloom Analytics toady. And Gal's expression is even more approving; she's smiling broadly, nodding along, fully in agreement.

"Yes, the gentlemen in the third row there--" the moderator in the video is saying.

Beside you, Cerise's head-shaking gets more violent. She moans like a wounded boar; this is obviously something she wants to relive even less than the last question.

"Yes, hi, Mrs. Soliloquy, and thank you, for coming here today."

"You're thank you," Cerise replies.

"Uh--"

"Welcome. You're welcome. Not you're welcome -- uh, you're thank you. Not that. But welcome. I -- uh. Go ahead..."

"Right. Um. So Mrs. Soliloquy, if elected to congress -- you would be one of just a few openly lesbian representatives. And so, in such a unique position, I'm just curious, what you would do to further the rights of gay and lesbian--"

"I'm sorry. Go back. What was that?"

"As potentially one of the only openly lesbian congresswomen in the House--"

"What are you talking about?"

"I--"

"I'm not a lesbian. For fuck's sake, man."

"But... Mrs. Soliloquy... your wife--"

"OH! So because I'm married to a woman, that makes me a lesbian! Well la-di-fucking-da!" She throws her hands up in the air. "Just because I've got a gal pal who helps me out, who I'm married to, I'm a lesbian! That's how it is, huh? That's your viewpoint?"

"I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't think--"

He begins to sit. Cerise points menacingly at him. "Don't you fucking sit down, you hydrocephalic peabrain. You little bitch. I'm not done with you. Now you listen here, shitter. I don't know what time machine you stepped out of or what year you come from, but just because I'm a woman who's in love with a woman, that doesn't make me a lesbian. Jesus Christ. And you know, another thing, I'm up here talking about reality bending fucking technology and you want to ask me about my wife! What the fuck! I'm already pouring out every dirty detail of my life story here, with the murdered parents and the whatnot... now you want to know all about my love life, too. Cool. Fucking cool. Stupendous. That's why I'm here, huh?"

"I'm ... I'm so sorry, Mrs. Soliloquy..." He sounds genuinely scared.

She lets hims it. She clears her throat, smooths her blouse, composes herself. "So in summary, gay people are fine. Next question."

"Please turn it off," Cerise begs you. You do.

Rose sighs. "Well. It was a good try."

"You wouldn't have liked Washington anyway," you tell her, rubbing her back.

"we still love you" Gal says.

Cerise is on the verge of tears. Not from the obviously lost-before-it-began campaign, but from the sheer embarrassment of it all.

"Cerise!" comes Armstrong's roaring voice, as he steps into the office. "There's my future representative! Great job today. You knocked 'em dead."

You give him a what-the-fuck look -- a, did-you-even-fucking-watch-that look.

"It's over..." Cerise groans, head in her hands. "Just forget it... just cancel my candidacy... it's over."

"What?" Armstrong says. "You're national news, Cerise!"

"Oh god," she says, sounding like she's about to ralph.

Armstrong pulls out his phone. He scrolls through it. "Glowing reviews. From all sides even. Huffpo -- 'WATCH: Congressional candidate Cerise Soliloquy's epic clapback against bi erasure'... Fox -- 'Cerise Soliloquy's no-BS approach hearkens back to the Democratic Party's former glory ... shades of the Kennedys ... the future of the party'! Oh, and Twitter is all abuzz too. Here: 'We stan a badass bi bitch. Hashtag bicon.' You're trending!"

Cerise, rheumy-eyed, gaping, stares up at him.

You exhale, part happy for her, and part bemused. You nudge her. "Congratulations, Cerise," you say. "You're officially a Slay Kween."

"Fuck you, Alabaster. If I hear those two words in that order from you ever again, you're dead. Dead."

"Oh -- and you've managed to pull over a million dollars in campaign contributions today," Armstrong adds.

"What!" Cerise howls. "That's so -- so fucking stupid."

"why" Gal asks.

"I'm a billionaire. Why on Earth would anyone donate money to a billionaire?"

"Are you going to say no?" you ask.

"That isn't the point!"

Armstrong pockets his phone. "Look, Cerise. I've been in this business long enough to know. Some people have it, some don't. You've got it. This train's going straight to DC -- no brakes. All you've gotta do is hop aboard."

He leaves you all to ruminate on that.

---

At school, word travels fast. When you get to third period, sitting on your desk is a little basket. Tied to its handle is a balloon that says "Get Well Soon". Inside, prominently, is a teddy bear. The teddy bear has one of its eyes pulled off.

Also inside the basket is a black eyepatch, and a pair of 3D glasses, and a novelty-sized googly eye, and a lollipop made to look like a giant eyeball. And a "sorry for your loss" Hallmark card... inside of which, hand-written, is a note: "We'll keep an eye out for you, Amber!"

As you leaf through these things, you feel heat rising from head to toe, flushing through your entire body. You're aware, acutely aware, of the snickering of your classmates as they watch you go through each article in the basket, each one more humiliating than the last. You don't let them see your trembling jaw or your good eye welling up. Here it is, the reminder that you won your StuCo election not because your classmates liked your ideas, but because you're basically a zoo monkey to them; because they wanted to see the crazy bitch be president. This, too, is part and parcel of it all. More fodder for the zoo-goers.

When Will comes in and sees the "gift" basket too -- when he begins to rifle through it -- anger shadows his face. He picks it up and hoists it above his head. "Who the fuck did this? Huh? Come on, you fucking cowardly faggots, come on! Tell me!"

Of course no one will answer -- they just laugh.

"Don't," you tell him softly. You take the teddy bear and the eyepatch. You play your role. "It's fine. I've got a new mascot for the Nazbol Club now." You put the eyepatch on the teddy bear, and set him on your desk.

---

Qiangxiang visits your office.

"I fear I have been misapprehended," she says as she shuts the door softly behind her.

"Oh, have you."

She strolls to your window, and stares out at the quad below. Her tan is coming along nicely; she's a few shades darker than she was when you encountered her in Palau.

"I truly want this company's success. Your success is my own. I mean it when I say I am not the enemy... did I not, after all, help you in Vail?"

"You were there to steal Diogenes."

"The equipment my men took? It has been returned to Alex Best already. It never left American shores. Never had anyone else's eyes on it but his. He can verify that fact for you himself. I have held fast to my agreement not to peek at the things you do not want me to."

"And you tried to kidnap Amber," you snarl. "I won't forget that. Neither will Whitney."

She turns. "Alabaster, you misunderstood their intent. They wanted to take Amber back here -- she was in dire need of medical attention. She was wounded. She needed help. Moreover..." she sits across from you, strokes your arm. "I lost men, good men -- I lost them defending you. I saved your life, did I not? I helped kill Mara Darkbloom, did I not? At great personal cost, to my reputation at home -- Uncle and the others at Broad Dynamics are calling me a traitor..."

"I don't believe a word you say."

She pulls her hand away. Her face looks careworn and sad. "I know. It is a pity. I've gotten off on the wrong foot, and now you will never-- but that's all right. Alabaster, at the very least, you could thank me."

[ ] Thank you.
>[x] No thank you.

You lean in, with arms folded on the desk in front of you. "Chloe. Come here."

You beckon her to lean in too, with an index finger.

She leans in. Close -- very close. You're almost kissing.

"Are you listening?" You ask.

"Yes."

"Fuck you."

She kisses you. A peck on the lips, nothing more -- but it does jar you.

She leans back, then. "You are trying to burn this bridge. I understand. It is your way. It is what I admire about you, your reckless devotion to arson." She rests one elbow in the crook of the other. "The way forward is clear. I will show you my trustworthiness through my actions. Thank you for being open and frank about how you feel."

She stands to go. She doesn't know it, but your door is locked. She gets there, and tugs on the handle, and finds out -- just in time for your shadow to fall across her as she turns around again.

This remote lock was a handy mechanism to have installed in your desk for when things get frisky -- but it came in useful for a different use now, too.

"Alabaster--" Qiangxiang begins.

You press her against the door.

"Still listening?" You ask.

"Oh, yes. Yes. Very much so."

"Stay away from Amber. If you or anyone you know comes close to her again, I will kill you."

"Understood."

You go to your desk and unlock your door.

END OF EPISODE 6.

MEANWHILE...

"Don't go around tonight -- well it's-a bound to take your life -- theeeere's a bad moon, on the rise..."

Darkbloom, sitting on the porch swing under the cover of the veranda, taps his foot along to the music. The thunderstorm has blotted out the sunset, leaving the world under a gloomy blanket.

"Heee... daddy... what are you listening to?"

The little girl, runs out from the door and gets up onto the swing with him.

"John Fogerty," Darkbloom replies. He turns the radio down.

"This isn't like that classical music you always listen to..."

He nods. The funny thing is, were he in his own body, 10 years in the past, and speaking with Vivian -- her reaction would be much the same. She never caught him listening to the music he most enjoys either.

"Should I put on some Bach?" He asks.

She shrugs. "I dunno. This is ok too I guess."

She plops to one side, lying her head in his lap, staring out to the quickly inundating lawn. "Rain, rain, go away," she chants. "Man... what a bummer with this weather huh."

"Yes."

"Hey... what happened to your eye?"

"I fell at work. It's fine."

"Clumsy head."

The sky turns blindingly white for a split second. Then a few moments later the ear-popping crack of thunder, from very, very close -- a mile or two at most, judging by the volume.

She twists and looks up at him. Blonde-haired blue-eyed Hazel Cantor. She smiles, baring the gap where her front tooth used to be. "Daddy, where does thunder come from?"

"Lightning heats the air, and the expanding gas causes a shockwave--"

"Silly. You're supposed to say it's angels playing bowling."

Darkbloom purses his lips.

"It's angels playing bowling," he says.

"Haha."

"But also it's a shockwave from expanding gases."

"You're weird, daddy."

---

November 9, 2014

"Heeey. Is Ally home?"

Rose frowns at Whitney from the other side of the open front door.

Whitney bobs from one side to the other, waiting for Rose to drop that creepy staredown act of hers. But of course she doesn't.

"...okay, I'm just gonna come in. I'm coming in."

Rose tries to stop Whitney from entering. But despite having the weight advantage, Rose lacks the height -- and the strength. Whitney pushes past her with ease, and gains entry to the Mallory household.

She hooks her thumbs in the belt loops of her short-shorts and calls upstairs. "Hey, Ally! Tell your cousin she's a cunt!"

From Alabaster's room, muffled, comes his voice: "You're a cunt, Rose." Then: "Once removed!"

He steps out. Rose, folding her arms, asks him: "What idiocy are you two planning now?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Alabaster says on his way down. "Come on, Whitney. Let's go."

He breezes by the two girls and leaves the house. Whitney, winking at Rose, leans in and whispers: "it's a date."

Rose huffs. "Bull. I know your proclivities."

"My who-whazzit?"

"You're a lesbian."

"Haha. You're a laugh riot, Rose. You wish I was a lesbian. For two reasons." She holds up two fingers to drive home the point. "Sorry babe. I gotta go. Me and Ally have a movie to catch.... and some other stuff to do later on. But I'll let you know how it goes!"

She spins around and hurries back out the door, to catch up with Alabaster. Rose, alone again in the foyer, seethes. Her right eye twitches. 

November 10, 2014

Rose catches up with Alabaster during lunch.

"Where have you been?" She demands, standing over the table where he, like the creep he is, eats alone.

"Class," he says, not even glancing up from the repulsive porn game on his phone.

Rose makes a disgruntled noise. "Last night. Not that I give a fuck about you -- but mom was worried sick. So was Cerise. You just disappeared without telling anyone where you were."

"You saw me leave with Whitney, didn't you? I stayed the night at her place."

Rose is so dismayed by this news that she has to sit lest she fall over. She slides into the bench across from Alabaster. "Whitney's?" She repeats.

"Yeah."

"Don't make me laugh," she says, forcing herself to laugh. "Why would you--"

Rose's phone goes off: the custom text notification she set for Whitney. She quickly checks it.

>From: Soccer Slut
>talking to ally?? is he giving u the deats of our hot date last night??

Rose scans the cafeteria for a sign of where Whitney could be, but in the sea of classmates all around, she can't tell right away, and doesn't want to be caught looking. Getting caught looking is getting caught caring.

Ding, goes the text notification again:

>From: Socer Slut
>he fucked me

Rose stills her trembling, and turns her phone face down. She can't breathe so well, currently, and doesn't want to bother herself with text messages from bothersome people. She feels sweat beading on her flushed face. Must be this bug that's been going around. That's it. 

"W-what were you doing at Whitney's place?" Rose asks Alabaster.

He shrugs. Still playing his stupid fucking cartoon porno game. Can't even look at her for two fucking seconds, he's so engrossed. Asshole. "Is that any of your business?"

"Just curious what would make you--" she gulps, and tries to steady her voice again. "--stay the night in a trailer park. Even for you, that's a little sad."

"I thought you cared about the poor and downtrodden."

She can't help her voice rising in pitch and tenor. "Just because I care doesn't mean I want to spend time with them! And Whitney of all people... you find her just as annoying as I do--"

"Less annoying than you. God you bug me."

Rose exhales hard. She puts on a forced smile. "Now, Alabaster, if you--"

Ding.

>From: Soccer Slut
>do u want to know how his cock feels inside??
>since a description is all u will ever get

Rose puts her head down on the table, her golden curls draping her face. She tries not to hyperventilate. She pictures stabbing people. Doesn't really matter who. Just the act of stabbing, itself -- the catharsis of that.

When she lifts her head again, posture still stooped like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, her fingers clutching the table's edge as tight as she can, Alabaster is finally looking back at her. "Are you sick or something?" He says.

Her smile is as false and creepy as a clown's. "Now, Alabaster, I hope you're using protection. We both know Whitney gets around. You wouldn't want to catch something."

"Ugh. Gross," Alabaster says. "I'm not fu--"

All of the tension drains from Rose's muscles, just like that, and her expression instantly returns to the normal smug placidity Alabaster has come to loathe so much. He realizes himself, so he quickly tries to right the ship: "--I'm not fucking her without protection. Come on. Do you think I'm stupid?"

"Of course not," Rose says, all smooth and laid-back. He can't backpedal. She already knows the truth now: nothing unwholesome happened last night between Alabaster and Whitney. Whitney is just trying to get under her skin, that's all. Well, it wouldn't have worked anyway. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Laughable, actually. What a stupid bitch Whitney is, to think that she could get under Rose's skin like this. As if Rose would even care if she was having sex with Alabaster. Why would she care about that?

Anyway, Rose decides, she's definitely going to have to bug Alabaster's phone. 

November 14, 2014

Charlotte lies wrapped up around Saul on the sectional in the basement, Saul's stance wide and slumped, his arms both looped over the backrest. Sitting beside them, Cerise sips a beer. On the carpet, Alabaster sits propped up against the couch, wrists resting on his knees -- playing on his phone (of course). And Rose is off on her own, on her own corner of the L-shaped sectional.

On the theater-sized screen is a romantic comedy that Charlotte finds enthralling but no one else seems to enjoy at all. Her picks for family movie night are always incredibly lame, or problematic, or both. Tonight is no exception.

"This bitch needs to learn how to take a message," Cerise says between swigs. "The guy doesn't want her. Turning stalker isn't gonna--"

"Shh!" Charlotte hisses.

"Cerise is right," Saul says. "If this was happening in real life, that woman would have a restraining order slapped on her so fast, her head would sp--"

"Shh!" Charlotte hisses again, swatting Saul's chest. Her dewy doe eyes don't leave the screen.

Saul gives Cerise a sympathetic shrug. She sarcastically toasts at the air in his direction.

"Let's let Cerise pick next week's movie," Saul says, pushing his chin against his own chest to peer down at his wife. "She always picks interesting stuff for family movie night."

"Shh!"

Saul grumbles.

Alabaster gives the movie another go; locks his phone and glances up at the action on-screen. He valiantly tries for about three or four seconds before losing interest and going back for the phone. From where Rose sits, she can see his thumb trace the unlock pattern. She watches closely, then closes her eyes, committing it to memory. Then:

"Anyone thirsty?" She asks.

General mumbles and murmurs of assent, except for Charlotte, who says: "Shh!"

"I'll go get some Pepsis."

"Shh!"

"Coke for me," Alabaster says.

"Shh!"

In the kitchen, Rose gets four cans of Pepsi. She cracks them all and pours them into glasses filled with ice. And to the one for Alabaster, she adds a little something extra: ground-up sleeping pills.

Works like magic. By the time the credits roll, Alabaster is curled up like a baby on the floor in front of the couch, sound asleep and snoring.

"Want me to wake him up?" Charlotte asks Cerise as she and her husband rise to their feet, getting ready to leave the basement.

Cerise shrugs. "Whatever. Let him be."

Charlotte retrieves a blanket and pillow for him, and gets him all "situated." Situated -- that's the word she uses for tucking him in like he's a toddler. Rose could just about puke at the sight of it. Cerise, getting out her own pillows and blankets, curls up on the couch now herself. Another family movie night in the history books. 

Later that night, Rose sneaks down and takes Alabaster's phone from where it lies beside him, and unlocks it, and installs a tracking app that will report his location to her 24/7.

While she has his phone open -- just a few feet away from where he and his sister lie snoring in tandem -- she worries her lip and debates whether to go even further; whether to check his texts. She almost thinks better of it. But she can't help herself. (https://i.imgur.com/ImBP1V2.png)

As it turns out, Alabaster's texts are nothing interesting. The majority of them are to pizza delivery places. The few people who do text him, he almost never texts back. That includes Whitney -- as well as... that other girl. About the only person Alabaster is consistently capable of responding to, in fact, is Rose herself (although of course she already knows the unhappy content of those messages) -- and Cerise.

He texts with Cerise constantly, it seems, including even during the movie they just watched. Rose can't possibly find anything to worry about when it comes to Alabaster texting his own sister, though. That's normal, right? It's not like he and Cerise could possibly... well... anyway...

Despite the seemingly unremarkable nature of Alabaster's texting history, Rose's heart thuds audibly in her own chest as she scrolls through his messages looking for any hint of any preexisting romance amid the mundane back-and-forth. Her mouth is dry but her salivary glands tingle; she feels dizzy with a mix of trepidation and morbid curiosity. But there's nothing. Alabaster isn't seeing anyone. Obviously. That only makes sense. A creep like him wouldn't be seeing anyone.

Then she gets to the text history he has with his deceased mother. And as she reads these messages, too, she feels two things. First, a sadness, even for someone as loathsome as Alabaster. And secondly, a horrible convulsion of guilt and self-hatred. Rose Mallory, she thinks, you're a fucking bitch. A horrible fucking bitch.

Oh well. The deed is done. She sets the phone back where she found it, and hurries silently from the basement. 

---

If you came into Whitney's office, she would look perfectly normal sitting there at her desk in her dress suit. Maybe a little bit overheated despite the cool recirculated air of the office building, but you could attribute her sweatiness to nerves, or maybe a recent workout, and not think twice of it. 

The truth, of course, is less G-rated. She's nude from the waist down and her legs are spread wide underneath the desk -- so that her younger sister, head buried in her crotch, can eat her cunt. Rose and Ally aren't the only ones who need some me-time. The Darkbloom sisters frequently help each other ease the stress at work as well. Vivian is typically servile, and prefers to be the one on her knees. But Whitney always insists on returning the favor -- and besides, she loves the taste of her little sister's puffy little slit. She sometimes wonders whether Vivian would have been so open to incest if they hadn't fucked before finding out the truth of their relation... but probably, Whitney thinks, she would have been. Sure, Viv pretends to be all refined and well-mannered, but in the end she's a dirty rotten pervert just like Whitney. Worse, maybe. Vivian is a total slave to her own pervy pussy and would do absolutely anything to get it off.

"That's it, Viv..." Whitney sighs. Her voice is high and pinched. She rustles Vivian's hair. "Lick my clit. Just like that. So fucking good..."

Vivian pulls her face away from Whitney's drooling twat long enough to smile up at her. She's completely nude save for her signature knee socks. Her bare little chest heaves alluringly, the nipples two bright rubies on her board-flat torso. Her face is already shiny with Whitney's arousal. "Heeh~" Vivian laughs, in her best impression of her sister. 

"Don't you tease me, bitch," Whitney laughs back. She wraps her ankles around Vivian's neck and, hands-free, begins to hump Vivian's face. Her swivel chair clatters back and forth with the motion of her toned ass thrusting back and forth. Vivian feasts on Whitney's genitals like a starving girl finally fed. She gets both her tongue and nose inside her and sucks hungrily on the interior of her twat. Whitney's firm calves actually cramp with the raw pleasure of it. Her eyes roll back. "God, you eat cunt so good," she moans.

Vivian is weak to sexual praise, especially from Whitney. Being told how good she is at oral is enough, all on its own, to make her cunt begin to dribble down her thighs. Vivian's hot pussy is throbbing in tune with her pulse and she's smiling to herself as she brings Whitney this much-needed pleasure. Upping the ante, Vivian uses her fore and middle fingers to poke and prod at the star-shaped pucker of Whitney's asshole. 

Whitney squirms, sighing, and says, "what are you doing, you perverted little bitch?" But of course Whitney knows exactly what Vivian is doing, so Vivian doesn't answer. Turning her invading fingers in gentle semicircles, she pushes past the resistance of Whitney's rear hole and enjoys the raw heat of the tight walls within. Whitney inhales sharply, in pain, but nonetheless getting off.

There are few sights Whitney likes more than her kid sister tonguing her out while fingerfucking her asshole. It's not only sexy, but unbelievably cute, too. Almost wholesome. Vivian's curiosity and playfulness when it comes to Whitney's body is endless. Although it smarts a bit to have Vivian's fingers in her lower hole, Whitney grants her complete permission to explore her genitalia however she wants to. Vivian playing with her ass is an act of love, depraved though it is. It's love that makes her do it. She wants to suckle on Whitney's clitty and toy with Whitney's anus because she adores her so much. How could Whitney tell her no?

Of course Vivian is well aware of the power she holds over Whitney. She might be as submissive as any girl who ever lived, but she knows how to get what she wants when she wants it. She wants Whitney's pussy, and so now she's got it. Her salivary glands tingle and produce drool to lubricate the union of her lips to Whitney's labia. Her tongue explores every fold and wrinkle of those soft, delicate cunt-lips. It's delicious. So delicious that it makes her moan into Whitney's insides. Whitney feels the vibration of it deep within her slutty hole, and it makes her already fluttery pussy give a couple cummy squirts directly into Vivian's mouth. All the while Vivian corkscrews her fingers back and forth in Whitney's ass. And now, to encourage her sister's nut, she adds a thumb to the inside of Whitney's twat. 

Sure, Ally's got a huge fucking cock that never fails to make Whitney's legs shake, but even that can hardly compare to the skill of Vivian's dainty mouth and fingers. There might not be a single person on the planet better at making bitches cum than Vivian Darkbloom. The dangerous part is that Vivian knows it, too.

"Viv... Viv, fuck..." Whitney pants. She rests her head against the back of her chair and turns it side to side, swimming in lust. "...Viv -- I'm gonna cum on your face... I'm gonna fucking cum on your fucking face..."

Vivian doesn't break pace. She keeps going with the same relentless, steady rhythm that's so close to giving Whitney the ultimate relief. It's simultaneously cruel and sweet, sadistic and masochistic. She's as much tormenting Whitney as she is servicing her. Vivian's lewd mind is set on a singular goal: to make her elder sister orgasm as hard as fucking possible. She wants to make Whitney cum so hard that it knocks her out. Her lapping tongue and penetrating fingers are getting Whitney near that point. 

And as focused as Vivian is on the swampy mess of her older sister's holes, she's paying attention to the other signs, too: Whitney's tensing thighs, her butt lifting off the leather seat, the way she holds her breath -- to know the precise moment that Whitney begins to get her nut off. At that very moment, just as Whitney shrilly screams the start of her climax, Vivian uses her little teeth to lightly brush against Whitney's pulsing clit. That tiny torture is the cherry on top, and Whitney's entire body shudders as if trapped in an earthquake only she can feel. She sprays Vivian's face with geysers of cream, Vivian's beloved reward for a job well done. Vivian has eaten out many girls recently, has become a connoisseur of sapphic pleasures, but the taste and smell of her sister's cum will remain her favorite forever.

She's never actually managed to knock Whitney out. She's getting closer to this lofty goal every time, as she perfects her technique; but here, again, today, she doesn't quite succeed. One day she will do it, she promises herself -- and then rub her puffy slit on Whitney's unconscious face to celebrate. But not today. 

Once the delirious pleasure of Whitney's orgasm passes through her, Vivian is left to lick the rest of the mess up like a kitten at a milk bowl. Whitney's uncontrollable wailing falls quiet, and she stares down at her subservient sister, totally in love. The warm and happy bliss of having blown her load, as Vivian drinks down the vestiges of her cream, turns into a mounting hunger. 

"Okay, Viv," she croons, a demented catch to her voice, "you had your fill. My turn..."

Vivian pulls away from Whitney's pussy, translucent strands of girl-cum clinging to her face and bridging their two bodies. She slowly, maybe a little evilly, draws her fingers out of Whitney's anus. Then, with a grin that most definitely is evil, she begins to suck those fingers like a lollipop, maintaining eye contact the whole time. It's a challenge. One Whitney is more than up to.

Whitney presses the sole of her foot against Vivian's bare chest. She intends to push Vivian onto her back underneath the desk but Vivian intercepts the attempt. She clasps Whitney's foot with both hands and -- zero hesitation -- starts to suckle on Whitney's toes. She never, not for a moment, breaks eye contact. Whitney lets Vivian have her fun for a turn. It's a perverted and adorable thing to watch, the unbridled enthusiasm and dirty lust with which Vivian licks her foot like blowing a cock. Plus she enjoys the ticklishness of Vivian's tiny pink tongue swirling around, and the feeling of domination that comes along with it. But finally she's had enough. She puts the ball of her foot to Vivian's nose and presses, forcing Vivian painfully backwards. It's a rough and no-nonsense push that leaves no room to doubt that Whitney's going to stay in control here. 

Vivian lies on her back, smiling, and spreads her legs. 

Whitney crawls down onto the floor. She grabs Vivian by the waist and twists her bodily around so that she's on her stomach. Vivian's ass is small, but it jiggles with the force of this treatment. Whitney, unable to resist the temptation, slaps one of the pale globes. She enjoys the angry red streak it leaves behind in the tender, pale flesh. Vivian squeaks. Then Whitney grabs either side of Vivian's ass and spreads it open. Whitney is by no means a large person, but her hands on Vivian's tiny body look huge, and almost wholly envelop that little butt of hers. Vivian's unblemished asshole and puffy cunt-slit stare back at her and make her heart thrill. This is what she was hungry for: her little sister's defenseless holes. Grinning, she dives in, and starts to eat.

It's a voracious, ravishing oral service Whitney heaps onto Vivian. Whitney grunts and mutters to herself the entire time, and makes whole puddles of spit inside Vivian's body to join Vivian's arousal. The saliva and girl-cum meld into a frothy emulsion that runs in rivulets down Vivian's legs and onto the carpet. 

"You tashte sho fuckhing ghood," Whitney slurs against Vivian's creaming pussy. "Sho fuckhing goood~ ... FUCK..."

It's true that Vivian is an excellent cuntsucker, but so is her older sister. Vivian's eyes are rolling to the back of her skull and she herself is at risk of losing consciousness. It's simply too good, and her fragile physical shape doesn't help. She almost can't withstand this orally delivered lesbian rape. That's what it is, she thinks to herself, it's rape; her older sister is raping her like usual. How she loves getting raped by her older sister. She rests her cheek on folded arms and lets Whitney have her way with her. Whitney slurps and sucks and moans at Vivian's slit. This is heaven... getting her cunt raped by her older sister's tongue, and letting it happen. Nothing could possibly feel better...

Rose2 pokes her head into the office. "Hey, Whitney...?"

Whitney, reluctantly, answers the call. She pokes her head up above the desk, and then draws herself back into her chair, and sits. From where Rose2 stands, Vivian isn't visible, nor is Whitney's below-the-waist nudity.

"Just wanted to make sure everything is daijoubu," Rose2 says.

"Daijoubu," Whitney repeats. "Extremely fucking daijoubu."

Vivian is already prying Whitney's thighs apart and getting her face back into Whitney's pussy. Horny bitch.

Rose2 gives Whitney a strange look. "Are you sure...? You don't look very daijoubu."

She steps into the room and approaches the desk. Whitney tries to tell her to stop, honest she does, but Vivian's busy tongue leaves her momentarily unable to speak. 

As Rose2 circles the desk, she finally gets the picture. She gasps. "Oh. Ohhh. Sorry!"

"You're fine, Rosie..."

Rose2 blushes deeply. "I... I'll leave you two alone..."

Vivian isn't oblivious as she seems. Because at this, she raises her head and says: "Why go? Come here and have some fun with us."

She rises, nude but for those cozy black socks, and stands proudly before Rose2 with her cunt dripping openly down her legs.

"O... Okay," Rose2 says, gulping. She can see the hunger flickering in Vivian's eyes, and Whitney's too. She feels as if she's about to be victimized. Not so stupid after all -- because she's right. She is about to be victimized.

Whitney also stands. She grabs Rose2 by the scruff of her scarf and tugs her forward. She draws Rose2 into a deep tongue kiss. Rose2, eyes bulging, can taste Vivian in Whitney's mouth. That obscene, girly taste melts Rose2's heart. They must have been having a lot of fun together, just now, Rose2 thinks. She kisses Whitney back.

Even as Whitney Frenches Rose2, Vivian gets her hands on Rose2's shoulders, and begins to press down. Vivian is weak, but Rose2 is pliant and easily led. She doesn't resist. She lets Vivian guide her to her knees, and like that, she's trapped between the two lesbian sisters.

They waste no time. They crowd her, clutch at Rose2's candy-pink hair, and begin to rub themselves against her chubby cheeks. Their overheated pussies leave trails of slime in their wake. Rose2, growing slightly panicked, but not wanting to displease them, turns her head back and forth, trying to lick them both. 

"Good bitch," Whitney says. "Know your place. Lick us. Fucking lick us."

"Use your fingers as well," Vivian commands.

Whitney and Vivian widen their stance to allow Rose2 unfettered access to their horny holes. Rose2 complies here, as well. She presses her hands against their crotches, like a waitress with two serving trays, and wiggles her fingers to get them seated inside the girls who've suddenly decided to abuse her today. They hump against her, her fingers and her mouth, and kiss each other lovingly while they do so. Tongues entwining, they breathe hot against each other and cum on Rose2's face like she's a wadded-up tissue. Her neon hair becomes matted with their juices, and her thickly applied mascara runs black and goopy down her overfed face. It's disgusting. They make an utter ruin of her face and could not give less of a shit if they tried. 

"Are you cumming too, Viv?" Whitney asks with a trembling voice, through clattering teeth. She rubs Vivian's chest, and trails kisses up and down Vivian's face.

"Yes..." she sighs. "I want us to orgasm together... shall we?"

"Heeeh~" Whitney breathes. 

And so they do. They let go of all inhibition and finish using Rose2 as the cum rag they've turned her into. They let their drooly cunts climax all over her fearful face. She tries as hard as she can, despite the fear, to bring them off and make them feel good. Her fingers molest the two sisters, their pussies and assholes alike. Her tongue flitters back and forth from clit to clit and twat to twat. She drinks their cum without question, and stares up at them with big, dumb, doe eyes. But they aren't even looking at her, they don't even care about her. They're staring at each other instead, and kissing, and enjoying their mutual orgasm. They might as well be masturbating with each other, for as much as Rose2 matters right now. This is all about their pleasure. Not hers.

But they aren't done degrading her yet, not close. Vivian, still panting, her little tongue lolling partway out, asks Whitney: "is your bladder full, too? Are you in need of a toilet as much as I?" 

"Oh yeah," Whitney says. "Let's piss on her."

"W-wait--!" Rose2 cries, but the amber stream from Vivian's pussy is already spraying against her cheek. As Whitney's stream joins it, Rose2 covers her head with both hands and wails: "s-stop! Please D-don't pee on meeee--!!"

Whitney roughly grabs one of Rose2's wrists and pulls her hand back towards her pussy. "I didn't tell you to stop playing with us," she sneers.

Rose2, afraid and humiliated, resumes her finger-fucking duty on both girls' sloppy lower holes. They piss all over her while she masturbates them. Her already ruined hair and makeup get even messier, dripping the smelly yellow liquid. Her scarf becomes stained. Her button-down shirt gets soggy and transparent. She wasn't wearing a bra, the stupid whore, and her fat tits, wet with urine, become visible through the thin material of the shirt -- hard pink nipples and all. She's crying a little, and confused by the rapid pace this abuse has taken. Something in her easily mixed-up head decides that if Whitney and Vivian are peeing like this, then she should too. She flexes her abdominal muscles, and begins to purposefully wet herself.

Whitney is to-the-point: "Are you fucking wetting yourself? Jesus. Fucking dumbass bitch."

"I..."  Rose2 snivels, trying not to drown as the seemingly neverending piss splashes against her chin and forehead. "I thought... I thought you wanted me tooooo..."

"We did," Vivian says, smiling cruelly. "That is precisely what a toilet such as yourself should do..."

Top and bottom now totally sodden, Rose2 is a wet, stinking meat urinal. The Darkbloom sisters make out and preen over their prey. Despite the hard use, not to mention the complete lack of consent, Rose2 is beyond turned on. She likes it when they're mean to her. She runs a hand down her soaked shirt, under the hem of her wet skirt, and into her soggy panties. Her fingers find the soft, dripping mound there, and she begins to diddle the hard nubbin of her clit. She's cumming already, fucking pig that she is, she's cumming from getting pushed around and pissed on. When Whitney, noticing this, pushes Rose2 down onto her back and crawls over top of her -- Rose2 realizes that her ordeal this afternoon is far from finished.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, dispenser of dickings on dangerous days and loving son.

---

"I understand that you are suing the estate of David Darkbloom."

Vivian sits in the man's dingy and dilapidated kitchen. Every available surface is stacked high with detritus of one kind or another. Magazines and junk mail, food containers, empty orange pill bottles, failed scratch-off lotteries, over-ripe fruit, an aged fanny pack, a yellowed Christmas ornament, a remote with no corresponding TV. Some full garbage bags lie tied-off on the sticky linoleum floor beside a bin that's also overflowing. The flies buzz. And there are so many ashtrays... and singe marks in the linoleum.... and bottles of Mountain Dew filled with spit.

The man spits into one of these bottles now -- the saliva yellow-brown and viscous, stained by the tobacco he's chewing. He's about 70. He looks about 90.

Posture stooped, he stares back at Vivian with half-blind eyes that register nothing like human intelligence. "Gotta get what I'm owed," he drawls.

"What do you think David Darkbloom owes you?" Vivian asks.

"I don't know. But he owe me somethin. He was my only boy and he ain't leave me nothin in his will. Not a goddamn thing. Not one penny. Ain't right." He spits again, pursing his lips, creating a small needle of muddy saliva with the pressure of it. Vivian can see the surface of the liquid sloshing around inside the green bottle.

"Why now?" Vivian asks, drawing her eyes to the man's prune-like face, and suppressing one of many shudders she has suppressed in the past few minutes. "David Darkbloom has been dead since 2018. Surely you knew of this."

"That's the problem with folks these days, they don't do right by the ones they owe to." Another spit into the plastic spittoon. "Got screwed outta my pension too. Goddamn company got enough money in it to hire 10 new managers last year but they cain't even pay their retirees a pension. And they ain't pay me for the cataracts neither, or the back problems or the lung problems they caused me workin in them mines all them years. Ain't right. And now my doctor refuse to even prescribe me any percocet or nothin, talkin about some damn opioid crisis. But do you think that make the pain go away just cause I ain't got a prescription no more? No. They ain't do shit for me."

"I see," Vivian says.

Some stray neuron fires, one that hasn't been drowned by whisky. His jaw hangs partway open. He looks her up and down. "Say... you're Vivian, ain't you? You're David's daughter."

"Yes."

His upper lip curls over his toothless gums. "You look like a whore."

David, sitting beside Vivian, begins to say something. Vivian stays his tongue by lightly brushing her palm against his knee.

"I am a whore," Vivian says, apathetically, and without hesitation. "Well observed, grandfather."

"You ain't never come to visit me or write or nothin. Too busy with them fruity la-la computer freaks I guess. Yeah. I'm suin David's estate. I want a billion dollars."

Vivian is unfazed. "You have no claim on any portion of David Darkbloom's estate. His will was quite ironclad, and it left everything to Whitney."

"Hah. You ain't get nothin from him neither?"

Vivian shakes her head no.

"Probably 'cause he didn't wanna give no money to no whore."

"We will not sit here and listen to you slander Ms. Darkbloom," David intones, obviously angered despite the patina of civility he keeps. "Be quiet or this negotiation is over."

Vivian smooths her dress. All business: "You understand that we cannot simply give you one billion dollars. Our company is already cash-poor, and we are in the midst of an expensive political campaign. What you ask from us is impossible, even were we amenable to it. Which we are not."

"Listen to you. I'm your own grandpappy for the love of God. But here you are, talkin about 'no claim on anything' like I'm some homeless person off the street. Ain't no hi grandpa in there, huh? Ain't no nice to meecha?"

"You are suing my sister, and her company, and by extension me -- for a billion dollars. You might forgive me if my demeanor is somewhat chilly today."

He grimaces. "You talk like David did. Nothin but $20 words to hide your own insecurity in the world." When he shouts, it sounds like a wooden floorboard groaning: "You think you're better'n me just 'cause you can read a dicti'nary?!" He pounds the flimsy table and stamps a booted foot. Then he spits again.

"By the same token," Vivian continues, "we do not want to deal with the aggravation of a lawsuit at the moment. The last thing our company needs is publicity like that. Would you be willing to settle?"

"How much?" He asks, clearly seeing the dollar signs already.

"Tell me what you believe is fair."

He thinks for a turn. Slowly. Then: "How about $5 million?"

Vivian pretends to find this offer difficult to stomach despite being 200 times less than the first. "I see. This will be a hardship for the organization, to be sure... but I believe you have left us in no better position." She sighs. "However... given that there is a familial bond between us, after all, strained though it may be... would you be willing to accept $2 million?"

"$3 million."

She bows her head, smiling in a pained way. "You have forced my hand. I see now where father got his negotiation skills from. We will settle."

Vivian pulls out some paperwork and begins to fill it in, then signs it. She slides it across the dirty table.

"Hee hee," Clay Darkbloom wheezes, rubbing his wrinkly palms together. "Finally gettin mine. Took you long enough to do right by your own grandpappy."

When he begins to sign, David swipes the form from him.

"Hey!" the man shouts. "What're you--"

"We will not settle," David says.

"Fa-- Mr. Cantor," Vivian says. "Please. This man has been quite reasonable with us, and I think $3 million is more than fair to make the matter go away--"

"Who the hell are you? Comin into my home tellin me my business. My granddaughter says we'll settle, and that's the way it's gonna be!"

"No," David booms.

"What the hell makes you think--"

David stands, circles the table, and kneels down to eye level with him. He points at Clay Darkbloom menacingly, finger in Clay's haggard face. "No. You will not get a single cent from us."

Clay folds his arms. "All right. If that's how you wanna play it. I'll sue then. For the whole billion. See how you like that!"

David's voice goes louder, if it's possible, but more curiously the slightest hint of an Appalachian drawl creeps into it as he speaks: "Go right ahead, Clay. Sue us. We are one of the most influential corporations on the planet. We have an entire army of attorneys on retainder. All we have to do is wait you out. Litigation like this is costly, and time-consuming... especially for an opiate-addicted drunk bumpkin, who has no money to begin with, and whose actuarial tables look grim. This case will be tied up in court from today until the moment the dementia kills you. You will get absolutely nothing from us. Zero. No -- what's more, not only we will give you nothing -- but we will take whatever very little you do have. We will take your car. We will take your house. We will take your dead wife's ashes. Everything you own will become our property in toto. You will die homeless, and alone, and unmourned."

"Yooou--" Clay drawls. The tremors are getting worse. He's seething with impotent rage. "Do I know..." he trails off. Then: "What right do you have? Huh?! To take the money I'm entitled to from my own granddau--"

"Fuck you," David spits. The drawl in his voice is unmistakable now.

He rises, and for a long moment or two he peers down at Clay Darkbloom with nothing but sheer hatred. Then finally, without another word, he strides from the ramshackle little house.

Clay looks back over at Vivian, stupefied, and afraid.

Vivian takes the paperwork, folds it up, tears it into a couple pieces, and stows it in her purse. "I suppose we are not settling after all. Farewell grandfather."

---

You sit at the edge of the couch in Whitney's living room as she noisily sucks your cock. She lies curled up next to you with her hands on your leg and her head bobbing lewdly up and down in your lap. This isn't the position she prefers when she blows you. Usually she likes to sit on the ground below you, in utter submission to your thrusting dick. But today that position of dishonor belongs to Cerise. On her knees on the tile ground, she has her nostrils pressed up against your nuts, breathing deeply of your manly scent, while her puckered lips hungrily suck on your asshole. There is very little Cerise loves more, you've learned, than rimming you. She's addicted to it. It lets her fill her head with the smell of your cock while swirling her tongue around and enjoying the way you taste too. You can't complain. Cerise's tongue in your anus is the perfect way to enhance the deliciously wet, warm vice of Whitney's gullet wrapping itself around your turgid member. Both girls are certified experts in pleasing your cock. When they work together, you see stars. 

Today's entertainment to accompany the use of Whitney and Cerise's mouths as cumdumps: Samantha stands with her arms shackled to a long rope above her head, while Alex torments her. Alex slutted himself up for you today, donning the succubus costume you love to see him in, complete with fishnets, tail, and horns. There's a hole cut in his spandex bottom to reveal his twitching cock, not very long but nearly as fat as yours, shiny and so erect that it stands parallel with his torso. There's a hole in the back too, to provide access to his ass, should you desire. Samantha is totally naked, herself -- save the pointy ears and cottontail, of course. A defenseless little bunny in the clutches of a cruel sex demon. But this bunny is an enthusiastic participant in her own degradation. She keeps her legs apart, fuckholes proudly on display, so that Alex can molest her. He uses a vibrator to toy with Samantha's pussy and make her cum over and over again. The floor below where she stands is slick with her juices, so hot that the puddle steams for a bit each time she squirts.

One of the things your girls really love about your cock is the volume of pre-fuck you produce. It's sweet and lewd-tasting to them, and they thrill to get it pouring -- in their mouths, on their faces, in their cunts. With Whitney's skilled mouth working overtime to bring you off, your cockhead is oozing out even more precum than usual. And Whitney is far from selfish. She takes a moment now to share with Cerise. She gets Cerise's attention by interlacing fingers with hers and squeezing. When Cerise glances up at her, Whitney slowly withdraws from your leaky cock and lets her jaw hang open to proudly display the viscous pool of precum gathering in her bowled tongue. 

Cerise, sweaty face blushing, nods her assent. Whitney leans over the couch's edge and lolls her tongue out, lets the long slimy strands of your fuckleak drool out under gravity's force. Cerise, head upturned, catches it. The stuff is so thick that this process takes several long seconds. And it all happens wordlessly. They just smile at each other with their eyes, still holding hands. When at last it's done, Whitney leans further down for a kiss that Cerise returns. Whitney gets a palm behind Cerise's messy hair and pulls her closer. They swap your dick juice back and forth with loud, passionate noises. They're so hooked on everything your cock produces that they want to make it last. They take turns licking the slimy stuff out of each other's mouths, savoring the texture and flavor. By the time they finally do swallow, your twitching cock has burped up a few more fat pearls of it, and it runs down the shaft in long rivulets. Whitney, seeing this, grips you by the root and rubs your penis against Cerise's smiling face. Cerise turns her head this way and that so Whitney can cover her. Your drooling cock leaves trails of transparent precum all over her -- forehead, nose, lips, cheeks. She purses her lips and kisses your cock while Whitney rubs it against her. Occasionally, Whitney slaps her with it too, which makes a wet thwack against her tender flesh. Cerise just coos and kisses your dick in thanks every time. She breathes hard and basks in the stink of your cock and the slime you squirting out of it. You reach down and feel Whitney's wet cunt, too. Aiding this incestuous act of humiliation has made her unbelievably horny.

At last it seems that Whitney can take it no more. She opens her lips and starts to go down on you again. Your cock reenters the velvety softness and warmth of her tomboy throat. She does this trick where she swallows while she blows you -- the undulation of her esophagus around your rigid hunk of fuckmeat gives you the illusion of fucking into a bottomless cunt. It's pure heaven, and almost enough to make you spew a wad of jizz into her tummy right away. And soon Cerise is back to her original post, too; she gets her pale little face back underneath your ass and starts to lick your anus again. You have to sit with your ass half past the edge of the cushions, legs wide open, for her to reach; and this slouchy, slumpy posture you adopt while your girls do all the work to bring your cock to orgasm, somehow makes you feel like a king. All you have to do is sit here, just like this, and let their expert mouths suck you off. Cerise, her face still coated in your cockjuice, makes you shiver with the slick sensation of her tongue swabbing it around inside you. 

Samantha is begging for cock the only way she knows how. Her voice is hoarse and desperate: "Cock... cooooock.... please master please give me your cock inside my pussy hole... I'm so empty! I'm so itchy for dick!"

But Samantha has already gotten plenty of the cock she cherishes so much. Alex has relieved himself inside her slutty bunny-cunny no fewer than three times already. The cum is running down her thighs even as she pitifully begs for more. As Alex tortures her with the vibrator, he sometimes stops to circle around behind her, wrap his arms around her cushiony midsection, and fuck her standing for a few quick, deep strokes. Without the use of her hands, Samantha can only respond by trying to hump her entire body back and forth against him, which she does, enthusiastically. This is how she's already coaxed several of Alex's loads from him. He's a quickshot, especially inside such a practiced whore. His moans and groans of pleasure are high and girly, even when he drops a load. You and Whitney granted him full use of Samantha's holes because you felt like he deserved the release -- and he's taking more than full advantage. 

"Please cut me down... please get on top of me and really fuck me!" Samantha pleads.

Alex accedes. He's so horny that his usually obsequious self is gone; his motions have become rough, and forceful. He grabs a pair of scissors that were set aside, and uses one of the sharp edges to saw through the red rope. Samantha collapses to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Then Alex is standing over top of her, straddling her as he turns her onto her back. Her eyes are wide and bright in fear. Alex, leering, cuts the rope binding her wrists, tosses the scissors, and tugs her legs apart. Samantha mewls. He crawls over her and lines his cock up with her hole, slams himself in and starts to really fuck her. Just like she wanted. You can hear the steady meaty slapping of it from across the room.

"Cock... cock..." Samantha repeats brokenly as Alex brutally humps her.

Alex, propping himself up by both hands as he continues to violate the horny bunny beneath him, grins at you. "Hey, Ally... it's been a while since we shared an onahole, huh?"

Cerise, tongue still wagging around inside your ass, looks up at you with bright, curious eyes.

"Ghh-- shut up," you warn Alex.

Alex laughs. "Haha. Well -- do you want to share this hole with me?"

It's a tempting offer. You do love the tightness of it, getting your cocks off inside a fuckhole together. But you decline: "I've got some onaholes of my own to use. No need to share."

Cerise's expression becomes one of consternation; she doesn't like being counted as nothing more than a dicksleeve. Or really, a backup dicksleeve -- given that she isn't even directly pleasuring your dick right now. But whatever anger she has to be referred to so crassly is totally outmatched by her need to suckle on her little brother's asshole. She doesn't take her lips away for even a moment. Her eyelids just droop a bit, and she blushes, and exhales hard against your testicles -- resigns herself to being a sextoy for your private use. Whitney, for her part, isn't even paying attention. She's so enthusiastic about choking herself on your fat prick that it's all she can focus on. The obscene glug-glug-glug sound of her slamming her throat up and down on your member continues without pause. You keep molesting her cunt, and you ministrations are having the desired effect. She's leaking on your hand, and on the couch, uncontrollably. She always gets off especially hard when she's got your dick sliding past her tonsils.

Alex shrugs. Since you don't want to share, he'll keep the bitch to himself for now. He lies against her perspiration-coated body, head buried in her prodigious chest, and fucks himself into oblivion. Samantha wraps her arms around his back and her ankles around his butt. It might be hard to tell who's the dominator here. Alex is in such need that his grunts border on pained. He sounds more like a girl getting punched than a man fucking someone. Samantha pets his hair and repeatedly kisses the top of his head. Alex is sweaty too, and their bodies slickly thwap and squelch from their mating session. Alex, managing to get his head just barely free of Samantha's cleavage, nurses on one of her nipples like he's really trying to get some milk. In no time at all he's grunting more wads of cum into her searing pussy. Samantha screams softly, an "aaahhhnn~" that signals her joy to get her womb seeded. 

It's not long after that when you feel the muscles inside you loosen, and you're pissing semen down Whitney's esophagus. That's what it honestly feels like, as you blow your nuts -- like you're taking a cummy piss in her mouth. Cerise can tell you're cumming, and does her part to help. She gets her tongue buried to its root in your ass and leaves it there, wriggling it up and down, like she's trying to lick your prostate. You think maybe she does. You feel an almost unbearable sensitivity from inside your ass as you empty what seems like gallons of spunk into Whitney. Every surge and spurt of cum, your dick expands like an over-pressurized hose. Whitney holds your cock by its base and keeps her lips in place just above it, head held still, so you can ejaculate to your heart's content. Even through a mouthful of dick, she's grinning. Always so proud to slurp up a load of your jizz.

Even though it felt endless, you do at last finish squirting dick juice into Whitney's mouth. She takes it out and leaves it with a parting kiss on the piss-slit, by way of thanks. You can tell from how she has her lips sealed that she didn't swallow. Even now your jizz is swirling around inside her mouth. When she sits upright, you get clearer access to her pussy, and shove a few fingers deep inside to reward her. She leans back and closes her eyes and enjoys it: your spunk on her tongue, your fingers jilling her off. Cerise doesn't have another pair of lips to compete with now: she lays her palms flat against the globes of your ass and goes to town on you, shaking her head back and forth as she feasts, and inhaling your musk deeper than ever. Whitney didn't vacuum up quite all of your semen, and a couple ropes of it slide down your shaft, over your balls, and down towards Cerise's face. If anything, this just eggs her on. The sticky vestiges of your brotherly cum seep down around Cerise's mouth and join the wet mess she's already making down there. 

Whitney taps Cerise on the shoulder. It takes a few insistent tries before Cerise is willing to pull herself away. Whitney grins broad and wide, her white teeth coated in a slimy film of sperm. Cerise's verdict, delivered through a face that is itself coated in spit, precum, and spunk, is simple: "Whitney, you fucking slut." 

Cerise raises herself up a bit to lick and kiss your cock. Whitney, laughing as best she can with 10 or 15 mL of your genetic material swimming around inside her mouth, finally lets her jaw hang open to show off how much she made you cum. Cerise is using one hand to rub you dick against her cheek as she drags her tongue back and forth across it. She appreciates the sight Whitney is showing her. Just to drive the point home, Whitney begins to wag her tongue in tiny little circles, stirring the off-white load all up, so that some of it sloshes under her tongue, and a few thick clumps slide over the broad pink top. 

"Don't play with your food," Cerise tells her.

"Ahhhh," Whitney replies, like a patient in the dentist's chair.

"...What?" Cerise says.

"Ahhhhhh," she says, more meaningfully, communicating via her tone what she wants. 

Cerise gets the message. She clambers over your lap, gets up onto the couch, embraces Whitney. Their faces inches apart, Cerise says: "aaaaaahhhh~" in the most seductive way you've ever head.

They snowball with your load, and they make it as lurid as possible. They French kiss, getting about half your cum into Cerise's mouth, half in Whitney's. Then they pull apart just a little to let some of it ooze out in thick strands that droop and then snap, splattering their bare chests. They rub their cum-slick nipples together playfully, Cerise's dark and fat, Whitney's pink and pert. Then back to snowballing: they swap it from mouth to mouth with the same gusto they had for swapping your precum.

When you stand up, nudging Cerise out of the way to do so, they hardly notice. They're too involved with each other -- hands on one another's shoulders, lips pressed together, staring dreamily into each other's eyes while they share the reward of an excellent cock-pleasing session. They can have their fun, though. You're still horny and you've still got a load in your heavy balls to dispense. You decide you'll take Alex up on his offer to share his onahole, after all.

You walk to them where they lie mating on the floor. You nudge Samantha with one foot. Nose twitching, she looks up at you. "Master~" She cries with joy. "Are you here to give me cum, too?"

"Turn over," you order the pair. 

"Yes! Ok!" Samantha pips, only too eager for the prospect of more dick.

Alex rolls to his back and helps Samantha atop him. It's hard to imagine more of a mismatched duo. Samantha is tall and buxom, Alex is short and lithe. She's actually got a couple inches on him, and she's definitely thicker too, so that with Samantha on top, he looks like he could easily get smothered. Not that he seems to care with how desperately he continues to thrust his dick up her. You take a second to admire the sight: Alex in his slutty spats, and Samantha's plump ass with twitchy tail for decoration. But you're impatient, and don't want to only watch. You want to help dominate this fucking bunny bitch completely. You spread her asscheeks and find the star-shaped hole concealed between them. Such a welcoming sight -- you don't waste time taking advantage. You simply lie on her, belly to back, and get your hard cock seated inside the velvety confines of her asshole. If Samantha's pussy is nearly too hot to fuck comfortably, then her asshole is practically a scalding hazard; the heat actually makes you wince as you sink into her. You've never seen a bitch who gets so literally hot for dick, as Samantha Smatters does. 

Whitney and your sister, still lezzing out on the couch, finally notice the debauchery. "You two are gonna break her if you're not careful," Cerise warns you between frothy, cummy kisses. The tone of her voice conveys that she doesn't really care one way or the other about that.

"We don't wanna break her," you tell Cerise. "Not yet, anyway."

"Uh huh~" Alex agrees between thrusts.

"Please!" Samantha shouts. "You can break me! Break me with your dicks, master!"

God. This woman(?) is going to kill you. 

The grippy inside of Samantha's asshole is the smoothest that you've ever had the pleasure of raping. And through the thin membrane separating her asshole from her cunt, you feel Alex's eager dick rubbing itself back and forth -- selfishly using her other fuckhole for his own relief. That sensation of frotting with him is almost as good as the tightness of Samantha's rear. The combined decadence of it all is enough to make you nut right then and there. Without intending to, you drop your second load in Samantha's ass. The sperm is jetting through your cockshaft and out of the tip before you even know it's happening. You seed Samantha's ass and grunt, lips curling over your teeth. Fuck, such a good cum. But even through your orgasm, powerful as it is, you're not satisfied. You keep fucking her without breaking your pace, stirring up the cum you dumped in her, making it leak in thick globs down her fleshy inner thighs.

Whitney leans way back and entwines her legs with Cerise's. They get their wet cunts pressed together. Having accomplished this, Whitney leans forward again, hugs Cerise tight, and they start a round of tribadism that fills the living room with wet sucking sounds. They keep swapping your milky sperm back and forth, while watching the lewd threesome from the corners of their eyes.

"Cum... cum in his ass," Cerise pants. 

You look quizzically at her over your shoulder.

But majority rules. Whitney laughs: "Heeeeh... yeah, Ally. Fuck that little twink's asshole, huh?"

Alex's squeak of... surprise? protest? ... is muffled by Samantha's massive tits pressing against his face. But he never stops thrusting. You pull from Samantha's ass with a wet plop, making her whine in frustration, but no matter. She got a load from you already. With rough hands, you assist the pair in turning over a second time, Alex back on top, beet red and sweating even more profusely than before. You part his bubble butt and enjoy the contrast of his white ass surrounded by the black nylon spandex of his crotchless short-shorts. And of course the heart-shaped devil tail, and the obscene, girly fishnets which are torn in several places. And the low-cropped tank, baring his thin belly, both streaked with his own cum. Like the whore he is, he's ready to get fucked, whether he thinks he is or not. You get yourself stuck in, just as you did with Samantha.

"Unghhh..." Cerise moans again. If rimming you is her favorite thing to do, sexually, then for sure her second-favorite thing is seeing you use Alex as a cumdump. 

For the sheer perversion of it, you reach down and probe your fingers through Samantha's mouth while you fuck Alex silly. She gazes back up at you with a blank, stupid expression, and lets you degrade her like this too. With Alex pinned between the two of you, your fucking is violent and meaty. The cumming goes off like a daisy-chain: first you feel Alex's ass tightening around your hardness, as he empties himself for the fourth or fifth time today inside Samantha's sloppy twat. This sends you over the edge into climax, too, and you balls draw up, and spit their hot load directly into Alex's boypussy. The wet explosion pulsing out of Alex's well-used hole and all around your crotch, before seeping down over his ass to join the mess he's making inside Samantha -- seeing this sets off Cerise and Whitney, too. You hear the squelchy patter of their cunts squirting and cumming against each other's bodies. Their shrill wailing fills the room.

Half enervated, you dismount Alex. Samantha slithers out from underneath him, leaving him lying on the floor in a puddle of cum, yours and his own. But Samantha, greedy cunt she is, can't let it be. She gets down on hands and knees behind him, and opens her mouth, and starts to slurp. She sucks your jizz out of him. She licks the slimy mixture off the ground, too. Sheer unabated enjoyment on her sleek face the entire time. She doesn't care where it goes or where it comes from; as long as she's getting cum in her. Alex is too tired to fight, and can only go "ah..." or "oooh..." in a girlish voice here and there while Samantha works him over. Who used who, after all? You sit indian-style in front of Alex and make him suck your cock clean. He does so without question. It's always so nice to see his cheeks bulging with the girth of your dickmeat filling his mouth. It's not long before your blowing another load straight down his throat, one Samantha won't be able to steal. Cerise and Whitney are rubbing each other's pussies as they watch. They look jealous -- they've swallowed your jizz already, and wish they had some more to eat. They're about as hungry for your cum as Samantha is.

---

You're with Noelle in the little guardshack at Whitney's front gates. The doldrums of the mid-afternoon left you both bored, and playing cards got old, so you decided to fuck. 

Now, Noelle sits bare-assed on a stool with her knees spread, cunt proudly on full display. She's got both hands gripping Rose's favorite double-ended dildo, thrusting it in and out of herself like the slut she is. She wears your panties over her head, the seam of the crotch directly against her cute little nose and her eyes gazing glazedly through the legholes. You don't know what it is, but these lesbian bitches seem to like the way your undies smell. It's fine. It's fun to see Noelle debase herself like this, anyway. 

"Dyke..." she moans through gulps of air, "I'm a dyke... I love being a dyke..."

"That's good, cop," you tell her. "Keep cumming yourself fuckin' stupid."

Not that she needed instructions. She's squirting all over the tiny room -- the floor and the table, staining the cards you were just playing with a few moments ago. She inhales and exhales as deeply as she can manage, basking in your scent, the scent of an underage pussy. What a low you've brought this FBI agent to, masturbating for a teen girl's perverted pleasure while wearing your panties like a mask. She's getting that dildo stuffed so far inside, you think she must be fucking her own womb with it. This thought makes your own pussy clench and your own womb shudder. You like that best of all, the image of cock pushing through to that most private part. The idea of a dick raping a womb. You share that in common with Vivian, you've found; it's a fetish you've bonded over at length. No pun intended. Noelle rocks lightly back and forth on her butt while she screws her twat up with the plastic dick. Her eyes, though unfocused, are fixed on you. You're pantsless too, your fingers gently diddling your horny clit, and that sight obviously gets her off. Oh yeah: Noelle likes to peep, all right.

What she didn't expect was this: "I invited someone. Hope you don't mind."

Noelle freezes, the dildo half-buried in her quim. "W-what?"

In she comes now. You've got an uncanny sense of timing, these days. Rose bursts through the door, a pink blur: "Ta-dai-maaaa!!" Only after announcing herself in the most obnoxious possible way does she realize what it is she's really walking in on. "O-oh..." she stammers. "So that's why you texted..."

You quell whatever uneasiness your older sister has by walking over and giving her a sweet reassuring peck on the lips. "Glad you could make it," you purr.

Noelle is the more abashed. She scrambles, trying to rise to her feet while pulling the sex toy from its deeply embedded spot. You stay her by pushing her flat chest with your flat palm. "Sit down, cop."

"Stop calling me that like it's an insult!" Noelle demands, haughty in spite of wearing your underwear on her head like a masochist perv. 

Rose is giggling. Waggling her wrist in a circle, she points at Noelle with a forefinger. "I knew it. I knee-eeew it~ You're into girls, Noelley-belly!" 

"Don't call me that, either--"

Rose is already kneeling in front of her. "It's *totally* daijobu. I am, too..."

"Y-you--" Noelle begins. "You stupid, shitty little -- little -- y-you fat, cringey f-fucking-- hhh--" She can hardly keep her composure enough to string together her typical anti-Rose diatribe, as Rose tenderly strokes her pale thigh.

"Don't be so tstunstun~ If you're into girls... and I'm into girls... what's the harm?"

Noelle huffs, half angry and half turned-on. But the turned-on half is obviously winning out. A perfect mix. 

Rose seems to think so too. She gets her fingers wrapped around the pink toy. Hesitantly, Noelle releases her own grip on it, and lets Rose hold it for her inside her drooling pussy. Rose has the broadest, silliest grin. You've always known she was easily manipulated, and probably a slut, but seeing her so gleefully dive into depravity still somehow surprises you. Alabaster and his little harem really fucked her up. She's always down to fuck at a moment's notice nowadays. 

All at once, her grin turns to a pout. "Heeey... this is my dildo, isn't it?" She glances up at you. "You should ask before borrowing my stuff next time! Geez!"

Noelle's eyes widen. The thought that she has a toy lodged up her cunt that's spent many a night lodged in Rose too, is obviously unwelcome news. "What the f--" she begins. But you roughly press a hand against her face, mashing your panties into her nose. "Shut up," you tell her. "Let's all kimochi together, huh?"

Noelle is about explode, maybe literally, as Rose begins to use the toy for its intended purpose. This is sexual torment of the worst kind for her, being at the whims of this weeaboo she despises. Yet she's powerless to resist. Rose's technique is just like the rest of her: overly enthusiastic and abrasive. She pumps the dildo into Noelle like plunging a toilet. Noelle's cunt-lips slide back and forth, and her pussy goes from concave to convex at blistering speed. It looks honestly painful. And that's hot. Cracking your neck, grinning, you guide Noelle's hand towards your bald pussy so she can help you out, too.

"You f-fucking bitches," Noelle grunts, even as she gets her fingers rooted into your wet little pussy-hole. "This is rape..."

"This isn't rape," you tell her. "You want this. You'd stop us if you didn't."

"I d--"

Rose chirps: "Amber's right! If you can't fight off a couple of teenage girls... then you're useless as a bodyguard!~"  

Noelle hugs herself and shivers. "G-go fuck yourself. Go fuck yourself, you stupid bitch..."

Rose snickers. You do too. The glint in her eye tells you that, dim bulb she may be, she's got the same idea as you. "You heard the cop," you tell her. 

You get behind, grab Noelle by the shoulders and haul her back at the same time as Rose gets hold of her legs to stabilize her. All at once Noelle is horizontal and the stool is lying tipped over on the floor. Noelle flails her arms uselessly, crying out. "What the-- stop! Stop!"

Too late. Much too late. You have her on her back on the ground that's already dirty with her cum. Rose shimmies out of her ruffled plaid skirt and tosses it aside, revealing her shapely ass and juicy pussy. She wasn't wearing underwear, the slut, all the better for someone to take advantage of her. Or for her to take advantage of someone else, as the case may be. You nod at her. She goes to her knees, straddles Noelle's crotch. 

From the legholes of your panties, Noelle's eyes go wild, and she shakes her head forcefully. Rose is not to be dissuaded. She takes one of Noelle's toned calves and hoists high into the air, so that she can hug Noelle's leg with the ankle against her temple. A perfect perch to use as, rooting around with her free hand, Rose finds the opposite side of the double-ended pink dildo and pops it into her candy-sweet cunny. 

Despite herself, Noelle sighs. It's a depravedly wonderful sight, those two pretty pussies, one above the other, linked by the translucent pink rubber. Noelle appreciates it as much as anyone. And of course there's the pressure of Rose's not-inconsiderable weight bearing down, forcing the dildo's bottom ever deeper into the tight confines of Noelle's slit. She likes to get mating-pressed, after all, and this is something similar. Rose, too, hisses -- enjoying as always the pleasure of getting penetrated. You're jealous. 

So jealous in fact that you decide to punish Noelle even more. She wanted to smell your pussy, so you'll give her the real deal. You straddle her other end, squatting down over her face, calves folded under your naked butt. She can no longer see what's happening to her, but that's fine. She doesn't need to. You rub your hot cunt back and forth over her face. The cotton material of your underwear is a bit rough and it tickles your clit in a strange way. You can hear Noelle making pig-like noises as she sniffs you and tries to suck you even through the material. How cute. 

"This is so... so..." Rose pants, fucking herself up and down. But she's too stupid to finish the thought. Instead, hugging Noelle's leg even harder, she just redoubles the pace of her frenzied humping. She's leaking all over Noelle's body. With every downward thrust, Rose's tight pussy lips get closer and closer to Noelle's. Then, with a triumphant and dreamy smile, Rose finishes the job. Down her throat or into her little pussy, it doesn't matter -- she's an expert at making that dildo disappear. Her barely-there cunt lips are kissing Noelle's fleshy labia, their cum intermingling, their four thighs all shiny under the guardshack's fluorescent overhead light.

You reward Rose by leaning forward, palms pressed against the ground, and kissing her on the mouth. You swap spit with your own sister while you use Noelle Keki as a cum toilet. Could life be sweeter?

---

After Jeopardy, you duck into a guest bedroom with a giggling Dr. Carte. She might be a little worse for the wear between the cast on her foot and the drunkenness, but she's as hot for your cock as she ever was, and she wants you to know it. She showers you with loving kisses and you hungrily return them: you taste her lips, her face, and her neck. She has the same flavor she always did, the flavor of a desperate and degenerate older woman. You get her coat and her shirt off; she gets your pants off. Her bare tits are so nice and warm, big and soft, in your groping palms. Your hardening dick feels just great in her practiced grip. In summary, things are going about the way they usually go between you and her. But then amidst your searching kisses, Dr. Carte sits down on the edge of the bed. When you try to nudge her backwards and climb on top of her, she instead pushes you back. Then in the moment of your surprise, she grabs a handful of your tee's fabric with a strong fist. She yanks, surprising you a second time, and the force of it makes you stoop your spine enough for her to get her hand on top of your head. She forces you the rest of the way down, then, under gravity's assistance. All of a sudden you're on your knees in front of her.

"What the hell--" you start.

"You lost on Jeopardy. That makes you my slave, remember?"

"Har har. Very funny." You begin to stand, but she presses firmly down on your shoulders with both hands. 

"I'm not joking."

Your wife only wishes she could scare you the way Dr. Carte just has with those three simple words. Your heart actually stops for a brief moment. 

"But you..." you say. "Dr. Carte, this is--"

She laughs derisively. "That's Mistress to you, slave." As she says this, she parts her meaty thighs which are still tightly confined in the fabric of her trousers. Her bare torso shimmers with sweat, so much that you can see the trickle of it from underneath her udders. She rubs one of them sensually, playing with her own nipple, grinning down at you. Her waistband is biting into her skin, accentuating that plump hourglass shape, just barely on the right side of overweight, that turns you on despite yourself. From this close, with your head almost nestled in her lap, you can smell her, her unique womanly scent. You can smell it radiating out even from behind the inseam of her pants and her underwear. She must be so wet right now that she can barely stand it. No wonder she's acting so crazy. It melds with the earthy, slightly sour scent of her perspiration, creating a pheromone laden bouquet which instantly shuts off the part of your brain that wants to protest this treatment. You lay your palms on either one of her legs, enjoying how soft she is, staring up at the way she lewdly rubs her flattened hand in circles around her nipples. Dr. Carte has extraordinarily sensitive breasts, you know, and she could probably make herself cum just like that; by masturbating with her nipples. Even now her lower lip is quavering with her own onanistic pleasure.

"Unbutton me," she orders you.

You do as she tells you. With shaky hands you unbutton her trousers. It's hard, with as wide as she has her legs spread, to get even so much as your fingers into the taut waistband. When you pop the button free, Dr. Carte spreads her legs even wider still, and this motion forces the zipper of her pants down all on its own. Behind the fly is the bulging mound of Dr. Carte's cunt, hardly concealed at all by panties so sodden with need that they've become translucent. The white cotton is more like a window than anything; through it, you can can clearly see every detail of her pussy. The fat out-turned lips, the thin strip of hair above, the pulsating clit peeking out from its hood. Her tight little fuckhole, and the perinium below it. And you can feel the heat of her, too, like sitting in front of a firepit. It wafts over you and makes you halfway dizzy.

She gives her mound a wet slap that send a few droplets splashing onto your face. You flinch. "You, Alabaster, are a slave to this hole tonight. You're going to please it, and make it cum, until I'm satisfied. Or I'll be forced to punish you." 

You don't respond -- you're too busy staring transfixed at that lewd pussy you've just been consigned into slavery for. 

"Tell me 'yes, mistress'" she demands. 

"Yes mistress," you say with a flat voice.

"Hmmm~" she laughs, pleased at your docile reply. "Do you want to put your mouth against it?" She asks.

You lean in to do so, but she stops you by pressing her thighs into your cheeks. It puckers your lips and the skin around your eyes, forcing you to make a fishy face, and it feels utterly humiliating.

"I didn't give you permission to put your disgusting face against my body," she sneers.

You gaze up, your expression still contorted, waiting for what comes next. 

"Ask your mistress nicely for what you want, slave. I *might* be nice if you can manage that."

"Prease cwan I puh mu fashe againsht your crosh mishtresh," you manage through the pressure of her legs squeezing you on both sides.

She lets her iron grip on you loosen. "Good slave." She makes you wait for excruciating moments, during which you can feel your hard cock throbbing painfully, before finally saying: "Go ahead."

You immediately bow your head forward and bury your mouth and nose against her crotch. 

"Say thank you to your mistress," she tells you.

"Thank you mistress," you reply, inhaling deeply, and seeing stars. 

"Kiss my hole," she grunts. 

You kiss her pussy through her underwear. Not just once, but again and again. You dart your tongue out and try to penetrate her with it despite the stubborn barrier of that damp garment blocking your access. The taste of her juice is tart but sweet, and so gratifying. You can't help moaning. 

"You are desperate, huh?" Dr. Carte says. You nod between your little kisses and licks. "That's okay," she adds, and gently strokes your cheek, "your mistress is a bit desperate, too..."

She lifts her butt off the mattress, just enough to pull her pants down, and now her soaking underwear is fully on view. "See?" She coos. 

"I need to fuck you," you groan, squirming in place like an impatient kindergartner, pawing at her silky smooth legs to keep them apart for you to feast your eyes on the treasure between them.

"Dirty boy~" She chides. "What makes you think I would let you put your dirty slave cock inside my pussy and mess it up?"

"Please," you beg.

"What makes you think I would let you squirt your raw cock inside me like the *pathetic* animal you are? What makes you think you deserve such a privilege?"

"Please," you repeat. "I'll do anything. I need to fuck you."

With a sharply arched bare foot, Dr. Carte presses the hardness of your cock against your belly, the way a person might crush an insect. She grinds the sensitive underside with the ball. You stifle a moan. "Admit that I own you, and I might let you get your dick wet for a couple seconds."

"You -- own me--" you admit.

"Admit that MY pussy is the best..."

"It's the best. Of course it's the best. I -- god, fuck, just let me fuck you, please!"

"Awww," Dr. Carte says. "You're so cute when you're needy." 

She scooches back and rests against the bed's headboard. Arms wide and elbows locked, she beckons you with both hands.

"Come on, slave. Fuck your mistress. Fuck her hard."

You get up on the bed and crawl forward towards her like a man under a hypnotist's spell. In a sense, that's what you are. You're 100% under the spell of Dr. Carte's mature pussy. You would do anything at all for the chance to get off inside it.

She hooks a thumb through one leg of her panties and tugs it aside, baring her hole to you. What a beautiful hole it is. So tender and warm, and so drippy and pink. Who wouldn't want to be its slave? 

Panting like the animal she says you are, you steady your jerking cock with one hand and find the rubbery entrance at the bottom of her vulva. Her so-superior play-acting falters for just a second when you plunge yourself into her. She throws her head back and gasps at the intrusion. Your coke-can dick is impossible to get truly accustomed to. The best that most women can do is just grit their teeth and bear that initial flash of pain, like Dr. Carte does. When she meets your eyes again, they're dewy, and swimming in pleasure. 

"You... have a very nice dick," Dr. Carte sighs, unable to come up with anything more than that simple praise. You prop yourself on your elbows and begin to fuck in earnest. Doctor's orders. Your efforts make the bed creak and shake and jiggle. Dr. Carte, too. She's jiggly all over. Her tits and belly undulate like the ocean. When she speaks, her teeth are clattering and her voice is shaky. "Th-that's it -- that's it -- dirty, dirty boy. Make your mistress's cunt all dirty with your dirty dick..."

You wouldn't be able to do anything else. Your horny dick controls you completely right now. All you can do is thrust and fuck atop her. The sweet relief of her cunt's interior soothes the raging ache in your boner, but only as long as you keep rutting. If you slow down for even a microsecond, the ache returns, and worse than before. You have to keep fucking her, just as hard and fast as you can, or you'll go mad with need and frustration. 

Dr. Carte pets you. She touches her sweat-streaked cheek to yours. "God, you make my pussy feel so good... keep fucking me just like that..." 

"I'm gonna cum," you groan, eyes clenched shut.

"No you aren't," Dr. Carte says, voice soft, but firm and commanding. "Don't you dare stain your mistress's cunt without her permission."

"Please--" you beg.

"No." 

You whinny.

"You don't get to cum," Dr. Carte says, stroking your face, "until you make my hole cum first. I told you, Alabaster. You're a slave to my hole tonight. You don't get your reward... until you please me enough... then and only then... I'll *think* about letting you drop a load inside me."

You bow your head in sheer frustration, but Dr. Carte will not relent. She clasps your face with both hands, and forces you to kiss her. You taste the menthol-and-whisky flavor of her mouth, and bask in the heat of it. You pound her horny, motherly pussy out, trying your best to get her off. The precum is coursing out of your cockshaft like a broken faucet, and you know you're going to jizz soon whether you've got her say-so or not. You're frightened, legitimately so, of what she might do if you orgasm without permission. And so you do your best to get her off first. You fuck rhythmically,  mashing your crotch against her clitoral hood, and you play with her sensitive tits to help her along. You want her to cum... no, you NEED her to cum... so that you can cum too. Yes, you need your mistress to cum... she gets to cum first...

"You really are hot, huh?" Dr. Carte coos between wet kisses. "You really want to cum inside me, huh?"

"Yes -- yes--"

"Beg me for it."

"But--"

"Beg me for it!" She shouts. She jerks her body back and forth, torturing you with the silky soft clench of her sexy pussy. It makes your head go blank. You shudder. Of course you'll beg her for it, if that's what she wants.

"Please let me cum mistress please -- please, please, let me cum inside you, let my slave cock cum inside you--"

"Nasty boy," she spits. She takes one of her tits and presents it to you: "Suck me."

You obey. You wrap your greedy lips around her nipple and suck her. Your tongue swabs back and forth over the ridged nub and the fat areola. You can taste her sweat, the salty-sweetness of it. Your teeth accidentally scrape against her succulent skin, and she spasms beneath you.

"Okay -- okay, slave -- on the count of three, you have permission to get your mistress's cunt dirty with your spunk. Thank me for it..."

"Thank you mistress thank you--"

"One--"

You hammer her as hard and fast as you've ever hammered any girl before. She begins to shiver despite herself.

"Two..."

You can feel her girlcum running in streams out of her twat, and to the bedspread below. It coats your cockshaft entirely, getting it slick and sticky, as you mount the peak towards your ultimate, blessed relief.

She nuzzles her face against your head and giggles. "Two and a half..."

You growl in pain. "PLEASE -- fuck! --"

She pets you again, and finally: "Cum inside me, slave."

You bellow, and can't even find the composure to thank her again as you should. You just blow your nuts off inside her. Sweet, sweet, relief. You ejaculate a virtual geyser of gooey semen directly against the back walls of her womb. She shrieks, literally, her shrill voice ringing in your ears. Your cum seems to last an eternity, and then you collapse on top of her, still nursing her tits -- one, then the other.

She nudges you, and draws your flushed face up to look at her. Then, leaning forward, she rubs the tip of her nose against yours. A patented Dr. Renee D. Carte Eskimo kiss. You grin, broad and dopey; she laughs huskily. But then: "Why are you just lying there?"

"...What?"

"I'm not done with you yet, slave. Keep fucking your mistress."

It's going to be a long, long night.

---

You eat lunch with Rose and Whitney in the executive dining hall. She sips a milkshake, her burger and fries already half-devoured. You and Rose are much slower eaters, and lighter eaters too. She has a salad, you a chicken sandwich.

"What I wanna know is why there's no guys in Gensokyo," Whitney says.

"There's like one guy," you say, "I'm pretty sure."

She snorts. "He must be busy."

"No," you say sadly. "Pretty much everyone in Gensokyo is a lesbian."

Whitney shakes her head. "Well that's just plain improbable."

"Alabaster is wrong, as usual," Rose says. "There are plenty of men in Gensokyo. They're just not important, so you never really see them."

"Ha!" Whitney shouts. "Now I get why you like those games so much. The universe makes sense again."

You roll your eyes.

Into the dining hall walks Qiangxiang. She pauses when she sees you and your girls eating here. The other lower-level executives in the room pause at her entrance, in turn; she gives just about everyone the heebie-jeebies.

After a moment, she resumes; finds a table to herself in the corner, and beckons for the waiter. She places an order for something or another, and sips at her glass of water. All alone in the world -- it's a little pitiful.

"I thought Galgal was supposed to be watching her all the time," Whitney whispers.

"She can't do anything evil with a bowl of shark fin soup or whatever the hell it is she eats," you say. "Gal is watching her in all the ways she needs to be watched--"

But it turns out that Gal is more committed to her job than you even assumed. She and Cerise enter now as well, and find a table directly across from Qiangxiang. Qiangxiang looks at Gal with a sort of beleaguered contempt, but says nothing.

>Where are you going to spend time today, Alabaster?
>[x] Get to know Qiangxiang.
[ ] Get involved with Cerise's campaign.
>[x] Speak with David Darkbloom.
[ ] Hang out with Mom.
[ ] Custom?

Qiangxiang is staring placidly out the window to her right, the gray sunlight from the overcast sky making her skin look sickly, when you sit down at her table.

"Alabaster," she says warmly.

"What do you want?" You ask.

"I... am not sure I understand the context of the question. Could you be more specific?"

You fold your arms, thinking. "You're one of the richest people in the world, right? You obviously have a lot of power already. And at a young age. You don't need to be here, do you? You don't strike me as ideologically motivated... or if you are, you don't show it. All that talk about China reigning supreme -- but you really don't give a shit about that, do you?"

She smirks back.

"You could grow your money and influence in any of a million ways, but you chose -- you chose to come here to the United States, to our company... where you're all alone, and under constant surveillance. What is it you really want out of this?"

"I want to have a say in the future. Darkbloom Analytics is the future, Alabaster. Although maybe you do not truly realize it yet. Broad Dynamics is the past. They definitely do not realize it yet."

"Your soup, miss--" comes the waiter's voice, as he sets a bowl in front of her. You were close; it's not shark fin soup, but it is some sort of watery fish dish that looks even less appetizing than it smells.

"Take that back," you tell him.

"Errm," he murmurs.

"Take it back or you're fired," you say.

He picks the bowl up. Qiangxiang quirks her eyebrow at you -- not upset in the slightest, more like curious.

"Get the girl a nice cheeseburger. Medium. Fat and juicy, with pickles, lettuce, onion and ketchup. And french fries. A bottle of Coca-Cola too."

Qiangxiang closes her eyes and shakes her head and smiles. "Is this some form of torture?" She asks you. "Thank you, but I would rather go hungry."

"I'm sure you would," you say. The waiter scurries off, to place your new order. "But we'll teach you how to eat like a real American, Chloe."

"I need to be forthright. I do not like that name."

"Chloe?"

"Mm."

"I'll make sure to keep using it."

"Shall I call you Ally?" She asks, perching her chin on the back of interlaced fingers.

You don't reply, but that gives her all the go-ahead she needs. She knows now that you don't like it. "Ally it is, then. Chloe and Ally -- a partnership to endure."

You rub your face. "Why do you think this company is the future? What do you want to do with Sand Reckoner?"

"I have already told you my theory of the world, have I not? It was no empty prattle, Ally. I want to be among the interesting people of the world. To influence the course of history. You know already that Sand Reckoner can unlock such enormous potential... I want to contribute. Sincerely."

"Is it true about your uncle?" You ask.

Qiangxiang grips her napkin tightly in her lap, and the hint of a scowl develops on her lips. You knew it was true already, you just want to mess with her.

"Your hamburger, miss," the waiter says, setting her new plate in front of her.

"Hamburger..." she mutters to herself, staring forlornly down at the food. She pokes the greasy meat testingly with a forefinger, and doesn't seem pleased with the way it gives.

"Looks tasty," you prompt. "Give it a bite."

"So this is how I die," she says, smiling brightly up at you. "Poisoned by my enemies."

"Aha. You consider me an enemy after all."

She titters in that insultingly condescending way. "No. But you see it that way despite my best intentions. So you have decided to fatten me up -- to clog my arteries and kill me in the American way."

"One burger is not going to kill you," you say. "You're so melodramatic. Fuck."

"This meal weighs more than an infant, Ally. My body mass index would balloon as quickly as your country's deficit." She waits for laughter that doesn't come. "A political joke. Those are risky in formal company. I see you did not appreciate the humor."

She picks it up, the bun already soggy, the bloody grease dripping fat dollops down to the plate. She cannot help her upper lip curling in disgust. "This smells like dead cow," she says.

"That's what it is, so."

Cerise and Gal are watching intently from the other table, whispering to each other; ditto Rose and Whitney. The other employees here, too, are gossiping over the scene. Taking bets, most likely. Will she eat it? Will she vomit it back up if she does? Will she burst into tears and flee the room?

"It's not getting any less dead," you tell her.

"You so love to humiliate a young woman, don't you, Ally?"

"I do. It makes me hot. That's the American way, you know. Make a girl eat a hamburger, then fuck her silly." Qiangxiang gives you a glance that looks a bit too hopeful so you add: "only, I'm not going to fuck you."

"So you say."

"Eat the fucking hamburger, Chloe."

She closes her eyes, opens her jaw. Such a tiny mouth it is. And she takes a nibble that's more bun than anything. She chews for a brief moment or two, mulling it over.

She swallows as slowly as she chews, sets the burger back on the plate, and sips at her cola.

"Well?"

"What would you like to hear, Ally? ... What would make you hotter?"

"Something genuine," you say. "I just... I just want something genuine from you, for once."

She picks up the burger and takes a second bite, this one much more substantial. She doesn't conceal her enjoyment. Her face alights, and she chews with gusto, and licks her chops when she's done. Next she samples the fries, which are enormous, more like potato wedges, seasoned orange with zesty powder. She eats these with as much enthusiasm. Her dainty eating habits have suddenly become a gorging session to rival Whitney. She's gnoshing the meal down as fast as her little hands and mouth will let her.

"My genuine reaction," she tells you between bites, her mouth half full, "is exactly as I had feared. This combination of fat, salt, and carbohydrates, this lowest-common-denominator garbage masquerading as food, is decadently and completely delicious. Addictive. Having eaten it once, I am sure to eat it again. And again and again. Opium for a new age. I hope you like your girls chubby."

You can't help laughing, just a little.

Qiangxiang licks her fingers when she sets the half-eaten burger back on her plate. One by one. Suck-plop, suck-plop. "Do you know? Teenage girls rebel in the ways set forth for them by their families. If your family tells you not to go out after midnight, you go out after midnight. If your family tells you to till the fields, you neglect the fields." She props her elbows on the table and smiles at you. "My uncle raised me, Ally, and he told me not to eat American junk food."

---

At home that night, Dr. Carte is beyond angry at Whitney:

"You had this the entire time? And you didn't tell me about it?"

"Mom -- Mom, I'm sorry, geez!--"

"I can't believe you! How dare you! How dare you keep this a secret from me?"

Dr. Carte flips the page in the photo album. Another set of pictures of Whitney as a toddler reveals itself. Dr. Carte, usually so eloquent even while angered or excited, can only manage an overjoyed: "Aaaaah!!!" -- not her first of the evening. "Look at that! Look at how fat you were! AAAHHH!" Vivian, standing over Dr. Carte's shoulder, grins -- this is a side of big sister she's never seen, either.

The doorbell rings, blessedly, and you go to answer it. Standing in the foyer, you hear yet another "aaaaahhh!!" from the living room. It's like nails on chalkboard when Dr. Carte wails like that, honestly.

Darkbloom, on the doorstep, furrows his brow. "Is everything all right?" He asks you.

"I don't know. I mean. My eardrums aren't all right. Otherwise yeah, sure."

You stand there blocking the doorway, perhaps by instinct more than anything.

"May I?" He asks.

You consider it for a couple moments. Then you step aside.

When Darkbloom enters the living room, Dr. Carte's excitement at seeing Whitney's childhood photos briefly dissolves. She looks up from the album in her lap, wearing a severe expression. She and Darkbloom have kept their distance since Vail, but tonight, of course, that won't be possible.

He clears his throat. Then he tries: "What are you two looking at?"

Whitney answers on Dr. Carte's behalf. "Somebody tattled that I had an old picture album lying around." (That somebody would be you. You sort of don't even regret it. Dr. Carte deserved to see it.) "Mom's been going through it."

"Oh..." Darkbloom says. He awkwardly stands there in the middle of the room, in silence. Then, turning, he begins to say to you: "Well then. I suppose we should discuss--"

"You wanna see too, right?" Whitney interjects.

Darkbloom tries to be nonchalant about it. He turns back towards her. "If you are offering -- I would -- ahem, I would find it quite interesting, yes."

"Well come on, then," Dr. Carte says. She makes room for Darkbloom to sit beside her. You hate this -- but you won't interrupt it.

The album is thick, but its hundreds of photos cover mostly only the first three years of Whitney's life. The reason why is pretty simple: most of these pictures were taken by Whitney's adoptive mother. When she died, her piece of shit adoptive father couldn't be bothered. After that, the only photos are official ones -- school portraits, news clippings from her time in varsity soccer, the occasional picture taken at a friend's birthday party. A few photos from your house, too, taken by your mother -- and of course her win in the quiz bowl. These photos were all catalogued by Whitney herself.

Whitney explains this to her biological parents. Not in a play for pity, but as matter-of-factly as she would tell them the weather. It's just the truth of the situation, and she doesn't think anything of revealing it.

Darkbloom frowns down at a family portrait of a chubby little baby Whitney with the couple he gave her to. "Lilly Price was a fine woman," he says. His voice is rueful. "I'm sorry her husband was not a fine man."

"Whatever," Whitney says, shrugging.

"Oh my God," Dr. Carte says, pointing at a portrait beside it, of toddler Whitney in a fancy red dress. Taken for Christmas, it looks like. "Oh my God!! Do you still have that dress?"

"Why would I still have that dress, Mom?"

"Answer the question!"

"No... geez, no."

"We need to get you a dress like that!" Dr. Carte says.

"I don't wear dresses," Whitney says. "They're itchy... and hot... ew."

"I could find you some dresses that you would enjoy wearing," Vivian offers.

"No. Fuck no. Shut up."

Darkbloom, even, is smiling. "I don't know... you do look rather fetching when you're gussied up. Maybe for a special occasion?"

Whitney ruffles her hair and clenches her eyes shut. This is turning into a major embarrassment for her. Your heart goes out to her.

"What is--" Darkbloom begins when he sees a certain photo on a certain page.

Whitney quickly turns the page to move past it, but Dr. Carte turns it back.

"Is that a kilt?" Dr. Carte breathes.

"Oh my God..." Whitney mutters. "Just turn the page already. Fuck."

"Whitney was in the model UN in middle school," you say, sitting down on the loveseat.

"You? In a model UN?" Vivian questions.

"Fuck. Goddamn it. Shut up."

Cerise, looking up from her laptop beside you, pipes up: "She wanted to impress Alabaster. King Dork here was the Ayatollah."

"I nuked a lot of countries that year," you say. "They had to rewrite the rules for the next school year because of me."

"Did you actually learn how to play the bagpipes?" Darkbloom asks her, as he gazes down at the photo.

Whitney, ironically, is a shade of cerise. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh Danny Boy..." Cerise sings. You join her: "The pipes, the pipes are calling..."

"That's Irish, you fucking asses!" Whitney hollers. She tosses her handbag at Cerise, who deflects it with an arm, laughing. "I was Scotland, not Ireland!"

"That hardly makes sense," Vivian says, "Scotland is not an independent member state--"

"From glen to glen, and down the mountainside..." Dr. Carte croons. So off-key.

"Stop!!"

Vivian gives up her starkly rational line of questioning: "the summer's gone, and all the roses falling," she sings. Whitney turns and tries to swat her, but Vivian deftly dodges.

"It's you -- it's you must go, and I must bide," Darkbloom sings, in an impressively tuneful baritone.

"Agggh!!! Fuck all of you!"

Whitney heaves herself up off the couch and storms from the room. Dr. Carte, giggling, continues to leaf through the album.

After dinner, and getting Whitney to calm herself again, it's down to brass tacks.

"All I know of the lighthouse is conjecture," Darkbloom tells you. "I'm not even certain it's an actual lighthouse. I suppose it could be -- but, that doesn't make sense to me. If it was, it would have been discovered by now. The Russian government lost track of it when the wall fell, and no one else knows where it is either. Surely if it was a structure existing above ground somewhere, satellite imagery would have uncovered it. Similarly -- if it was a physical structure below ground, it would also have been discovered by now as well, with ground-penetrating radar and the like. You see what I am driving at. Rather than a structure, I believe the term 'lighthouse' is by way of analogy -- it's a non-physical entity, a network, airgapped from the worldwide web."

"What is it?" Alex asks him.

"If the rumors are true then it is not much different from what the true power of Sand Reckoner could be. An engine to understand the world well enough that you could make it conform to your desires for it. To in a sense rewrite reality." He looks at you sternly. "It's too powerful. That's why I wanted to give the world something less -- but adequate. Better for people to enjoy a simulated reality of their choosing than to change the structure of the world as it actually is. Don't you agree?"

"Is it real?" Cerise asks.

"I don't know. I think it is."

"How can we find out?" Rose asks.

Darkbloom crosses his legs, ankle on knee. "Chloe," he tells you.

"Pfft," Whitney says. "Fuck that noise with a rusty tin dick."

"How?" You demand.

"Her family has deep connections to the Chinese government. She has the resources needed to get to the bottom of it, if you can convince her that you need to know the truth of it. Or..."

"Or?" You say.

"Not all mysteries demand a solution. Or even have one to find. It took me decades to accept that truth. Is your position such that you truly must know? Is there not enough for us to manage without--"

"Us?" You say. "There's no 'us' as in you and us."

Darkbloom sighs. "Never mind that. There is more than enough for you, Alabaster Soliloquy, without dredging these waters." He motions at Cerise with the broad side of his palm: "Of course, if you have patience, then maybe our rising young political star here can develop ties to the US government of her own, given time enough, and find out that way. Lord knows I tried, but I was never a political mastermind. I cannot deal with people. People... confuse and frighten me, to be perfectly honest."

Such candor.

---

You find Darkbloom out on the back patio, where he's standing by himself, smoking a cigar and staring into the pool. You slide the glass door shut behind you and approach him. Without turning around, he asks: "you knew Carl Price, correct?"

You draw alongside him and watch the rippling pool as well. "I'm impressed. You found one of the only men on Earth who was a worse father than you."

"It was not always that way. He was a perfectly capable provider before Lilly's cancer. Then the alcoholism and joblessness... I considered ways to remove her from that home, but..." He trails off. He takes a lingering drag, and you glance questioningly at his cigar. He takes a look, too, when he notices you staring -- turns it over in his hand and examines the glowing cherry, before telling you: "Steven's habit -- it rubbed off on me. You don't mind, do you?"

"But what?" You demand. "Why didn't you find something better for Whitney? You could have."

He puts the cigar back in his mouth. "There is no but. I made the decisions I made and I feel no obligation to justify them to you, Alabaster."

"You--"

"I what? If it were not for Whitney's upbringing, you would never have known her. You would be a nobody right now. Or most probably dead. Do you grasp that? You have ridden her coattails to the top of the world. Is that not enough? Or must you continue to lambaste me."

"What does this have to do with me?" You say. "I'm not talking about how things worked out for me. I'm talking about Whitney."

Darkbloom seems taken aback by that remark. He doesn't respond.

You huff. "Don't think you can manipulate me. You might be getting all cozy with the people in there, but I still remember what you did. And I'll never forgive you for it."

He makes a pained smile. "Oh, I know that perfectly well, Alabaster, believe me. But how much more will you insist on degrading me? You've won. Did no one teach you how to gracefully accept a win? How much vengeance is enough to exact? You stole my love, you took and corrupted my daughters, you hijacked my company -- you murdered me. Yet here I stand doing my very best to help you. And Renee and my girls, even, yes, Amber and Anna. You may call me a terrible father but look at what triumphs my children have obtained."

"I should have seen this coming. Can't be God anymore, so you'll settle for Jesus. You died for our sins, huh? Want some help getting yourself nailed to that cross?"

"I'm no martyr." He turns, grins at you: "More like a holy ghost."

He falls quiet again, and his face goes serious for a brief moment, as if he's considering something. Then he comes out with it: "I killed Congressman Isstein."

You feel the dark rage simmering within you: "You... I knew it. You f--"

"On what remains of my life, I swear I did not have any hand in running Cerise for his seat. That was Whitney's concept. In all honesty I think the idea is absurd, and Cerise is sure to fail. But yes, I killed Isstein, and pinned his death on Tyrus Kang. Would you like to know why?" You meet him with stony silence, so he explains it anyway: "this company has enemies both foreign and domestic. Isstein was going to be a domestic enemy. He knew too much about Mara's dirty dealings, which implicate the entire organization -- whether she is here or not -- and I think you least of anyone would like to see our server facilities RICO'd."

You don't even know what to say to him. He squats, snuffs his cigar against the limestone edge of the pool, stands and stows the butt in his coat pocket. "You may thank me later," he tells you. "I should be running. Have a pleasant remainder of the evening."

He begins to go, but Saul and Charlotte are coming out onto the back patio now. Looking for you, apparently, because Charlotte begins: "Alabaster, we were--" before noticing Darkbloom, and stopping.

"Don't mind me, Mrs. Mallory," Darkbloom says, "I was just on my way."

Saul is never one to mince words: "On your way. Hah. You should be under lock and key. Or dead."

"I see you agree with your stepson. Quite similar personalities, I should think -- no wonder your wife is so enamored with him."

Saul has no comeback for that one. Darkbloom steps past him, and goes. They watch him depart, and then an awkward silence descends, before Charlotte finally breaks it by touching your arm and saying: "Alabaster... are you all right?"

"No," you admit.

"Cerise got tickets for a Warriors game," Saul tells you. "One of many gifts I assume she'll be treated to now that she's a politician."

"--What? From who?" You marvel.

"The governor," Charlotte says. "I think he's trying to convince her not to run." She fishes through her purse and finds the tickets. It's not just any game ticket, either -- it guarantees access to a private suite at the stadium, high above the commoners in the crowd. "Cerise hates sports, and so does Anna, so they wanted to give their tickets to us. But we're going to the theater tonight, so..."

"I see," you say.

"I think Whitney intends to go, and she's dragging Vivian along too, and maybe a couple others," Charlotte says.

[ ] Go to the game with Whitney, Vivian, Rose2, and Noelle.
>[x] Go to the theater with with Charlotte, Rose, and Mom.
>[x] Stay home with Cerise, Gal, and Amber.

"And you think I'm some kind of sports superfan?" You laugh. "Thanks, but no. You and Saul have it right. I'd rather go to the theater than an NBA game, too--"

"Oh, would you like to come with us?" Charlotte cuts in, sounding hopeful.

"Uh. I was just making a rhetorical p--"

But Charlotte, once an idea crosses her mind, is impossible to persuade: "Rose and Scarlett are coming. We could make it sort of like a family night out."

Oh boy. You're always weirdly off-put by the prospect of directly rejecting Charlotte's hospitality, so instead you try to throw up a roadblock by pointing out an immediately practical problem: "I'd love to go, really, but -- you didn't get any extra seats, did you?"

"Oh, that's no matter," Charlotte says, "you can borrow the season pass I gave Cerise for her birthday." She giggles. "Wow -- Cerise is just swimming in tickets she doesn't take advantage of, isn't she? That girl is such a homebody. It's a shame."

You force an awkward: "Haha, yeah." Time to try another escape route: "Except I just--"

"I'm glad you want to go, though! At least one of the Soliloquy siblings isn't a shut-in, right?"

You sigh. "Right."

The hall is going to be packed, Charlotte tells you. Apparently this is one of the country's foremost Shakespeare troupes, and Palo Alto's socialites are champing at the bit to see them play. The performance tonight is King Lear. No one is less excited than you. But you get this rare treat as a dampener to your petulance: Mom, wearing a cocktail dress.

"Wow..." you say appreciatively as she steps forth from her room and descends the staircase. "I didn't expect you to get dressed up. Actually, I didn't even know you owned any dresses like that--"

"Don't you start!" She barks. "Keep your snide comments to yourself!"

Cerise, who's kicked back on the living room couch with a beer, Gal wrapped around her, raises her bottle and toasts at Mom: "I think he was trying to compliment you."

She adjusts the purse on her shoulder, scowling. "Well, he's got a strange way of doing that." She glances around, and finally seems to realize that she's the most formally dressed of anyone. Saul and Charlotte both have on the business casual they went to work in, you and Rose are wearing your normal day-attire. "We... were supposed to get dressed up, right?" She asks, voice strained.

"You look fantastic," Charlotte says, trying to reassure her. "I think you're going to love the experience."

That doesn't help assuage Mom's embarrassment at being overdressed. She's blushing vividly. Cerise giggles -- a fatal mistake.

"I'm sure I will love it!" Mom announces, and then, to Cerise: "So will you!"

She's not laughing anymore. "What -- what does this have to do with me?"

"You're coming too! I'm not going to let you hide here at home with your wife. You and Anna need to get used to going out if you're going to be a political operative."

Cerise has the same low cunning as you when it comes to getting out of social engagements. "But -- but we don't have enough seats--"

"We're billionaires, honey," Mom tells her. "Buy the seats of the people next to us."

"that's scalping," Gal tries. "scalping is illegal. we shouldn't break the law"

Mom frowns at her.

"the... the law..." Gal repeats. She turns to her wife: "th-the law... that's why... we can't..."

Mom isn't buying it. Two swings, two misses. You'd feel sorry for them, but misery loves company.

Still, if you can talk Mom out of taking them -- you could definitely cash in on that favor in a big way.

[ ] Keep Cerise and Gal at home, for some wholesome fun with Amber.
>[x] Drag them out with you.

The couples sit together, all along a row near the very front: Saul and Charlotte, Rose and you, Cerise and Gal. Poor Mom is the odd woman out, sitting between you and Cerise -- a Soliloquy double-decker sandwich with her as the meat.

Cerise and Gal are as lazy as ever. Both are wearing their schlubby around-the-house clothes, Cerise in her black tee, Gal in her tank and light coat, both in their shorts. Which only makes Mom's snazzy ensemble stick out even more. She seems mortified by her own elegance. Maybe Vivian should give her a primer on the benefits of overdressing.

The players strutting and fretting on the stage are obviously skilled thespians and you can appreciate how honed their craft is. You just feel like there were more interesting things you could have lent you ears to tonight. Rose seems to be of the same mind because she's less focused on the play than on trying to rub a small but persistent stain out of the sleeve of her blouse. You're pretty sure she's rubbed the spot out already, but she must still see it, because she's still working at it.

"Why is Lear such a dick?" Cerise wants to know -- but Charlotte, enraptured, shushes her.

"don't be rude," Gal tells Charlotte -- surprising you. But that comparatively brave defense of her wife only draws another annoyed shush from Charlotte herself. Charlotte always protests too much, you think, when someone speaks while she's watching something.

Maybe a love of Shakespeare comes with motherhood. Mom is just as drawn into the proceedings as Charlotte, and nods along enthusiastically when Lear proclaims: "how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is, to have a thankless child!" You roll your eyes, but she isn't paying attention. Thanks Mom.

Saul's tastes are more in line with yours than you'd like to admit, and here as well; he's nodding off by the second act. But Gal, surprising for the second time tonight, becomes as enthralled by the on-stage action as anyone. By the time intermission rolls around, she has her elbows on her jostling knees and her glasses are almost foggy. She keeps her attention glued to the actors, jaw agape, totally bewitched at the court intrigues of medieval Britain. When the curtains fall after each act, she seems almost crestfallen.

During the intermission itself, you all stretch your legs amid the milling crowd in the brightly lit, spacious lobby of the performing arts center. Gal enthusiastically discusses the details of the plot with Charlotte, voice uncharacteristically emotive: "Gloucester! Oh my gosh! I can't believe Regan did that -- how can one girl be such an awful bitch?"

"Have you never seen Lear before, Anna?" Charlotte asks.

"No..." she says. "I mean, some Shakespeare plays. But never this one. It's so good!"

"It is," Charlotte says. "Some say it's Shakespeare's finest."

You can't help marveling at how the play is bringing Gal out of her shell. "Maybe Cerise should give you her season pass," you say. "You'd get more use out of it than candidate NEET Feet here."

Cerise flips you off. Gal isn't sold on the idea, anyway. Her mousy tone creeps back in: "i don't think i'd want to go out without cerise though ... or you, Sir"

Saul arches an eyebrow. It must be the first time he's heard Gal deploy "Sir" on you.

"Well, I can always get a second pass for you, dear," Charlotte says, "if you want one. Saul and I are friends with the owner, so it's really nothing."

"Really?" Gal says, excited. "You'd do that?"

"Absolutely--" Charlotte begins, but Mom butts in:

"Don't waste your money. Cerise is perfectly capable of buying her own wife some tickets for the theater. Aren't you, Cerise?"

She's grouchy: "Yeah."

Mom is also grouchy: "Show some interest in your wife's hobbies!" she says. "This is the happiest I've seen her since I met her. Encourage it!"

Cerise makes a face, but she has to admit it: "You're right." She hugs Gal around the waist. "But I'm not surprised. Gal's always been a huge theaterfag." When Charlotte and Rose both give her a dirty look, she corrects herself: "I'm sorry -- theater homosexual."

"Maybe you could take her out again next week," Rose says. She nods her head in the direction of a poster on the wall displaying upcoming performances: Yo-Yo Ma is playing next Friday. Gal audibly gasps when she sees it.

"Fuck. Now I have to," Cerise grumbles.

"Can we?" Gal pleads.

Cerise nods. Gal, hopping up and down, kisses her on the cheek.

"...Cerise?" Comes a voice. "Cerise Soliloquy?"

A well-to-do man and his well-to-do wife are approaching from behind. The man grins broadly, and offers his hand to shake, an offer Cerise is slow to accept. "Do I... know you?" Cerise asks him.

"We saw you at the Rotary Club," the man says. "You are exactly the sort of young voice that DC needs."

Cerise relaxes. Not a /csg/ shitposter, then -- rather, a political supporter.

"Please vote for me," Cerise says. It's maybe a bit on-the-nose -- she's still unused to the nuances of retail politics.

"We intend to!" The man's wife chimes in.

"I hate to interrupt a night out with your wife, but... could we get a photo with you?" He asks.

Cerise shrugs. She must figure this is going to be a routine part of her life now. She poses with Gal between the happy middle-aged couple while Charlotte, ever solicitous, uses the man's phone to snap the picture. He and his wife both hover-hand Cerise, who despite the smile, looks miserable. Gal looks doubly miserable.

As the man departs, he leaves Cerise with this nugget: "We both maxed out our single-donor contributions to your campaign. We know a lot of people in the party, so if you need any help getting your feet wet -- just ask."

He hands her his business card, and goes. Cerise stares skeptically down at it, frowning.

"feet..." Gal murmurs.

"That's funny, isn't it?" Charlotte says as she re-approaches. "Feet. The wallpaper on that man's phone was a picture of you at the tennis tourney... zoomed in on your bare feet. That's not normal, is it?"

"Oh God," Cerise says, dry heaving, clearly as repulsed as you are. "He was one of those fucking cretins from /csg/ after all."

".../csg/?" Charlotte repeats.

"You don't want to know," Mom tells her.

"Have you ever seen a show where someone has a stalker?" Cerise asks Charlotte. "And the stalker has a creepy shrine in their closet full of photos and hair clippings and chewed-up wads of gum and stuff from the person they're stalking? And, like... an effigy of the person on an altar of burning candles?"

Charlotte nods along, perplexed.

"Well. Imagine all of that... but live on the internet, 24/7."

"Oh my," Charlotte says. "That sounds awful."

"it's even awfuler than it sounds," Gal affirms.

"I don't think that's a real word, Anna," Charlotte tells her.

"erm..." she mutters.

"Yes it is," you lie on Gal's behalf. "In the OED and everything." Charlotte, who never questions the breadth and depth of your trivia knowledge, just blinks and says: "Oh. I never knew." She apologizes to Gal for what she incorrectly believes was an incorrect correction, but which was actually correct.

"thank you Sir," Gal tells you softly, tugging on your sleeve.

You pet her.

Saul, noticing the thinning crowd, checks his wristwatch. "Should be heading back soon," he says. "We don't want to miss Act IV. Well. Some of us don't, at least." He gives his wife a meaningful glare. She just titters.

"I'll catch up," you tell the group, your eyes following the man from before as he cuts into a nearby restroom. "I gotta go take a leak."

"Ugh," Rose groans. "Could you not--"

But you're already gone.

---

In the bathroom, you step to the urinal right beside the one the man is using, despite the entire rest of the row being unoccupied. He bristles at this breach of etiquette, his face tightening; but doesn't say anything, merely stares straight ahead.

It's juvenile and petty, you know, but you make your stream as loud and forceful as possible. His dries up as soon as you unzip -- bladder shyness affects millions.

As you finish the deed and pull back, still shaking your dick, you purposefully turn a bit in his direction. The last few dribbles hit the legcuff of his dress-pants and his dress-shoe.

He startles, jerking his leg back, and grimacing down at what you've done. "What the f--" he begins.

"Oh shit," you laugh, cutting him off. "I got your feet wet."

He looks up at you, bewildered, just in time to see your fist connect. You bloody his nose. He stumbles back, falling supine to the sparkling tile floor, fly still undone, the material of his boxers still jutting out -- and amid it his little prick, like a worm poking out of a Kleenex box. He's groaning.

"Thank you for your contributions," you tell him, smiling brightly. You wash your hands and go.

---

As you cut through the now mostly-empty lobby and back towards the auditorium where the play is already resuming, Cerise flags you down. "Are you as bored as I am?" She asks you.

You shrug. "Let's say I've never been into the fine arts."

"Same," Cerise agrees. "Wanna have some fun?"

You narrow your eyes at her.

"Don't give me that," Cerise grumps. "Look, Mom's been bitchy all night, hasn't she? Isn't it a little annoying?"

"Situation normal as far as I'm concerned. She's always bitchy to me. It's only fair that she's doing it to you now, too."

Cerise smirks. "She's trapped between us for the next hour or so," she says.

"So?"

"So... wanna bully her?"

>[x] Bully your okaa-san.
[ ] Pretend to agree -- but turn the tables and bully Cerise instead.
[ ] Bully Charlotte.
>[x] Bully Rose.

Not long before Oswald gets murdered -- who was always a patsy, in your opinion -- you notice Saul, at the end of the row, get up and excuse himself to the restroom. He's gone an unusually long time, and you don't think it's any coincidence that soon after he gets up, a pretty young woman in the row behind you excuses herself from her husband and exits the theater, too.

Charlotte is too intently focused on the unfolding plot twists of this Elizabethan drama to pay much heed to it. This sort of thing must be pretty normal for them anyway. Such an odd marriage.

Rose begins to sensually rub your crotch. 

Okay, so maybe you're throwing stones in glass houses.

"Are you as bored as I am?" Rose whispers. 

You huff. Rose and Cerise have spent way too long living together -- their perverted minds are beginning to sync up. 

"Shh," you tell Rose. You lift her hand by the wrist, away from your dick, and drop it to her side.

She makes a face at you. "When have you ever said no to sex?" She says.

"Shh!" Charlotte hisses, un-sarcastically. She's oblivious to what it is Rose is actually saying, just wants her to be quiet.

"I'll let you know when I need my dick rubbed," you tell your loving wife. "I like a bit of foreplay first, that's all."

This remark catches Mom's attention -- she swivels her head and gawks at you. "...forepl-- what on Earth are you two talking about?" Even in the low light, you can see her blushing.

Cerise uses this moment to strike. Her hand lightly brushes Mom's leg, and begins a slow, slow transit northward along the outer edge of her meaty thigh. The edge of Cerise's palm catches the sequined hem of Mom's little black dress, and begins to peel the material steadily back -- baring more and more of her delicious, supple skin.

Mom's breath hitches, and she swivels her head the other way now, like someone who just felt a spider crawl on them and doesn't want to believe it's really there. But Cerise's hand is really there, all right, and now she's really squeezing. You can see the dimples made by her fingertips, as they sink into the lovely give of Mom's leg. Like kneading dough, it is. 

Charlotte and Gal might be too enthralled to notice this incestuous groping, but Rose isn't. She feigns disgust. "Your own mother, Cerise? That's--"

"Shh," you hiss. 

Winking at Rose, you put your hand on Mom's other thigh now. The expression on Rose's face is hard to gauge -- trapped between disapproval, jealousy, and debauched curiosity. Mom now is well and truly pinned, and at the mercy of her "thankless" children. She's unable to decide which direction to look: at your leering smile, at Cerise's wolfish grin, or down, at the gentle harassment of your hands creeping their way together up her thighs. She hugs herself -- maybe to shield the upper half of her body if she can't preserve the dignity of her lower half. But Cerise won't let her have even that. She turns in her chair and grabs one of Mom's arms and pries it away. You do the same to her other arm. Together you force Mom to keep her arms at her side -- useless. 

"Y-you unruly -- h-horrible b-brats," she stammers.

"Shh," Cerise tells her.

Mom's legs are soft and hot, and in this too-warm theater, a bit slick. Just feeling her up, like this, is enough to make your cock throb its way to stiffness. As your violating hand reveals the waistband of her little black panties -- how nice, that she wore matching underwear -- you appreciate the way the elastic bites into her skin and makes an indentation in the padding of her hips. She's got a motherly body, it's true. And you intend to enjoy it to its fullest extent. It's your right as her son, isn't it?

You grip the elastic now between thumb and forefinger, pull it back, and let it snap against her. It makes an unexpectedly loud noise. Mom winces in pain -- and you wince at the possibility of being seen. You glance quickly this way and that, to confirm that no one noticed. You wince again when you hear Cerise parrot your miniature act of abuse on Mom's opposite side. Mom jolts this time, jerking backward in her seat. Cerise laughs under her breath at Mom's distress.

"Shh," you warn Cerise.

"You two are awful," Rose tells you, but she can't peel her eyes away from what you're doing. Hypocritical bitch.

"Let's take those off," Cerise says, practically growling. You can hear in her voice, how wet she is. Toying with Mom like this is really getting her off.

"Cerise..." Mom murmurs. "You can't--"

"Shh!" Charlotte hisses. Mom bows her head and begins to tremble.

You hook an arm under Mom's knees and lift her just enough off her seat to give Cerise the access she needs. Cerise peels the garment from Mom's butt, then leaning way forward, gets it all the way down her calves. Mom watches it happen, totally defenseless, and plainly frightened. 

"All the way off," you whisper in Mom's ear.

Mom nods, and slowly, fumblingly, she lifts both her high-heeled feet from the ground so that Cerise can get her underwear fully removed. Like that, your mother is going nopan in a packed theater in the middle of a play. And because of the work you've already done, her dress is hiked all the way back, and her bare pussy is out in the open. You gently run your fingers through the downy tuft of hair above her vulva.

"I can't believe you..." Mom whispers between gulps.

"She's wet," Cerise tells you, obscenely feeling the crotch of Mom's panties. 

"I know," you say, running your fingers across the sticky folds of her labia.

Mom shudders. She wrenches her eyes shut, and lets what's happening happen. 

"All right," you tell Rose, "you can play with my cock now."

Rose shakes her head. "No. You're disgusting--"

You grab her hand and roughly direct it towards your crotch. "Shut the fuck up," you order her. "Jerk me off."

"Fuck you. You nasty--"

"Shh!" Charlotte hisses, eyes never leaving the stage.

Cerise, smiling, shrugging, hands you Mom's panties. You know precisely what her idea is, and you've got the same one. You wad them up, tug on Rose's jaw. And as Rose's eyes turn to dinner plates, you shove the soiled garment into her mouth. 

You press up against her chin to make sure she doesn't spit it out. She tries to say something, but of course, it's unintelligible.

"Shh," you tell her.

Rose, her eyes going half-lidded as the taste and scent of Mom's cunt invades her brain, at last gets a bit more compliant. She undoes your zipper and frees your straining prick. Such a nice sensation, the open air circulating across it, and the soft pad of Rose's hand curling around it. Dutifully, she begins to tug. She watches with unconcealed lust both the sight of your leaky cock and the sight of Mom's leaky cunt getting poked and prodded by her eldest children.

God gave you two hands, so you'll use them both. You hug Rose around the hips and hike her skirt up without any ado. Like always, the fucking cunt you married was going naked under her skirt, and her pussy is already juiced-up for you. You take a moment to appreciate the contrast of these two pussies as you begin to finger them both. Rose's little twat is tight and rubbery, as slick as any lube-coated synthetic onahole, and totally bald. Mom's is meatier, warmer, stickier -- not as tight, yet somehow clingier. It's twitchier, too, with Cerise's fingers working their magic in tandem with yours. Since you've claimed her maternal pussy for yourself, Cerise has settled on fingering her asshole instead. Together you and your older sister sweetly torment both of your mother's lower holes.

It's having its effect. Mom is writhing around as if in agony from this molestation. Her inner walls are clamping and shuddering against your invading fingers; she bites her hand to keep from crying out. But Cerise, who gets completely demented and prone to throwing caution to the wind, yanks Mom's hand away with an evil smirk. Mom's jaw hangs open in a silent scream while you and Cerise wring an enormous, wet, sloppy orgasm out of her. It squirts from her pussy and stains the red velvet seat, plus the diamond-patterned carpet below.

You nudge Mom's wrist, and guide it to where Rose is still giving you a handjob. Your dick is way too big to be satisfied by just one of Rose's little hands, no matter how soft and practiced it is. 

Mom gets the idea, and her hand wraps around your shaft. She and her daughter-in-law find a steady rhythm together, their palms corkscrewing up and down on your meat, giving you the maximum relief possible. It feels fucking great. The pleasure courses through you, from the sensitive tip of your cockhead, down the veiny pole, and into your heavy nuts. There's nothing quite like this feeling, of two women working together to bring your cock off. And in public, no less.

"cerise...?" Gal at last notices the depraved scene playing out right beside her. "what... what are you doing--"

Cerise, her fingers still sawing in and out of the dark pucker of Mom's anus, draws Gal into a lingering kiss. She tenderly strokes her hair. "Play with my cunt for me, babe," she instructs.

Gal nods her understanding. Her hand snakes down between the two of them, and unclasps Cerise's shorts, and finds its way inside. Cerise sighs a sigh of deep contentment. "That's it, babe. Bring me off."

Cerise has got your same commitment to using her natural blessings. Her free hand finds its way down to Gal's pussy, too. Suddenly the five of you have become an interlinked, incestuous chain of busy fingers. 

Cerise is getting even hornier with Gal's fingers up her cunt, and that's making her bolder. "Take... take her dress off," she gulps. 

"What?" You whisper back. "Right here?"

"Shh!" Charlotte hisses.

Cerise nods. Mom, who resigned herself to being lewdly masturbated in public, panics anew at this suggestion. You have this row to yourselves right now, but there are plenty of people behind you -- and of course, the players on the stage -- not to mention other rows of viewers at your level, separated by the aisles. There are eyes all around. For her to get fully nude would be insanity. Surely someone would notice.

But you and Cerise are already pulling her dress up and off of her sweaty body. You reason to yourself that she was embarrassed to be overdressed anyway -- right? You're just being a courteous son. You do it as clandestinely as possible, trying not to raise the suspicions of anyone nearby. The darkness helps. Mom's dress clings to her, and doesn't want to come loose, but you force it, pulling it inside-out as you do. Her soft tummy, her hourglass waist, her meaty tits, all breathe free. She has her bra on, still, albeit a couple sizes too small. And her heels, too. But otherwise she's stark naked, right here in the theater.

"P-please..." she says. "N-not this..." 

You cruelly smile, and toss the dress to the ground. She shivers in disbelief. But she grasps your cock again, and continues to jerk you off without being instructed. She may resist, but it's clear that she loves this perversion as much as you.

It's actually quite easy not to be seen by anyone in the audience. It's so dark in here, and no one is looking at you anyway. But you don't have any cover from the actors. King Lear himself, in the middle of one of his soliloquys, notices it first. It makes him choke on his lines: "No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even the natural fool of fortune. Use me well-- ghh-- what the--"

He's a consummate pro, though. He recomposes himself and powers through. The actors, although fully aware now of the depravity happening below them, just keep acting. 

It's only at this moment that Charlotte -- suspicions perhaps flagged by the actors' momentary shock -- notices what's going on beside her. She turns to shush you, but finds herself gobsmacked instead. "Sh-- oh... oh, oh *my*..." 

This is a brand new flavor of humiliation for Rose. She looks her mother in the eyes, mouth still stuffed with a sodden pair of panties, hand still jerking on your turgid dick. 

Charlotte smiles at her.

"Alabaster..." Charlotte whispers huskily. "Couldn't you wait until after the play was over?"

"No," you grunt, jutting your hips forward, enjoying the twin handjob you're receiving. Charlotte stares unabashed down at your drooling dick, and licks her lips. 

"You're not going to waste it, are you?" She asks.

"Waste what?" You ask, slow on the uptake.

"All that cum, honey. You're not just going to shoot it in their hands, are you? That would be such a waste."

"Mmf--" Rose groans through the gag, shaking her head, red as a tomato, trying to protest. She doesn't want her mother seeing her like this. 

You laugh at Charlotte. "You want me to fuck you again, huh? That's what this is."

"Oh my, no," Charlotte says, "not right now, anyway. You need to cum inside your wife tonight."

Rose's eyes bulge.

"She's particularly fertile today, I think... your first load should definitely go inside her."

Rose gazes back at Charlotte in shock. Charlotte lovingly pets her. "Shh," she coos, "it's fine. You want Alabaster to impregnate you, don't you? Be honest with yourself."

"I can't fuck her right here," you insist.

Charlotte looks furtively all around, then back down at you. "It's fine," she says, "as long as you do it down there." She nods at the ground. "No one will see. Trust me."

Even as she says this, she's getting down onto the ground herself -- sliding out of her chair, and then pulling her daughter down with her. Rose is violently shaking her head again, begging no -- but she isn't doing anything to actually resist this. 

Charlotte, on her knees, with Rose's head resting in her lap, beckons to you. "Come here, honey... come here and fuck. Fuck her pregnant. You know you want to."

You glance back to the others. Cerise is a little disgruntled that you'll probably be blowing yet another load inside Rose tonight. Gal is too lost in pleasure to care what Sir does with his jizz. 

Mom is the most conflicted of all. She's still jerking you off, but she's looking down with interest at where Rose lies, gagged, legs spread, skirt hitched, wet pussy on display. Her lower lip is quavering as you continue to finger her. She wants to see it, you can tell. She wants to see her son knock a girl up. Even a girl she mostly disapproves of.

You get down onto the ground, and line your cock up with Rose's swampy cunt. You stare into her wide hazel eyes. 

"Alfffabbsffter," she mumbles through the wadded-up satin of your mother's underwear.

"Shh," you hiss back, "get pregnant."

You grab her by both her thick thighs, force her legs even wider, and sink your cock into the lovely, hot confines of her vagina. You begin to saw in and out without a care in the world. Charlotte, petting her daughter tenderly, eggs you on: "That's it. Fuck her nice and hard... make sure you cum as deep as possible. Don't let a single drop get out. It has to go inside... *all* of it... that's the best way..."

Mom, idly rubbing her own enormous breasts, watches. You hear a pained sort of whine escape her lips. Her horny cunt no longer has anyone paying attention to it. Cerise nudges Gal and directs her down -- soon your favorite ginger slavegirl is joining you on the ground. Her head goes between Mom's naked legs, and her mouth opens wide. And then Mom learns firsthand what an accomplished cunt-sucker her daughter's wife truly is. Cerise holds Gal by the back of the head and presses her face into Mom's crotch to get Gal's tongue buried just as deep as it can go. Gal, glasses steaming over, eats her out enthusiastically. There isn't much she likes better than licking pussy.

"Oh my god..." Mom sighs. "No wonder..." But she doesn't finish that thought. She just basks in it. She presses her jiggling thighs on either side of Gal's ears and squeezes, trying to trap that sensation. Gal, who's used to having her air cut off, just keeps licking. Cerise is proud of her handiwork, and masturbates while she watches. 

With you lying on top of Rose, Charlotte can reach far enough to cup the globes of your ass. Even through your trousers, it's a strangely erotic thrill. She presses you firmly against her daughter. 

"You have to get deep inside, honey, remember..." she instructs, voice sounding a bit high and dizzy. "It's no good if you don't get your entire dick inside her... you need to *really* use her, completely..."

Rose is breathing ragged as you do your best to fuck her completely, the way Charlotte told you to. You clasp Rose's tiny chin, pull her face towards yours, and kiss her. Through the drool- and cream-coated wad of your mother's underwear, your tongues wriggle out, and press together. Although there is no direct contact, you enjoy the kiss all the same, as the two of you suck on your dear Okaa-san's panties. Mom's earthy scent and tangy taste blends with Rose's to send your lizard brain into overdrive. Your hips are a blur on top of her as you bottom out with every stroke and rail her as deeply as you can. Your entire cock buzzes with the pleasure of raw fucking. 

Mom, meanwhile, is cumming unashamedly on Gal's face. Reaching behind herself, she undoes the clasp on her bra, and lets her knockers hang free. An exhibitionist at heart, at last. She slumps forward in her chair, letting her legs hang wide open, and smiles down at you. Gal laps up her cum, as obedient as ever. Cerise, watching this, cums in her shorts, strumming her clit to a series of little orgasms that leave a visible wet spot in the denim. The force of the cum makes her grit her teeth in pleasure, eyeballs rolling to the back of her skull. 

With Gal's tongue wagging back and forth from her asshole to her still-cummy twat, Mom sighs and joins Charlotte in encouraging you young newlyweds. "Fuck her, Alabaster... don't be gentle..."

But un-gentle is exactly what Rose likes. Her cunt is gushing and spasming all around your rampant battering ram of a dick. Her mouth is hungrily mating with yours through the gag. Charlotte, grinning, pets the sides of her daughter's face with two flattened palms. "See?" She whispers to Rose. "Isn't that nice? Doesn't that feel good?" 

Rose nods. 

"Doesn't getting pregnant feel good?" 

Rose nods again, even more enthusiastic.

Cerise, hungry, and still in a somewhat sadistic mood, joins her wife between Mom's legs. They take turns pleasuring her cunt with their mouths and fingers, giggling like a couple of naughty schoolgirls at Mom's little squeaks and pips of over-sensitive enjoyment. They reach up, too, and fondle her udders -- just for the perverted fun of it.

With the full approval of both Mom and Charlotte, you know you're about to lose your load inside Rose's unprotected pussy. You try to stave it off, not because you're having second thoughts, but just because you want to ride out this utter bliss as long as possible. But you're at your limit. You feel the cum surging through your nuts, and then without warning it's sloshing around inside Rose's fertile womb. 

The way you and Rose tense together at your climax, the way you groan long and almost painfully into her mouth, "mmmmmmmffffff..." -- the way you stop moving, to keep yourself seated inside her deepest parts -- all of this makes it obvious to Mom and Charlotte that you're ejaculating right now. They coo and murmur their happiness at seeing it. "That's so nice, isn't it..." Charlotte says with particularly long, loving pets of Rose's face. "Just let it happen, baby... get pregnant, okay?..."

Mom is nothing but agreement as Cerise and Gal suck her off. "Yes... yes... get fucking pregnant..."

When at last you finish cumming, Charlotte pets you instead, drawing your face up to look at her. "You're not done yet, are you?"  She says gently.

"I..." you pant. "But..."

"Shh," Charlotte says. "Just keep going. You have to make sure it takes."

You miss Act V.

---

You wake up at around 5 PM, as usual on a weekend, and rub the tiredness from your eyes. Err. Your eye. What a drag.

You lie in Daddy's bed for a little while, not wanting to leave the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets, the softness of the pillows, the reassuring scent of his body.

But your growing harem of hot bitches calls to you.

You trudge downstairs in your tanktop and panties, stretching luxuriously. "All right, you shut-in freaks," you say, "the life of the anime club is here. Who's ordering pizza?"

But when you get down to the living room, it's empty. You see, on the couch, the downy alpaca wool blanket where Cerise and Galgal were cuddled up, now discarded and lying twisted up like a snake on the cushions, describing the phantom perimeter of Cerise's thick ass.

"Cerise?" You call. "Gal?"

No answer. You frown.

Only then do you make the arduous trek back upstairs, to clamber across the bed, unplug and grab your phone, and check its messages. Sure enough, yep: one from Gal, informing you that they tried to wake up you and couldn't, and decided to go see a play without you. And one from Rose2, that the others are going to an NBA game -- also without you.

Those ungrateful bull dykes don't know what they've got coming. You'll have to punish them accordingly.

You occupy yourself as best you can for the next couple hours -- porn on a hi-def theater system with full 3D surround sound is pretty fun -- but eventually you run out of things to do on your own.

You wonder how long it'll be before they're back. There's something about being alone in the Nail House that puts you ill at ease. Well, you're not completely alone. There's that bunnygirl in Whitney's bedroom, and of course Jimbo the night-shift guard at the guard shack, who's pretty fucking good at Wii Bowling.

But the people you really care about are all gone.

...The people you care about? It's so weird to think about it like that, but yeah, you've really grown to care about all these pervos and freaks. You're all a big fucked-up family.

You know you shouldn't, but you do it anyway -- just for a second, just a brief peek. You lift your eyepatch up and bare the glowing grain of that implant to the world. You just wanted to glimpse what they were all up to. You're no good at using this thing for directed purposes, though. You get nothing you wanted. Instead, you get this. You get a faceful of Qiangxiang "Chloe" Xi, AKA Qiangxiang "I'm a Huge Fucking Cunt" Xi -- sitting demurely by herself, waiting... for what?

She's at home. 421 Pratt Lane. A quaint little yellow adobe condo.

Still wincing in pain from the use of that little demon inside your head, you stumble into one of the downstairs bathrooms and look yourself in the mirror.

"What are you trying to tell me, me?" You ask.

You close your good eye and think through the mess of data you saw in that brief instant. There's not much intelligible. But you did get some of what you wanted, after all. Let's see...

Well, Vivian and Rose and them are still in San Fran, watching the Warriors take a beatdown. Daddy is... doing Daddy things... which is nice, but you hope he's not too tuckered out by the time he gets back.

And Qiangxiang "Yellow Menace" Xi is eating McDonalds in her quaint little condo... such a quaint little condo for a little girl who's anything but quaint. Waiting.

>[x] Go see Chloe.
[ ] Crash the party to watch the game with Vivian and the others.
[ ] Custom?

Chloe is shocked to see you. The surprise is plain on her flat little face when she opens the door to find you standing at her doorstep. She puts that mask of aloofness back on in a flash, but you know she wasn't expecting this.

That's all well and good, but... you didn't come with a gameplan. And so you meet her surprise with silence.

"Alabaster told me that he would kill me if I ever came near you," she says.

"Yep. That sounds like him." (Just hearing that warmed your heart, though.)

Chloe tilts her head. "I wonder whether he would make an exception if you were the one who came near me?"

"Probably not," you say.

She nods. She thinks. She steps aside.

"Come in, please."

---

"Why did you try to kidnap me?" You demand as she breezes into the small, ceramic-tiled living room and sits down on a cozy red sofa.

"Those were not my orders."

"Bullsh--"

"Those were not my orders," she repeats, more firmly. "Believe what you want. Or can your all-seeing eye tell you the truth?"

You won't give her the satisfaction. You don't reveal it to her. "Why do you want to come here and fuck with D-- with Alabaster and the rest of us?" You say. "Don't you have enough fun with your slaves back at home, fucking chicom? Leave us alone."

"My slaves?" Chloe says. "I had direct reports, who received a wage, and who were hired by the firm employing me. They belonged to me no more than the machinery they operate. I was only a caretaker... now they are overseen by someone else entirely."

"Yeah, right," you say. "Talk about mental gymnastics. You're disgusting."

"Am I. Amber Catachresis -- you are so eager to talk about structural change, but the moment you stand opposite another lost soul enmeshed in the unmerciful gears of society, you turn to nothing but ressentiment, rather than camaraderie."

"You're not a victim, Chloe. You're part of the fucking problem. I should kill you. No one else has the balls to do it."

She shrugs. "If you want."

You blink.

"Have you heard the story of when Zhou Enlai encountered Nikita Khrushchev at the International Meeting of Workers' Parties following the Sino-Soviet split?" She leans back in her seat. "They were busily discussing the differences between Soviet and Chinese communism. It became personal. Full of insults. Khrushchev said that the main difference between the two of them was that he, Khrushchev, was the son of noble working peasants, whereas Zhou was the son of privileged bourgeois Mandarins. Zhou replied: ah, but we are really the same, after all. We are both class traitors."

She folds her arms smugly.

"What do you want from me?" You demand.

"I have guests coming presently," Chloe says. "I think maybe they will clear things up."

There's a sharp rap on the door. Chloe stands and answers it.

"Uncle, come in."

You goggle as a stream of suited Chinese businessmen enters the tiny condominium, fully a dozen of them -- led by a fat, greasy, grey, pockmarked little man you somehow know is Li Xi.

He stops short when he sees you standing there.

"Ah," he says. He smiles at his niece. He says something to her in Chinese. Something that conveys a sort of warm surprise. He's got this aw-shucks-you-shouldn't-have tone to his voice. You don't like it.

"Please, uncle, in English," Chloe says.

He snaps back with something, something terse, probably a "why?"

"I want her to understand what is happening to her," Chloe says.

"Hmmph," Li grunts. He and his cronies encircle you, gawking at you like you're a zoo animal, before seating themselves in Chloe's living room. You look from face to face, petrified. Worse even than the worst of Vail. You consider how you could escape. You're sure none of them are armed, and they're not exactly in peak physical condition... then again, you assume Chinese trillionaires don't go on international journeys without a little backup. You're sure to have the mooks crawling out of the rafters the moment you try to bolt. Best to bide your time for now. You stand there awkwardly amid this impromptu board meeting.

"I was briefly relieved," Li says. "I thought again I could trust your judgment. You retrieved the Catachresis girl for us, with very little fuss, or so I thought... but tell me truthfully. Have you fallen in league with her?"

Chloe mutely sips a little glass of tea.

Li looks at the crumpled white bag with the golden arches sitting on Chloe's table. "I thought I smelled something awful. You let this girl eat that trash in your home?"

"No," Chloe says. "I ate it."

He's talking in Chinese again, and he obviously isn't pleased.

Chloe holds up a palm, smirking. She talks over her uncle's anti-McD's ranting. "No distractions, please. You would like Amber now?"

A man to Li's right starts to speak, also in Chinese, motioning at you wildly. Chloe shoots him an icy glare that stops him dead, and just to drive it home, she sneers: "be quiet."

He goes quiet.

"These games do not impress me," Li tells her. "The Federation has come crawling to us for help and we do intend to help them. You can get on the winning side of history right now and come clean with what you've been doing these past weeks. Or you can be left behind. Sabotaging our research -- sending Diogenes right back to Darkbloom Analytics -- this is unacceptable. We could have taken it all, right there in Vail -- Mara Darkbloom and Dahlia, Sand Reckoner, the Diogenes platform. But you -- your insolence --"

"My insolence, my insolence," Chloe says in a singsong voice. "Always, always, my insolence. How sad." She leans forward, elbows on knees. "Yes, how sad. You've been undone by a teenage girl."

"I have not been undone by you, little girl," Li booms, standing. He nods at one of his toadies. He barks an order that must be something pretty clear, because all of a sudden the toady is on his feet too and wrapping his hands around you.

"Do not do that," Chloe says, voice airy.

The man is dragging you, kicking and screaming, towards the door; and Li's other men are standing too, ready to depart, with you as their hostage.

"I said do not do that," Chloe repeats with the tone of someone warning a friend against doing something stupid, knowing all the while that they won't be heeded, and willing to let it happen so that the friend learns a valuable lesson.

Li tells her something derogatory in Chinese. Something with "Shǎbī" in it. And that cinches it.

She's on her feet, too. She has a dagger in her hand. Li wheels on her, gawking, and he seems about to defend himself with force -- but too late. Chloe stabs him in the crotch. The sound of fabric ripping in two and the sound of flesh getting lacerated blend to create a nauseating sschllrch. She draws the knife out as viciously as she put it in him. Li doubles over, clutching at the wound, which in just seconds has already stained his charcoal grey pants a deepening crimson. He's howling in Chinese, without a doubt a string of obscenity. The other 11 faceless businessmen, including the one still grasping you in his clutches, are frozen in horror at the sight. Frankly, you are, too. This is what she only threatened to do to Muskfucker, now made manifest.

"Shh, shhh," Qiangxiang says like a mother burping a newborn. "Be quiet, little cunt. We don't want anyone finding out."

Li is not paying any attention to his niece. He's on his knees, hunched forward with both hands pressing down on his horrifically bleeding genitals, like a little kid trying to hold their bladder. He vomits all over himself and the floor. He's shaking uncontrollably.

"Fine," Qiangxiang says. "If you can't stop crying, I'll shut your mouth for you."

She jabs it into his throat. He gurgles, and then dies. Chloe lets the body fall to its stomach in a growing puddle of red.

She wipes the blood from her dagger's blade using a dainty white handkerchief. She says to Li's cowering survivors: "Let it be known to the rest of the board at Broad Dynamics that this was done of my own initiative."

There is an animated, multi-party exchange in Chinese now, a gaggle of nasally shouting and recriminations that Chloe coolly deflects each in turn, like a hitter at a batting cage. Whatever she's telling them, she's putting the fear of God into them, as if it wasn't there already. The room stinks of iron and tastes like copper.

"Dispose of him," Chloe orders the men. "And release the girl."

The man holding you loosens his grip, and you stumble towards Chloe, over the corpse of her recently departed uncle. She puts a consoling hand on your back. "I am glad you came, Amber," she says. "I was wondering how to convey this news to Alabaster. I did not think he would trust me if I told him, but maybe now you can trust me, if I tell you."

"W... what?" You stammer, feeling how pale you've gone.

"I believe that some of the ones you love are in quite some danger at the moment."

---

"We have to call them --" you begin, when Chloe explains to you what's about to happen. "--warn them--"

"Please tell me that you did not bring a mobile phone with you," Chloe says, frowning. She takes out a little tin of mints and pops a few of them into her mouth like pills, crunching down, chewing.

You were right about the presence of unseen mooks, all right, by the way: a small retinue of burly bodyguards are even now dragging Li Xi's corpse from the room. Their employers -- the dozen-minus-one grim-faced, besuited businessmen who find nothing scarier than Chloe, confer in grave tones just outside the front door.

"Do you have a phone?" You ask.

"Don't be absurd," Chloe says.

"Then what are we--"

One hand in the crook of her elbow, the other holding up a thoughtful forefinger, Chloe says: "You had a special connection to David Darkbloom, via that special grain inside your head. You are Camelia, are you not? And now, that connection has devolved to his youngest daughter. Why use mobiles when you have a direct link?"

"I -- don't know how..." you say.

"No matter," Chloe replies. She grins. "What is the slogan? It just works."

She steps closer to you, nodding slowly.

With the ghastly carnage behind you, and Chloe's expectant smile before you, and disaster swinging like a pendulum above you ever closer: you peel back the eyepatch for the second time tonight, and let her see the hole in your head, the glowing red speck embedded in your tear duct.

"Amazing," Chloe murmurs. Her breath is hot against your face and smells of wintergreen. Her self-satisfied face fills the entirety of your limited field of vision.

You're having difficulty staying standing. The pain is throbbing through your skull like getting zapped with a cattle prod. But you can see Vivian Darkbloom. Or rather, you can see through her eyes. She's in her limo, on the road, cruising along the 280 -- the scenic route -- making out with her older sister, and your older sister, a three-way tongue kiss; Noelle watching on in envy.

"You are being followed," Chloe says.

Vivian jerks back from her lewd little makeout session. Whitney is asking her what's the matter, and Vivian is covering her face with her hands, wracked by pain as badly as you are.

"They are going to run your car off the road," Chloe says. "Tell Ms. Keki to be ready. We will try to be there soon. Please -- wait warmly."

Chloe puts the eyepatch back over your eye for you. You totter back a couple steps, and your heel slips in the thickening pool of blood still there on the tiled ground. You flail around, arms windmilling, like a person sliding on ice, before finding your balance again.

"May I come?" Chloe says.

You grab her by the ribbon on the front of her blouse. "Oh you bet you're fucking ass you're coming," you snarl. You tug her closer. "Let's go, bitch."

She's smiling.

---

You tap frantically on the window of Will's bedroom. He peels back the bedsheets that are acting as his curtains. He makes a face like the slack-jawed fucking yokel that he is, and you can practically hear the "duuuuuhhhhhh" on the other side as he eyes you and Chloe standing there in the dusty trailer lot just outside his shitty little trailer home.

You gesticulate at him. "Open the fuck up!"

He slides his window open, and it makes a piercing squeak. "Sup?" He says.

"Get your Golf fired up. Now."

"Who's that Asian ch--"

"Shut up and get the fucking car going."

---

David fucking Darkbloom is sitting on the porch he stole from Dalton Cantor, in the rocking chair he stole from Dalton Cantor, listening to the Blu-tooth radio he stole from Dalton Cantor, using the ears he stole from Dalton Cantor.

And so the song, fittingly, is by Stealers Wheel.

You hear the twangy plucking of their Dylan-esque pop bubblegum favorite from April of 1974, as you approach, cutting across the front lawn.

He has his head leaned back, eyes closed and fingers laced over his chest. But he's awake. His toes are tapping and his head is bobbing side to side. He knows you're here, too, because as you draw near, he brings his head level again and nods at you. "Camelia."

"Your daughters are in trouble."

He's standing.

"...Daddy?" Oh, perfect. Here comes the daughter he stole from Dalton Cantor, standing in the doorway. "Who's that creepy girl?"

"No one, honey," Darkbloom tells her, not tearing his eyes off of you.

"Why is she on our lawn?"

"She's no one," Darkbloom repeats. "Just a girl scout selling girl scout cookies."

"But--"

"Go back inside, Hazel," he says firmly.

Chloe is bringing up the rear. She draws alongside you, staring up the short little set of white stairs leading to the porch, up at Darkbloom's stony face, and young Hazel Cantor who doesn't want to go back inside at all.

"Let's go," Darkbloom says.

---

The assholes and idiots peopling California's highway system are nothing against Will, who can cut off five cars across four lanes of traffic at 100 MPH without batting an eyelash.

"Just like Vail, huh?" He shouts over the roar of the engine. Yeah, just like Vail. You in the passenger seat and Darkbloom riding bitch, so carsick he looks like someone painted him green. Only now there's a fourth: Qiangxiang "Bateman" Xi, sitting beside Darkbloom, hands folded in her lap, as placid as can be.

Will is bearing down hot on the speeding limo where Rose, Vivian, and the others are hunkered. A few car lengths separate you from them -- and a troupe of black sedans driving perfectly in formation, fenders all lined up, block him from getting any closer.

The limo's driver, that limey bastard who helped extract you all from Mara's server farm, swerves and careens back and forth, preventing any of the sedans from getting up alongside. Noelle, butt perched on the sill of one of the limo's rolled down windows, peppers the sedans with automatic pistol fire, her ponytail billowing in the wind.

None of the attackers are firing back. Just trying to get beside the limo with a tenacity that borders on maniacal. When the limo veers left, the sedans to the right eke forward; when it fishtails right, the sedans on the left advance. That British idiot can't keep this going forever, you know.

"Get closer," you tell Will.

"Uh? I can't?" Will says. "I literally can't?"

"Get closer!"

Will sighs, and redlines it.

His Golf closes the short gap separating you from these anonymous, plateless black Sedans. They don't budge an inch, even as Will gets his front bumper pressed up against the backs of the central two cars, and his engine's whine rises an octave with the stress he's putting it under. There is no space to maneuver. To the left is the reinforced steel-and-concrete median, to the right a sheer drop into the valley of death below.

You crank the mechanism on Will's passenger-side window, rolling it down as fast as you can. The air rushes into the cramped quarters of the little hatchback, nearly deafening you.

"Amber -- what are you doing?" Darkbloom demands.

"These fuckers think they're gonna Princess Di my sister?" You yell. "I don't fucking think so!"

You hoist yourself up onto the sill much the same way Noelle is. You lock eyes with her from across the miniature armada separating you. You see her mouth at you: "Don't" and "Get back" -- warnings you ignore.

"Amber!" Darkbloom is yelling from inside the car. Is he concerned for you? Or just worried that you're endangering whatever plan he thinks he's got?

You rip the eyepatch from your face and drop it down to the seat below. Your vision fills with blinding white and you scream as the wind blows right into your fucking brains. Was this a bad idea? You sway, and the only reason you don't go tumbling down to the asphalt blazing by underneath you is because Will gets his hand hooked into the waistband of your shorts, holding you steady even as he steers with his other hand. He's wild-eyed, glancing frantically back and forth from you about to fall out of the car, and the twisting road ahead.

The flash of white passes, and you can see again -- you know where to go. Woozy, drunk on data and reeling in pain, you nonetheless wriggle yourself free of Will's grip and swing your legs out of the car. Oh man, Noelle is really hollering now; you can even vaguely hear her: "What the fuck!" and "You stupid bitch!" and so on.

You see, too, Vivian's head in Whitney's lap, and hear her screaming in an agony that's in equal measure to yours.

You crawl up onto the roof of Will's Golf. It's not an easy maneuver, and you don't exactly have the world's most calibrated equilibrium right now. But you power through. You slide on your butt, down the windshield, down to the hood, which the engine has made so hot that it singes your bare thighs. "Fuck!" You grunt.

Amber Get Your Gun: you pull it from the holster you have strapped around your calf, and take careful aim at the rear wheel of one of the black sedans. It makes a nice bright spark, but the wheel is reinforced, bulletproof, and your little peashooter does nil. You reholster your gun. Time to go in raw, then.

On hands and knees, you navigate the gap between the Golf's hood and trunk of the car Will is pushing up against. The gap is only inches wide, but at NASCAR speeds it feels like trying to step across the Grand Canyon. Noelle is focusing fire on the car you've boarded: trying to pop its windows or windshields. She's got considerably more firepower than you, but the glass is as sturdy as anything else on these fucking tanks disguised as road vehicles.

"Get back!" Noelle repeats over and over. "Get back in your fucking car, you fucking stupid little cunt!"

Whitney is hugging Vivian tight, and Vivian is rubbing her nose. It's bleeding. Rose, beside them, is crying like a baby.

You get down to the hood of this sedan, and, with your hands pressing against the windshield, you face your attackers. The men inside look disinterested and definitely unafraid. Consummate spooks, suited and holding machine pistols in their laps that they still, after all this, are not deploying.

You turn, butt on the windshield, your back to the limo ahead, bracing your weight with your fingers wedged tight in the little space where the wipers fit. With the heels of your sneakers, you kick again and again at the point where you somehow know the gunfire has made the glass the weakest.

They're raising their guns on you now, at last. A friendly warning to stop that you don't heed.

One of the men in the back rolls down his window and pokes his upper half out, pointing the muzzle of his gun directly at you. You steel yourself for another lost eye, maybe -- but then the man flops back into the car, the side of the door now streaked with his grey matter -- shot dead. Looking up, you see the source of the magic bullet: David Darkbloom has entered the game. He's getting in on the fad of sitting where the window should go and shooting wildly into traffic.

With Darkbloom and Noelle keeping you covered, you kick the top of the windshield away from its frame. The glass remains in one piece, but there's space enough to squeeze through now -- which you squeeze through.

The man in the passenger seat grabs you about your midsection as you worm your way in, his grip oppressive and choking -- but it helps you get your bottom half the rest of the way inside.

Your slight frame is working to your advantage. You have enough leeway to slither up in his grasp, draw your chest parallel to his, crane your neck up, and smile at him -- then headbutt him in the teeth. It shocks him enough that you can wrest his gun from his hands and fire it into his belly. In the mostly enclosed space, the gun's report is eardrum-splitting and the smell of phosphor blended with raw guts makes you retch. He's dead, or dying, already -- in any case unconscious. The survivor in the backseat is reaching for you from around the headrest, so you duck, like a prairie dog retreating into its hole. The driver is clawing at you too, from your side, but he's too busy keeping the car steady to be effectual.

You put the gun against the chest of the man you just shot, and fire: the bullets travel through his body, through the leather seat, and into the back of the car, hitting the spook back there. Yellowy batting from the seat and blood from the man spray back against you.

The driver finally has a real human emotion on his face, fear, as he curses in Russian. Just you and him now.

You body-check him, and his shoulder hits the driver's side door, and the steering wheel jerks in that direction, and the car follows along with it, and it collides with the next car over, and the next car over crashes into the median. It goes ass-over-teakettle with the force of it, and soon the tumbleweeding wreck is a fast receding dot in the rearview.

The driver you shoulder-slammed gets his car back under control again, but Will has his opening now: he speeds past the formation of sedans and gets up next to the limo.

You see, through Vivian's eyes, David Darkblooom wildly motioning for the limo to pull into the weeds. 16 armed spooks have become 9, and that's the best you'll do in the middle of a high-speed chase. You'll need to face the remaining attackers on foot.

Golf and limo together decelerate, and slip into the tall grass abutting the roadside, navigating the severe slopes well enough to come to a halt.

The two unscathed sedans pursuing them also pull off.

You, in a deadlock with the driver of the car you're occupying, know he isn't going to stop. If he's speeding down the highway, you can't shoot him, because the car will crash and you will die as well. That gives him an inherent advantage.

He points his Uzi at you, and you duck before he can depress the trigger.

He grunts in surprise, cursing, as you lie yourself across his lap like an oversized seatbelt, and reach for the door. He shifts his body and points his gun at your back now -- too late -- you reach up and get the driver's side door open at the same time as you blow a few rounds of hot lead into his leg. He shrieks.

In one swift motion you draw back to the passenger seat, grab the oh-shit handle above the door, use it to pull your butt into the air, and give the man a nice hard kick in the side. See, speaking of seatbelts: wearing them saves lives. He wasn't wearing his, and now he's turning into a red streak on the asphalt. You slide across to the now vacant driver's seat and pull the sedan out of a tailspin. Then, yanking the door shut again, you pop a bitch, and double back to where the firefight is already continuing in the reedy roadside.

It isn't going well. The limo's driver is DOA, RIP -- Whitney and Vivian are huddled underneath the chassis, Noelle bodily shielding them. The three are waiting for an opening to bolt down the slope and into the California wilderness towards safety. Rose is nowhere to be found. You try to focus on where she could be, but this is progressing too fast for even you to process. You're not used to this continuous stream of information blitzkrieging you.

Darkbloom and Chloe, shoulder-to-shoulder, fire on the advancing men. But Darkbloom's miraculous headshot a few moments prior notwithstanding, neither of them are sharpshooters. Darkbloom gets a clean shot into one man's gut before he and Chloe have to duck back behind the cover of Will's Golf. The Golf is a write-off now, unfortunately, and Will himself is cowering in the backseat amid the hail of bullets.

You rush in, fool you are. You've got the edge provided by Sand Reckoner, but there's only so much an augmented sense of time and space can do. At some point, you're just outgunned. As now.

And you glimpse Rose, you know where she is without having to look: she ran towards the highway rather than the protection of the grass and trees in the other direction. Dumb. Fucking. Bitch. You run, and try to catch her up.

Of the 8 attackers, 7 still stand, and one of them sideswipes you. You topple to the crunchy brown grass, feeling the sharp stalks biting into your skin. He lies on you, chest to chest, pressing down. You gnash your teeth and scream obscenities.

Another Ruskie is manhandling Rose, and drawing her to heel, keeping one of her arms held fast behind her back. Through her tears, she shouts: "Let me go! Let me go!" as he drags her right past you. His compatriots give him cover, keeping Darkbloom, Chloe, and Noelle pinned. You try to wriggle yourself free of the man lying on top of you, but it's no use.

Noelle gets a good shot off, though -- right into the foot of the man leading Rose away. He takes a pratfall, letting go of Rose, and Rose uses the opportunity to bolt. But these fuckers are everywhere, and her path is blocked by yet another spook just as soon as she gets her feet going. He stands before her, at the edge of the road, and she freezes in place, terrified.

"Stop fighting," he booms -- a directive for you all. "We only want the Catachresis girl."

The man atop you forces you to your feet, holding by your wrists. Though you tug and writhe against it, you aren't strong enough to get away.

"W-what?" Rose says. She notices you standing there just behind her. "You... you leave my sister alone! We'll kill you!"

"Shut up," you yell. "Just stop... I'll go with them... get out of here, Rose."

"I won't let you take her!" Rose shrieks.

The man in front of Rose grabs her menacingly by the forearm and yanks her towards him. She almost falls flat from the force of it.

"We don't want your sister. We want you."

Her jaw hangs open.

"You will lead us to the lighthouse," he says.

The shrill high-pitched whine of an engine warped by the Doppler effect fills the air. The grass turns white from hi-brite headlamps reflecting off of it, and then the man holding Rose is gone. He's just gone, replaced by the fender of a late-model hybrid -- a tasteful off-white now streaked red by blood. You recognize that car.

Stepping forth, Auburn draws a little semi-auto pistol, and nails the nearest of the spooky mooks encircling you all.

Chaos, then. The survivors are after him, and he's dashing through them like a sprinter in the Olympics. This is the break Noelle, Darkbloom, and Chloe need. They're back in the open now, picking off the Russians, who most definitely didn't expect to get ambushed by some male-feminist twerp. Not even you, in your semi-infinite wisdom, expected that.

The man holding you lets you go and raises his gun at Auburn as he passes; Chloe, lurching forth from out-of-fucking-nowhere, gets her dagger through his Achilles tendon and floors him. You've heard quite a fair bit of screaming this evening, and the scream he looses is by far the worst.

Chloe's gonna let him suffer like that: she crawls over to him and peers down at him reproachfully. Auburn's a bit more merciful. He falls to his knees beside the injured man and shoots his brains out. You jump back let out a little yelp of surprise -- can't help it.

Chloe, face spattered red, blinks in confusion. She meets Auburn's eyes. Balling her fists up beside her temples, she shrieks, voice nasally and not at all refined: "Cào nǐ mā! Cào nǐ zǔzōng shíbā dài! Who are you! You -- I needed information from that man! How dare you!"

Darkbloom is also desperately grasping for info. He's kneeling over another dying man, pressing him: "Why Rose Catachresis? What does she have to do with the lighthouse? Answer me!"

But he's a goner. You and your friends are the only living souls remaining out here. It's just you and the weeds and the Russian corpses now.

Will pokes his head up from among the ruins of his car. "Auburn! You dickweasel! What are you doing out here?!"

"Saving you," he sneers, struggling to his feet and dusting off his pantlegs. He grimaces at you, then down at Chloe, who's cursing at him in Mandarin like she's trying to hex him. He ignores her, and goes to Will's golf, and roots around inside, and finds your eyepatch. He tosses it at you. "Make yourself decent," he says.

Rose, looking around the grisly scene, is trembling like a bird. Voice similarly trembling, she heaves: "I... am about... to freak... the eff out."

"You can curse," Noelle tells her, helping a shellshocked Whitney and Vivian to their feet from underneath the limo.

She lets out a hard exhalation, and gulps down an equally hard breath to replace it. She tries again: "I am about to fuck the freak out."

"We'll work on it," you tell her, reaffixing your eyepatch.

---

"I raised nothing but idiots..." Mom says, hugging Rose2 and Amber tight to her bosom with either arm.

Charlotte nods sympathetically. "I know how you feel," she says.

"I know you know how I feel," Mom tells her.

Charlotte makes a sour face.

Vivian is curled up with her head in your lap, totally enervated, and Whitney, almost as wiped, sits with her head against your shoulder. Darkbloom clearly isn't thrilled at that setup, but he's staying mum. He's a guest in your home for the second time tonight, after all, so he can't complain.

"Am I part of the team now?" Qiangxiang says, between a couple Chinese curses. "Do none of you know how to conduct a proper interrogation?"

"Shut up," you tell her. "This isn't our fault." You turn your gaze towards Raisin Brant now. "Have you been stalking Amber?"

"Oh, is that what's most important now?" He spits.

You glance up at your wife who's standing near the arched entry to the dining room. "Tell your pet loser to leave Amber alone."

"He saved their lives," Rose counters. "You could be a little more thankful."

You stare daggers at each other, but you're not going to argue with her right now.

Whitney's voice is flat and emotionless. She tells Qiangxiang: "I don't know what you're trying to do. But you're not part of the team. You need to leave my house."

Qiangxiang looks to you for confirmation. You don't say anything.

"I will see you all tomorrow," she says, not betraying any sting at the rejection. "We all need rest."

As she leaves, she shares a recriminating gaze with Auburn that could melt steel.

---

"What kind of protection is good enough protection from the world's most powerful governments?" Noelle wonders aloud, as you all huddle over the dining room table, wondering where the fuck to go from here.

The good news is this: Damon's PMC firm is pulling through for you even after the advent of his death. Their fixers mopped up the carnage on the 280 and got your girls back in one piece.

The bad news: you have no fucking clue why Russians want Rose2, and neither does Qiangxiang -- or so she claims.

"Qiangxiang Xi is a woman without a country," Vivian says. "We can do with her what we did with Mr. Cantor -- and get any information she has, by force. There will be no consequence. Her fellows at Broad Dynamics will want her gone after what she did to her uncle."

"No, they won't," Darkbloom tells his daughter. "She has her uncle's wealth now. They need that capital to survive. Her situation is rather like yours and your sister's."

Great.

Ding-dong, comes the doorbell. You look over your shoulder towards the foyer. Tension fills the room. A wetwork squad come to finish the job?

Amber is a trooper. She pulls her eyepatch away just long enough to let you know, through a hiss of pain, "aggh, fuck -- it's fine. Your rentboy is here."

"Alex?" You say.

"Ayep."

You answer the door. There he is, shivering, on your doorstep. White as a sheet.

"Mandala," he says.

---

He sucks on a mug of cocoa provided by Mom, while he explains. "I was wrong. The implants that Chloe's men were wearing. I've been going through Ms. Guiteau's notes again and again... she theorized about this. Only briefly, but she considered it. How does a malignant actor keep control of a technology that's been leaked into the hands of the public?"

You shrug.

"Mandala," he says. He peels the napkin away from his mug, the one Mom wrapped around it so he wouldn't singe his hands. Using both his palms, he smooths it out, flat on the tabletop, and frantically draws a series of concentric circles on it. "Not centrally networked in the traditional sense... and not peer to peer in the traditional sense. A hybrid." He begins to draw arrows back and forth among the circles. "Low level users can send and receive data to others with the same permissions, only when in physical proximity... but elevated users can send instructions -- also while nearby... and super users, at the center of it all, can see it all. Harvest it all. You reap the benefits of a centrally networked data source without the need of the central network." He pounds his little diagram, which is looking quite like a bloodshot eye by this point, using his little forefinger. "Not peer to peer -- slave to master. Broad Dynamics needs the key to that. That's the piece they've been missing."

You pretend that this makes perfect sense. He's too rattled to press him too hard.

"Ms. Guiteau's notes..." Alex says. "I don't know how far she got with this... if she got very far with it, she didn't tell me.. but maybe she kept at it while she was on the run. I don't have the notes she was keeping when she was living out of her van."

Charlotte lays a hand on his. "I know your brain is going a mile a minute, dear, but try to focus. What about Sable Guiteau's work is important here?"

He takes a couple breaths to calm himself. "When she realized what Sand Reckoner really is, she started thinking about a way to hide from people who can see all." He looks at you. "That was the concept preceding Diogenes. I thought she abandoned it. But what if she didn't? She went undetected for so long, didn't she? Is that how?"

"Some... anti-implant implant?" You question.

"There's only one way to know," he says. "We need to take a flight... as soon as possible."

---

She was buried in a little cemetery in the town of Oneida, New York, her tombstone as no-frills as anything else about her while she was alive. It says simply:

SABLE JULIA GUITEAU
MAY 21, 1991 - SEPTEMBER 30, 2019

"You don't have to do this," you tell Alex.

He sighs and dons the surgical mask and heaves the shovel down from its resting spot on his shoulder.

"It should be me," he says.

He starts to dig. You help. So does Rose.

---

It takes longer than you thought it would. But eventually you're down to the concrete slab over the coffin, and then you're down past that, and Alex cracks open the lid, and the three of you retch and heave at the ghastly, maggoty rot within.

He uses a flashlight and scans the beam up and down through the remains. He's crying, silently, but there it is: tears trickling down his cheek in the moonlight.

The light glints off something, down near Sable's wrist. Squatting, producing a butterfly knife, he carefully cuts it loose from the putrefied flesh and the larvae and the muck. Not a grain, but a little chip: a small wafer of circuitry no larger than a cookie crumb.

"Is her consciousness in that thing?" You ask.

"No," Alex says, peering intently at the device. "It's nothing but a high-tech Faraday cage. Just a mask. Sable Guiteau is gone."

You wouldn't put it past him to lie about that if he thought differently, but the way he says it, barely choking back his sobs, is enough to convince you that he means it.

---

On the flight back, the sunrise streaming through the plane's windows, you inspect the disinfected little crumb of silicon.

"It's a tool to keep in our back pocket," Alex says, leaning back in his seat across from you.

"What can this really do?" You ask him.

"Just hide. That's it. That's all it needs to do."

"Hide how?"

"The user won't be seen by Sand Reckoner or any of its offshoots. They'll be like a value outside the domain of a function. It won't be able to tell anything about them..." He thinks for a moment. "Ms. Guiteau was terrible with names. In her notes she just nicknamed it BlindSpot ... can I?" He reaches out, and you hand the crumb to him. He holds it aloft in the air, twisting it this way and that between thumb and forefinger. "But if I were to name it? I'm thinking Tiresias."

You shrug. "What's in a name?"

Rose, beside you, rolls her eyes.

"Names are important, Ally..." Alex says.

"Would I be able to use it?" you ask him.

"I don't think it would be wise to put it inside someone with an SR implant."

You nod. He sets it down on the little table between you.

>Who, if anyone, should get it? (Can also vote to leave it unused for now, or to destroy it)

"You should have it," you tell Alex.

He cocks his head. "You mean -- I should have it installed -- inside me?"

Rose nods. The logic of it is hitting her, too: "He's right. This is Sable's legacy, isn't it? You're the only one who could carry it on anyway. Not to mention, if you stick around at DBA... and we really do make true adversaries of Broad Dynamics... you'll be their public enemy #1."

"She'd want you to have it," you add.

He sighs. "Do you really think so?"

"Why not?" You ask.

He props his elbows on the table and massages his face with both hands. "I don't know. I always felt like I never measured up."

"She loved you," you tell him.

He looks at you with rheumy eyes.

"The sad thing is..." he says, "I don't know anymore if I loved her. I'm so mad at her... everything she did... and she never even told me about this thing... even in the very end, she didn't trust me enough for that. I feel sometimes like... like I hate her."

"That's grief talking," Rose tells him. "Well. It's your choice. But it has to be the most useful if you're the one using it. You'll be the ace in our sleeve."

"A trump card--" you say.

"Right, an ace in our sleeve," Rose repeats, speaking over you.

"We believe in you," you say. "Not just me and Rose. But everyone else, too. Whitney, Cerise, Gal, Nelson, Armstrong -- all the rest. If you don't think you measure up, that's fine. We know you do."

He looks down at the grain again. He thinks for a long, silent turn.

"All right..." he says. "All right. Assuming I figure out the missing details of how it works -- assuming that. Then I'll use it. For you -- all of you. And--" He gazes out the window, the warm orange light washing over his face. "For Sable, too."

END OF EPISODE 7.

"Thanks so much for coming to lunch!" Lucy says as Rose gets settled at the restaurant patio table across from her. Lucy puts a hand to her own collarbone. "Oh my gosh. How long has it been, anyway? Five years? I can't believe how fast the time is going."

"It's crazy," Rose says. "I--"

"Uh..." Lucy makes a face.

"Hmm? What's the matter?"

"That word."

"Which?" Rose asks, genuinely confused.

"...Nevermind. Well -- anyway -- it's so nice to see you. Kaylee and I-- oh, here she comes."

Kaylee approaches from behind. Rose swivels in her seat to wave at her. The two young women hug warmly, Kaylee stooping, and then she sits too. "Wow! President Rose! I still honestly feel starstruck sitting with you, after all this time. Has it really been five whole years?"

"I know!" Rose says. "I can't believe it. I was just telling Lucy how crazy it is that--"

"Uh," Kaylee says.

"Hmm?" Rose asks.

"Oh, nevermind," Lucy interjects, taking her iced tea from the waiter. She sips at it. "How are you doing these days?"

"Just wonderful," Rose says, pausing to ask the waiter for a coke. "And I heard you and Kaylee got a job with Wells Fargo?"

"It's not exactly Wall Street," Kaylee says, "but this way we get to live in San Fran! The Bay is just gorgeous, really."

"And good money, too," Lucy says. "Pulling down six figures right out of college isn't too bad at all. Then again, I guess we're nothing compared to a corporate bigwig like you!"

Rose tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, laughing. "The only thing I had going for me was being in the right place at the right time," Rose says. "I got lucky. That's all."

Kaylee clasps both palms to her lips, eyes going wide. She noticed it when Rose lifted her hand up: the ring. "Rose--!"

Rose glances down at it now, herself. "Oh. I suppose I didn't tell you." She displays the back of her hand for her two friends now, showing off the gold band for them to appreciate.

"I cannot believe you got married!" Lucy giggles. "To think Rose Mallory would take part in such a patriarchal institution!" She lays a hand on Rose's arm and leans in. "That's amazing news. Who's the lucky person?"

"Or maybe unlucky," Kaylee says with a smirk. Rose laughs right along with them as the waiter returns with her drink.

"It's kind of funny, really," Rose says.

"Who?" Lucy demands. "Come on, we just have to know!"

Rose laughs again, more nervously, and takes a sip. "Well, the funny thing is you know him already... he's someone we went to high school with."

Lucy gasps. "No! You mean -- of course. You and Brock! Finally!"

"I knew you two would wind up together," Kaylee adds.

Rose's bright expression drops like a stone. "Uh. No."

"Oh..." Lucy says, somewhat deflated too. "Then who? -- Orin? -- Zeke?"

Rose slowly shakes her head. "Alabaster."

Lucy and Kaylee cackle -- loud and long. It's the funniest thing they've heard all month. "Oh my god!" Kaylee manages to choke between the uncontrolled peals. "That's sick! But really, though. Who?"

"I--" Rose says. "That's not a joke. I married Alabaster."

The laughter dies a slow, awkward death. "You..." Lucy drawls.

"I'm Rose Soliloquy now. Crazy, I know."

"Uh."

Rose looks from face to face. "I mean -- we always fought and argued, but in the end, we really... I suppose what I mean to say --"

"You are messing with us, right?" Lucy asks.

Rose frowns. The sting of awkwardness is turning to anger in her heart: "No. I told you. I married Alabaster. We fell in love... I love him."

Lucy cringes. "Yikes."

"Yikes?" Rose says.

"Just... yikes."

"Isn't he your cousin?" Kaylee says.

"Once r--"

Kaylee shakes her head. "Honey, no. Oh no. Alabaster Soliloquy? That little fuckboy is a total sociopath." She puts a hand on Rose's. "Oh, you poor... he does not love you, trust me."

Rose jerks her hand back. "How the fuck do you know?" She spits. "How dare you tell me how my own husband does or does not feel about me. That's crazy." When Kaylee cringes, Rose continues: "Yeah. Crazy. Maybe you're the sociopath, huh?"

Cheekbone resting on the ball of her palm, fingertips against her forehead, Lucy shakes her head sadly. "You did marry him. He's obviously done a real number on you, too."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Rose demands.

"He changed you."

Rose stands. Angrily she fishes through her purse, finds a few bills, and throws them on the table to pay for her drink. "Alabaster didn't change a thing about me," she says. "I chose to marry him because I love him. And I'm choosing to leave now. Goodbye."

She pulls her purse over her shoulder and breezes past, leaving her two former friends to lean in and gossip to one another over the unfortunate fate of former North High StuCo President Rose Mallory.

---

You are Alabaster Sololiquy, oyakodon overdoser and patron of the fine arts.

Armstrong comes into Cerise's office-turned-war-room, interrupting your conversation.

"Here's trouble," Cerise says, smiling. She's getting used to being a candidate now, and is learning to return some of the energy Armstrong gives. But Armstrong isn't smiling -- he's solemn and low-key.

He sits down beside her. "Cerise," he says, "are you ready for a lecture?"

Cerise, realizing she's maybe in some deep shit or something, sort of shrugs.

"I've been around. I've been on both sides of a campaign before -- as staffer and candidate. Yours isn't even the first I've managed. So I know a thing or two. Cerise -- I think of the relationship between a candidate and their campaign manager as sort of like the relationship between someone on trial for a crime and their defense attorney. If you're on trial, you have to tell your lawyer everything -- you have to tell him exactly what you're guilty and not guilty of, so he isn't flying blind into a shitstorm when the truth inevitably surfaces. You have to trust your lawyer to uphold attorney-client privilege and to do what's best for you within the circumstances. That's exactly how it has to be between a candidate and their campaign manager, too."

Cerise nods.

"So with that little lecture in mind, I'm going to ask you a straightforward question that in turn demands a straightforward yes or no answer."

Cerise nods again.

"Did you suck your own brother's dick on a live broadcast webcam show?"

"I plead the fifth," Cerise says.

Armstrong rubs his forehead and sighs deeply. He takes his glasses off and uses a handkerchief to clean the lenses.

Cerise also sighs. "That's it, right? That's a campaign ender. I'm gonna have to withdraw before that goes public."

Armstrong, donning his specs again, unbelievably returns to his boisterous self. "No -- are you kidding me? You wouldn't be the first House rep to have a sex scandal under her belt. Not the first with a sextape, either. You wouldn't even be the first to have sucked her own brother's dick, believe it or not. But now listen up. Get these two words swirling around on your tongue like a fraternal foreskin. Fake news. Try them out until you feel comfortable saying it. Republican smear. Try it. Deep fake."

Cerise recoils a bit. "Wait -- which two words?"

"Doesn't matter. Mix 'em up. Mix and match. Use 'em interchangeably. The silver lining here is you were smart enough to wear a mask. And Alabaster never appears in-frame. So you can claim it's some other camwhore sucking some other camgigolo's dick. Uh, no offense."

"None taken," you say. Cerise scowls at you.

"You're gonna be okay," Armstrong says. "People are tired of blowjob scandals anyway. That's such a 90s thing."

"Well I don't particularly want people associating my name with 'sucks her own brother's dick' either," Cerise says.

Armstrong laughs. "Those are some big words for the woman who sucked her own brother's dick and then posted it on the internet."

"That wasn't me," Cerise says. "That's a deep fake news Republican smear."

"Attagirl." He pauses, and then: "Maybe just a tad less mixing and matching, but you've got the idea."

"I feel dirty," Cerise says. "Telling lies to dodge a scandal."

Armstrong throws his hands up. "This is what makes you feel dirty. Wow. Okay. But sucking your own--"

"Shut the fuck up."

Armstrong just laughs. "Get used to it," he says. "You're a politician now."

---

At lunch, you eat alone on the rooftop with Will. You've taken to coming up here rather than hanging out among the other students, whose whispers and pointed remarks are getting to you.

"How many Doritos can I fit in my mouth?" Will asks.

You've known him more than long enough by now that you don't even think of questioning what the fuck goes through his empty skull. You just shrug and take a guess: "20."

"You're on." He begins to shove them into his maw one by one. You count for him, because you know he'll forget.

When he finally sputters and chokes and sends orange bits of tortilla chip flying all over, you watch him bemusedly. He gropes for his nearby bottle of Fanta, and finding it, guzzles it down to clear his throat, but it hardly helps matters. He's making a right mess of himself.

"Fu-uhckh," he pants when finally he can breathe again. "I lost count. How many was that?"

"21."

"Told you."

"You sure did, Will. You sure did."

You pull out a cigarette and light it up. Will makes a face.

"Don't start," you tell him.

"You don't start. Fuck. Smoking is bad for your healthy."

"...My healthy?" You begin, but then shake your head, and decide to move on: "Hey. Wanna help me burn down the school?"

Will blinks.

"It's fine," you insist. The school burns down every other week. Perfectly normal."

"Amber, I'm really sorry about everything," he says. "I know you're, like, super sad and fucked up right now on account of getting your eye shot out. But--"

"I'm gonna drop out."

"...What?"

"I'm done with school." You stand up, dust off the seat of your shorts. "I'm not coming back."

"But what about me?" Will asks, gazing up at you.

"You'll be fine."

"I'm gonna fail out if I don't have your tests to copy off!"

"Then drop out too. Look. If you ever need any help, just ask. I'm rolling in dough now, so I could, I dunno... hire you on as a poolboy or something."

"Amber..."

"Don't give me that puppy dog shit, Will," you tell him. "I'm sick of it. I need to get out of here."

"I'm never gonna see you again, am I," Will says, gloomy.

"Probably not," you admit.

"Amber..." he's welling up. Just great. "I'm in love with y--"

"I know," you tell him. "That's why it's best if I get out of here. I'm gonna really hurt you if I stick around. I shouldn't have let you come to Vail. I shouldn't have dragged you out to the 280 the other night." You lift your eyepatch up, baring the grizzly sight of what's beneath, and hiss in pain. You quickly let the eyepatch fall back into place. "That could have been you. Or worse."

"I know that. Shit. You don't think I know that?"

"I'll see you around, Will."

You turn to leave, but then he's standing, and grabbing your wrist.

"I know you don't feel the same way," he says. "But don't go. Please? It would be so... so... so fucked up if you left now."

>[x] I'm sorry. I have to leave.
[ ] Be cool, stay in school.

You take his head in both hands and give him a gentle kiss on the lips. When you pull back, he looks like he's been visited by God, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost.

You lightly grasp his hand and hold it. "Goodbye, Will. Maybe I'll see you again. Happy trails."

He nods. "Don't be a stranger."

"Maybe I should be a stranger," you say. "Lose my name. Start going by an alias."

"What, like that terrorist everyone thinks you are?"

"Camelia's a nice name -- isn't it?"

He shakes his head and wipes his tears away with the back of his palm. "You'll always be Amber to me."

"Or rugmunch. Right?"

"Right."

You let go of his hand and step back. You share a long, lingering look, and then without anything more you turn, and leave the rooftop.

On your way through the halls for the last time ever, you pass a shocking sight inside one of the classrooms.

You wanted to leave right away, but this is too weird to pass up.

You poke your head into the room. Students are just coming back from lunch and getting settled in; and at the head of the class, sitting at the desk there, is a person you recognize. Boyd Stackleford.

"W... what are you doing here?" You ask him.

Stackleford startles when he sees you, glancing up from his PC. He hurriedly shuts a browser window -- you can't see what it was and maybe you don't want to know.

"A-amber! What the heck! You're not in my class, are you?"

"No, but I saw you, and... and, well... what?"

"I'm a teacher now," he says, proudly. He stands tall, hands on his hips.

You try to let this news sink in, but it refuses to.

"Triggernomertree," he adds. "And algebras."

"Oh," you say. "How -- did you swing that?"

"After I got fired from Darkbloom Analytics..." he pauses, steps up closer to you, lowers his voice. "No hard feelings about that. Tell Whitney no hard feelings, okay?"

"Uh huh."

"After I got fired, I moved back in with the parental units. They kept harping on me to get out of the house so I decided to come back to school here at Gilroy Tech. And then North High burned down, and the students all migrated here -- heheh, it's like some kinda... time looping... thing... you know? History repeating and that? So anyway some teachers ended up quitting, and they couldn't find anyone to fill the jobs... and..." he shakes his head. "Man, it is so easy to become a teacher in California! Best job I ever had."

You nod. There's a long silence. "I bet."

"All you have to do is promise you know math and stuff, then they check to make sure you're not a molester... and then you're pretty much in."

You glance to the disinterested students still getting settled at their desks and talking among themselves. Then to the whiteboard where he's scrawled his name for his students with an orange dry-erase marker: Stackleford-Sensei.

"So... do you actually know math and stuff?" You ask him.

He shrugs. "Guess I'll find out! This is only my second day."

"Ganbatte," you tell him, and mean it.

On your way back out the door, you pass some young girls coming in. They're gossiping among thesmelves:

"Mr. Stackleford is so hot!"

"Oh my god. But he's kinda weird, isn't he? With that headband and stuff..."

"Who cares? He's a fuckin' snack, I swear... I'd let him show me some anime at his place anytime..."

"You're awful!"

"Haha. But-- for real, though..."

You shake your head and gaze heavenward as you exit North High.

---

Whitney has both elbows propped on the conference room table, all eight of her fingertips rubbing her forehead. The emergency board meeting has kicked off to a spectacularly poor start. Ken, bolo tie and creme-colored dress shirt with blond rope trim and all, stands before the group with his thumbs looped in his belt.

"So the Japanese government--" Nelson begins

"Ayep. Well I reckon you'd rightly want to know my country is fixin to turn me traitor 'gainst y'all."

"We should have seen this coming," Armstrong says. "Japan is still trying to get at Sand Reckoner. Fucking A."

Rose nods at Rose2, who's sitting beside Whitney. This rouses Rose2 from her zoned-out reverie. She snaps to and grabs some paperwork from the table, gathers it up, then delivers it to Ken where he's standing at the other side of the room.

"What's all this?" Ken asks, looking at the sheaf of papers.

Rose2 points at various places on the forms: "Sign here, here, here, and here. Kudasai and arigato!"

"That's an affidavit covering everything you've just told us," says Saul, standing with arms folded behind where Rose is seated. "You'll get your severance package in whole, only if you sign it."

"--Severance..." Whitney says. She looks up at Saul. "We're not firing Ken. He's such a character--"

"We have to terminate him," Darkbloom intones. "Loyal employee or not, we cannot have people working for us if foreign governments are pressuring them for our secrets."

Whitney, aggravated, motions wildly with both hands at Qiangxiang, who has no reaction.

"I understand," Ken says sadly. He stoops over the mahogany table and begins to sign. "It was a pleasure workin for y'all."

Qiangxiang pipes up, causing Ken to stop signing. "May I speak?"

"Go fuck yourself," Whitney tells her.

Qiangxiang smiles at her. There's a long, awkward silence.

"Okay, now you may speak," Whitney finally says.

"Mr. Takagawa is loyal indeed. To us. He came to us with this information of his own free will and betrayed the country of his birth in doing so. I happen to know that Japanese intelligence is swarming with double agents who funnel things back to the politburo in Beijing. If we use Mr. Takagawa as our own double agent, any false information we supply him with would wind its way back to Beijing by way of Tokyo, and thereby hamper outside efforts to commandeer our technology. Just something to consider. What is the saying -- food for thought?"

You squint at her. "Why are you betraying your country so suddenly?"

"This is some sort of deception," Vivian says. "I do not like this. We must terminate Kenichi Takagawa at once."

"Why would I not betray them?" Qiangxiang insists. "I was never an emissary of the oafs who run my country. They are prying into the business of Broad Dynamics as certainly as they are prying into your own. They are our common foe."

"It could work," Nelson says. "We could feed him fraudulent project files to pass on to the Japanese." He glances Ken's way: "Would you be willing to do that for us?"

"I reckon I would. I don't truck with thievin and spyin, so they'd have it comin."

"Of course you support this," Armstrong gripes at Nelson. "You damn Wapanese idiot."

"Don't start," Nelson grumps. "I'm not even the biggest weeaboo in this room--"

"You're the only one who wants to fuck a Pokemon!" Armstrong hollers.

(Armstrong is being hyperbolic. Nelson has a fixation on the Japanese voice actress who plays Pikachu, and frequently waxes about how cute she is... in a little too much detail.)

"Just think about that voice in bed, though!" Nelson says, unable to resist litigating this age-old argument. Then: "...Shut up. We can't get off track here--"

Crosstalk and arguing engulfs the room now. Everyone is staking their case on whether or not it's a good idea to try and turn Ken into a saboteur. Saul yells at Nelson, Rose yells at Alex, Armstrong yells at Vivian, Darkbloom yells at you. Rose2, meanwhile, vociferously apologizes to Ken on behalf of everyone -- "Gomen! Gomen! Watashi is so gomenesai for all of this!" And Ken, perhaps evincing a nervous tic, whistles Dixie to himself, literally. About the only people in the room who are quiet are Gal and Qiangxiang.

Finally, Whitney brings order to things by taking out her gavel -- she's still gaveling board meetings in and out -- and banging it against the wall so hard that it pounds a hole in the drywall. The gavel gavel gavel of it shocks everyone silent. "Shut the fuck up!" She shrieks. She breathes hard for a few moments, chest heaving, and then finally finishes: "Animals. We'll take a vote. Jesus fuck."

She sits, smooths her blazer. "Keep Ken around and use him against the commies. Yea or nay. I vote yea."

"Yea," Qiangxiang says.

"Nay. Emphatically nay," Vivian says, and Darkbloom echoes her.

The vote snakes its way around the table. Nelson and Rose are also yeas; Armstrong and Alex are nays. The vote is tied 4-4, leaving Gal as the tiebreaker. All eyes turn to her. Her expression is almost impossible to read, as she stares mutely at the tabletop. The other board members begin to cajole her, vouching for the pros and cons of either side -- thinking that she's an easy vote to sway. But finally, looking up at Qiangxiang with big spectacled eyes, she cuts through all the yammering.

"Who are the spies in Tokyo?" Gal demands, voice as loud and firm as you've ever heard.

Even perpetually aloof Qiangxiang cannot conceal her surprise. "Pardon me? You want names?"

"Yes."

"I do not think it would be--"

Gal cuts her off, again. "As head of information security, I will directly handle Ken's subterfuge. Me -- just me. No one else. So I need the names of the people we want this information to get back to. You don't get your yea without that."

Qiangxiang leans back in her over-large chair, marveling at the young woman she had written off as a mere slavegirl. She considers her options. Then, she takes a pad and pen from the table, and begins to write.

[ ] Talk Gal out of turning Ken into a double agent.
>[x] Let it happen.

When she's done, Qiangxiang rips the page from the pad and slides it across the table. Gal folds it in half and stows it in her purse.

Gal looks up at Ken. "Go back to work. Don't do anything differently. And tell the Japanese that you want to work for them."

He nods.

"You'll still officially report to Chloe, but... I'll be your boss. And I'll be in touch."

"Aye," Ken says. He tips his hat. "I owe you a mighty big thanks." He glances at the affidavit still in his hands. "And... this?" He asks.

Gal motions for him to hand it to her. He does. She tears it up.

A few moments after Ken leaves, Gal stands and excuses herself to the bathroom. You excuse yourself to the bathroom, too -- but only to keep tabs on her. As you expected... from outside the executive suite's female bathroom, you can hear the echo-y noise of her vomiting.

Kay accosts you in the hallway.

"Did you choke your slave a little too hard this time?"

"Fuck you," you say. There's genuine anger in that, which Kay senses. "Sorry," she replies.

She jerks her head in the direction of her office, beckoning you to follow. So you do.

As you shut her door behind you, she takes a seat and says with a faux pout: "You were killing Russians without me? No fair."

Guy takes a bounding leap, gaining several times her height from the floor up onto Kay's desktop, walks across the papers there and licks at Kay's face. Laughing, Kay scoops her up, and plops the pup in her lap. She scruffs her behind the ears.

"How the fuck do you know everything?" You ask. "Do you have an implant too? Don't lie to me."

She smiles slyly. "No, Alabaster, I don't. I get my info the old fashioned way."

You wait for her to say what the old fashioned way is, but she doesn't have to. In now walks Alex -- and it all begins to click into place.

He walks up beside you, sets the crumb he took from Sable's grave on top of Kay's desktop. "Slight problem," he tells you. "I asked Kay for help... hope you don't mind."

You shrug.

"I don't know how the heck this thing is supposed to be installed. Or how it even works, honestly -- and Ms. Guiteau was a genius, but I want to vet her work before I put this thing inside myself... you understand. She wasn't... wholly sane... when she made this."

"She wasn't wholly sane ever," Kay says. "No offense."

Alex sighs. "It's okay. You're right."

Kay leans back in her seat. "Sable's van was at the site of that ugliness in Santa Cruz," she says. She means the warehouse where Sable and about 30 other people got gunned down by Mara's cronies. "The FBI has it now. If you think her project files are in it, then you'll have a tough time getting at them..."

"Can you?" Alex asks her.

"You know what?" Kay says. "Alabaster's right. I'm a thrill seeker. But I'm not suicidal. I'm sorry, but I can't break into evidence lockup at the San Fransisco FBI headquarters."

"I guess we're out of luck," Alex says.

"Not at all," Kay tells him. "There's a woman right outside this room who could get it done for us." She leans in, interlacing her fingers on her desktop. Guy whines at no longer getting lavished with head pats. "Hugh Thurston, the asshole who replaced Noelle at the FBI security checkpoint down at the front lobby? He and Noelle used to date. True story."

Your lips curl. "What? Seriously?"

"Are you jealous?" Kay says.

"I mean -- no -- of course not," you lie.

"Uh huh," Kay murmurs, unimpressed. "Well. Old Hugh was on the take. He was working for Tyrus Kang. That cast he's got on his foot? It's not from a hiking accident. Tyrus..." She swings an invisible bat and clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Whacked him real good, I hear."

"Get to the point," you tell her.

"Point is this," Kay says. "Tyrus is dead and the 421 Boyz are disbanded. Hugh is a free agent. With a little bit of Darkbloom money backed by a whiff of Noelle's honeypot pussy, he'd get that van for us. I'm sure of it."

You exhale, and shake your head emphatically no. "Noelle is not going to fuck that needle-dicked fucking f--" you begin.

"Oh, of course not," Kay laughs. "She's not exactly a hose-hound, trust me, I know. But Hugh doesn't. All she has to do is string him along a bit... just like she did with you, once upon a time." She winks. "You know she's good at it."

>[x] Talk with Noelle and ask her to help get Sable's project files out of FBI custody.
[ ] Too risky. Table using the implant for the time being.

You and Noelle hang out on a sort of rooftop-cum-patio, a little railed landing outside the third floor cafeteria with deck chairs and outdoor tables set up at sparse intervals, all loomed over by the rest of the campus's 16 stories.

She sips a latte, staring out at the quad. "She said I used to date him?"

"That was how she put it, yeah."

She huffs. "That fucking... oh, I am gonna make her pay." (You're interested to know how.) "Hugh and I dated one time. One time. And it was a disaster. I went home early by myself and jilled off and passed out."

"That sounds like a pretty typical night for you, huh?" You say. You feel a little bit better at hearing her thing with that jerk was never really a thing at all.

"More or less," she admits. She turns, and leans with her elbows against the railing. "You know, I used to fantasize about being able to lick my own pussy." You choke on nothing. Her voice goes wistful: "If I could do that... if I could just do that, I'd never need to worry about dating to begin with." She rubs the back of her neck like trying to massage a kink out. "Nearly broke my spine a few times as a teenager trying to do it... bad decisions all around."

"Don't give up on your dreams," you tell her.

"The way I left things with Hugh, I don't think he'd be ecstatic to go for another round. He might not be receptive to a date with a former colleague who ditched him and hopped into bed with the enemy."

"We really need those files," you say.

She nods. "I get it. I gotta take one for the team, huh?"

"If you pull it off... I'll ask Dr. Carte if she can take out some of your ribs. Then you could reach your pussy, right?"

She laughs. "No thanks. I don't need that anymore. Working for Whitney has its perks."

You want to give Gal her plaudits -- her performance at the board meeting was impressive, and you know it did a number on her delicate nerves. So a little bit before the end of the workday, you find your way down to her office, and enter. Maybe you should have knocked first.

Gal is stark naked, both heels kicked up on her crystal-littered desktop. Her hands are quite busy.

You once read a statistic that around 40% of the American workforce has masturbated at work. Here in the C-suite at Darkbloom Analytics, that number has got to be substantially higher.

When she sees you, she startles, making a truly cute squeak of fright. She falls backwards, chair and all, and collapses in a pile on the carpeted floor. Trembling, she gazes up at you.

"Sir..." she says, voice barely a whisper. "i... i didnt mean to..."

You had been planning to have a bit of fun with Rose2 after stopping by Gal's office. Rose2 stole your second helping of brownie right off your plate at lunchtime, and that's as good a pretense as any to make good on your suggestion to Mom of ganging up on her. But now, it seems like your slave is in dire need.

>[x] Stay with Gal. (Sub-option: [ ] She should be punished for doing something like this at work. / [x] She needs a helping hand, that's all.)
[ ] Leave her to it -- she needs to blow off some steam. Go find Mom and Rose2.
 
You help Gal to her feet, although she struggles under gravity nonetheless. Her slight body feels particularly thin and frail today after her stress-induced vomiting earlier. "Have you eaten?" You ask her.
 
She nods demurely at an empty plate next to her monitor; the smears of chocolate there leaving no doubt in your mind that Mom's been in here babying her once again. Good.
 
Holding her by a shoulder with one hand, the other creeping down her damp thigh, you feel the slick crevice of her pussy-hole. It's warm and inviting. "You've been bad, haven't you," you say.
 
She nods. "i'm sorry Sir... i couldn't help myself..."
 
"I thought you weren't supposed to play with this fuckdump of yours without mine or Cerise's permission."
 
"y-you're right... i was bad... i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry..." She clasps your hand, the one on her shoulder, and guides it towards her pale neck. "you -- you should punish me," she says.
 
You smile at her, warmly, which confuses her. She goes mute, and somehow seems even more frightened than if you had just continued with domming her as usual.
 
"You did well today," you tell her. You give her the gentlest squeeze around her throat, enough to make her gasp. "Sure, you might be a little naughty, playing with your fuckdump like that..." you stick a few fingers in her twat for effect, and slowly masturbate her hole while you apply tender pressure to her airway. "But beside that, you've been a good slave. A very good slave."
 
"h-have i..." she manages. "really...? th... thank you... thank you Sir... so much..."
 
"In fact," you say, feeling your heart swell with glad feelings, even as your cock begins to stiffen from choking and molesting her, "I think you deserve a reward."
 
Her eyes are big and blue and round as she stares dumbly back at you, both her tiny hands gripping your strong wrist against her neck.
 
"Just today," you say, "just this once... I'll do anything you want."
 
"a-- anything?"
 
"Is there anything special you want to try, slut? Ask now because I might change my mind."
 
She thinks for a long time. It's a struggle for her with the loving abuse you're heaping on the bitch. You lazily stir her cunt up with your invading fingers -- your hands are only averagely sized but her pussy is so tight that getting even two digits inside her is a struggle. So of course, you get three inside, and really stretch her hole out. Meanwhile you press down on either side of her neck, cutting off the blood flow to her brain, transforming her into a mush-faced moron. You vary the pressure at random, to keep her guessing and afraid. She stands there with her cunt leaking all over the fucking place, eyes closed, lost in the bliss of humiliation.
 
But finally she does choke out: "y-yes... there was something... something i've been curious of..."
 
You arch an eyebrow.
 
---
 
"whoa..." Gal breathes. She's utterly transfixed -- hypnotized. Alex, a pair of panties pulled down and hanging around both his ankles, and totally naked otherwise, is bent with his stomach over Gal's desk, his hard little cock leaking a trail of precum down the side of it. Gal is on her knees, right at eye level with Alex's bubble butt. She's corkscrewing three of her fingers in and out of his hole. Her other hand is keeping him spread open. Not that she needs the help, because Alex is submissively holding his ass open for her with both of his hands anyway.
 
As Gal's fingers work in and out of his rubbery little pussy, Alex bites his lower lip so hard you think he'll draw blood, and his eyes roll to the back of his skull. His loud breathing through his nostrils fills the otherwise quiet room. This is torture of the sweetest kind for him, and he loves it. His hole, as you're well aware, has only a token bit of resistance to it: just enough so that it's really fun to push past it. Gal can't get enough of it. She's been violating him for minutes on end. In and out, over and over. She's just utterly in love with the way his delicate little hole gives and expands for her, then closes back up when she pulls her fingers out -- then parts again when she forces them back in. She spreads the fingers wide -- then pinches them tight -- pulls them back so just the tip is in, then savagely plunges them down to the third knuckle. There's endless ways to abuse his cunt and she's going to try them all. This is a game she's wanted to try forever -- and she isn't going to tire of it anytime soon.
 
"it's just like cerise said..." she marvels. Alex whines, and a little squirt of precum leaks from his dickhead.
 
You walk around the desk and pull your trousers down. Gripping Alex by his hair, you guide his feminine lips to your crotch. He swallows you down unquestioningly. The wet tunnel of his gullet is such a nice, hot feeling around your horny prick... there may not be a better cocksucker anywhere in the world. It makes sense. He's a guy, so he knows what feels best on a cock, after all. You sigh in contentment as the slurping sound of his eager blowjob replaces his heavy breathing.
 
"Cerise is going to be jealous," you warn Gal.
 
"let her be," she replies. "this is my boypussy today..."
 
As you begin to hump Alex's face like it's a pussy, Gal pulls her fingers completely out of him. Her eyes are wide and bright and unblinking as she watches his anus seal up completely. Then, still staring at it -- Alex helpfully keeps himself spread open for her -- she puts her fingers in her mouth and sucks them. She obviously likes the taste; because when she's gotten her fill of that, she buries her face into his ass and starts to lick him out.
 
Alex was already choking and gagging pretty hard with the force of your irrumatio, but now with Gal's tongue working him over from the rear, he's really having a rough time. His face is turning bright red from the lack of oxygen. You know, between that and the delirious pleasure of being used, he's about to pass out. You don't really care, though. You'll both keep using him to get off either way.
 
Gal pulls away from him, gazing lustily up at you from where she's kneeling. She gulps. "you're so strong, sir... you're raping his throat..."
 
You laugh at her. "You're a sadistic bitch, huh?" You sneer. "You like seeing this cunt get raped?"
 
She nods enthusiastically. Then, never breaking eye contact with you, she starts to fingerfuck him again. She smiles mischievously at you. She drags the fingernails of her other hand up and down the sensitive underside his cock, gently -- but that's enough to make him gasp. With your massive cock buried down his throat, Alex's gasping just provides a little extra vibration to pleasure you. It's sexual agony for him, all just to make your cock feel a little better as it pistons inside his mouth. You grit your teeth and relish it.
 
"will you cum inside me today Sir" Gal asks.
 
You keep fucking Alex's mouth. "I thought you wanted it to be just like all that trap hentai Cerise hooked you on. You don't want me to cum inside Alex?"
 
She shakes her head. "i'm a greedy slut Sir... i want your cum in my slave pussy... please, Sir..."
 
Gal knows how to manipulate you, sure as anything. You pull out of Alex's throat. The spittle and mucus bridge your wet, shiny cock to his wet, shiny face. He comes back from the edge of unconsciousness, shuddering and swallowing down precious air. He stares cross-eyed at your twitchy dick. "Oh my god," he heaves, dazed, "itsh too good... pleashe... shtop..."
 
She's not going to stop, and you're not going to stop her. You grab your dick by its root and slap his face with it a couple times, leaving welts behind, so he doesn't forget his place. He purses his lips into an O and tries to catch it -- he's so desperate to suck you off -- but your load is destined for Gal's pretty little pussy this time.
 
You get down on the floor behind her. On your knees, you hold her about her little tummy and haul her back, into your lap -- she makes a pip at the roughness of it. "S-Sir...?"
 
You nuzzle her neck and rock back and forth a bit, finding her opening with your dick. As the spongy head finds that sticky, slutty hole of hers and forces it open, she swoons with erotic pleasure. You lavish her with kisses to her face and neck as you penetrate her. But you don't want Alex to feel left out, do you? You sink your cock into Gal's horny pussy at the same time as you get your palm against the back of her head and press her mouth back down towards Alex's asshole. She gets the picture. She starts to lick again, and as reward for her obedience, you fuck her.
 
But not only that. Once you've established a nice, hard, brutal pace inside her squelchy insides, you get a hand wrapped around her throat again, and begin to squeeze.
 
"Shhhirrrr," she slurs, voice muffled by Alex's ass.
 
"Shut up," you snarl. "Take my fucking cock."
 
You choke her as hard as you ever have while she rims Alex. The wet mess she's making inside him begins to seep out, and soon her face is as much of a wreck as his still is. Her makeup is running down her cheeks in clumps and her glasses are all askew. Her hair is matted.
 
The tightness of Gal's pussy is almost painful as you slam-fuck her. And she only gets tighter the more you choke her out. With Alex's girly moans and groans of pleasure as background noise, you can't help yourself -- you blow your nuts. The semen boils up and spews out in a thick, powerful series of bursts deep inside Gal's vice-like cum-hole. There's really no better feeling than letting go of all inhibition and cumming raw inside a girl's cunt. You don't give a shit if she still wants it. You don't give a shit if she gets pregnant. You don't give a shit if anyone walks in on you. She's there to cum in, so that's what you're going to do. You close your eyes and just enjoy it: the pleasure of cumming inside.
 
As you slowly withdraw your still erect and still oozing cock from her, she slumps forward -- knocked out cold. Her mouth is still pressed to Alex's asshole. You have no idea how long she's been out, since you got lost in your own selfish enjoyment. You tug her back by her hair and give her a couple sharp slaps to rouse her. Alex, meanwhile, impatiently fingers his own asshole while he watches you over his shoulder.
 
Every time you slap Gal, little specks of spittle go flying and her face turns redder. You're beginning to worry a bit. But finally her eyes flutter open and she gasps herself conscious again. She sounds drunk as, still fucked-up from the choking, she says: "Shhhirr...? Didjou cum inshiiide...?" Her unfocused eyes find your cum-slick cock, and then drift downwards, to her messy pussy. "Ohhh... yuu did..." she rubs her tummy, smiles stupidly. "Sho warm inshide... thankh yuu..."
 
You let her suck the rest of the cum from your piss slit while her brain slowly comes back to life. Even after nearly suffocating, she wants to suck you. She has that in common with Alex: just a couple of cocksluts who would do anything as long as it means getting your dick inside them.
 
A few minutes later, she's a little more alert. You nod at the slimy white present you left leaking out of her bright pink pussy. "Who's gonna clean that up?" You ask.
 
She grins pervertedly. She stands, wobbling only a little, and cups her hand between her legs from behind to keep your load inside her. She waddles around the desk to face Alex directly. His scared eyes follow her every move. She leers down at him.
 
He's distracted -- but not for long. You grab him cruelly, and flip him onto his back on the desk.
 
"Ally--!" He sputters.
 
That's about all he gets out, before Gal pulls her hand away from her pussy. It's coated with jizz. She rubs it all over his face and mashes it into his skin. He tightly closes his eyes, and scrunches up his features, humiliated and degraded. But she isn't done, not by a long shot. She quickly climbs onto the desk and straddles him, her thin but fleshy thighs squeezing his ears. With your sperm dripping out of her in thick gobs, she begins to rub her pussy back and forth. She's facefucking him -- using him as cumrag. Her sloppy pussy slaps and squishes against him.
 
It's a sight that makes you even hornier than ever. You yank Alex's pretty little panties off and toss them. Spreading his legs wide open, holding him by either ankle, you fuck your cock into him without mercy. He's wet enough from Gal's rimjob that his body accepts you without any problem. If what you did to Gal just now was a slam-fuck, this is enough to register on a seismograph. You rail Alex like he's a cheap toy, not a human being. It's what Gal wants to see; a perverted fantasy of hers instilled by Cerise's bad influence. As Gal rides him, she watches on with pure love in her eyes. It's more beautiful than she ever would have imagined. Alex shudders beneath the two of you as you rape him. That's what this is, no two ways about it. You and Gal are raping this defenseless trap, just as she wanted.
 
She knows it, too. She rubs your chest with both hands and says: "you're really fucking him up, Sir..."
 
"I am," you grunt.
 
"fuck him up even harder."
 
That does it. You roar in ecstasy and dump a second, even bigger load of searing hot jizz into Alex's onahole ass. Gal, leaning over Alex's body to reach your face, kisses you deeply. "thank you Sir..." she says, voice dreamy. "thank you..."
 
When you pull out of Alex, and Gal stands up, he's stained white on both ends. His entire face is nearly concealed by a thick coating of sperm and girl-cum, his boypussy is loose and oozing your load -- and his taut little belly has a puddle of his own cum swimming on top of it. Getting fucked up the ass always makes him lose his sperm, too.
 
Gal gets back down on her knees -- her favorite position. Underneath Alex, your sperm rains down on top of her; she catches it lewdly with her open mouth. Following it up, she rises to her haunches, and gets her lips wrapped around Alex's anus again, to suck your cum directly out of him.
 
"hey..." she says after a moment, glancing back at you. "cerise really will be jealous, huh?"
 
"Oh, definitely."
 
"hmmm," she hums. Then: "do you want to go get her, Sir?"

---

Using a Q-tip, Renee swabs the hole where your eyeball used to be. A second little wad of cotton covers the glowing grain in your tear duct so that the pain is kept to a minimum. You sit patiently across from her in the Nail House's seldom-used study (Whitney Darkbloom sure as fuck isn't reading any of the books in here, after all.) When Renee's done with disinfecting the wound, her daily chore, she takes out a small flashlight and clicks it on. Holding it like a psycho killer with a butcher's knife (do you have PTSD or something?), she scans the beam around inside the hole, looking intently at the remains of your orbital.

It fucking hurts, but you grin and bear it.

"No signs of infection," she murmurs. "I think you're out of the woods. You're a very lucky girl, Amber."

"This is so weird," you say. "It's like... I can see the light you're shining... but not really. Is there such a thing as a phantom pain but for eyeballs?"

Renee clicks the beam off and puts the flashlight in her labcoat pocket. "Your ocular nerve isn't dead. You might have some residual sensitivity to light because of that. Probably the implant you've got is keeping it responsive to stimuli." She folds her arms. "You'd be a good candidate for an eye implant. In the more traditional sense, that is. A prosthetic retina that could at least partially restore your vision. 50, 60 percent or better. You'd be putt-putt ready in no time."

You laugh. "What about my evil eye? Would I have to get rid of it?"

"No reason you couldn't keep both, if you--" Renee starts. She cuts herself off as David "fucking" Darkbloom enters the study, hangdog expression on his face. She looks up at him.

"Whitney is upset, as expected," he announces.

Renee frowns with one half of her mouth. "I'm not sure what about, but I'm going to guess that I'm on her side, whatever it is."

"She wanted me to settle with her biological grandfather... she's worried that waiting him out will backfire."

"It could," Renee says. "See? Told you I'm on her side."

Darkbloom shakes his head, but drops the subject. He looks over at you. "I wanted to thank you, Amber," he says softly. "You saved Whitney and Vivian both."

You give him the OK sign. But can't resist adding: "Didn't do it for you, though."

"I know," he says. "Thank you regardless." He glances this way and that, then: "How goes your recuperation?"

"I was just talking with her about her options," Renee tells him. "The structure of her optical nerve is still intact and vital. We could go for a bionic eye."

Shrugging, you say noncommittally: "I kinda like the pirate aesthetic. It feels natural. Like I'm meant to be this way. I'm Camelia, right?"

"You're not Camelia," Renee says.

"Pfft," you say. "Don't lie to the poor girl."

"I'm not lying. And don't speak of yourself in the third person. You're Amber Catachresis. Don't let the weirdness of the past define how you carry yourself in the future. Trust me, it's not a good path."

"Gee, thanks, Mom."

She smiles. "So -- maybe the more important question. A bionic eye can wait, but are we pulling that other thing out of you or not?"

Darkbloom, sitting down in a nearby lounger, speaks up: "Now hold on. Why are we even questioning this? It would be for the best--"

"We're not pulling it out," you say definitively. "And don't make yourself at home here, fucker."

Darkbloom harumphs in his prissy way. "Every time you use it, you hurt my daughter," he says. "I should know. I've been through that pain myself. I've experienced how unbearable it is."

"And whose fault is that?" You sneer.

Darkbloom ignores that. "I told you how thankful I am for what you did on the freeway, Amber, and that's true. But prolonged use of your implant is going to do lasting damage. That action movie stunting of yours gave poor Vivian a nosebleed so severe she lost consciousness. She's still in pain, days later. Another episode like that would endanger her well-being. You said in Vail that you love her. Is this how you treat the people you love?"

"She wants me to keep it too," you say.

"She doesn't know what's best for her!" Darkbloom shouts.

"There it is," Renee says bitterly. "David, maybe you should go. Amber's had a long night as it is. You can argue your case some other time... I just know you will."

On his way out of the Nail House, he passes some men in denim uniforms bringing in boxes. "What's all this?" He asks, standing awkwardly in the foyer as the men pass him by.

"It's the move-in extravaganza," you say. "Doc finally decided to come live with us. Vivian, too -- she'll be on her way later."

"Is that true?" He asks Renee. She nods.

"Ridiculous..." he mutters, obviously angered.

You shrug theatrically. "If you have a problem, feel free to leave an anonymous comment in our suggestion box," you tell him. "Your feedback is important to us."

"You know--" he begins, raising an index finger in Renee's direction. "I expect Whitney to act rashly. And Vivian is still immature. But you -- you surprise me, Renee. You know as well as I that the most sensible thing would be to take the implants out of Vivian and Amber so they have some chance at a normal life again."

"Maybe you're right," Renee says. "But I can't force them. That's what you never did learn, isn't it? You can't just force people to bend to your view of things." She takes out a cigarette and lights it up. Daddy's gonna be mad if he catches her smoking inside. You sort of hope he does, because the fireworks would be interesting. "But be honest," Renee continues, "this isn't really about the implants right now, is it? You're just upset that I'm moving under the same roof as Alabaster Soliloquy."

"That is so far from the point," Darkbloom insists. "You've made it more than clear that I can't stop you from hopping into bed with a boy young enough to be your son."

"Oh, I should punch you in the goddamn face for that," Renee says. "You monstrous fucking hypocrite."

"This is about more than just your sexual flings. This is about what's best for all of us--"

"OK boomer," you tell him.

Darkbloom does a double take, and then fixes you in his bewildered gaze. "...What? Boomer? As in baby boomer?"

"Uh huh."

"I am not a goddamn baby boomer," Darkbloom hollers. "You impudent, ignorant little girl. I cannot -- see, Renee? This is what I'm talking about. Leaving a girl like Amber with access to even a fraction of Sand Reckoner's power is a terrible mistake. We need to see things clearly, and rationally -- to be adults about it -- because no one else--"

"OK boomer," you tell him.

He pounds a fist against the wall, hard enough that you feel a slight tremor reverberate, and then storms out the front door, pushing past a hapless mover.

"I don't think he liked that," Renee tells you with a wry puff of her cig.

"Nope," you agree. Then: "Hey, could I steal a drag?"

"Not a chance in hell," Renee says, snuffing the cigarette between her fingers -- fuck, she must have learned that habit in prison -- and putting it back in the pack. "Smoking is bad for you."

"Why the fuck does everyone think I don't know that!" You shout, but Renee is already on her way back to the study. Bitch...

You're sitting on the couch in the living room, wearing almost nothing, and smoking, when Daddy gets home. Hey, if Renee is bold enough to smoke indoors, why not you?

He's arguing with Rose2 about something or another, which is pretty normal -- you'd be more worried if they weren't bickering. Noelle is tagging along for the fun and games. The argument seems to be about the best strategy to honeypot that FBI pig they want to get Unstable Sable's notes from.

As absorbed as he is in the argument, he still notices the cigarette between your lips. He stops on his way past the living room to point at you threateningly. "Put that out," he says.

"Make me," you say.

"Leave her alone," Rose2 tells him, "it's not important right now."

It seems like whenever one is mad at you, the other is more forgiving.

"Fuck you, Rose. It's so important. She shouldn't be smoking inside. She shouldn't be smoking at all."

"Blame Doc," you tell him. "She's a bad influence. She did it too."

"Renee's already here?" Noelle asks.

"She was smoking inside?" Daddy sputters.

"Gee, I dunno~" You say, playing dumb.

"I'll deal with you later," he grouses, stomping off. Noelle and Rose2 follow. You put out the cigarette.

Mom and Rose get back soon after, with Whitney in tow. Whitney is begging Mom for homemade fudge ice cream, which Mom complains she's too tired to make.

"But I haven't eaten all day and I'm so fucking hungry!" Whitney insists.

"I'm not your personal slave, missy," Mom barks as she hangs her purse on the rack. "Get your own ice cream. I need to rest."

"But it would be suuu-uuuper oishii," Rose insists. "And we'd be, like, totally thankful, desu!"

"We speak English, dear," Mom tells her, sighing. "How many times do I have to remind you..."

You wave at them as they pass.

It's a relatively quiet night, something you could use after all the craziness recently. And you're kind of in the mood to get fucked.

>[x] Go bug Daddy to pay attention to you.
[ ] Wait for Vivian and give her an official welcome to the Nail House.
>[x] Something else? (Cuddle with Mom)

When you checked up on Daddy via your evil eye the other night, you got an eyeful, all right: you found out that the relationship between him and Mom is anything but wholesome. More like holesome. You weren't surprised -- after all, he fucks his sisters, and his cousin-slash-stepmom, and he's married to his cousin-once-removed for pete's sake. And his cock always gets extra big and hard and red and angry when you call him Daddy. What's a little extra incest on top of all that?

You saw Mom in a new light that night. Would you really fuck her? Oh yeah. She's got a nice fat ass, and she's fun to bully: you've learned both these facts well. Why not join in on the fun? You're horny enough... and that kind of degeneracy gets your cunt wet, too. Maybe it runs in the family.

Mom is sitting on her bed, reading a book, when you go into her room. She hasn't gotten undressed at all, save for taking off her shoes at the front door, and she has her legs curled up under her butt.

"Amber," she says warmly as you saunter up and sit down on the bed. She sets the book aside. "How was your day?"

"I dropped out."

She shakes her head. "Why are you always so sarcastic? ... And is that cigarette smoke I smell? Have you been smoking again, young lady?"

"Don't tease me, Mom," you complain. "I'm still sad about my eye and all... isn't it natural for me to act out?"

She hugs you close to her bosom. You've still got it, Amber Catachresis, you know how to manipulate your mother. You hug her back and nuzzle her sweater puppies. She smells really good. That perfume she uses has always been a favorite of yours, too... you should try it out yourself one of these days.

"It's a nasty habit," Mom tells you. She kisses you on the crown of your head. "You don't want to wind up like that Renee tramp who's coming to live here, do you? Smelling like cigarettes and cheap whiskey all the time?"

You shrug. The two of you stay there like that for a while, half-lying, half-sitting in bed, hugging. It's a perfectly Hallmark mother-daughter moment. Of course what's not Hallmark about it is the wet spot spreading in the crotch of your striped panties. With your legs curled up like this, Mom can't see -- but she'll be sure to notice it the moment you get up. That's your plan, though. 

You gaze up into her eyes. "Long day?" You ask her.

"Always," she says. "I work my butt off every day for all these people and how do they thank me? Asking me to work even *more*, the very second I get home! It's absurd!"

"Well I'm thankful for ya," you say with a cheeky grin. A beat passes, then you ask her: "need a massage?"

"Well, I am really sore," she admits. "If you're offering -- at least one of my children is grateful."

She uses her toes to kick off her socks, first one and then the other. Guess she wants you to focus on her feet first -- fine by you. You release your grip on her soft midsection and crawl across the bed on hands and knees, down by where her legs are. This position puts your butt pretty prominently in the air, impossible for her to ignore. It's a sight that has seduced more than one person in the past, the peach-shaped curve of your ass and thighs, the way the cotton clings to the folds of your little pussy, the way the dampness stains the garment darkly. Now let's see if it's powerful enough to seduce your own mother.

"Amber..." she whispers, and then her breath catches, as you wrap your fingers around the arch of her right foot. You're not surprised at all: it's as pliable as the rest of her body. No wonder she's so good at making desserts. It's like she's filled with jelly. 

As you slowly begin to massage her feet, you shake your butt back and forth. Only a little, and not very fast, as if you're doing it absentmindedly -- swaying it side to side like a hypnotist's pendulum. You know it's having the effect you want. You can feel her eyes staring at your ass, and you just know she must be thinking some very unmotherly thoughts. She's mentally undressing you... what a perverted woman.

"The truth is," you say softly, and brush your fingers across the sole of her foot in a way that makes her jerk back, "I wanted to talk to you about something really important. Well... you and Alabaster... do you mind if I get him?"

You look back at her. Her face is a deep crimson and she's chewing her lip. "I... well, I'm very tired... maybe I should take a nap first..."

Yep. You're making her wet, all right. 

You run a hand up her calf, and further north, towards her thigh, never breaking eye contact. "I think you'll want to hear this," you tell her. "Why don't you get comfy, huh?"

"C-comfy...?"

You use both hands to reach out and unclasp the brass button of her jeans. Like dough suddenly expanding, her waist and tummy break free of their tight denim confines. That must be such a relief. You know, because despite herself, she sighs contentedly.

"Did you know I'm sleeping with Alabaster?" You suddenly ask her.

Her eyes widen. "W-what? You-- no..."

"I sleep in his bed most nights." You let that one sink in, then the coup de grace: "He fucks me, too."

"Amber..." she breathes. "But... you're like siblings... and you're underage... that's..."

You bat your eyelashes. "You don't approve?" She shakes her head. "You don't approve of Alabaster putting his cock in me? Cumming inside me? But you like it so much when he does it with Cerise, don't you?"

She's breathing heavy, as you run a hand under the thick wool of her sweater and poke her soft belly. Guess that's why they're called sweaters -- she's really sweaty under there.

"When he fucks me... I like to call him Daddy."

Mom takes a shuddering inhalation, and moans.

"I'll go get him," you tell her.

---

You follow the sound of Amber's shouted "Daddy!" back to its source. What a stupid girl, calling you that so loudly. She's getting out of hand lately... you need to reel her back in.

You're mortified to discover that she's standing at the entrance to Mom's room -- and that Mom is in there, lying on the bed. "What's gotten into you?" You hiss at her. She tugs you by the wrist, past the threshold, and shuts the door. 

Mom looks exhausted and agitated, disheveled. "Has she been bugging you?" You ask her. 

"S-sort of," Mom says.

"Sit! Sit!" Amber insists, pushing you towards the bed. Just to shut her up, you sit.

"I'll get her out of your hair," you tell Mom. "I needed to talk to her anyway." You look at Amber angrily: "Someone's been smoking inside."

"Uh huh," Amber agrees. She circles around to the other side of the bed, and then: she jumps. She takes a running jump, and belly flops, landing right across your lap. The globes of her tight ass jiggle from the momentum of it, barely covered by her underwear, and you can't help staring, even as you let out a surprised grunt. 

Mom is leaning forward now, on her balled-up fists, watching. "Alabaster..." she says. "Is it... are you really--"

"I dropped out of school, too!" Amber tells you. 

"What?" You and Mom demand at the same time.

"It's true!" She looks at you over her shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. "I thought you should both know it. I've been reee-eeeally bad, huh." She begins to hump herself up and down on your knees, which sets her ass to jiggling again. "Spank me," she says. "Spank me! Spank me!"

Mom is beside herself with conflicting emotions. You don't know what to say to her, or how to explain this bratty behavior she's seeing from her daughter. She watches on, helpless. "Amber," she says, "--what on Earth -- why are you--" 

"Spank me, Daddy! Spank me!"

Finally, you snap. You shut her up by wrapping a hand tightly over her mouth. Her body, across your lap, goes stiff. You raise your flattened palm high over your head and bring it down against her little ass as hard you can. She asked for it. The smack resonates through the cozy bedroom, and you just know she really felt that one. The gasp she makes, almost totally muted by your hand covering her lips, sends a couple drops of spittle flying out from between your fingers. Her ass, the portion of it you can see under the wet fabric of her panties, is already turning color.

"Are you really... having sex with her...?" Mom asks you.

Amber begins to try and get up, attempting to raise herself off your lap. This draws your attention away from Mom, and back at her. Roughly, you force her down again. You take your hand to her a second time, even harder than the first -- you spank her red and raw. Her small but plump legs go rigid, and kick, and she screams bloody murder into the muzzle of your palm. 

When you let go of her mouth, she yells painfully: "Okay! Okay! That's enough! I learned my lesson!" 

You grab the waistband of her panties and yank, baring her ass. Her hairless underage pussy is visible, and her tight asshole, too. 

"Wait--!" Amber pleads. "Not that!"

Too late. You unleash a savage barrage of spanks. You beat her with your open palm, both sides of her naked butt. And also the insides of her thighs, and the backs of her thighs, and even her wet cunt. You spank her bare wet cunt as hard as the rest of her. You beat her brutally, filling the room with meaty slapping noises, until her lower half is as red as a tomato. Then you keep beating her some more. So she wanted some punishment in her life? You're gonna give it to her. She cries out with every blow, but her pussy creams up more and more. Mom watches wordlessly, neither encouraging it nor trying to make you stop.

Your cock is really fucking hard by this point, and your lizard brain has taken control. Grunting, you reach down and unzip your fly and let your cock spring free. It juts up from your lap at full attention and rests against Amber's side. The red cockhead is peeking up, oozing precum, in plain view of Mom. The pressure of Amber's weight pressing against the sensitive underside of it is a nice tease. 

"That's enough..." Amber pants. "Please... I get it, okay... please, Daddy--"

You use both hands to pry the cheeks of her ass apart and gaze down at the lovely pale pucker of her anus. Gal's cruelty earlier has rubbed off on you, clearly: you press a couple fingers together and jab them into her rear hole. You go in dry, and have no mercy on her.

"Ow!" Amber yells. "Ow, ow! It hurts!"

Mom leans in and takes Amber's face in her hands. Amber looks up at her forlornly. "Make him stop..." she snivels, pitiful and whiny.

Gently, Mom tells her: "I'm sorry, honey. You need to learn your lesson."

That's full permission to keep going. You continue to molest Amber's asshole, and you add the fingers of your other hand to her sore cunt. The Daddy she so wanted to spank her, now is taking full liberty of both her lower orifices, viciously toying with them even as they still sting from the abuse of the spanking.

Amber, defeated, slumps her shoulders. Mom pets the top of her head like she's a puppy. Then, reaching over her back, she tickles your cockhead with her dainty fingers. 

"You really are having sex with her..." she says. Her voice is husky, turned-on.

You nod. "How could I not... when she comes after me like this... she's just begging to get fucked, all the time..."

She strokes your cheek now. "It's fine, dear, I understand. Amber turned out to be a slut... it's not your fault."

"Sorry she annoyed you so much," you say, "I'll get her out of here -- take her back to my room. I need to keep punishing her."

Mom smiles. "Why would you go through all that trouble?"

Even as you continue to mash your fingers in and out of Amber's soft, flexible fuckholes, you raise an eyebrow at Mom.

"Don't waste your energy," she says. "You can fuck her right here, if you want... fuck her in my bed, honey."

A little dribble of slime squirts from the head of your prick.

You dump Amber onto her stomach on the bed. As you climb after her, walking on your knees, Mom gets behind you. She rests her chin on your shoulder and undoes your pants, and helps you get out of them. Then she helps you out of your boxers too, taking a moment to tug on your meaty dick from behind -- both her soft hands wrapped around your shaft, coaxing out a little more precum in the process. Getting you even harder to fuck her daughter.

She doesn't stop there. She circles Amber now, straddles her back, and wraps her hands around your hips. She tugs you forward and gets her lips around you dick. There's something almost impossibly sexy about Mom's blowjob face. The way it makes her features contort and elongate as she sucks on you, staring into your eyes the whole time. She's an expert at it. She can get your meat all the way to the back of her velvety throat without gagging. You feel her uvula tickle you and her gullet undulating as she swallows around you. It's a technique almost as good as Whitney's. She kneads your balls with one hand, as if to stir up the cum inside and get it primed to go. If she doesn't stop soon, you know you'll blow your load in her mouth... which she realizes too, because reluctantly, she pulls off of you.

She cranes her neck down, and spreads Amber's ass, fingernails pressing hard against the tenderized flesh. She slackens her jaw and lets a long, slow stream of her saliva, mixed up with your precum, ooze down onto Amber's asshole. With a couple fingers, she rubs it all in. She isn't gentle about it.

You spread Amber's legs a bit wider using your knees, get over top of her. You grip your cock to hold it steady and mount her. 

"Daddy-- wait--!!"

You don't wait. You plunge in, and fuck your dick up into her soft, hot ass. "Fuck," you pant, unable to contain your enjoyment at seating yourself inside this hole of hers. The dirtiness of doing this right in front of your mother only makes it all the better. You hump Amber's ass so hard the bed thuds against the floor with every thrust, and take your pleasure from her lithe body. She buries her face into the bedsheets, biting them, her hands gripping them tightly. 

Mom hurriedly kicks off her clothes -- sweater, bra, jeans and panties. She gets fully nude, and you can see how wet her pussy has gotten from watching you rape her daughter. The hair above her cunt is matted down with her arousal and her pussy lips are bloomed open, dripping. She sits back, propped on a pillow, and spreads her legs on either side of Amber's face. When Amber looks up, she has a faceful of Mom's horny cunt. 

"You didn't finish your massage..." Mom says, voice smoky. "I need a massage here, too... use your mouth..." She points at her mommyhole.

Amber is in no position to say no. As you assfuck her, she nestles her face in Mom's crotch and obediently begins to lick. All the fight is gone from her. She breathes deeply of Mom's scent, nose against Mom's clit, and licks her out. With the two of you working her over from both sides, it's not long before you're both cumming. You cum all over the little bitch -- Mom squirting her cum across Amber's head as she rubs her own clit to help herself along; you pumping a nice hot load into her bowels. Her ass flutters and clamps around you, and you hear her muffled cries of "Daddy--!!" being shouted right into your mother's orgasming pussy. Amber's own cute little pussy is getting the bed wet, too. She's cumming herself stupid from her punishment. Maybe this was the wrong way to teach her?

Mom doesn't seem to care, anyway. She's holding Amber's ears and rubbing herself against Amber's face like a bitch on heat. So you don't care, either. You smile and keep fucking in and out of Amber's cummy, slutty little asshole. Since you and Mom took your edge off by using Amber as cum-toilet once, you're both a bit gentler for round 2. But only just a bit.

You leave Amber cuddled up in Mom's arms. Mom lovingly pets and soothes her as she sniffles away the pain.

"Sorry if that was a bit rough, dear..." Mom whispers. "But you were really asking for it."

Amber wipes her nose with the back of her palm and smiles weakly.

"I liked it..." she murmurs.

---

"While you were fucking your Mom, we were getting things done," Rose tells you. She shows you Noelle's phone.

You sit down on the living room couch and read the text messages, growing angrier by the second. (https://i.imgur.com/I1i3W23.png) You can't tell what's worse: the sleazy way this guy talks to Noelle or the fact that he doesn't know how to spell the word "tenterhooks." And then:

"Oh, Jesus," you groan. "Do you seriously have to take him to the Rutabaga Cafe?"

Noelle giggles. "You have so much paranoia about that place. Look, just because bad things happened there once, it doesn't mean they're bound to happen there again. That's a logical fallacy."

"That place is cursed. It's literally cursed." You massage the bridge of your nose. "And another thing. Why do you have to be so... so..."

"So what?" Noelle asks, smiling.

"Nevermind."

"Jealousy isn't attractive," she warns you. "And if that makes you jealous, you're really gonna hate this..."

Standing before you, she takes the phone with one hand, and with the thumb of her other hand she pulls the waistband of her pants out. She opens the camera app and snaps a photo of her panty-covered crotch.

"Noelle--" you begin.

"It's part of the game," she says. "He'll do anything I say after this. Isn't this what you asked for?"

"Don't you dare--"

She sends it. You can feel your blood boiling.

Noelle pockets her phone, reaches out, gently parts the hair on your forehead. "Don't be like that, Alabaster. You're so jealous, even though you know I'm not even going to get within 10 feet of his dick."

"It's not about that," you begin, setting your jaw.

"If it'll make you feel better..." She says. She leans in and coos in your ear, her breath hot: "...after this is all over and we have what we want, you can fill me up, down there, and take a picture... that way he gets both the before-and-after..."

You feel yourself flush. 

---

"Sorry for the wait. We're really shorthanded. We've had a lot of people quitting on us recently..."

The baristas and waitstaff at the Rutabaga Cafe are jumpy and easily spooked. Every time the bell over the door dings, they flinch. The one serving you your coffee looks like she hasn't slept in about five days.

You thank her, and she scuttles off.

When you see, through the front windows, Hugh approaching down the sidewalk, you put on your baseball cap and sunglasses, fold your arms on top of the small circular table, and lay your head down.

Noelle, at a table not far away, greets him enthusiastically, with twin cheek pecks and warm small talk.

And about half an hour later, he's still gabbing. A real chatty Cathy, Hugh is. "Yeah, here's the pass where I cracked my heelbone... this trail is suuuper treacherous, double black diamond. That means biking on it is pretty tough."

"I know what a double black diamond means--"

"--Oh and look, here's the grizzly I saw out there -- didn't wanna get too much closer, haha... but they're really majestic creatures, you know-- and-- oh, oops, that's a picture of me at the gym, ignore that--"

"Hugh, I'd love to stick around, but I'm really in a rush here."

Thank god, you think.

"Oh... yeah, of course. You're busy working for supervillains now and all."

"I'm sorry. It's been great to catch up, trust me. But Whitney's really riding me, and not in the fun way... did you make any progress... on that thing we talked about?"

You can feel your heartbeat in your throat.

"Yeah, sorry, Noelle. I didn't."

Fuck.

"The thing is," he says, "they're keeping those notes under tight watch. And I'd be risking a ton to get them out for you..."

"Cut the shit. I've got the full faith and credit of Darkbloom Analytics behind me here. What's it gonna take?"

"The faith and credit of DBA isn't worth much these days, sweetie. It might take a little extra on top of that... you know?"

Their conversation goes a bit lower, and over the din of the other patrons, you can't make it out. You feel like you're about to crawl out of your skin here.

It feels like eternities have passed, when there's a gentle tap on your shoulder. You look up to see Noelle sitting across from you, a straw in her mouth, the other end of it pointing at you. She uses her lips to wag it up and down, puckishly. "Your love rival is gone," she tells you.

"What does he want?"

"He wants to NTR you. Just like your Mongolian puppet shows."

You grimace at her.

"Your stepdad has a court date on the 21st," Noelle says. "Still fighting to get the FBI uprooted from your front lobby. Hugh is gonna be in court that day too... delivering some documents... so it's a perfect time to pull a little extra something-something out of evidence and drop it off, without raising too many eyebrows."

"What does he want?"

"I told you what he wants. He wants to fuck me. Oh, and a million dollars."

"He's not getting that," you say. "Neither of those things."

She smirks. "I can pass him funny money, but I can't pass him funny pussy." She cups her hands around her crotch. "What should I do? Stuff a fleshlight in my zipper and hope he doesn't notice?"

"Will you stop?"

"Today's your lucky day, Alabaster," she says. "He's going to give us Sable's notes before we deliver on our half of the bargain. Gullible asshole."

"How... did you convince him to do that?"

She winks. "Do you really want to know?"

"Noelle--"

"I used my very skilled mouth to convince him, of course."

"You--"

"I sweet-talked him, you dork." She rests her chin on her interlaced fingers. "You're too fun to fuck with, Alabaster. That's your problem."

You stand, go over to the drink machine, dispense an ice chip -- and chuck it at her. Unlike in the past, she has nothing to block it with this time. It slides down the front of her shirt, and she grabs at her breast, yowling. "Fuck! Cold! Ow! Shit, you ass!"

You haul her up by her arm. "Let's go."

"Oh, am I in trouble, Daddy?"

"You have no idea."

On your way out, she pokes your cheek. "See? No one died. No curse. What did I tell you? Paranoid freak."

---

When you get to the Mallory house early Monday, you still have that ages-old reticence about simply walking in. Instead, you wait restlessly on the doorstep for your loving wife to bring up the rear, so she can open it for you. You follow her in.

Charlotte is sound asleep on the couch, curled up under a thick jersey blanket, snoring like a lawnmower. You squat down in front of her, and snap your fingers in front of her face.

"Huh-whuuhhhh?" She mutters, startling. She swipes at her face and struggles to sit up. Groping for her glasses on the coffee table, she grabs them like a caveman would grab a rock to bludgeon someone with, and haphazardly shoves them on. "Izzit alre tie?" she slurs, obviously still groggy.

"Did Saul kick you out of the bedroom again?" You ask. "Jesus."

She shrugs. "Mutual," she grumps. She always says that it's mutual.

Rose is already on her way to go get her dad from the master bedroom. Charlotte, realizing this, swivels in place, looking worriedly towards the hallway from over the couch's backrest. "Honey -- wait--"

"Gross!" Rose shouts, stomping back out into the living room. "Oh, gross, gross, gross!"

You stand just in time to see a young woman, maybe no older than 20, tits-out and only clad in panties, dart across the hall from the master bedroom, into the guest bathroom. You recognize that girl. She's a paralegal working with Saul and Charlotte's team at DBA.

Saul, in his robe, standing at the bedroom's threshold, points. "What the hell!" He shouts at you. "You're so early! You weren't supposed to be here for another two hours!"

"Rose wanted to eat breakfast--" you begin, as Rose brushes past you, towards the kitchen, still repeating her "gross, gross, gross" mantra. You pull your eyes from her, back Saul's direction: "She wanted to eat breakfast together."

"That's so sweet," Charlotte says, stretching and yawning and tossing her blanket aside. "I'll get it going."

You marvel at the chrome-plated balls it takes for Saul to kick his wife out of bed so he can share it with some random slut. You should be taking notes.

(Then again, Charlotte seems to be in a pretty happy-but-tired mood. Who's to say she didn't enjoy that paralegal a little bit herself?)

You give the Mallorys a little bit of time to themselves, to get fully up and dressed -- and to evict last night's entertainment. You make your way through the kitchen and out to the garage, where you find Rose, who's distracting herself by feeding Myrna.

"Men are garbage! squaaawwwww garbage garbage," Myrna says.

Rose ruffles her feathers with an index finger through the cage's bars. "That's right, Myrna. You're so smart."

You grab a handful of birdseed from the open bag on the cabinet-top, and make a series of tantalizing clicks and whistles that draws Myrna's attention. She hops the other way across her perch towards your offered palm, and begins to eat from it. As she tips her head back and swallows, a grin on her little bird beak, she shouts: "Repeal the 19th! squaaaaawwww end suffrage no vote squaaaaw"

"Good job, Myrna!" You say, and rub her under her chin. She vibrates all over, flapping her wings happily "You are a smartie."

"God, I hate you," Rose fumes.

"End patriarchy," Myrna says, "beat women squaaawww"

Cerise wanted to come along too, with a reluctant Gal in tow. They show up about 20 minutes after you and Rose -- late risers, as always. (You'd be too, if you didn't have Rose to drag you awake). You're honestly surprised they made it all: you thought they'd stay in bed. Maybe Cerise's political aspirations are giving her just a little extra motivation.

While Charlotte fries the bacon and scrambles the eggs, Saul pours orange juice for everyone, settles himself in at the table, and tries awkwardly to make small talk with Gal:

"Fun times at that board meeting the other day, huh?"

"erm"

"You gave Chloe hell. Great job."

"thankyoumrmalloy" she says, all as one word, trying to get it out as quickly as possible.

Saul coughs. Gal stares at her partially nibbled toast.

Cerise hugs her around the side and says: "thanks again for helping us out, Mr. Mallory. Really."

"Anything to stick it to those idiots in the FBI," Saul says. "Plus, if it will help Alex figure out what the hell is going on with this Sand Reckoner nonsense, all the better." He pauses for a beat, before adding: "And for the last time, call me Saul. Mr. Mallory is way too... stiff."

"How come you never tell me not to call you Mr. Mallory?" You demand.

"Because that's perfectly fine coming from you," he says, picks up his own toast, and gnaws a chunk out of it. Rose doesn't stifle her bemused laughter. Cerise was always Saul's favorite Soliloquy -- that might still be true even now that Rose is one, too.

You have to admit you owe him no small credit, though. During the darkest days after your parents died, Saul was there for Cerise. There were plenty of nights where he let her drink her woes away under his roof, despite being underage -- but on the stipulation that he would keep an eye on her, so she didn't do anything impossible to undo. They became drinking buddies, spending nights out back by the poolside, with Saul dispensing Cerise life- and career-advice. She got out of being a NEET in large part thanks to him.

"When's the wedding?" Saul asks.

Cerise makes a surprised, disgruntled "uwha--" kind of noise.

Charlotte, circling the table with a steaming skillet of eggs and scooping them onto your plates with a spatula, adds: "That's right. You two still need to officially tie the knot."

"unofficially," Gal says. "it would be unofficially. we're tied officially... officially is good... i'm fine with just officially..."

"We can do a small ceremony, if you want," Charlotte says. "But you simply must do one. I got to see Alabaster and Rose have their big day, now I only have one child left to go!"

Cerise and Gal are turning scarlet, both so uncomfortable they look as if they'll melt.

You and Rose so often find occasion to rub salt in one another's wounds and cap it off with a smug smile that makes the other hate existence; but this time, the both of you get to smile smugly at a common object of ridicule.

"Suck my dick, Alabaster," Cerise grouses, when she sees you smirking at her. She tosses a wadded-up napkin at you.

"suck *my* dick," Gal adds, and tosses her napkin your way too.

Saul points at Gal: "I knew I liked you. Cerise, you did good here. She's a keeper."

"thank you mr. mallory" (At least she's talking at a halfway normal speed. Now if she could just make herself halfway audible.)

He steeples his fingers. "So? When's the ceremony?"

She squeaks. Must have thought the conversation would be moving on.

Cerise, rubbing her forehead madly with the ball of her palm, says: "I dunno, next week. Will that shut you up? Fuck."

"Okay, great. Next Monday it is."

"A small ceremony," Cerise insists.

"Oh, of course," Saul says. "200 seats, max."

Gal squeaks, again.

"Just your closest friends and political supporters and online admirers," he adds.

Now it's Gal who throws a little piece of her bacon at him. He deflects it easily, and says: "Come on. Let's not turn this into a foodfight, okay?"

"We should do it Tuesday," Rose says, flipping through her little trapper keeper. "We've got our afternoon meeting on Mondays, and that always runs over, plus Cerise has a couple campaign events in the evening..."

"Did you seriously bring your planner to the breakfast table?" You say. "Put that away. God."

"Tuesday would be perfect," Charlotte tells Cerise. "Your anniversary would be one month apart from Rose and Alabaster!"

"What difference does that m--" Cerise begins.

"Pencil that in," Saul tells Rose.

"Done," she says, literally penciling it in to her planner. Her neat handwriting schedules the wedding for 12 PM to 5 PM on Tuesday, October 29.

Gal is servile, eager to please. She must want to leave a good impression on her soon to be step-inlaws because, despite her typical slovenly habits, she volunteers to collect the dirty dishes and take them to the kitchen after breakfast. Of course, she's still no model maidservant: she fills one basin of the sink, dumps the dishes in and adds some soap -- and then leaves it. As she turns away from the sink, Charlotte at the entrance of the kitchen says softly to her:

"Won't you clean them? You got this far." Her tone conveys curiosity more than anything.

"th-they... they should soak, first... right"

Charlotte tilts her head.

"...soak... the dishes -- they should -- they should soak --"

Charlotte frowns.

"...i'll clean them"

Gal turns back towards the sink and starts scrubbing.

---

"I admire the chutzpah of it," the judge is telling Saul, who stands at the plaintiff's table. "The argument is little out-there, but... well, there's not a lot of precedent to lean on, is there?"

Saul laughs. "No, there isn't."

Beside you in the galley, Charlotte's fists in her lap are balled-up so hard the knuckles are blanched. This is killing her.

"I'm going to have to punt on this one," the judge continues. "But since I err on the side of civil liberties, I'll grant your temporary restraining order until this matter is settled."

"Your honor--" the government's attorney begins. "The national security implications if another hack occurred at Darkbloom Analytics would be--"

"I don't want to hear about national security," the judge growls. "You picked the wrong court to come barking about national security. I'm sick, frankly, of indefinite government spying on the flimsy pretense of national security. If you have a legitimate purpose interfering with this private business's activity any longer, then you can go on and prove it to the 9th Circuit. I'm sure they'll be delighted to set precedent on the third amendment. Until then, I'm ordering the FBI to vacate the premises of Darkbloom Analytics, effective immediately."

Saul pumps his fist. Even from the galley, you hear him mutter under his breath: "shit, yes."

Cerise and Gal didn't stick around for the whole day at court, but you and Rose did.

After Saul finishes kicking the government's attorneys in the teeth, he and his wife, and the rest of the legal team, have their closed-door meeting in a conference room upstairs to get the documents the FBI was ordered to turn over. Hugh is going to pass him Sable's notes at that time.

You, Rose, and Noelle wait on a bench across from the courthouse in a little quad of greenery, by a statue of some important person from California's frontier days.

Noelle is bickering with Rose:

"What on Earth are you talking about?" She says. "You fucking idiot."

"Idiot?" Rose shrieks. "Obviously you're the one who's incapable, completely incapable, of having a single worthwhile opinion-- I would expect nothing less from a fascist pig like you--"

"--Oh, that is absolutely-- you horrible fucking SJW cunt--"

"--How can you possibly even begin to put 8 over both 6 and 7? 6 and 7 are the epitome--"

"Blind. Blind, absolutely blind, and a bandwagoner," Noelle says. "8 had the more refined--"

"--Not nearly as memorable, and way too easy--"

You bury your head in your hands and pray for this day to end already.

Noelle holds a palm up to shush Rose, as she glimpses Saul and Charlotte exiting the courthouse.

"What's up?" You ask her.

"Where is everyone?" Noelle says.

You glance across the street. Nothing seems amiss. Saul puts the files, presumably Sable's notes, in his car's backseat, then stands there angrily inspecting a ticket on his windshield. Behind him, Charlotte is standing at the curb exchanging some parting words with that fucking slimeball Hugh. When Hugh notices Noelle watching, he waves at her. You shiver.

But then you realize what Noelle means with that question. Saul and Charlotte both have some personal security too, a couple guards named Abbott and Dwight. The guards' car is still parked at a meter outside right near Saul's car, but the two guards aren't in it; and they didn't exit the courthouse with Saul and Charlotte. Where are they?

Noelle stands and begins to stride purposefully across the quad. Only now is Rose starting to grok that something doesn't feel right here -- her eyes follow Noelle's path as she herself stands too.

"Hang back," you tell Rose, grabbing her palm.

"But--" Rose begins.

That's all she gets out.

What happens next happens all in the span of about five seconds:

A plainclothes man passing by across the street stops, pulls a pistol, and shoots Hugh in the head. His brain matter explodes across the hood and windshield of the Mallory family BMW -- and across Saul, too. Bystanders scream and scatter.

Noelle breaks into a sprint, pulling her gun. But she's too far away to be of much help in time to stop the violence. The assassin is already wheeling on a shrieking Charlotte, who's frozen in terror.

Rose tries to run into the fray too. You grab her firmly around her midsection, pulling her into a bear hug, and tackle her to the grass. She fights against you, shouting unintelligibly, but you hold her tight.

Saul tugs the passenger side door of his car open, grabs a pistol from the dashboard, wheels, and nails the assassin in the back of his knee -- just milliseconds before the assassin can blow Charlotte's brains out. The assassin's second shot misses its mark and hits the concrete wall to the right of Charlotte's head.

The assassin topples to his stomach on the sidewalk, as Saul steps towards him. Saul raises his gun at the back of the man's head, but the man turns onto his back. The man gets his aim settled immediately again, and he shoots. The bullet hits Saul in the throat. Saul collapses against the side of his car, clutching at the blackly burbling hole in his trachea. He slides down to his butt against the front tire. He seizes for a moment, and then goes still. His hands slump limply to his side.

Charlotte falls to hands and knees, crawls across to where Saul lies, and takes his gun. The assassin, struggling upright despite the wound, aims for her a second time. But she pops him in the belly; and as he goes to his knees, she pops him in the head. He goes supine, still, and dead.

Noelle, meanwhile, intercepts another two killers approaching from down the street, dispatching them, as she shouts at you and Rose to flee. The courthouse rent-a-cops are finally out and drawing their guns too, and a good thing they know Noelle personally, or she would be liable to get shot, herself.

Rose screams. Just one word, the word "no" -- the O elongated to the point of breathlessness -- you've heard that wail before. You stay on top of her and don't let her move. If you let her move, she'll run over there. Even if there aren't any other killers -- she shouldn't be any closer to that.

Charlotte, across the street, is shrieking too -- as a cop tries to shepherd her safely away from her husband's corpse and back into the safety of the courthouse.

---

For safety's sake, Charlotte moves in with you.

The funeral is a small, private affair attended only by the people closest to the Mallorys, at Charlotte's request. In the days leading up to the funeral, and the days after, Charlotte is like a ghost, wandering agitated and mute from room to room of the house as if looking for something and unable to find it. Mom stays home with her to keep her company.

You're not sure how much better Rose is doing. She hardly talks about anything outside of work, but dedicates herself totally to the minutiae of her day-to-day tasks. She micromanages the HR department to an absurd level, frequently flying into rages at her underlings. You try to cheer her, and Whitney does too, and Cerise and everyone else, but it's like trying to get through to a robot -- she refuses to even acknowledge whatever grief she's going through.

Alex is guilty, too. When you stumble upon him crying one day in a darkened conference room, he tries to hide his tears; but forcing the issue, you finally get this from him:

"It's my fault. Because I wanted those notes. There's blood on my hands... again... someone you cared about."

He moves in with you, too. You insist upon it. And against your better judgment you also pull Kay into the fold. Everyone's here, at last, in Whitney's mansion: even a place this big can get crowded.

They were Russian nationals. No survivors, again. No idea what they wanted.

You don't feel safe anywhere, anymore -- as if you did to begin with.

One night you wake up to the sounds of sobbing. When the dam bursts, it really bursts: Rose is inconsolable. Amber is awake already and hugging her, her face to Rose's breasts, and Rose is weeping against the top of Amber's head.

You join them in the embrace, and let Rose just cry it out. In a time like this, there's a tacit understanding between the two of you, and no need to go through the trouble of sorting your feelings out verbally -- you get each other. You're just there for her.

When Amber, nuzzling Rose, glances up at you, she begins to say: "Da--" but her voice gets pinched off. She winces in pain. Rose's nipple caught her eyepatch, it seems, and pushed it back just enough to bare that glowing grain. You reach down to move the patch back into position, but in so doing, you focus on that glowing red dot -- really focus on it for the first time, and then:

Your pupil dilates and your eyeball vibrates as if it will burst. Your last coherent thought is that this is exactly what it was like when you would get off on linking your implant to Gal's. You feel that all-over looseness in your muscles again, and that rush in your gut, like you're falling straight downwards, head first at terminal velocity, through the heavy atmosphere of a gaseous planet with the gravity of Jupiter. You splash down, slicing through the surface of the warm ocean of data, the contours of your bedroom dissolving in the water like candy cotton. Amber is sinking down with you, hands and legs kicking, cheeks bulging, as if drowning; she's fighting to get back to the surface, but she isn't making progress, she's descending right along with you. You're serene. You hold her hand. You know -- everything -- but you really know nothing. You can't sort the information from the data. The totality of it is overwhelming. How sweet it would be to grasp the answers you seek right now. The who, the what, the why -- but you wouldn't be able to conceive of how to look for it. So you don't even try, you just let yourself go down... down, down, to the bottom of the deep blue sea. Something is missing here, no, someone is missing... no, several people are missing... you need help, down here, in Nirvana's abyssal zone. You need some light.

You almost vomit as, gasping, you find yourself in the world again -- Rose's ruddy face over yours, in bed.

"Are you okay?" She heaves desperately.

You sit up, weak and shaky. Amber is lying on her side next to you, eyepatch back in place, shivering like she's got hypothermia.

You nod. Rose hugs you tighter than she ever has, repeating again and again: "I can't lose you. I can't... I can't..."

"You won't," you tell her.

---

Alex slits his wrist. Dr. Carte cauterizes the bleed, and helps him get the crumb installed. It's a minimally invasive operation, one that goes off without a hitch. He does it in less than ten minutes, after dessert, in the Nail House's study, that Saturday.

"Still see me, Ally?" Alex asks you. "I hope I didn't turn invisible!"

"Of course," you say. "Maybe you should take your clothes off, though. Just to make sure I can see all of you--"

Alex plays at pouty. "Tch. Ally..."

"I agree with Alabaster," Dr. Carte says. She puts her hands on her hips and sagely nods. "That's the only scientific way to do it..."

He giggles.

Vivian is less interested in the lurid right now, and clears her throat to draw his attention. She and Alex aren't precisely on the best of terms even now, but she's willing to tolerate him. "Do you feel any differently?" She asks.

"So far, everything seems pretty normal. The main benefit is that Chloe or whoever else who might use Sand Reckoner based technologies on me won't be able to."

Vivian nods at Whitney. Whitney opens the lid of her laptop. Here's the presentation: 16 videos playing picture-in-picture-in-picture-in-etc., of a bunch of different football games. One, and only one, is a deep fake made by the Sand Reckoner platform. It's taken from a proof-of-concept video DBA presented to the US Army last year.

"That one," Alex says, pointing to one of the videos.

"Bullseye," Whitney says.

She pulls up another set of videos, this one various pieces of stock footage, of workmen on construction crews.

"That one."

"You got 'er."

Another set of videos, random various footage of congressional testimony.

"That one."

"Batting a thousand. Err -- I mean -- fuck." Whitney scratches the back of her head. "You're doing good, anyway..."

"How can you tell?" Renee asks him.

"It's just... it's hard to explain," he says. "It's just obvious."

"At least it works," Whitney says. "I'm chalking this one up as a win. We could use one."

Rose2 peeks her head into the study. "Hey hey," she says. "Super Smash Bros in five. Noelley-belly won't stop picking Ganondorf and I need some help against her..."

"I'll be out soon," you tell her.

She ducks out, grinning.

"What an... interesting girl," Dr. Carte says, glancing from the closing door, back to you. "You two were really dating in high school?"

"What?" You sputter. "Who told you that--"

"She did."

"That is not..." You sigh. "Goddamn it."

You rise, ready to depart. But that's when you notice that Alex hasn't taken his eyes off the doorway, where Rose2 was just standing. His jaw is hanging open.

"Alex?" You say. "...You feeling all right?"

He slowly looks up at you.

"Rose2..." he breathes.

Your stomach lurches. "What about her?"

"She's... she's not real."

END OF EPISODE 8.

You and Rose settle in on the loveseat in the study as Vivian dims the lights and gets the projector fired up. A powerpoint splashes upon the canvas screen. The title slide reads:

>Intimacy Trade Deficit in the Nail House: Reanalysis of Trend Data 
>(by Vivian Darkbloom)

"What is th--" Rose begins, but Vivian cuts her off. Clicker in hand, pacing back and forth in front of the loveseat with tented fingers like a presenter at a TED Talk, Vivian announces: "You and Rose are having too much sex."

Rose exhales hard through her nostrils. "That's the 'matter of vital importance' you needed to see us about? This is ridiculous. I have better ways to use my time." She stands -- but all of a sudden she's on her butt again. From the shadows, Whitney has popped up behind you. She loops her arms under Rose's armpits, and wrenches her back to a sitting position. Rose shouts indignantly. Whitney silences her with a piece of duct tape, seemingly prepared in advance, that she peels away from the side of the loveseat and slaps across her mouth. Rose struggles and writhes, but she's no match for Whitney subduing her.

"There we go," Whitney laughs. "Much better. Now ya might learn something."

"Many thanks," Vivian tells her sister with a curt nod.

Rose's cursing is muffled and unintelligible, but her eyes are begging you to intervene when she looks your way. Instead, you shrug, and motion at Vivian, saying: "I'm listening. Proceed."

"Yes."

She clicks to the next slide. An array of labeled, colored bar charts fills the screen.

"On the week beginning 10/13, you had penetrative vaginal intercourse with Rose 5 times, penetrative anal sex with her once and fellatio 3 times, totaling 9 internal ejaculations. You additionally had an instance of mammary intercourse also resulting in ejaculation. Your total time spent in sexual acts with her was 2 hours, 41 minutes." 

Rose is fighting mightily to get free -- shocked and mortified. You're mortified, too: "How do you even know all this? Are you spying on me?"

"Now, if you would turn your attention to figure 2, you can see plainly the disparity. During this same weeklong period, you had vaginal intercourse with me only twice and fellatio only once. While you did have anal sex with me 3 times, exceeding your total with Rose by 2 on this metric; summing all instances in whole (pardon the pun), your total number of internal ejaculations with me was just 6 as compared to Rose's 9. The time you spent with me in sexual acts was a paltry 1 hour, 58 minutes. You also performed zero acts of mammary intercourse with me -- no, no -- silence Alabaster, silence. My breasts are perfectly suitable for use in penile stimulation. You simply are not trying hard enough. I will not brook your excuses."

"I ate you out, too!" You insist, growing defensive. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

Rose pounds the loveseat cushions.

"This is true. But you performed cunnilingus on Rose as well, and did so without reciprocal oral stimulation. When you performed cunnilingus on me, it was an exchange; the so-called 69 position."

"It was reciprocal with Rose, too!" You say. "It wasn't a 69, but it was still an exchange. She did me first, then I did her." When Whitney looks at you strangely, you add: "it's a thing we do. Just -- nevermind."

Vivian goes to another slide. "As you can see, if this pattern of inequity continues, then the annualized semen shortfall projected for fiscal year 2020, assuming a generous interest rate of 13.5% compounded monthly, will be a staggering 2.41 liters."

"--There's an interest rate on semen?"

She responds immediately: "Yes. This trade deficit is unacceptable, Alabaster. While homosexual acts with Amber et al can help bridge the gap, in the end they simply cannot substitute for ejaculative coitus. Smaller deficits have felled entire nations."

"Oh, fuck off. How can a lack of jizz destroy a country?"

"All of the relevant data can be found in my 'works cited' page, if you like. But I ask that you please hold your questions for the end. You are derailing an otherwise fruitful presentation."

"I think we've seen enough, Viv," Whitney tells her. She cranes her neck to peer down at you: "What are you gonna do about this, Ally?"

"What -- am I supposed to keep track of who I fuck and when?"

"Yes," Vivian says.

You huff.

She steps closer to you -- at the same time, she pulls her blouse off, revealing her flat, bare, pale chest. Rose's angry eyes follow her; so do Whitney's hungry eyes.

She lays her delicate fingers on your chin; you awkwardly clear your throat. "I am bringing an issue of unequal attention, to your attention," she says. "That is the crux of the matter at hand. How you choose to rectify that is for you to decide." She kicks off her skirt now, too. "Will you... rectify this issue, Alabaster?"

It's gonna be one of those nights. 

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, tomboy tapper, trap trainer, and totemo tanoshii otouto. 

Oh fuck, here it comes. You're dumping another scalding load of jizz directly into Vivian's over-full cunt. It's your third of the night so far, and all three have gone inside her. Vivian lies under you in her bed, on her back, knees bowed with the heels of her feet touching. Her ass is half-submerged in the milky pool that all your cumming has created. Her bald little pussy is totally smeared and coated with it, too. She's a nasty mess.

You gulp and pant as you paint her insides even whiter. She grins perversely, and enjoys the high of getting cummed inside: more slop for the piggy. The feeling of cum racing through your dick and out the throbbing cockhead is always a joy -- but especially when you get to nut inside a hole this small and soft. Vivian's pussy is so tight that whenever you drop a load inside it, you have to flex your abs to force all of the cum out. Even with that assistance, it doesn't squirt so much as just wetly ooze, over the course of about ten seconds, as your expanding cock stretches her to her very limits. You dribble pulse after pulse of semen inside her; and, with nowhere to go, the semen dribbles right back out, all around the union of your bodies, and down her stippled thigh, to join the mess already splattered across the bedspread. It's a powerful fucking orgasm indeed, the tightness of Vivian's body drawing it out to an almost painful duration. You can't help groaning "ooooh," over and again as you sperm her.

Even after that third climax, you keep going. Propped on your elbows as you hump, you lean bodily forward and meet Vivian's lips with yours. Her facial muscles are lax and her expression is blank. But she has enough awareness left, just barely, to return the kiss. You join yourselves at both ends, cock in cunt and tongue in mouth, violating this small girl as utterly as you can. She loves it, of course. Although she has a burgeoning relationship with Amber, she will always be a slave to your dick: it turns her from an elegant and refined baroness of industry into a disgusting whore begging for a couple extra squirts of cock-slime. This is the true Vivian Darkbloom, the girl beneath you sucking on your tongue and orgasming like an idiot with her cum-drenched pussy. Her naked body, so anemic and fragile-looking, feels as if it will break at any second as you lie atop her. You're going to fuck her broken. That's what she wants: she wants her insides to break on your horny cock.

You know that's what she wants because she tells you so. Her slurred whining between kisses is hard to decipher, but she means it: "Alabashhhterrr... you're breakinggg meee... do it harderrrr..." 

You taunt her. "I already came inside you three times. Shouldn't you share?"

She shakes her head violently side to side, ruffling the pillowtop. 

"Greedy slut," you grunt.

Circling around the bed with a camcorder in hand, a naked Dr. Carte asks: "Is that true? Are you a greedy slut?"

"Yesh," Vivian says. Zero hesitation.

Dr. Carte gets up onto the bed on her knees, and zooms the camera's viewfinder up close to the messy spot where your cock is driving in and out of the girl she helped raise. Her other hand slowly tickles her own clitty. She sweeps the camera across Vivian's nude body to capture it in all its lurid detail, and finally focuses on the girl's face:

"Say hello to everyone at home," Dr. Carte instructs.

"You're not really going to post that somewhere, are you?" You ask.

"Hmmm. Maybe~" she says teasingly.

Eyes half-lidded, Vivian faces the lens and focuses on enunciating: "Hello all you perverts," she manages. "I hope... I hope..." she gulps hard, and finishes: "I hope you masturbate to my degradation..."

"Give them a peace sign," you say.

Vivian does as ordered, holding up two fingers by her slackened mouth. It's perfect.

"Are you a greedy slut?" Dr. Carte prods again. "Tell them what you are."

"Yeshhh!" Vivian wails. Her neck muscles strain and twitch. Still with the peace sign, she makes her declaration crystal clear for the camcorder: "I am a greedy slut cunt bitch... I am a disgusting whore! Watch me cum!"

And cum she does. Her little pussy-hole flutters and then she squirts all over your drilling dick. The fragrant smell of her cream joins the stench of raw sex in the room. It makes the slurry of semen underneath her a little less viscous. Dr. Carte captures it all on camera. 

"You are greedy," Dr. Carte says. "Aren't you going to let him jizz inside me once?" 

"No... no..." she says hoarsely. She gives up on speaking clearly. "In me... it hasssh to be in meee..."

"Fucking toilet," you sneer.

"Yesh."

"How much is it worth to you?" You ask. You lean back a bit, to make room for Dr. Carte, who's swinging her knees over Vivian's head to straddle it. From this vantage, Dr. Carte has the perfect bird's-eye view of your raping dick and how completely it dwarfs young Vivian's child-sized pussy. The position also means that Dr. Carte's own horny pussy is dripping steadily right on Vivian's face, furthering her humiliation. 

"W-- what...?" Vivian asks. 

"How much is another load of cum in your cunt worth to you?" You say. "How much are you willing to pay for it?"

Dr. Carte can't resist gyrating a little, slowly raising her butt up and down to repeatedly mash her hot pussy against Vivian's wet face. If Vivian won't let you share, Dr. Carte will take her pleasure this way instead. Every time she pulls back up, little threads of her pussy juice cling between her genitals and Vivian. 

"$500?" You say.

"Yesh," Vivian says. She wriggles around a bit, her rail-thin body shuddering with the force of your marathon fuck-session. 

"$10,000? A million?" 

"Yesh! I don't care! Anything! Jusht cum inshide meeeee!"

"All right. I'll cum inside you one more time for a billion dollars," you tell her. 

Dr. Carte focuses on Vivian's disbelieving face. "What... a billion...?" Vivian slurs.

"Oh, I guess you don't want it after all," you say. You pull your cock out of the warm sheath of Vivian's cunt.

She weakly reaches out for you, both elbows locking. "Wait! No!" 

You thrust back into her. She goes limp again, bites her lips, rolls her eyes in lustful pleasure. Dr. Carte languidly fucks her face. 

"One billion dollars and I'll give you another couple squirts of cum," you say. "That's the deal."

"Okay," Vivian says, her voice distant and apathetic to the cost. Her eyes are shimmering, and she smiles up at you. "Asssh long asssh you cummm in here... in h-h-hhereee..." She pets her tiny tummy with a tiny palm. "F-f-fill my womb... I'll do anything... I don't care..."

"There you go," Dr. Carte narrates for the video, "that's all it takes to get Vivian Darkbloom's riches. Just promise to cum in her uterus."

"Yesh."

It's a great deal, you have to admit. Nevermind the fact that you were planning to cum in her anyway. You get your cock buried as far as it goes, enjoying the way her bruised cervix hugs your shaft like an undersized onahole. You sigh and let it happen: a delicious, shiver-inducing fourth orgasm inside Vivian's little body. The semen comes out of your dick in thick glops and seeds her deepest parts, just as she wanted. 

She cums again too, screaming, but Dr. Carte cuts it off by sitting on her face. Rocking back and forth, Dr. Carte gets herself off all over Vivian, keeping the camera steady to capture the moment you defile her already-defiled pussy. When she's had her fill of rubbing her cunt on Vivian, she slides off her face with a squelchy noise and settles on the pillows, allowing Vivian to rest the back of her head in her lap.

At last you finish jizzing. Even for you, this has been a banner night. Completely sated and tuckered out, you try to unmate your still half-erect dick from Vivian's steamy cunt. But she stops you with a hand to your chest.

"Wait... you're not done yet... are you...?"

"I couldn't possibly cum again," you say. "Not even for all the money in the world..."

Dr. Carte slowly parts Vivian's matted hair from her face, as Vivian says: "But... there's more than just cum inside that penis of yours..."

"I don't--"

"Please, Alabaster -- urinate inside me..."

You stare blinkingly down at her. Then up, at Dr. Carte, who's smiling in debauched amusement. Still recording, she asks Vivian: "Would you do it for another billion?"

"Yes, yes I would," Vivian says. She uses her cunt muscles to slowly, deliciously, massage your prick back to stiffness. "Alabaster Soliloquy, I will pay you a billion dollars to use my pussy as your private urinal."

Who can say no to that? You tilt your head back and close your eyes and focus on voiding your bladder. It's hard to pee with an erection, and Vivian's messy cunt-massage is keeping you at full mast. She wants this to be as lewd and dirty as possible, and what's dirtier than getting pissed in by an erect cock? You strain your pelvic muscles and manage to loose a couple stray dribbles against her inner walls. She hisses in delight. That breaks the dam, and then it starts to come in earnest: a torrential geyser of hot yellow liquid to scrub the cum out of Vivian's cervix and womb. It flows up into her, and then backflows out of her, just like your cum did; and just like your cum, it adds to the horrible stinking mess on the bed below. Vivian doesn't care, and rides out climax after climax on your pissing dick. Dr. Carte, ever the helpful camerawoman, gets it all down on video. You wonder whether she'll really post it. Or... maybe even better... it could be used to blackmail Vivian into doing all sorts of new, horrible and degrading things. 

When finally you're empty, you pull out of her. Like a plug from a bathtub drain, your cock's exit from Vivian's little body unleashes a whirlpool of liquid. Vivian is lying in a nasty puddle of cum and piss, and she could not be happier. You and Dr. Carte have the same idea at the same time: you each yank her around by her hair, and force her face-down into the soupy mixture. 

"Clean up after yourself, cunt," you spit. 

"Mmmmmfff," she mutters deliriously, sucking and licking at the mixture. "Yesh, of courrshee..." Jaw hanging open, she draws her little pink tongue in lazy circles.

For minutes on end, piggy little Vivian Darkbloom feeds on your commingled fluids, slurping it all down into her hungry tummy. She sucks and licks, drinks and chews the clumpy wads of pissy cum until it's all gone, and the only thing left is a huge wet stain on the covers. Dr. Carte, who's an even worse pervert than you, isn't happy with just that. She hands the camcorder to you when Vivian is done with her meal. She takes Vivian by the ankles and doubles Vivian's body over itself, butt in the air. "Pee on yourself," she commands.

Vivian resists not at all: just opens her mouth again and lets her own stream loose. You and Dr. Carte share a loving kiss as you watch the sight of Vivian on the stained bedclothes, pissing all over herself. She catches a great deal of it in her mouth, but she can't control it that well, and at least as much of it ends up splattering her cheeks, forehead, and eyes, before running in rivulets down to the covers. Of course you make her suck that up, too. By the time it's all over, you swear you can see just a little bulge in Vivian's almost anorexic belly.

Dr. Carte, who's not shy at all about getting messy herself, curls up with Vivian on the soiled bed. Vivian is completely sapped from the abuse, and close to unconsciousness. Dr. Carte kisses her all over, her lips traveling across Vivian's sloppy body. From the young girl's skin, she licks and suckles the mix of sweat, cum, and urine -- yours and Vivian's.

As you pull on your underwear, you ask: "How are you going to pay me? I'll take some of your stock positions if that would be easiest for you."

Vivian smiles wanly at you even as Dr. Carte's lewd mouth continues its ravishment. "You are quite the comedian, Alabaster."

"I'm not fucking joking," you say. "Do I look like I'm joking? You owe me $2 billion."

Vivian's eyes turn to saucers. "You-- cannot be serious--"

"Now, now," Dr. Carte purrs. She pecks Vivian on the forehead. "You did make a promise, didn't you?"

"But I..."

"If you don't pay him... I might be forced to post the video we made, after all..."

See? Blackmail is so fun. Vivian is breathless with frustration and helplessness.

Dr. Carte kisses her soothingly on the lips. "Welcome to the Nail House, honey," she says.

---

Noelle is on her bed, sitting cross-legged on her laptop in her nightshirt, pretending to be focused on the screen, but actually watching Kay load the dresser drawers full of clothes. When this triggers Kay's sixth sense and she glances back over her shoulder at her, Noelle startles and quickly diverts her gaze back to the gentle glow of the monitor.

"Thanks for being my roomie," Kay says. "Can't believe a house this size can be fully booked."

"It's no problem," Noelle says. "There's two beds in here anyway, right?"

Kay nods as she wheels her now-empty suitcase to the walk-in closet. But when she opens the door, she finds there's precious little room to stow it. Though spacious, it's packed floor-to-ceiling with Noelle's belongings, the racks sagging under the weight of her clothes, the cubbies jammed with boxes. Unlike Kay, who packed light, Noelle moved the entire contents of her apartment into the Nail House.

"Jesus," Kay breathes. "Are you living in the closet or what?"

"--What?"

Kay finds some space to shove her empty suitcase, though it takes a little bit of force to make it fit. She closes the door again and starts to disrobe: flats, socks, jeans, peacoat. Noelle tries really hard not to stare.

"Anyway, I'm glad I got someone halfway normal to room with," Kay says idly as she unclasps her bra and tosses it in a hamper and Noelle tries really, really hard not to stare. "I feel like I'd end up getting raped if I stayed with any of the other perverts living here," Kay adds as she tosses her panties in the hamper now too, and Noelle tries really, really, REALLY hard not to stare.

The opportunity for a peep show ends as Kay steps into her nightgown and does up the tie around her hips. She sits down on the bed across from Noelle's, separated by two nightstands and a space of about six feet.

Guy leaps up onto the comforter with her, holding her favorite chewtoy in her mouth: a thick piece of off-white rope tied into knots. Kay absentmindedly plays tug-o-war with the pup. Guy gives it her all and really throws her entire body into the effort, but she's no match for Kay, who's used to a much stronger sparring partner.

"Pathetic runt," Kay says lovingly.

"Yeah..." Noelle says, her voice just a tiny bit shaky. "It's a good thing there's two beds here, huh?"

"Hmm?" Kay says, looking up. "Oh, yeah. That's what I said."

"W-wouldn't it be funny if we had to share a bed?" Noelle says, forcing some laughter.

Kay furrows her brow. "What? No. It would just be weird, and uncomfortable."

"Yeah, but..." Noelle says. "I mean -- if we had to share a bed, even in a house this big... that's what I mean. That's all I mean. Even though -- it's such a big -- big... house. And then if we had to share a bed, it'd be like, what? Why? We live in a mansion! You know? Haha."

Kay shrugs, and focuses her attention back on playing with Guy. "I guess so."

Kay lifts now, with one hand, hoisting the chewtoy; and with it, dangling from the other end by her mouth, Guy's entire body -- all four of her paws hanging limp as she growls and tries to wrest the toy back in midair. "You are such a fucking idiot," Kay says, frowning.

"Arff--!!"

Kay relents and lets Guy have the toy. The tiny schnauzer falls to the ground, on her back, landing with a thud that sounds painful. But she takes to whining happily at what she perceives as a victory of her overwhelming might. She flips onto all fours and trots proudly away with the toy, underneath Noelle's bed.

"Wait--!" Noelle cries.

Too late. A loud "HHHHHH!!" fills the room, and then a black blur zips across the floor. Kay, who's usually cool and calm, shrieks. When she gets her wits again, she sees a shorthair cat clinging tenaciously to the curtains, up near the ceiling, staring back over its shoulder to the bed below where Guy wandered.

"Get down from there, Kuso!" Noelle says. But Kuso isn't coming. He's still staring suspiciously down at the ground, claws embedded deep in the fabric of the curtains.

"You didn't tell me you had a cat," Kay says.

"Yeah, well. You didn't tell me you had a dog."

"You know I have a dog--" Kay begins, then: "Wait. You named your cat 'shit'?"

"Yeah. Because he's a little shit. See?" Noelle points at Kuso.

Kay grumbles. "If he's a shit, why do you keep him? Fuck. I hate cats."

"Well I hate dogs, so we're even."

After Noelle forces Kuso back down from low Earth orbit, and following much suspicious sniffing, the two animals make nice. Unfortunately, Kuso is much stronger and he dominates poor Guy, stealing her toy. In the end, Guy enviously lies with her chin propped on Kuso's side, as Kuso hugs the knotted rope with all four legs and gnaws it.

Kay is huddled under the covers, her back to Noelle. Noelle is staring at the ceiling with hands laced behind her head -- restless.

"You know what we -- what we should do?" Noelle says, breaking the long silence. Her voice is really shaky now.

Kay rolls around and faces her. "What?"

"We should... sleep in the same bed tonight. You know. Like as a joke." When this gets no response, she tacks on: "Haha."

"What's the joke?" Kay says, actually confused. "I don't get it."

"Because... even though we have two beds."

"What? How is that funny? Who is this joke even for?"

"It's for us. Haha."

"Why is it funny for us to sleep in the same bed?"

"I'm just -- I'm just joking. It's funny. ... You don't get it."

"Putt-putt was a one time deal," Kay says. "Don't get any big ideas. Got it? I'm not a dyke like you. I'm going back to bed, Noelle -- my bed. Goodnight." She faces the other way again.

"Okay! See you there!"

Kay turns back around, and accusingly points at her. "Stay in your bed. I'm warning you, slut."

"Haha... ha..." Noelle's laughter dies out; Kay is still pointing. "...Okay."

---

Non-lewd interlude 1:

[ ] Rose learns to bake
>[x] Gamer girl Charlotte
[ ] Gal could do that all along?!
>[x] You had a bunnygirl in your bedroom this whole time and you didn't tell me!?

That night just after Mom sets the pies on the table for all the very hungry Nail House residents, she gently pulls you aside. Worried, she asks: "Where's Rose2?"

You point to where Rose2 is busily carving into the apple-cinnamon pie without regard for making her slice remotely triangular; she just scoops a glooby mixture of crust and filling onto her plate, leaving an irregular cutout behind in the tin, ringed by the rim of the crust that she didn't bother to cut loose.

Mom frowns at you. "Not her. I mean your wife. Is she doing all right? I haven't seen her all day, and she was supposed to help with making dessert."

You nod reassuringly. "Considering the circumstances? She's okay. She just busy playing a game, that's all."

"A game?" Mom says.

"Yeah -- a video game. She's been pretty absorbed, so she didn't come downstairs to help with dinner." (The word "absorbed" is a bit underselling it. In the wake of her father's death, Rose has experienced a full-blown relapse into degeneracy -- she's been playing Touhou games nonstop, whenever she's at home.)

Mom steps back, furrowing her brow. "How odd. I suppose I never thought of your wife as a video gamer."

"Hah," Cerise laughs, leaning way over the table to cut into the cherry pie. "You haven't seen the real face of Rose Mallory yet, then."

"rose soliloquy," Gal corrects. Cerise shushes her. When Gal reaches for the plate that Cerise just served up, thinking it's for her, Cerise swats her hand away. "rude," Gal pouts. But then she stands and reluctantly begins to serve herself, while Cerise sits and digs in.

"Is that why she's missing?" Alex asks, catching on to the subject of discussion as he gets a heaping helping of white fudge pie. "Should we go get her?"

Charlotte smiles at him. "Oh, you know how Rose is with her too-hoo. We should leave her be."

You cut into the strawberry-banana pie and get two slices, with two forks, on one plate. "I was just gonna grab some dinner and go back up with her," you say. "Keep her company."

"Hold on, hold on, hold on," Kay says, as she settles in with a honking slice of key lime. "Rose Soliloquy is a gamer?"

"Hai!" Rose2 chirps. For some reason, she also salutes. "She's totemo obsessed with Touhou! Knows the lore and everything!"

"The fuck is a toe hoe?" Kay says.

"Unbelievable," Noelle says between bites of double fudge ripple.

"This is lame," Amber whines. She fixes you in her gaze, hands linked behind the back of her head with her armpits bared to the world. "You can't enable your wife's descent into NEETyness. Do you want her to end up like Cerise?"

Cerise chokes on a bite of her pie. Sputtering, she says: "What? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Amber gets a forkful of lemon meringue and points at you with it. "If you let her stay cooped up in there for much longer, the foot stench is gonna waft out over the countryside and all of a sudden you'll be dealing with the rise of /rsg/. Just saying. You don't want Cerise to have any competition for weeb dick, do you?"

"You one-eyed little bitch!" Cerise howls. She stands, leaning with fists propped on the table. "Get over here, Long John Ginger! Alabaster's not the only Soliloquy who can dish out a spanking!"

Amber sticks her tongue out at Cerise.

"Amber is right," Mom says. "You shouldn't let her hide from the world. Why don't you go up and get her?"

"You haven't seen Rose when she plays Touhou, is the thing," you say. "If I interrupt her, she'll cut off my head."

"Can't she play downstairs?" Mom asks. "We have a TV the size of a movie theater in the living room. It's perfect for gaming, isn't it?"

Cerise gets her laptop broadcasting to the TV, and Rose, wearing not much but one of your tees and some undies, settles in on the couch with a wireless keyboard. Her eyes are deep-set, ringed by dark circles, and her skin is pale from lack of sleep.

Mom sits next to her, marveling at the sight of the intro: "Girls do their best now and are preparing. ... Please wait warmly until it is ready...? The translation here isn't the best, is it?"

"The translation doesn't matter," Rose says, eyes fixed on the game. The opening licks of PCB's title screen fill the living room, and everyone is crowding around to watch how she performs.

She selects start, and scrolls down to lunatic difficulty.

"no way..." Gal says.

"For real?" Noelle says. "Trying to show off, or what? I would have figured you play on easy mode."

Rose turns, and glares at Noelle. "That's Alabaster. He plays on easy."

Noelle puts her hand to her mouth, laughing. "Hahaha. No fucking way."

You slap Rose across the back of the head. "Shut up, will you?" You say. She stomps your foot.

Back to the game. Mom points: "Oooh, that girl in red is cute, isn't she? Is that who you play as?"

"Me?" Rose says. "No. I play as her:" She picks Marisa.

"Is that a witch?" Mom wants to know. "Marisa Kissa-me?"

"Kirisame," Rose mutters.

Charlotte puts a hand on Mom's arm: "Yes, she's a witch. A very mischievous one."

"Mischievous how?" Mom asks.

"She steals things, from what I gather. Makes trouble for the girl in red."

Mom nods, absorbing this new info. She might pretend at disapproving of Rose, but she wants to understand her, this girl who has become her daughter-in-law; that includes understanding her hobbies. Rose chooses Marisa's spell card loadout and starts the game. The screen fades to white and then Marisa is flying over Gensokyo's countryside letting out a continuous taktaktaktaktak of danmaku.

Keyboard: on. Knuckles: cracked. Girls: Prepared. Yep, it's Touhou time.

Rose is a bit out-of-practice, and doesn't exactly get an NMNB run. She dies a few times, and uses bombs a few other times. But as far as you're concerned, and everyone else in the room it seems, she might as well be Neo reading the code of the Matrix as she weaves in and out of the danmaku.

"Is she just... invincible?" Mom asks. "Why are all those bullets not hitting her?"

"There's only a very small part of her that can be hit," Charlotte explains. "Everything else is invulnerable."

Mom looks at the woman who is technically her niece: "You seem to know a lot about this game. Are you a fan, too?"

Charlotte titters. "Me? Oh, no. I've just learned a bit here and there via osmosis. I'm no gamer."

"Maybe you should try!" Rose2 pips.

Charlotte's titter here is obviously a little frustrated. "No, I couldn't possibly. I would be awful!"

"Now hold on a moment," Mom says. "You were excellent at games when we were younger."

You arch an eyebrow. "Really? Is that true?"

Charlotte shakes her head. "Scarlett is such an exaggerater. There was an arcade game at a restaurant we used to go to... Bubble Bobble. I was okay at it--"

"Okay at it?" Mom says. "You cleared it twice, back to back!"

"It was nothing like this!"

"Oh, please," Mom says. "It's the same concept, isn't it? You run around and shoot. It's basically identical."

You nod sagely, and play along. "Yeah. It sort of is, when you think about it. I'm sure you'd do fine at this game too, with a bit of practice."

Charlotte is emphatically shaking her head no, but the room is turning against her. "I just have to see this," Noelle says. "I need to know if this kind of reaction time is a genetic accident or not. Give it a go."

"But--"

"C'mon," Amber says. "Are you chicken?"

"Now you listen here, young woman--"

"Bawk," Kay says.

"I--"

"Baawwwwk," Cerise cuts in.

"This is absurd," Charlotte says.

"Bok bok, bok bok," Rose2 repeats over and over.

Charlotte startles as Rose dumps the keyboard in her lap -- reacting with all the same chagrin as if she's dumped a full diaper in her lap instead.

"Use these keys to move," Rose explains. "Hold this to shoot... this to focus fire... this is to use your bombs. You can save your life after you get hit if you're fast enough to trigger the bomb. Got it?"

"I really don't think this is a good idea--"

"I'll put it on easy for you."

"Well, if you insist on making me play, then I'm going to pick my own character," Charlotte says. "I choose Raymoo."

"She's cuter, isn't she?" Mom says.

Charlotte nods.

(At least the matriarchs of the family have good taste.)

The screen fades to white, and so begins Charlotte's first-ever attempt to play a Touhou game.

"go, go," Gal says, pumping her fists, providing Charlotte with a miniature cheering section.

...But it's a humiliating showing. You actually feel better about your own skills as you watch Charlotte go down in flames -- she hardly clears the first stage. And cruelly, after she game overs, Rose makes her go again.

"Keep trying, Mom -- you'll get it."

"Rose--"

But Rose refuses to let Charlotte shove the keyboard back into her lap. Is this revenge for the theater? You wonder.

"Remember your bombs," Rose reminds her as she continues the second attempt. "If you get in trouble, they're extremely useful."

"This is so confusing... there's too much going on. How do you do this?"

"You just have to dodge and weave. It's nothing, really. Look out--!"

Charlotte gets beaned with a danmaku. Reimu is about to explode -- but Charlotte saves herself with a bomb, and deals massive damage to Cirno. Charlotte bounces up and down on her butt, exultant: "I did it! I used the bomb!"

"great job," Gal says.

"Did you see that?" Charlotte asks, turning to look at Gal.

"i saw that"

"But did you see that?"

"mrs. mallory--"

Too late. In her excitement over saving Reimu's life, Charlotte lost focus, and now ironically, Reimu gets taken down again.

Charlotte pounds the keyboard in frustration. "This game is ridiculous! I'm not going to play anymore!"

But Rose is steadfastly making her mother forge ahead.

Thudding from upstairs interrupts your little family game night. A recriminating shriek resounds through the mansion:

"You had a bunnygirl in your bedroom this whole time and you didn't tell me!?"

"Mom-- geez! Chill out!"

Everyone in the living room is gazing up at the ceiling in mute wonder mixed with fear, as the thudding traces its way across the upstairs hallway, then down the staircase. Finally Dr. Carte is standing at the mouth of the living room, a cigarette dangling from her lips, tugging along a frightened and extremely naked Samantha by the crook of the elbow. Whitney, helpless, follows behind.

"H-hello everyone!" Samantha squeaks, blushing.

Dr. Carte is furious. She tugs on Samantha's arm, making her jiggly parts jiggle. "I want to know who else knew about this!"

"Put that fucking cigarette out," you say. "How many times do I have to tell you not to smoke inside?"

"Answer me!"

You raise your hand. Slowly, so does nearly everyone else in the living room -- even Vivian.

"Et tu, Vivian?" Dr. Carte says.

"I have availed myself of her services in the past, yes."

"How could you keep this from me?" Dr. Carte points at her. "You -- are getting punished." She wheels on her daughter: "And you, too, Whitney -- big time."

"Oooh, I'm so scared," Whitney says. "Hah. You wish you could punish me. I'm too strong for ya. And too fast."

Charlotte seems concerned for her former classmate. "Samantha, dear -- would you like something to wear?"

"Um... n-no," Samantha says. "I actually prefer being naked..."

Charlotte glances away, a little abashed but maybe not surprised.

"Come here, you," Dr. Carte says. She's dragging poor Samantha around like a kid with a red wagon. "You're getting bullied."

"Where are you taking her?" You demand, standing, as Dr. Carte leads Samantha towards the dining room's sliding glass patio doors.

"You want me to smoke outside, right?" Dr. Carte says. "Well, that's what I'll do. And I'm taking this young lady swimming."

"Naked?" You say. "You're gonna get us cited for public indecency!"

"Oh do not even!" Dr. Carte hollers. She tugs open the sliding door with her free hand. "I don't want to hear that from you. I know what you do outside." With that, she pulls the cowering Samantha past her, and dumps her out into the backyard, stark naked -- like a bouncer tossing out an unruly patron. She follows, hunger in her eyes, and slams the door behind her.

You shake your head. "Christ. Whitney, you wanna go take care of that?"

"Oh yes I do," Whitney replies, and follows her mother out the door. But the way she throws off her shirt as she exits, makes you think she has a very different idea of what "taking care of it" means.

---

Lewd interlewd 2:

[ ] Bullying Samantha
[ ] Come to our tea party, mister!
[ ] Yeah, Mom -- we call it family movie night...
>[x] Haha, just joking ... unless ... ?
[ ] Circuit bending, gender bending... whatever!

Kay's dreams turn towards the lewd. Her mind fills with images of bunny cunny and Vivian's cruel depredations. She dreams of mouths sucking on cunts, of cocks thrusting in mouths. She's never been the type to have wet dreams, but tonight she's going to cum all over herself in her sleep. This sets off some sort of internal alarm, something in her hindbrain that realizes this isn't normal. It wakes her.

She's back in the realm of the waking again, staring at the ceiling, body sweaty and uncomfortable and unbearably horny beneath the covers. She tosses them aside to get a little airflow. And that's when she sees Noelle: huddled up at the foot of the bed, hands on Kay's thighs, hem of Kay's nightgown hiked up, face buried in Kay's naked crotch. 

"Ghh--!!" Kay chokes. Noelle, her button nose against Kay's clit, stares back at her like a deer in headlights. Kay kicks her feet wildly to find traction against the sheets, and struggles herself into a sitting position away from Noelle. She cowers against the headboard, shielding herself with the covers. She breathes ragged. Her lips tremble. Noelle, still on all fours at the foot of the bed, is like a cat poised to pounce. She meets Kay's eyes, and the two exchange a wordless, bewildered gaze that lasts for many long moments. 

And then Noelle actually does pounce.

"Get off of me!" Kay yowls, trying to push Noelle back.

"Hold still -- hold still--"

"Rapist! Fucking dyke! What are you doing!"

The catch of desperation is plain in Noelle's voice. She paws at Kay's legs and tries to pry them open again. "I just want to sleep like this! It's fine! You won't notice a thing!"

"You crazy bitch-- get away--"

"Don't fight it! Why are you being so selfish!"

Kay's heel hits Noelle in the nose, knocking her back and causing her to roll entirely off the bed. She falls to the floor with an "oof," scaring off Guy and Kuso alike. It wasn't Kay's intention to land that blow, but it does fend off her would-be attacker. 

"Fuck!" Kay shouts. Then, glancing over the edge: "--Are you all right?"

"Errgh..." 

Kay is too nice. She internally chastises herself as she reaches down and helps Noelle upright again. 

"You're supposed to ASK before you put your face in someone's pussy," Kay says.

"I did ask!" Noelle sputters, rubbing her nose.

"Yeah, and I said no!"

"Exactly! What was I supposed to do?"

Kay pokes Noelle in the chest. "You have been hanging out with Whitney WAY too much." 

Noelle folds her arms. "I don't want to have sex with you. Not if you don't want it. I just -- want to try sleeping like that. You'll hardly notice me at all."

"You are a psychopath. Oh my god."

"Please?" Noelle says. Her voice goes a bit emotional. "I just... I like you, okay? I had a lot of fun with you, after that minigolf game... didn't you have fun with me?"

Kay sighs.

"I promise I won't do anything you don't ask for. I got carried away, that's all... I'll keep a lid on it."

Kay is still indecisive. "If I let you into bed with me -- you'll let me sleep?" She asks.

"Yes."

"No groping, licking, et cetera?"

"None."

Kay sighs again. "...All right."

Hesitantly she lies back down, propped on her elbows to watch Noelle. Noelle climbs up with her, and resumes her position at the foot of the bed. Gently, she rests her face in the crook of Kay's crotch, her lips strategically resting against the tiny space between Kay's pussy and asshole -- her nose resting on Kay's wet vulva. 

Kay is still majorly weirded out and self-conscious as she stares down at Noelle in the dim light. Noelle, meanwhile, is like a person calming down from a panic attack. She breathes deeply a few times, getting her respiration back under control. A goofy smile spreads across her face, as her eyes go half lidded. She's enjoying this way too much...

"Fank you," Noelle says into Kay's pussy. Kay isn't sure whether Noelle is thanking her as a person or actually just thanking her genitals specifically.

Kay points at her. "If I ever hear you call someone else a freak -- EVER again -- I am telling them all about what happened here tonight."

"Okay. Fank you."

Kay lies flat on her back. She settles in, and takes the covers in one hand. "I'm covering back up," she announces.

"Okay."

Noelle is engulfed in darkness as Kay says simply: "Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Noelle's voice is doubly muffled now, and almost unintelligible to Kay up above.

Noelle snuggles up to her, giving Kay's supple thighs the slightest squeeze -- contact Kay flinches at. Noelle's entire world now is nothing except Kay's two wet holes in her face. Kay's perfumey scent, that feminine mixture of sweat and arousal, is amazing... the absolute best. It's like a salve for Noelle's debased soul. Nothing on Earth is better than this feeling... this closeness, this raw heat, this overpowering aroma. There's so much more that she wants to do... but she promised she would be good...

Kay tries to sleep. But the knowledge that Noelle is under the blankets, face buried in her pussy, keeps her wide awake. What a perverted dyke slut. This house really does corrupt people, doesn't it? As much as she tries to resist it, she's wet already, and getting wetter... she's acutely aware of her pussy juicing up, and she knows this can't possibly be escaping Noelle's notice either. Yes, Noelle can tell how wet she's getting. That fuels a self-perpetuating spiral. The wetter Kay gets, the wetter it makes her. The stuffiness of these covers isn't helping matters. She's all sticky with perspiration now, too... covering back up was a mistake, but it's too late to go back.

Kay's breathing is unsteady and strained. She finds herself pawing at her own breasts -- and then stays her hands, mentally cursing herself. She tries not to writhe her hips, but her hips seem to have a will of their own, and want to move against her permission. Why did she agree to this? She can't say. It's just because of how pathetic Noelle was acting, right? Not because she, too, wanted this...

From under the blankets now, comes Noelle's dreamy voice: "You smell really good..."

"Fuck," Kay grunts, unable to stop herself.

"You're so wet..."

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up."

"Do you want me to lick you?"

"No," Kay insists. "You stupid whore. I told you no already."

"Okay."

Kay chews her lip. This fucking bitch is obeying orders all of a sudden. Rather than ravish her, Noelle is dutifully refraining from any non-consensual contact. She just keeps her face nestled against Kay's crotch, smelling but not touching, her exhalations coming out hot against Kay's throbbing clit. Kay drums her fingers urgently against the satiny blanket over her chest, praying for strength. 

"Why... why do you like this so much?" Kay asks.

She feels the blankets shift, as Noelle shrugs. "I don't know. I just do... I *love* pussy... don't you love pussy?"

"Jesus," Kay says, gazing up at the stucco on the ceiling. Carrying on a conversation like this is so strange. "A little, I guess. Maybe? But... I honestly prefer dicks..." She closes her eyes and tries to envision Alabaster Soliloquy's squirting cock.

"Dick is fun," Noelle agrees. "But pussy is SO much better..."

Kay shivers, as she feels a rush of air across her cunt created by Noelle taking an especially deep breath. 

"Are you having fun, too?" Noelle asks.

"Go to sleep. Idiot. Fucking lesbian bitch."

"Okay."

Kay's pussy cramps, begging for relief. Relief Noelle is refusing to provide unless explicitly asked. Somehow the tables have turned. It's Noelle who has what Kay desperately wants, not vice versa.

It's so close, Kay knows... Noelle's lips are right there, on her taint -- those ruby-red, wet lips -- and behind them a wonderful pink tongue. All ready at a moment's notice to lick and suck and slobber all over Kay's messy orifices, ready to suck Kay off, ready to make her cum, to service her all night long, if she wants it... to relieve that aching itch inside her cunt...

"All... a-all right..." Kay whispers.

"Hmm?"

"I said all right. Fuck."

"All right, what?"

Kay throws the covers off and grabs two handfuls of Noelle's hair. She grits her teeth, enraged. "I said all right! Fuck!" She wraps her calves around the back of Noelle's head and mashes her pussy against her face. "Lick me, fucking bitch! That's what you wanted! Lick my fucking holes!"

Noelle happily complies. She slides her palms under Kay's butt and pulls Kay's lower holes to her lips. She kisses, licks, and suckles -- guzzles down Kay's tasty cream. It's not enough. Kay is out of her mind with need, and aggressively humps the woman's mouth like she's trying to suffocate her. Her demands devolve into a string of lewd insults: "Lick me, you fucking dyke cunt! Suck me off! Make me cum! Perverted fucking freak rapist! Nasty slut! Whore!"

But Noelle doesn't mind the verbal abuse as long as she's got a mouth full of pussy. She laps at Kay's holes, not discriminating between anus and vagina -- totally pigging out, eating Kay with gusto. Kay rips off her own nightgown and rubs her sweaty tit meat, luxuriating in the feeling of a skilled mouth working her over. This might be the hottest she's ever been... this feels way, way too good. Better than dick? Maybe... yes, definitely. Soon enough she's squirting a load of girlcum all over Noelle's smiling face. She feels the orgasm from deep within her belly, radiating outwards, making her legs shake. That itch inside her is being replaced with that wonderful, tingly, wet release of orgasm. She cums shamelessly all over Noelle, tweaking her nipples to heighten her pleasure, and almost passing out in joy. 

When the stars clear from her vision, she pulls herself off Noelle's face. Noelle gasps like a drowning victim being resuscitated. Her face and hair are totally coated with Kay's cunt-juice. Kay, wild and still horned-up, grabs Noelle and rips her nightshirt off. Noelle hardly fights. She lets Kay get her onto her back, and her legs in the air. Straddling Noelle and holding one of Noelle's calves for balance, drippy crotch to drippy crotch, Kay begins to grind. She cunt-fucks Noelle like she's got an invisible cock, still spitting obscene abuse at her: "Bitch! Stupid fucking cunt! Let me fuck you! Get raped!"

Noelle gasps and heaves, a lilt to her voice. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me," she sings. The bed bounces beneath her. "Fuck me... fuck my pussy..."

Turning, Kay gets down onto her elbows. They're all entwined, their tits rubbing up against each other, and their cumming pussies kissing, as they join lips and begin to make out. Like a pair of horny teens, they tongue each other, and cum wetly on each other's bodies. They leak all over each other, and get each other off. Their fingers slip into each other's holes -- Noelle enjoying the tight squeeze of Kay's cute little pussy, and Kay taking a sadistic thrill in prodding the rubbery opening of Noelle's pale asshole. Kay shoves another set of fingers down Noelle's throat, gagging her. Noelle responds by fingerfucking both of Kay's lower orifices at the same time. They pour sweat and cum and scream into each other's mouths and compete to see who can be the most aggressive and rapey. They do share the bed that night, but neither woman sleeps.

---

You and Whitney both share the same aversion to having servants and go-fers, having grown up in a world where you couldn't hire people to answer your every beck and call. You still do your own grocery shopping, for instance. It feels more natural that way. As you and Whitney get ready to head out for one such excursion with Noelle in tow, Rose drags her ass out bed long enough to lodge a couple requests:

"I need some tampons."

You frown. "What? Aren't you-- oh, yeah. Ugh." You shiver at the thought of a PMS'ing Rose. Never good.

"Shut up. Fucking misogynist. Just be thankful I need them, huh?"

"Should I be?" You ask sarcastically.

She lets that question hang in the air.

"Oh, and pick up some salsa, too," she says.

"You're not supplying your own right now?"

Rose's lips curl in disgust. "Oh my god, Alabaster. That is horrible--"

"Who's the misogynist now?" You say. She shoves you. "Okay, okay. Tampons, salsa--"

"Tortilla chips--"

"--and chips, check. Anything else, O queen? I'm your humble subject, after all, put upon this Earth to do whatever you require of me-- stop fucking smiling, I'm being sarcastic."

"There's a phrase for that -- 'kidding on the square'..."

"What kind of salsa do you want?" You say.

"The same kind I always get. My favorite."

"Which is -- what?" You say.

She makes a pissy purr of frustration. "You know what kind, Alabaster. God."

"I literally don't, is the thing."

"It's -- damn it, I forget the brand name. But it's the same salsa I've been eating since you've known me. You know what kind!"

"I'm not your designated salsa detective!" You shout, throwing up your arms. "Why the hell is this on me, to know the foods you like to eat? If you've been eating it for years, you should know what it's called!"

"You're the one with the superhuman memory! I've seen you eating it enough, you're the one who finished off the last jar of it!"

You massage the bridge of your nose. "God fucking damn it, Rose. Describe it, at least."

She's gesticulating confusedly, trying to scrounge up a unique description. "It's... it comes in a jar--"

"A jar. Oh, okay. A jar. So not in a box. You should try boxed salsa sometime. You're really missing out."

"Fuck you. It's red -- and, and the label has some kind of, like, sun on it. In a sort of Aztec style."

"Red salsa in a jar with Aztec-inspired art. Okay, yeah. That for sure will help me find it. I'm definitely going to find what you want and you're definitely not going to bitch at me when I come back with the wrong kind."

She locks her elbows and stomps. "You know what kind, Alabaster! Fuck!"

"I'm getting you a jar of Pace."

"Don't you dare--"

"I'm getting you Pace and you're going to like it."

"I will dump it down your asshole! Don't you dare!"

You turn and go out the front door, as Rose continues to hurl insults and obscenities at you.

She's fighting with you for the first time since that day... it's a good sign. You smile to yourself.

---

Lewd interlewd 2:

[ ] Bullying Samantha
>[x] Come to our tea party, mister!
[ ] Yeah, Mom -- we call it family movie night...
[ ] Circuit bending, gender bending... whatever!
[ ] Fuck me in to bed, Daddy.

Whitney's mansion has a tea room. That's what the floorplan and the realtor both called it, anyway, although it hardly gets used for tea. It actually hardly gets used for anything, despite being furnished with settees, chairs, rugs, and a small table. You had offered to convert it into a bedroom rather than force Noelle to bunk with someone else, but Noelle was adamant that she wanted to stay in the room she already had -- and then kept interrupting you when you were trying to pitch the idea to Kay. Well, at least Noelle's room has two beds. So they won't have to share.

Maybe it was for the best. It turns out that Vivian actually does appreciate the tea room for its intended use. She's begun using it daily for the taking of tea and crumpets. British expat in spirit, she is. She regularly asks others to join her -- "you are cordially invited to elevenses with me" etc. -- but seldom does anyone take her up on it. 

That's why you find it so strange when you get a text from Amber that Saturday morning: 

>Come to our tea party, mister!

"Our" implies more than one; and since Vivian is the only person you know who actually drinks the stuff, it's reasonable to figure that Amber actually did take Vivian up on her brunch invitation. A bold choice -- she must want some backup in dealing with Vivian's chuuni self. 

You make your way down to the tea room and find... roughly what you expected... and yet it still somehow surprises you.

A lacy white tablecloth lies draped over the round table, and the pale blue china is set out. Vivian, in full GothLoli regalia, parasol and veil and bodice and all, sits at the place of honor, her back to the bay window. She sips tea from a tiny cup, pinky extended, holding the saucer beneath. If where she sits is north on the compass rose described by the table, then at the western point sits Amber, wearing a tanktop and short-shorts; the platonic opposite of Vivian. Whereas Vivian is overdressed, elegant and fragile, Amber looks like she stepped out of the trailer park, her entire bearing low-class yet hale. At the eastern point of the table, sitting propped up on a stack of books in a chair, is a stuffed penguin you know as Johann -- Vivian's since childhood. At the southern point of the table, sitting similarly propped up on books, is a stuffed animal you don't know, a threadbare bunny with fat, floppy ears as long as its body. Just beside the bunny, in a second chair, is a teddy bear wearing an eyepatch -- that obscene thing Amber's classmates used to bully her.

"Hey mister!" Amber says. "Glad you could make it!"

Vivian slowly sets her cup and saucer back down. "Greetings," she says. "Thank you for joining us."

You uncertainly close the door behind you and step towards the table. Jumping up, Amber races to the wall and grabs a chair from along it, then comes back and places it at the table's northwestern side; jammed between her and Vivian.

"Uh, I think I'll sit here," you say, and pick up Johann to move him aside.

Vivian's voice, to the best extent it can, booms deeply: "Unhand me! Cad!"

Then she reaches out and takes Johann from you. She takes a moment to smooth his fur before setting him back atop his little throne of books. "Apologies," she tells the toy, "our guest clearly has a deficit of manners."

"You have got to be joking," you say.

"Gosh mister, that was really mean of you just now," Amber says. "Johann didn't do anything to you. Why do you gotta push him around?"

Shaking your head, you circle the table and sit at your appointed spot. This is where the girls want you, it seems.

"Sorry about mister," Amber tells Vivian, "I didn't think he'd be such a meanie."

"No matter. Do you take sugar?" Vivian asks you, as she pours you a cup from the intricately floral-patterned kettle. 

"Sure," you say. You have no idea what the fuck is happening right now.

"One lump or two?"

"Three," Amber answers for you. She leans in with her fingers clutching the lace tablecloth. "He likes things *sweet*. Isn't that right?"

"Yeah," you agree. 

Vivian uses a long, dainty spoon to plop one, two, three cubes of sugar into your cup. It might have been a little much for the volume of tea... but Mom's desserts have inured your pancreas to the ravages of diabetic shock. Vivian stirs for you, the spoon's edge scraping audibly against the cup's walls.

"Cream?" She asks.

"Oh, he definitely likes things creamy," Amber says.

Vivian tuts at Amber, but smiles all the same. She takes a small lidded vessel and pours, dispensing half-and-half. The tea turns from dark to pale umber. 

You take the cup in hand and blow on the surface of the liquid to cool it. Vivian glances Amber's way and titters a bit, knowingly, like she's in on a joke you aren't. You've never been a tea drinker, or of most any other hot beverage, preferring to get your caffeine fixes from cold sodas or energy drinks. But this stuff isn't too bad, especially sweetened up now as it is, and you slowly sip the sugary slurry. As you swallow, you nod at the stuffed bunny: "Who's that?" (Might as well play along.)

"That's Adolf!" Amber says. She takes the thing in her hands, and holds it up in front of her face. With one of the bunny's long arms, she, uh -- "waves" -- and with a high pitched voice she ventriloquizes: "Hi, Al!"

You grimace. "That's yours?"

Amber lowers Adolf to her lap, unobscuring her face. "Uh huh. I've had him since I was only little. We're friends."

"You named your stuffed rabbit after Hitler?" You say.

Amber gasps. "Wh-what? His name is Adolf! That's a perfectly normal name for a German bunny! It's the 14th most popular name for German bunnies, you know!"

Somehow you sense that she's used this story in the past.

Adolf cuts in, his fluffy butt covering Amber's face again: "Oy vey, what a maroon!"

"I know!" Amber agrees, turning Adolf in her hands to look him in the face.

You grab Adolf roughly between his ears as if palming a basketball, hoist him out of Amber's grip and set him back in his seat. Top-heavy, he falls with his back against the chairback, arms slumping and ears flopping.

"And who's that?" You ask, nodding now at the one-eyed bear.

"That's Plissken," Amber says. She cups her hand to her mouth and adds: "He's mute." 

You stare at Plissken, as if you're waiting for a response, and naturally, the bear says nothing. He's mute, after all.

Unbelievably, the girls have poured actual cups of actual tea for these inanimate toys; and now Amber, taking Adolf's cup in hand, pretends to give him a sip. She repeats this process with Plissken. Vivian does it for Johann. You feel like you're in an insane asylum.

"Johann and Adolf have gotten along famously," Vivian avers. "Although hailing from Antarctica, Johann also has German ancestry. The two have much in common..."

"They're both political, as a for-instance!" Amber chimes in.

"Plissken is overcoming his fear of others to socialize, as well," Vivian says. "He is warming up to us, I can tell."

You all look Plissken's way. He stares stoically back.

"Work in progress," Amber says. "Lotta trauma there..."

You roll your eyes and sigh.

Vivian turns to Amber: "How do you know this gentleman?" She asks her of you.

She shrugs. "I met him at my school one day! He seemed like he'd be pretty cool to hang around, but I didn't realize he'd be so *rude* to our other guests." She glares at you.

"How gauche," Vivian says.

"I expect this kind of stuff from Amber," you say, "but from you, Vivian? What's gotten into you?"

As always whenever Vivian acts haughty, her laughter genuinely sounds like "fufufufu~" -- it weirds you out.

You sip your tea a little more and then, setting your cup down, you tug at your collar. "Did you two turn the thermostat up, or what? It's like a fucking oven in here."

Amber, gasping theatrically, cups her palms to Adolf's prodigious ears. "Language!" She shouts. "Language, language, language!!"

"I think you have made a severe misjudgment of character," Vivian tells her. "This man is not an adequate guest for our tea party... no civility whatsoever..." And then, voice lowering to speak in Johann's stead: "I second the motion."

You chuff. "Fine. You two enjoy this weird little... whatever... without me, then." You push your chair away from the table and stand, but you almost collapse with a sudden rush of blood to the head. You brace yourself with a fist pressed to the tabletop. Your extremities tingle and your temples throb, your vision whorls. You blink it back to normal, and steady your shallow breathing. You notice at the same time Amber notices: that you have a massive erection tenting your trousers.

"Oh my gosh, mister!" Amber says. She points at it with a forefinger like a kid might point at a scary but interesting bug on a twig. 

Your throat is dry. When you try to speak, only a creaky groan comes out. You smack your lips, swallow hard, and try again: "I... fuck, sorry--"

"Language, language, language!" She's shielding Adolf's delicate ears again. "Geez, you're not a nice mister at all, are you? Cursing like that... and walking around like *that*-- at a little girl's tea party!"

Vivian's smug "fufufu~" comes again, and you give her a hard stare. The jigsaw pieces are starting to click into place inside your mind. "You..." you sputter. "Did you fucking drug me?"

"Now, why would I do that?" Vivian says. She perches her cheek against the back of her hand.

"You did--"

Amber is pushing your chair towards the table now, and the edge of the seat catches the crooks of your knees, and your legs buckle, and gravity slowly tugs you back down against your will. "There we go," Vivian says as she watches on, "sit and collect your bearings. We can afford you at least that much hospitality. Are you feeling all right? Have you become disturbed, somehow, or somehow ill? Are you a mite feverish?"

"You're crazy..." you pant. "You're both -- fucking nuts --"

Even as you say this, you're harder than you've ever been in your life. Your cock is so erect that it causes actual physical distress, makes your eyes water.

All of a sudden now, Vivian is in your lap -- facing you, straddling you. Her knees rest on the edges of the chair on either side of your thighs, the hoop of her dress concealing her butt as well as your lap. Beneath that cover, you can feel her pantied crotch -- it's damp -- pressing down directly on your straining member through your pants.

"What are you doing?" You grunt.

Cooing, Vivian shushes you, and says: "I need to check you for fever." She presses her fingers to your moist forehead, and delivers a prompt verdict: "You're burning up."

"Oh no!" Amber says. Still holding the chairback, she leans around it, pressing her cheek close to yours. She looks her friend in the eye. "It's really that bad?"

Vivian holds your cheeks in both her small hands, the balls of her palms just barely reaching to your chin. "Oh yes, I'm afraid so," she says.

"What should we do?" Amber says. "I know he's kinda weird, but I don't want him to be sick..."

"Hmm," Vivian murmurs. "I am uncertain." She wiggles around in your lap, purposefully grinding against your hardon. You feel the soft cleft of her pussy through the fabric, and an unbelievable heat emanating from it... did she drug herself, too? And Amber as well? Still clasping your face, Vivian gets as close as she can without kissing, and whispers: "What should we do about this, mister?"

The lust grips you and takes over. These fucking horny cunts want to get themselves fucked... you'll fuck them, all right.

You grab Vivian about her waist and spin her 180 degrees so her back is up against your chest. You run your hands up and down the black satin of her dress, the rococo frills and ribbons, the ruffled white lacework. You rest your chin on her shoulder and exhale hard through your nostrils as you feel her up. It makes her long raven hair billow. 

"nn..." Vivian gulps. "What are you doing...?"

You kiss her bare, thin neck. "I need to cool off... will you help me?"

"You believe this well help with your fever?" Vivian asks. 

"Yes," you lie, "it's a heat transfer -- stop squirming, now, okay?"

"Erm..." Vivian murmurs, indecisive, as your curious hands cup her flat chest. She has not even the hint of breasts evident under the dress's heavy material -- flat as a board. Just how you like it. She looks up at you from over her shoulder: "are you -- certain?"

"Oh, definitely." 

She rubs her thighs together and presses the weight of her butt against your leaky dick.

Amber, watching, says: "Hold on! If you're transferring heat, won't that just make Vivian sick instead?"

You shake your head, still groping Vivian. Reaching down, you tug the brocaded hem of her dress up, and bare her damp cameltoe. Amber giggles. "Vivian, you wet yourself!"

"I... I don't know why..." Vivian says dazedly.

You explain to Amber. "Vivian already has a fever, too. See? She's sweating down here."

Amber clasps the fanned-out fingers of one hand to her lips. "This is serious! She's already sick, too, then!"

You nod. "We have to transfer heat from both of us. It's the only way."

"How can I help?" Amber asks.

"Let's check you for fever too," you tell Amber. 

She feels her own forehead, eyes rolling up as if trying to see it. "I guess maybe I feel sorta weird... but I dunno..."

"No," you say, "you have to check down here." You loop an arm around Vivian's thin body and lightly brush your fingertips against her dewy panties. She draws a sharp intake of air through her teeth.

"um..." Amber says, voice small.

"Do it," you say firmly.

She hesitantly gets a thumb hooked in her waistband and undoes the clasp of her jean shorts. Then she slowly, slooooowly pulls the zipper. The denim spreads and finally you can see the stripes of her panties peeking out beneath, baby blue and baby pink -- and you can see that she's totally fucking wet right now. To confirm, Amber presses her palm down her pants, holding it to her crotch, and says: "Y-yeah... yeah, mister -- I'm all sweaty down there, too... what should I do?"

"We need to get you both naked," you say.

Vivian, in your arms, shivers. Amber takes a halting step backwards. "H-hold on a sec! We can't get *naked* -- that's weird!"

You're already undoing the elaborate series of catches and buttons on the back of Vivian's dress. She's too mortified to fight you. Her leaky little pussy is getting wetter by the second...

"Don't worry," you say. "This will help you cool off... I promise."

"Is this... is this really okay?" Amber asks.

"Of course," you tell her.

"But we're not s'posed to get naked," Amber says.

"I won't tell," you promise. "Are you going to tell anyone?" 

She shakes her head. 

"How about you?" You ask Vivian, staring over her shoulder, down at her translucent white panties. You suckle her neck, making her shiver anew.

"No... I won't tell."

"Then it can be our secret," you say. "And it'll help you feel better."

Breath shaky, body trembling, Amber peels off her tennis shoes, her shorts, and her tank. She wasn't wearing a bra, the fucking little whore, and the nipples of her barely-there tits are already hard and pointy. She hesitates at the final step, her thumbs and forefingers making a diamond against her darkly stained underwear. She stares abashedly at the ground.

"Those too," you order.

Reluctantly, Amber peels the sticky garment off her body. Stepping from them one leg at a time, her perky butt and puffy pussy come into view. Her vulva is tight and taut, but shiny with arousal. So fucking pretty. 

"Give those here," you beckon, and Amber fumblingly hands you her wadded-up underwear. She tries to cover her cunt with her hands; you swat them. "Don't," you bark.

Amber squeaks in pain and and fright. "M-mister--!" 

But she does as you command. She doesn't try to conceal her cunt from you. She blushes deeply as she stands there on display.

You help Vivian out of her dress, pulling it away with one hand as you hold her body steady with the other. You discard the thing in a heap on the floor, and following that comes her petticoat, then her bra, and at last your hands are tugging at her panties too -- unwrapping the young girl like a piece of candy.

"I still feel hot, mister..." Amber says. You stare at her nakedness unashamedly, devouring her with your eyes: her little B-cup titties, her dripping pussy. 

"This... is not normal..." Vivian says, her voice weak. "You're doing strange things to us... you're a pervert, aren't you?" 

"Yes," you admit plainly. 

She looks at her friend: "did you know this about him, when you invited him?"

Amber wrings her hands. "Um... uh, yeah... I'm sorry..."

"nn..." Vivian gulps again, as you force her panties off despite her feeble resistance, and set them with Amber's on the tea table. Both girls are nude save for their socks; Amber's not even covering her ankles, and Vivian's extending up past her knees.

"I knew mister was a weird mister..." Amber confesses. "Because h-he did weird stuff to me, back at school... and I thought... I th-thought it would be fun if he did weird stuff to both of us."

Vivian is always like a doll in your hands, but especially when she's naked and trembling. You have the feeling that you could break her in two if you're not careful... and you don't plan to be very careful. 

"My parents warned me of men like you," Vivian says. You stroke her little tummy up and down, enjoying the softness of her body. "Perverted men who... like to do things to little girls..."

"But you're perverted too," you whisper in her ear. Your fingers trace their way down, to the mound of her cunny, and run in circles against the slickness there. "This part of you is perverted. This little hole of yours is perverted... it's all wet and sticky because it wants me to do weird stuff to it..."

"Th-that's a lie," Vivian says. "That isn't-- nnn..." She tosses her head back against your collarbone as you rub the hard nubbin of her clitty. Her little fist clutches your shirt.

"Does that feel good?" Amber asks. "He touched me lots down there, too... and it felt really, really good for me..." she rubs herself obscenely with both hands, and even spreads the lips of her cunt apart with her thumbs. Like she's trying to show off, and simultaneously relieve the aching itch that grips her. It's not enough, and she whines: "I've been doing it myself, ever since... but it isn't the same as when mister does it..."

"Come here," you tell her. 

She steps up close. You grab her butt and roughly tug her even closer, startling her. Now both your hands are busy: you're molesting both these girls at the same time. Amber arches her back and juts her hips out to give you easier access. Both her hands grasp your forearm tightly for balance. Her eyelids drift closed in pleasure as you slip your fingers up the hot vice of her fuckhole.

Vivian tries to talk sense into her: "This man is violating us... we should stop him..."

Amber bites her lip and shakes her head. "No, no we shouldn't..." She looks lecherously up at her friend, and humps your fingers like they're a dildo. "...We should *fuck* him."

"A-Amber..." Vivian stutters.

"Mister's got such a nice dick, Vivian! Don't you wanna see it?" She looks over at you: "I do... will you get your dick out for me, mister?"

"Get it out for me," you tell her.

She giggles stupidly. "Welllll~ ... okay. Your hands are kinda busy, huh?"

She straightens her posture and steps yet closer still, your right hand's fingers never once exiting her cunt. Meanwhile you rub the side of your left hand's middle finger up and down the unbelievably wet, rubbery, lewd crease of Vivian Darkbloom's innie. She's like a human-shaped puddle of goo in your arms, utterly unable to fight this humiliating toying. And now her humiliation ratchets higher, as Amber reaches right between her pale legs, and under her pale butt, to find the zipper of your pants. She gets it undone and fishes your engorged dick out. You grunt in delight as you feel the cool air waft over it. It juts up from between Vivian's thighs, like the leg of a table, dark and enormous compared to her slight build. It throbs, pulses, and seeps prefuck like a faucet. Sitting in this position, it looks like it could push past her womb and into her diaphragm -- this fucking cock of yours could ruin her if you fucked her with it. You're definitely gonna fuck her with it.

You let your left hand fall to your side, and instruct Amber: "rub my dick against Vivian's hole for me. Jerk me off."

"Haha..." Amber laughs. "You really are a pervert..." But she does as instructed. She holds your cock by the root, down near the balls, and slaps it against Vivian's cunt. The skin-to-skin contact makes both of you groan, yours deep and lusty, Vivian's high and whiny. 

"See how wet your friend is?" You ask Amber. 

She nods. "Uh huh..." 

"That means she's a cunt," you say.

"Haha..." Amber coos. "You're a cunt, Vivian! Just like me!"

"Amber--" Vivian pleads. "Don't... don't look..."

"Has she ever been fucked before?" You ask. 

"Nuu-uhh," Amber says. "She's cherry, just like I was when you fucked me!"

"She won't be cherry for long," you growl. 

"That's what you like, huh?" Amber says coyly. "You like popping cherries, mister?" 

Vivian, mewling, clutches your shirt with both fists now, and writhes against you, looking pitifully up at you. "Please, mister, no... I don't want to have sex... your-- your p-penis is too big... it would never fit... I beg you... d-do not deflower me..."

"Call it a cock," Amber tells her. "That's what he likes." She wags that cock of your back and forth across Vivian's cunt, pushing the lips one way and then the other, and smearing your shaft with her lovely secretions. You enjoy the slick sensation of her juices lubing you up in preparation to 'deflower' her. 

You lift her up. Your fingers can almost touch each other wrapped around her waist; she's basically a living dicksleeve. You perch your chin on her shoulder and rasp: "I'm gonna put my cock in you whether you want it or not, fucking cunt. You should have thought about this before you drugged me."

"S-stop -- I'm s-sorry--!! No!!"

You thrust your butt upwards at the same time as you slam her downwards. Your cockhead splits her pretty hole open, forcing it impossibly wide, stretching it like a rubber band about to snap. You don't stop there, either; you jab her down over and over, forcing her too-small pussy to engulf your burning hot shaft entirely -- down, down to the wiry pubes around your crotch. They're such a contrast against her hairless mound. The chair creaks and the china clatters on the table. Vivian grits her teeth, her entire body seizes -- and then she screams in pain that isn't roleplayed. You're really fucking hurting her with the merciless force and speed of your balls-deep penetration. 

You grab, randomly, one of the pairs of panties off the table; Amber's. You pry Vivian's jaw open, fingers against her lower teeth, wad the garment up and shove them in her mouth. It shuts her up. "That's better," you snarl.

You start to fuck her, the flat of your other palm bracing the small of her back, humping up into her body as you sit in the chair. Vivian is still screaming, but it's muffled by the sodden cotton, and her frantic breaths through her nose are the only real noise to accompany your brutal, squelchy, slam-fuck rape.

"Whoooaaa..." Amber breathes. "You're really fucking her up, mister!"

She parts the hair out of Vivian's face and looks her in the eye. Vivian's expression is a whole panorama of emotions: fear, pain, betrayal... lust, perverted enjoyment, pleasure... Amber smiles back at her. 

"He's gonna shoot his white stuff in you," Amber says. "That's how babies get made. Maybe he'll make a baby in you?"

Vivian wrenches her eyes closed and shakes her head violently. She doesn't want a baby. But whatever she tries to say is unintelligible through her playmate's cunt-stained shimapan. 

"Kiss her," you tell Amber.

Amber, who's at least as much of a pervert as she says you are, winks at you. She takes Vivian's conservative white cotton panties off the table and wads them in her mouth in mimicry of Vivian; and then, through the dual gags, she presses her yawning mouth to Vivian's, and showers her in kisses. This is too delicious to miss out on yourself. So as you fuck Vivian's insides to a pulp, you join that lesbian kiss and turn it to a three-way makeout session, enjoying the taste and smell of those girls' panties, as well as their faces, their necks, their budding tits -- and Vivian's tears, too. She can cry, but the slut is still all juicy inside, and her puffy pussy spasms against your invading cock in a way that plainly proves how much it loves getting raped. Vivian likes getting her cunt busted open. She likes the way your dick bruises up her womb. You suck and kiss the girls' faces as enjoy raping her to the fullest possible extent.

"Get on your knees," you tell Amber. 

She does, without question. 

"Lick my balls."

She pulls the panties from her mouth and lets them dangle in the air, bridged to her lips by a long, viscous streamer of drool. "Aaaahhh," she says like a patient at the dentist. She rubs the slobber- and cunt-slime-coated thing against her pussy, masturbating with it, as she leans forward and begins to swab her dainty pink tongue around your nuts. It's nice and wet and smooth. She watches the way you fuck her pal, the way you rape her, from way up close, and helps you feel even better while you do it. What a good little girl, introducing you to her friend like this...

"Cum lots inside her, mister!" Amber says between licks. Her voice is all staccato and lusty. Telling you that gets her off, too -- you can hear the wet patter of her creaming in Vivian's panties. 

Vivian tries to say something, and you decide to let her speak; you tug the underwear from her mouth as well.

"M-m-m-m-ister," she says, shivering like a victim of hypothermia, "A-a-are, are you g-g-going t-t-t-to insem-m-m-menate m-m-m-eee?"

"Is that what you want?" You ask, viciously punctuating your syllables with hard thrusts into her. 

"Y-y-yes... y-y-yessshh..."

She swoons and collapses against your chest. Hands squeezing her tiny butt, you seat yourself in her uterus, and roar, a long, loud, "oooooohhhhh, fuuuuckkkk..." as your cock shoots off and you dump a load straight into her belly. Amber continues sucking your testicles as they tighten and spew their wad into Vivian; her lips purse into an O and her good eye shines bright as she watches Vivian's cunt getting sullied with your 'white stuff.' 

"Oh gosh," Amber marvels. "You really spermed a whole lot just now..." She gives a long, languid lick, up to where your cock is wedged in Vivian's fun-sized cunt, and adds: "How nice... you've got a new pussy to fuck, mister! Do you like the way it feels on your cock?"

"Fuck, yes," you heave.

"You'll still fuck my pussy too, right?"

"Oh yes... I'll fuck both of you..."

Vivian, still woozy, and high on cum, smiles wanly up at you. Her grippy cunt massages your dick in her well-honed way and keeps it hard.

As you pull out Vivian's body, Amber makes sure to catch the backflow of semen with the crotch of Vivian's panties. Then, when the milky white mess is all out of her and pooled there, she helps Vivian back into them -- mashing the sloppy mess against Vivian's cunt mound, and trapping it. Vivian's hands join Amber's at her crotch, and together they play: they take turns pressing the totally transparent, sticky, sodden garment against the contours of Vivian's cunny. They wedge it into her and pull it out, over and again. They giggle and laugh at their games. Their hands get shiny with the residue of your cum.

But Amber wants her turn. She leaps to her feet, bends over the table, and spreads her ass wide with both hands. Her fingers make dimples in her unblemished skin just below her ass cheeks; you see her pristine anus and her slightly parted pussy. 

Side of her face pressed to the table, she stares back at you. "Fuck me, mister, fuck me! Pour your white stuff in my hole, too!"

You let Vivian down onto the floor, step out of your pants and boxers, and mount Amber like the baby bitch she is. You fuck her doggy style, the table shaking underneath her, china collapsing to the floor, Johann and Adolf and Plissken lolling to their sides. Amber can just hold on for dear life, as you force your horny prick in and out of her cunny. You're even less merciful than you were with Vivian.

"You're such a pervert... such a pervert..." Vivian pants, rising to her knees. "Putting your cock in little girls like this... fucking them and shooting your white stuff inside them... don't you have any shame?"

"No," you grunt. "It's all your fault, you little sluts..."

"You're so mean, mister..." Amber whines below you. You shut her up by wrapping your hands around her throat and choking her. She gasps, but it's a gasp of enjoyment -- and she's smiling as you nail her even harder.

"Lick my asshole," you grunt at Vivian. 

Her lips curl as if she's disgusted, but she doesn't dispute the order. She rises up and parts the globes of your ass. With a small sigh, she licks your anus a couple times -- then sticks her tongue inside. Sitting on her besocked knees, wearing cummy panties, she rims you out as you fuck Amber within an inch of her life. There's no better feeling than that, a hot little tongue in your butt and a hot cunt wrapped around your dick. 

"Oooh," you're groaning again, "oh fuck, oh fuck--" you feel a couple deep, wet surges, your cock shooting internally, giving Amber the creampie she so desired. There's a huge volume of it, and it fills the tiny space of her pussy in no time. With Vivian kneading your balls to help you along even as she continues to lick you out -- a new, debauched idea enters your mind. You pull out of Amber's cunt with a slurp, gripping your dick by the base to stop your cum. The girls watch with interest as you take their teacups -- first Amber's, then Vivian's -- and squirt thick ropes of cum into both. The tea turns pale with your seed, although some of it misses the mark, splattering against the rim, and down the side, and onto the saucer too. 

No matter; Amber and Vivian enjoy your cream either way. With both girls now clad in nothing but socks and cum-drenched panties, they resume their seats. The china is scattered all around, sugarbowl on the floor, spilled tea staining the white lace tablecloth; the room stinks of cum and fucking, and there are spatters of your collective fluids smeared on the table -- it's not a refined scene at all. But daintily the little girls sit there, and drink the rest of their tea flavored with your cum. They lick up the last dredges of cream from the dishes when it's done. Long, slow, broad licks, savoring it from directly off the gleaming porcelain. They giggle at you while they do it.

A few minutes later, when they take a second serving, you give them a second helping of that cream, too -- they jerk you off in tandem, all four of their hands working your enormous shaft over, and coax your jizz out. They sit between your legs, kissing and masturbating you. You cum in Amber's mouth, a couple blasts; then Vivian's, a couple more; and when they sit at the table again they drool the milky load into their cups, stirring it all up.

"Thanks mister," Amber says, the cum still dribbling down her chin. 

"Yes," Vivian agrees, a bubble of cum popping on her lips. "You are a wonderful guest, after all."

---

Non-lewd interlude 2:

[ ] Rose learns to bake
>[x] Gal could do that all along?!
[ ] Samantha's hidden talents!
>[x] Whitney helps Gal get sporty
[ ] Alabaster helps Cerise with wedding vows

Dr. Carte has spent approximately 24 straight hours ravishing Samantha on a deck chair in the backyard by the pool, and it's only because Whitney -- Whitney, of all people -- has the mercy to force her mother back indoors that the poor, abused, beleaguered and now sunburned bunnygirl gets any rest at all. She lies groaning and violated on the chair, too tired to really move, but at least she's nice eye candy for the rest of you...

It's been unseasonably warm in the daytime recently, enough to take a dip in the pool. Whitney wants to use the opportunity to get Gal a little exercise -- an effort you can fully get behind -- but you suspect ulterior motives on the part of your tomboy girlfriend. She was a little too excited about getting to see Gal in a bikini, having missed out on the view during the Palau trip.

Whitney wolf-whistles her as Gal slowly steps past the veranda's shade, across the grass and onto the limestone tiling around the pool. "Whoa. What a fucking snack you are!" She says.

Amber, kicked back on a chair beside Samantha, wearing heart-shaped sunglasses and sucking a lollipop as she reads a book, purrs disgustedly: "Please don't use that word. It has traumatic associations for me."

Gal hugs herself as if trying to hide from Whitney's prying eyes. Whitney isn't having that. She forces Gal to keep her hands at her side, and then grabbing Gal by both shoulders, she says: "You are fucking hot, Gal, for real! You need to stop wearing those frumpy tees... no wonder you took Cerise on a one-way ride to Lezville."

"t-thank you... i think..."

"Could you not treat her like a piece of meat?" Cerise says as she steps past, letting her hair down as she takes off her sunhat. "That's my wife you're manhandling." She straightens the top of her own bikini as she watches on.

Whitney grins at Cerise -- and without breaking eye contact, slaps Gal's ass. Gal gasps, spine stiffening as her perky little butt jiggles.

"What you gonna do?" Whitney asks Cerise.

Cerise looks from her, to Gal, and back again. "Make you share, at least," she finally says.

"Heeeh." She spins Gal around and takes off her spectacles. Through a goofy grin, she asks: "Have you ever played pool volleyball?"

"n-no... or normal volleyball for that matter"

"You're gonna play now."

"i really dont want to swim today--"

"Too late!" Whitney squeals, and shoves Gal with both palms. Gal stumbles backwards two steps, arms windmilling, and falls into the pool with a splash that hits you all -- including Amber on her chair, who throws her hands up, book and lollipop and all, and groans in frustration.

"Jerks!" Amber yells. She crawls forward and pulls her glasses up. Gal is just coming up for air, gasping. "You okay, Gal?" Amber asks.

"so... cold..." She treads water. Her long hair is plastered to her head, and much darker when wet. "...yes im okay"

"If they bully you too hard, let me know." Amber flexes a bicep. "I'll kick their butts."

"thank you ca-- amber"

Whitney sets up the net, and you divide into teams of two. Whitney takes Gal under her wing, how sweet -- to go up against the unstoppable brother-sister duo of Alabaster and Cerise Soliloquy.

The odds seem pretty even, this way. Whitney is an athletic superstar, you know, but shackled to dead weight like Gal, there's only so much she can do against two, albeit comparatively unathletic, players. You witnessed that firsthand at the Darkbloom Analytics tennis invitational a couple months back when Whitney had the misfortune of pairing with Makoto, who couldn't hit a ball to save her life -- err -- maybe not the best analogy there...

Gal has the dubious honor of serving first, too. She stands somewhat off-kilter towards the shallows, rears back, throws the ball into the air -- and misses. It bonks against her head, into the water, and she groans.

Cerise can't help laughing. "Sorry..." she says between peals. "But... but... bwahaha!"

"Gal, Gal, Gal," Whitney chides, wading over to her. "Your form is all fucked. You gotta follow through, first of all."

"im sorry"

"Don't be sorry, toots. Just watch -- and learn, okay? Really focus."

"yes"

Whitney stands beside Gal and readies herself to serve. You and Cerise share an oh-shit look, and scramble to prepare for the coming spike. Whitney's main forte may be soccer but she's gifted all around athletically, and her arched back, her flexing quads as she hops upward, the bulging delts of her arms and the resounding ka-thunk of her fist making contact with the rubber; leave little doubt that she's playing for keeps.

It travels high over the net, and comes blazing back poolward towards you. You try to jog in reverse to intercept it but your movement is weirdly sluggish, feet uncoordinated underwater, and you can't get to it in time. Cerise doesn't even attempt to give you the assist, just watches dumbly as you lose balance and dip beneath the water's surface. The ball lands behind you unreturned, bobbing around as if dancing to mock you both.

"Point!" Whitney shouts, throwing both hands high above her head like a ref signalling touchdown.

You come back up, swiping the stinging chlorine-tinged water from your eyes. "That doesn't count!" you shout. "It's not your serve!"

Cerise has your back: "Yeah! That was just a tutorial serve!"

Whitney sighs. "Sore losers..." She glances back at Gal. "Just like that. Got it?"

"i think so"

"Great," Whitney says. "You're gonna do great."

"Sorry in advance for beating you," Cerise says as Gal prepares to serve a second time.

"cerise..."

Cerise laughs, and blows her wife a kiss. "No hard feelings, okay? It's just a game."

Then it comes: ka-thunk, whir, zip, splash -- Gal mirrors Whitney's serve to perfection. It happens so quickly. The ball comes sailing over your head. You jump for it, but only barely manage to bobble it with your fingertips. Cerise dives, clamoring to save it, but too late; humiliated, you both watch as the ball lands in the water, doing that bobbing-dancing mockery on the rippling surface that makes you want to kick a hole in the wall.

"Point!" Whitney says.

"God fucking damn it," Cerise snarls. "You knocked it off course!"

"I was trying to hit it!" You shout. "You know, the object of the game? So fucking sue me!"

"It was my ball! You should have let me get it!"

You're squaring off, sneering at each other.

"guys..." Gal says. "it's... just a game..."

"Shut up!" Cerise yells, turning and pointing at her. She treads over to the ball and takes it in hand, ready to give a return serve. "Your ass is mine, bitch."

Gal squeaks.

It's a rout. And it turns ugly. Gal might be weak, but the water is a great equalizer; it puts her on a relatively even playing field with the two of you who are otherwise stronger and faster. She mastered serving after just one viewing -- it takes her a little bit more time to master the intricacies of actually volleying. That leaves at least a little space for you and Cerise to keep it from turning into a total shutout -- but as the game grinds on and Gal observes more and more of Whitney's play, the two become a hivemind, one brain in two bodies; it's like you're playing with Whitney and her slightly slower, slightly weaker clone.

Cerise is the sorer loser; when it becomes clear the game is hopeless, she tries deliberately to bean Whitney a few times, spiking the ball right at her face. When once the ball is about to actually hit Whitney, Gal, with all the courage of a secret service agent shielding the president from gunfire, dives in front of her tutor and takes the hit instead. It whacks her rail-thin body by the ribcage, and you can already see a bruise fast spreading.

"Fuck! Sorry!" Cerise says, clasping her hands over her mouth -- mad about losing, yes, but not mad enough to target her wife.

"you're not sorry" Gal says ominously, taking the ball again. "...but you will be..."

"Heeeeeh," Whitney laughs. "I like the passion! Fuck her up!"

"Don't you -- don't you even think about it--!" Cerise begins. Too late. The ball is zipping back towards Cerise's face -- such wanton spousal abuse, you've never witnessed before. You try to take the hit for her, how Gal took the hit for Whitney, but let's face it Alabaster Soliloquy, you aren't fast on your feet. Cerise takes a Wilson to the noggin and falls back, mostly from the surprise of it you suspect, in a Christlike pose, submerged and enraged under the water.

"Point!" Whitney shouts.

When the game is over, you all work the aggression out of your systems with some poolside fucking. Even Amber joins in. And Samantha, tired and abused though she may well be, wouldn't miss out on raw sex happening just a few feet away. The debauchery helps your dyke sister smooth things over with her lipstick lesbian waifu, and... all's well that ends well -- as the bard would say. (You're a Shakespeare expert nowadays.)

Walking through the downstairs hallway, drying your hair off with a towel, you hear, from behind the closed door of a bathroom, Cerise's raucous laughter. You stop just outside, curious.

"What a fucking snack you are!" comes Whitney's voice, muffled by the door and the drywall. "You're fucking hot, Gal!"

"Stop, stop--" Cerise is begging.

This exchange has you confused, so you barge in without knocking. Cerise is sitting on the lid-down toilet, toweling off a very naked Gal who sits on the rim of the tub. Whitney is nowhere to be found.

As if looking for a phantom, you peer into the obviously-empty shower, and back the other way at the wall opposite. Nada.

"What the hell are you looking for?" Cerise says, unamused. She continues to vigorously towel her wife.

"Where's Whitney?"

"Uh?" Cerise says. "I think she's in Vivian's room. Not sure. Why?"

"Bullshit," you say. "I heard her in here just now. I -- what the hell?"

Cerise laughs, as if finally realizing something. She elbows Gal. "Do it again."

Gal clears her throat and says: "Ya fired! Heeeh."

She sounds exactly -- ex-fucking-actly -- like Whitney. Blindfolded it would be impossible to tell them apart.

"Oh my god," you breathe. "That's... how long have you been practicing that? You sound just like her."

"Are you weirdened out?" Gal says, still sounding just like Whitney. "You're a laugh riot, Ally."

"Whitney's not the only one," Cerise says. "Go ahead -- do Rose."

"Misogynist! Pig!" Gal shouts. "Fuck you, Alabaster -- fuck you! You'll pay for that!"

You can only gawp at her.

"Vivian," Cerise says.

"Greetings," comes Vivian's voice from Gal's mouth. "It is a pleasure to see you, Alabaster. Have you come for our spontaneous lunch date? What a splendid afternoon to get away from the dreary environs of the office."

"Amber."

"There's a million revolutions coming, Alabster..."

"She can do pretty much anyone," Cerise tells you. "It's crazy."

"Sakura Dokuahku here!" Gal says. "Today, we're going to learn how to turn a simple, everyday Furby into your zoooombie slave~... assisted by my trusty sidekick, Besuto..."

Cerise shoves her. "I do not sound like that! Why is that the only impression you can't get right?"

"No..." you say. "You sound like that. You sound... exactly like that. Jesus." You gaze at Gal in wonderment. "You could do that all along?"

She nods.

"Me?" You ask.

"On your knees, cunt--" Gal begins, but you cut her off with a raised palm. It sounds like you, all right -- still quite obviously a female voice, but matching your pronunciation and accent to the letter, and getting as close as she can to your masculine tone.

"That's amazing," you say. "You can do that with anyone?"

She nods.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She shrugs. "i... i don't know... you never really seemed to care about that kind of stuff"

You shake your head. "I... do. I do." You're not sure what else to say -- you're a bit hurt. And yet you understand why she would think that. "Gal, that skill of yours... it's... I think it's really cool. I like knowing that kind of stuff about you."

She smiles feebly.

"did you know i play cello too"

That night she treats you, Cerise, Amber and Rose to a private concert that -- and you've never been a music lover or an emotional person -- honestly brings you close to tears with the beauty of it.

As you lie cuddled up with her and the others later that night, you think for a long time about how much more depth there is to Anna Soliloquy than you had ever, in your selfishness, considered.

END OF INTERLEWD 7.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, Premium Pixiv Porn Pic Plunderer and step-orphan.

---

When Darkbloom gets home from work that evening, just as he's setting his satchel down on the end table in the foyer, Dalton's wife Karen strolls up to intercept him. It's obvious that she isn't happy. Darkbloom asks: "What's the matter, darling?"

This is the matter: she leads him to the living room where Dalton's 9 year old son is sitting on a recliner, his arms folded, his face red, and his frown deep. Petulant.

Darkbloom kneels to get at eye level with him. He puts a hand on the boy's knee, but the boy refuses to meet his gaze.

"Your mother told me that you got into a fight at school this afternoon."

The boy remains mute and unwilling to look at the man he thinks is his father. To underline the point, he theatrically deepens his frown.

"I want to hear your side of what happened," Darkbloom says. "Please."

"Just ground me!" The boy yells. His voice cracks, like a block of styrofoam snapping. "I don't care!"

"Was it something to do with Hazel?" Darkbloom asks. "I heard that's what your teacher said."

At last, the boy meets his eyes. His explanation comes at dizzying speed, and all in one breath: "Aiden said he saw Hazel steal Harper's joycons but she didn't and so I said so, and then he said that Hazel is ugly and stupid and that she's a thief and said she likes to kiss with Brody who's so annoying and has booger problems and everyone hates him and Aiden only said all that because he's lying and he's jealous that Hazel got a better score than him in the spelling test so he wanted to get her in trouble and make her embarrassed and like everyone thinks she kisses with Brody even if she doesn't because he's gross!"

"I see," Darkbloom says when the boy's tirade ends. "So what did you do?"

The boy scoots forward in his seat and gets his ruddy face right in Darkbloom's. "I told Aiden to stop spreading lies about Hazel and he said it wasn't a lie so I punched him! And I'm not sorry and I would do it again and I'll punch him again tomorrow if I see him and he doesn't take it back!"

"You're not sorry?" Darkbloom says.

The boy pounds a limp fist against the leather cushion upon which he sits. "I'm not! I won't let Aiden tell lies about Hazel and I don't care if you want to put me on grounded because I don't even need to play video games!"

Darkbloom slowly strokes the boy's arm a few times, from his shoulder down to his elbow, to calm his rage. "You protected your sister's honor. I'm proud of you, Finn."

Dalton's wife begins to say something, but Darkbloom, still watching for Finn's next reaction, cuts her off by holding up his hand.

"So I'm not on grounded?" Finn asks, hopeful.

"Oh, yes -- of course you are," Darkbloom says, and can't help smiling, if only a little. "I'm revoking your privileges for a week. No television, no video games, and no computer or tablet except when you do homework. You may still go outside, or read."

"But you said I was right! That's not fair!"

"Sometimes in this life you get punished for doing the right thing, Finn." He stands. "Yes, I am proud of you. But fighting can get you kicked out school -- I pay good money to send you there. Don't hit that boy again. You taught him a lesson he won't soon forget, and I think you'll find that this is the end of it if you leave the matter alone."

"I hate you! I hate you!"

"I'm sure you do," Darkbloom says. The cell phone in his pocket vibrates. Grimacing, he takes it out and checks the screen; as meanwhile Finn's blurred form zips past -- to thud and patter up the stairs and into his room and slam his door.

>Calling: Alabaster Soliloquy

Darkbloom sighs. He would dearly love to leave Alabaster hanging, that wanton moron. But he can't. What implicates Alabaster also implicates his beloved daughters -- all four of them. He picks up the call, but says nothing into the receiver. No matter -- it's Alabaster who speaks right away.

"You need to come here. We have a serious problem."

---

"But I feel real..."

Rose2 sucks nervously on a Capri Sun, the tiny yellow straw between her lips, both her hands squeezing the foil bag. She sits upon the couch in the living room, all eyes on her, and she obviously doesn't like being the center of attention in this way. The annoying "dah-DAH, dah-DAH" of the Smash Bros results screen plays on the TV on a continuous loop in the background, as every single person in the Nail House stares her down. (At least she finally beat Noelle's Ganondorf.)

"You're real," Amber tells her. She sits down next to her older sister and loops an arm around her shoulder. "Don't let any of these fuckers tell you otherwise."

Rose2 makes a nervous, but appreciative, murmur.

Amber lifts her eyepatch and takes a quick peek at Rose2, through grain and through the pain. She delivers her assessment: "Yep. Real."

"I'm so sorry, but..." Alex begins.

Amber, hugging her sister even tighter, growls at him. Literally, she growls. Guess that's an inherited trait. You've seen Mom do the same to threatening people.

"What do you see, when you look at her?" You ask. "You say she's not real -- but what does that mean? Do you think she's, what, a robot? A hallucination? What?"

"I don't know..." Alex says. "I mean, I see her. I see her perfectly fine. Rosie is right there on the couch for me, same as for all of you. She's fine. She's --" He turns and looks at her. "Rosie, you're fine. You're the same nice, sweet, cute girl I've always known!"

"T-thank you..." she replies. She sucks her straw.

"But when I look at you, something's wrong. It's the same way I can spot a deep fake. I can't explain it." He kneels and takes her hand. "I don't know what it means. I wish I did. It's not your fault..."

Cerise folds her arms. "Well I disagree."

"What do you mean?" He asks.

She shifts her weight, and puts her hands on her hips. She speaks past Alex, to Rose2: "You've got shit taste in everything and you're an obnoxious fuck about it, too." (Rose2 winces visibly at this). "But I've gotten used to thinking of you as my little sister. Little sisters are supposed to be annoying anyway."

"Hai..." she mumbles. It was impossible any longer to conceal from Rose2 the truth of the relationship between you and her; and while Cerise may have had months to adjust to thinking of Rose2 as a sister, Rose2 has had only a few minutes for the same. This is all too much for the poor girl to process.

"So you have no memory of anything other than the life you've always known?" Dr. Carte asks. "No flashes of anything else?"

"No," Rose2 says softly. She's done with her Capri Sun, and now she blows the empty drink sac up with air, and sucks the air back out, over and again, like a traveler with an airsickness bag. "I'm just-- just Rose2."

"You're Rose, dear," Mom says firmly.

"R-right. Sorry. I got used to Rose2."

"Stay used to it," Rose says. You slap her across the back of the head. She shoves you.

"will you two please stop" Gal says. "so annoying"

Unhappy intrusion, now: David Darkbloom enters via the front door, having apparently been let in by the guards outside. Tugging the lapels of his blazer, he strides purposefully into the living room and asks: "What's going on?"

"Let yourself in why don't you," you mutter.

"Do not start," he says. "You are the one who told me to come."

Alex fills him in. He nods along.

"And Mom," you add grimly. "He thinks Mom is a deep fake, too."

Alex turns back and glances her way now; Mom's expression is steely and skeptical. "I'm sorry, Ms. Catachresis, but yes--"

"Bullshit," Amber says. "How can they be fake, but not me? I'm her daughter for fuck's sake."

"Or Camelia..." Charlotte says. Amber flips her off.

"Don't be crude," Charlotte says. "Either way, I do consider you family -- and as your elder, I have the authority to punish you..."

"This all goes back to Sable Guiteau," Kay says, drawing the room's attention. "You remember -- that day at Gal's apartment. What she told you, Alabaster. That the world changed on the night of June 1st, 2018. When David Darkbloom died and Cerise got Penelope put inside her skull. That night... something shifted. Sable thought she knew what. Well, of course she did. She had that thing inside her telling her what." Kay sits on a beanbag chair, tents her fingers in her lap as she leans forward. "For a brief moment before she went into a coma, Cerise had the entire power of Sand Reckoner at her disposal. It's the only time any person ever has. According to Sable, she would have had the power to alter reality -- potentially. And what did Cerise Soliloquy want more than anything in the world? Her family back." She meets Cerise's gaze. Cerise slowly nods, agreeing to the premise. "Maybe --" Kay says, "imperfectly -- maybe you conjured the Catachresis family from whole cloth." Then, looking Darkbloom's way: "is that possible?"

"Nothing is impossible at this juncture," he says, his voice deflated, like a soldier with shellshock.

"It could be why the Russians are so hellbent on them," Noelle says. "If they're some sort of nexus for all of Sand Reckoner's... weird bullshit... for lack of a better word."

"Mom..." you say. "Is it-- do you really think you could be-- fake--?"

Her reply is instant. She hugs you tight. "As if I care what a bunch of egoistic eggheads playing God would tell me! I'm your mother. You're my son. That's all there is to it, and nothing is going to change that!" She drags Cerise into the embrace, too -- beckons Amber and Rose2 to join it, also: mama bear with the cubs. "And -- and if any darn Russians or anyone else thinks they can hurt any of you -- they'll have to go through me first!"

That is Mom's final decision on the matter, it seems.

Clattering and voices from the backyard draw everyone's attention. With trepidation gripping you, you peek out the sliding glass doors -- but what you find is just a work crew. They're busy setting up a portable gazebo, folding chairs, a dancefloor, bunting and other decorations.

They're the crew that Rose hired for Cerise and Gal's wedding, almost immediately after you had all agreed with Saul to have it on Tuesday. Amid all the horror and craziness after that conversation at breakfast, you'd almost forgotten. Now, Tuesday is only two days away.

"Fuckin' A," Whitney grumbles. "Jimbo needs to start letting me know when he buzzes people through. Noelle does."

"I do," Noelle agrees.

"You do! Exactly. Go out there and kick his ass for me, yeah? Teach him how to guard better."

"I'll tell them to get out of here," you say, starting towards the backyard door.

But Cerise stops you. "No," comes her voice, firm and decisive.

You furrow your brow. "Are you kidding? You mean you actually want to have the wedding?"

"It's what Mr. Mallory wanted," Cerise says. "Yes."

Her tone makes clear that she won't be swayed.

"Thank you, Cerise," Rose tells her softly. "I know it would mean a lot to him."

Of course, the bride-to-already-be is less enthused. Gal stares at her feet.

Darkbloom gets everyone's attention. "Glad tidings to the newlyweds, but we need to stay focused. Somehow, there is an unaccountable aberration in the fabric of reality -- tracing back to Sand Reckoner. We would do well to figure out what the hell it is, and how our enemies intend to exploit it..."

"Our implants," Amber says, to you. "That night when we saw into each other-- didn't you feel like--"

You know what she'll say: like you needed more manpower. It's true. Everyone you know with a Sand Reckoner implant is here, now: you, Amber, Gal, Vivian, and her father. Could you daisy chain them together and learn something more?

Then again, that comes with so many unknowns, and that equals risk. Even when it was only you and Amber -- and earlier, when you used to have similar experiences with Gal -- you felt like you might drown in the influx of data that came with linking implants. Who's to say that adding more to the mix wouldn't be fatal, rather than revelatory?

>[x] Try it -- link your implants together.
[ ] Pursue a more traditional approach, and try to track down the Russians targeting you using your wealth and influence instead. Meanwhile, have Alex research deeper into what's going on.
[ ] Some other strategy?

"Idiot! Idiot! Don't do this!" Rose is repeatedly pounding your shoulders with balled-up fists as you pull away from a hug with her and get down on your knees on the living room floor. She's the only person who's seen, from the outside, the effect that doing this has on a person; and she's worried for your well-being. Over her protests, you insist that this is the only way -- you need information.

Mom, Cerise, and Rose2 watch on with an equal measure of concern, although they're not so violent about it; Whitney massages Vivian's shoulders and doesn't seem any more confident in this scheme, either.

"We'll break the chain if it gets too intense," Dr. Carte assures you. "No matter what happens, we won't let any of you get hurt."

"How can you promise that?" Rose yells. "You don't know anything! You're all idiots!"

You array yourselves like a human sine wave: two facing every one, from either direction, in a closed circle.

Your eyes are closed. You hold each other by the arms, and you draw deep, bracing breaths. It feels like an occult ritual, honestly -- and in a way, maybe it is.

"Are you ready?" Darkbloom asks.

As if reading one another's minds, you all respond by opening your eyes, all at the same time -- and focusing.

You're falling, again. But this time you're not dropping headfirst like a diver off the North Tower. You're drifting gently down like trained skydivers forming a ring, the wind rippling vicously past you as you bellyflop through the stratosphere. It's cold, bitterly cold, and looking down you see not the warm sea of data awaiting you but a nearly featureless white plain, with only a few dark shadows created by the dunes to tell you that it's an arctic snowscape. What happens when you collide with it?

You ignore that for now. You look from face to face. They're as bewildered as you are, and they're equally trying to keep their attention away from the oncoming deadly collective thwack against the tundra. Over the roar of your own acceleration through the air, you can hear a steady thrum, a whirring hum, like the gentle whine of a processor getting overtaxed by a certain resource-hungry process. The data in its infinite multitudinous barrage is resolving into the phantom outlines of information you can use.

But you still can't sort it. Vivian blinks rapidly, like a television losing its vertical tracking. Gal vibrates. Darkbloom is trying to speak, but he can't speak at all -- his mouth, when he opens it, is a featureless void. You try to rouse Amber and get her attention, but she's flickering in and out, and whenever she flickers in, she's shrieking; and then she's blue, and then she's red, and then she's blue... you see... you see:

Cerise, at almost 8 AM, knocking you on the forehead and warning you you'll be late...

Dr. Carte sorrowfully explaining that she needed to knock you out to collect a sample of your essence... she has you strapped to a metal table in a closet at school...

Vivian Darkbloom competing with you at quiz bowl... Dr. Carte coaching you...

A foodfight... an airport shootout...

An absurd confrontation with a robotic Dalton Cantor, falling off a roof... dying?...

Waking up in North High, but it's not North High, it's an illusion of North High. You're there, and you're there again in duplicate, but far away, disembodied and unreachable. Like values outside the domain of a function, is Alex's way of putting it. You wouldn't be able to speak to your clones over there even if you tried.

But beside you, Sable is also here, and she notices you. She turns and looks at you. "Alabaster. Where... are we?"

"You tell me," you beg. "Is this -- is this the lighthouse? Is this what you were telling us about?"

"How could I know?!" She shrieks. "Where have you taken me--"

She's gone again.

You're standing now in the grand lobby of Darkbloom Analytics, reduced to flaming rubble, the enormous oil portrait of David Darkbloom lying amid it and also in flames, dozens of employees dead at your feet, klaxons wailing. It stinks of sulfur and something else, something that smells so strongly you can taste it, bitter and pungent, and sour, metallic. You see you running by. The version of you running neither sees nor acknowledges this version of you.

This is somehow a glimpse of both future and past. Or maybe something aside. An Alabaster aside yourself. The arrow of entropy is all fucked-up here, isn't it? It doesn't point decisively in one direction or another. Then, chasing you, comes a man you can put a name to although you've never met him: Alyosha Kerimov, the father of Mara Darkbloom.

Remember that name, Alabaster Soliloquy, it's probably important.

You snap out of it. Not back to the real world. Back to your rapid descent towards the snow. You're much closer to touchdown now. You can see the contours of the ridges in the ice, the way the wind has blown little dugouts and solid eddies into it. The others aren't so lucid, but still trapped in their own private hells, whatever it is they're seeing. In her sleep, Amber continues to shriek, and Vivian foams at the mouth. They're swapping places, Amber and Vivian are, instantaneously, as if teleporting back and forth. Gal gurgles, and her whole body is melting, like an ice cream cone, the droplets of her trailing behind her falling body. Darkbloom, his voidlike mouth having engulfed most of his face, seems to awaken; he makes the terrible mistake of letting go of Gal's hand to his right, to turn and grip Vivian's to his left, to shake her, and with the last of his strength try to wake her. This puts the foot on the accelerator and hurtles you all like a careening car off a cliff, towards the surface at mach speed. The moon is big and bright and full. Growing like a malignant obelisk from out of the white is a black tower -- a lighthouse -- old and in disrepair, filling your entire field of view. You scream. And microseconds before you splatter against the ground, you wake up again; for real.

They pulled the ripcord just in time. Rose pushed you over, Whitney pushed Vivian over, and Cerise pushed Gal over. Now as you shiver and vomit, you see Dr. Carte shoving wads of cotton up Vivian's nostrils, to stem a massive nosebleed; and Mom embraces Amber in a bear hug to still the awful tremors wracking her body. Cerise kisses Gal again and again -- who's probably the best off out of all of you, everything considered, although she's shaking and jabbering incoherently.

Rose is holding onto you like you'll float away the second she lets up, despite the mess you've made by puking. Whitney is crying, weeping in fact, and shouting obscenities at everyone who convinced her this was a great idea.

David Darkbloom has no one to baby him, he just lies there on his back, rocking side to side, his face a mess of blood and snot. It's Kay who finally takes a measure of pity on him, going to his side, and dabbing his face with a handkerchief. As he becomes cognizant again, he thanks her. And then with Kay's assistance he weakly rises to his butt, leaning against the couch to keep himself propped up, and panting, he meets your eyes. With one hand he clutches the fabric of the seat cushion. He grimaces.

"What'd you see?" You ask him.

"Ms. Vera's theory is right. Cerise changed everything."

3 AM, Cerise is sitting at the dining room table by herself, writing on a piece of paper under the dimmed overhead lights. Some sixth sense woke you up and brought you out here; this must be why.

You sit down across from her, cracking open a can of soda. As Cerise focuses on writing, you take a moment to snoop from afar. Cerise's handwriting -- a bizarre amalgam you can only describe as sloppy-neat -- fills the margins. You read aloud, with difficulty since it's upside-down and hard enough to decipher even when rightside-up: "I never thought I would get married, and I definitely never thought I would get married to a--"

Cerise flips the paper over so you can't spy anymore. "Fuck off."

You take a swig. "I should be the one mad at you, here. If the Catachresis family is your doing, that means Rose2 is how you see yourself, and so Amber is how you see me. In other words, your psyche rendered me as a girl. That's fucked up."

"I don't know what I did or didn't do!" Cerise insists. "Anyway, Amber is just Amber. She's not part of whatever I did-or-didn't make that night, at least according to Alex. So quit your bitching."

"Oh, gee, that's so much better. You didn't even recreate me in your ideal world!" She tosses the cap of her beer bottle at you. You laugh. "Anyway, I know you're hard on yourself, and perpetually depressed and everything, but man -- if you think of yourself as Rose2, you've gotta go into therapy or something."

Cerise peers at your, fist on cheek. "Do you think it's true? Did I fuck reality?"

"No," you say. "David Darkbloom fucked reality. Sable Guiteau fucked reality. It just happened to go through you as the conduit. It could have been anyone."

"How's Rose2?" Cerise asks.

"Shaken. But doing better. Sleeping with Mom tonight."

Cerise quirks an eyebrow.

"Chastely," you add.

"How about that little bitch who calls you Daddy?"

"Sleeping with Rose tonight."

Another quirked eyebrow.

"Definitely not chastely."

"Are you glad..." Cerise begins. "...that it worked out, like this?"

"I have to be, right?"

She shrugs. "I even fucked up my reality fuck-up. I couldn't bring Dad back, for instance... and instead of Mom being just our Mom, she's some other family's Mom, too... it's all screwed up."

"Excited for the wedding?" You ask, by way of changing subjects.

"God no."

So tsuntsun.

"I still don't know what I'm gonna say... and who's gonna be my maid of honor? There's too much to plan for, and not enough time."

"Dr. Carte, right?" You say. "Isn't she your maid of honor?"

"No," Cerise says. "She's Gal's."

"Oh. Well, how about Whitney?"

"She can't be."

"Why not?"

Cerise cocks her head. "You... don't know?"

You squint suspiciously. "No. Know what?"

She laughs. "You'll see, I guess. In any case no, Whitney can't be my maid of honor."

"How about your trusty sidekick, Besuto?"

She laughs. "I'd love to, but Gal wants him for a bridesmaid. She's a complete freak. Weirds me out."

You frown at her.

"What?" She says, as if she genuinely doesn't see the hypocrisy.

You move on. "Rose?"

Cerise rubs her elbow. "Um... well, maybe -- but..." she's definitely trying to be diplomatic in saying no.

"Why not?" You sputter. "You don't want Rose to be your maid of honor? What's wrong with picking her, huh?"

"I just--" she begins, then seeing the anger in your eyes, she slaps the table and says: "God, don't get so fucking pissy just because I don't want your cuntass wife standing right beside me at my wedding! It's my wedding, Alabaster, not yours!"

"Fine," you grouse. "Well, I don't know who else you've got to work with then. Ask Noelle or someone."

"Helpful as always," Cerise says. "I don't know why I even try to talk about my problems with you."

>[x] "Well -- there is one more option..."
[ ] Keep your trap shut.

You suggest it sarcastically, but Cerise takes it seriously, and it makes her so happy that it would break your heart to tell her you didn't mean it. Somehow you've talked yourself into the stupidest decision of your life.

Cerise is smiling, though, and hugging you over and over again, and telling you that now she actually is excited for her wedding.

You aren't.

---

It's been a crazy night -- a crazy past couple of nights. Lots of girls are in need of some healing.

[ ] Mom and Rose2.
[ ] Cerise and Gal.
[ ] Amber and Rose.
>[x] Charlotte. 
[ ] Vivian.

You weren't planning on visiting Charlotte -- but when you pass by her bedroom, you hear soft crying from behind the door, and you feel a son's duty to make sure your mother is okay. 

You poke your head into her room. The lights are on, and Charlotte is lying on her side on the mattress, huddled up under the blankets, her face obscured. She hears you enter, and senses your presence. She sniffles back her crying, wipes her face, and rises to a sitting position. For your sake, she fakes a smile. "Alabaster," she says warmly. "You're up late."

"So are you." You enter and shut the door behind you. "Are you all right?" 

She insists that she is, unconvincingly. "Anyway," she continues, "you shouldn't be worried about me... that's such a bother, isn't it? You've got enough on your own plate to worry about." She smiles again, broadly enough that it forces her eyes closed.

"You're not a bother, Mom," you say.

Her eyelids flutter open, although through her shock, her smile remains frozen to her face. Calling her Mom always wins points. It's the surest way you know to cheer her.

But her moment of happiness turns suspicious: She narrows her eyes. "You... want sex, don't you? That's what this is."

You huff. You sincerely didn't come in here with the plan of fucking her; your intentions were pure. You try to say as much, but she isn't having it:

"Don't lie to me, young man! Prowling around this house in the dead of night -- you're cruising for someone to get off with, aren't you? I know how you think -- dirty boy..."

You're beginning to think that she's projecting here. 

"Doesn't Rose take care of you?" Charlotte asks. "That silly girl... she can't keep you satisfied, can she?" There's a rising hitch of desperation to Charlotte's voice. Her sadness is transmuting into lust; she wants you, and your dick, to take away her sorrows. She scoots to the edge of the bed and sits there, waiting for you. "Come here," she says coaxingly, patting the mattress beside her. "Let's see what I can do for you... it's fine... I'll take your edge off, baby."

Even in her pajamas, she has a buxom form you can appreciate; the way her tits strain the buttons of the top, and the way her plump ass fills out the drawers. That sight, plus the knowledge that you're about to fuck this woman who adopted you, has your cock stirring in your own pajama pants despite yourself. She notices it straight away. Cooing, she pointedly pats the mattress again. "Come on, you dirty boy, I can see you getting hard. It's no use lying -- just come here and let's take care of it, all right?"

You nod, and sit down beside her. You've always liked the sweet way she smells, and the warmth she radiates both literally and figuratively. In the gentle light of the bedroom, her soft skin looks unblemished and fun to hold. So you can't help yourself; you lean in and kiss her, and let your hands wander. She laughs breathily, and doesn't fight your groping -- in fact, leans into it. You're her dirty boy, after all, right? So she knows this kind of thing is to be expected. 

"Do you like those?" She whispers, as you find two handfuls of her titmeat. "Does that make your cock hard? ... To touch your mommy like that?"

"Yes," you groan, and kiss her tender neck. 

She undoes the buttons of her pajama top and lets her udders hang free. Unable to help yourself, you abandon all dignity, and bury your head in them. It's unbelievable how supple those breasts of hers really are, and how warm -- and how fun it is, to suck on them, to kiss and lick them all over, to taste her there. She giggles and pets you while you violate her with your mouth. You're like a rambunctious kid right now. She loves it.

"Shh, shh," she warns. "You don't want to wake everyone up, do you?"

"Mmmf," you moan into her breasts.

She cups a hand over your crotch and gives your own meat a hard squeeze. Just briefly her motherly tone is replaced by something more forceful, desperate and a bit domineering: "So fucking hard for me, huh?..."

Charlotte takes the waistband of your pants in her hand and yanks them; you raise your butt a little to help her get them off you, never taking your head out of the heavenly confines of mama Mallory's jugs. You'd be fine to suffocate like this, honestly. But she isn't happy just letting you play like this, she wants to do something else. She puts her palm to your chest and pushes you back a bit. Able now to see your rigid cock in all its glory, she stares at it without shame. She even licks her lips -- something predatory in that. 

"Do I make your cock feel good, Alabaster?" She wants to know.

You gulp. "Fuck yes, you do," you say.

She takes her pants off too, and crawls across the bed, and lies back. Spreading her legs akimbo, she parts the lips of her already dripping pussy using both her thumbs. "Lick me, please," she says. "I want to know what it's like... would you do that for your mommy, dear?"

How could you refuse? You get down in front of her with your face mere inches from her crotch. The skin around her pussy is all covered with goosebumps and the mound is shaved totally bare. MILF or not, her cunt looks like it belongs to a teenage girl. It's the same wonderful innie her daughter has, the vulva folded over itself and the clit just barely peeking out from its hood at the top. It's shiny with her need and you can see it slightly twitching -- just aching for some relief of its own. The fragrance of her fills your head and makes it go blank, that powerful, wonderful aroma of female arousal that causes your mouth to water of its own accord. When teasingly, you purse your lips and blow a little stream of air against her, she hisses as if in pain, and throws her head back. Clutching your hair firmly at the root, she mashes herself to your face and begins to ride you.

You won't tease her anymore. You open your mouth and clamp it to the hole of her pussy and start to service her. Charlotte Mallory's cunt tastes like sugar and is as slippery as melted butter. You have almost as fun sucking her off, as she has getting sucked off; underneath you, your rock-hard dick throbs and strains against the bedsheets. Your tongue wags back and forth, running along the tight crease of her labia, and then lodging itself deep in her vagina, before coming back up to run in loving circles around her pulsing clitoris. She bucks and humps back against your mouth like she's trying to fuck your tongue. 

"Oh my god..." she repeats. "Oh my god... you're so good at this... oh, fuck... Rose taught you well, didn't she..."

You were never sure how much Charlotte really knew about the sordid history of me-time -- but maybe she knew more than you suspected all along. It's true, the many years of nights spent on your knees underneath Rose's desk, listening to her instructions, have given you oral skills that can make any woman's legs shake. 

So it's not long before Charlotte cums all over your face. Like a slut, she screams her orgasm, rubbing her nipples as she squirts her girlcum all over the place. You gulp it all down, like nectar, and smile as you do. This sloppy little pussy of hers deserves a nice hard cum like that. Of course, her sexual appetite is as voracious as her daughter's, and getting licked out just isn't enough. She tugs your hands, and pulls you forward, so that you're lying on top of her. "Fuck me," she heaves. "Fuck your mommy. Do it. Fuck your cock up me."

You're only too happy to. You jab your dick into her. As tight as Charlotte is, the combined wetness of your saliva, your precum and her cream, make your entrance as easy as slipping into a lubed-up dicksleeve. She forces a tongue-kiss on you, and sucks the taste of her own cum from your mouth, moaning like a sow while she does. Charlotte's tummy, her thick legs and plump waist make a wonderful cushion to let you really fucking hammer her. And the sucking interior of her cunt, its ridged walls and its total lack of resistance to the battering you give it, make your cock sing with raw pleasure. You hardly rut for five minutes before you're already dumping a thick load of cum into her. It's what she wanted, so it's what you'll give her -- all of it, draining your balls inside her motherly womb without a care in the world. The far-away smile on her face, like a dope fiend shooting up, is sign enough that just this act -- of breeding her out, of squirting hot jizz into her -- made her cum again, too.

And since you're in the throes of climax, you can hardly be faulted for not noticing Charlotte's door opening. 

"Wicked... I knew it!" 

You keep humping Charlotte, as you look back over your shoulder: Whitney. Charlotte's room shares a wall with hers, and she must have heard the sounds of your fucking.

"Jesus," you moan, "can't you knock?"

"Fucking your mother-in-law too, huh, Ally?" Whitney laughs. She looks Charlotte's way. "How is he, Mrs. Mallory?"

"He's wonderful..." Charlotte pants.

Whitney sniffs the air. "He already came, huh? Bummer..."

"Oh yes, he did," Charlotte says. The sexual high has made her lewd, and shameless: "Is that your favorite part, too? Making him ejaculate in you?"

Taking this as her invitation to join, Whitney steps closer -- leaving the fucking door wide open -- and nods. She runs her hands up and down the bare navel between her tanktop and her spats. "Uh huh... it's nice and milky and creamy... and hot and thick... it feels so wet and runny and sloshy inside... y'know? And the way his cock gets even bigger and harder when he's jizzing in me..."

"I know," Charlotte agrees, as Whitney crawls up onto the bed on her knees. Although Charlotte is still getting fucked hard, she has enough focus to carry on the conversation. "It feels just wonderful when he stirs it all up... hmm... I know you two are involved, but I hope you don't mind."

"Naaaahhhh," Whitney says. "I like seeing him fuck other girls... and helping... but, you know... if you feel bad about it..."

"Hmmm?" Charlotte prompts. She wags her hips, fucking back against you, mashing up the the cum inside her and frothing it. Whitney watches the messy union of your bodies getting messier. Grinning, she tells Charlotte: "See, I made this rule with Ally about fucking other girls... I've been pretty easy on him about it, but..."

A few moments later, Whitney has her head between Charlotte's shapely legs much the same way you did only moments prior. She stares at Charlotte's cum-splattered pussy, transfixed. Charlotte isn't embarrassed by the attention at all, even as your cum seeps out of her fucked-out cunt and down around her butt, creating a pearly smear on the sheets. She chews a pinky and says coyly: "I've heard rumors about that mouth of yours, Whitney -- are they true?"

"Heeeh. You tell me~" 

She latches her mouth to Charlotte's pussy and starts to eat her out. Like a trained whore, she slurps and sucks your jizz from Charlotte's hole. You need a little cleaning as well, so you kneel beside that lovely sight, and feed your cock to her, too. Whitney, fucking pig she is, alternates between wedging her tongue up Charlotte; and swirling it around your still-oozing cockhead, the sticky foreskin and cum-streaked shaft. This makes her happy, sucking cunt and dick at the same time. Spoiled, greedy bi bitch.

Her oral action has you raring to go a second time. She knows it, too, because as she lovingly nestles her head in Charlotte's pussy-crack, eating the older woman with long, languid licks, she puts both hands on her own butt, and spreads her asscheeks wide, and commands: "fuck my ass, Ally."

Every once in a while, Whitney likes getting anal, even though it really hurts for her to do it. Charlotte watches with interest as, half-standing, half-squatting, you mount Whitney's lithe little body and get your dick lined up with the entrance of her anus. 

"You'll split her open..." Charlotte says. 

"Yeah. So?" You say. 

You ram your cock in to the hilt. Whitney gasps, and yelps into Charlotte's creamy pussy, which sends little droplets of your frothy cum spraying up. 

"Oh my..." Charlotte mewls. "You're so rough, Alabaster. Don't hurt the poor girl."

But Whitney redoubles her oral service. Looking up at Charlotte between licks, face partially obscured by the meaty cunt she feasts on, Whitney says: "It's fine, Mrs. Mallory. I like to get roughed up a bit."

The smug, somewhat sadistic smile that spreads across Charlotte's face is one you recognize. "What a wonderful attitude," she says. And then she begins to fuck Whitney's face. 

Reaching behind yourself, you find the tight entrance to Whitney's tomboy pussy with your fingers, and start to masturbate her. She loves having her cunt rubbed while you fuck her ass; that feeling of being entirely full makes her cum every time. This time, too. She wails loud and shrill into Charlotte's lower orifice, and you feel her cream spraying against your hand as you mercilessly nail her butt. 

"Are you going to cum inside that hole, too, dear?" Charlotte asks.

"Yeah," you grunt.

"Dirty boy," she chides. "You'll cum in just any hole, won't you... what are we going to do with that cock of yours?"

"Just keep making it feel good," you snarl. 

"I intend to," Charlotte says dreamily.

She pets Whitney gently, and the sound of your crotch slapping against Whitney's butt fills the room. Charlotte watches in all the lurid, unconcealed detail this position shows her, as your cock spasms, shudders, and then spews -- rope after rope of thick semen directly in Whitney's asshole. This tight rear hole of hers can't contain the sheer volume of your spunk, and it begins to leak out. You grunt and groan deeply, enjoying the way Whitney's athletic anal muscles milk it all out even as the excess splashes and squeleches right back out of her.

Charlotte, tugging Whitney's chin upward to meet her eyes, asks: "I get to eat tonight, too, right?"

Whitney smiles. "Of course, Mrs. Mallory... let's switch..."

---

What did you see, Amber?

You saw the entire history of you.

It's all true: you're Camelia. You're the terrorist who revealed David Darkbloom's crimes to the world and murdered him for everyone to see. He got what he deserved. You'd do it all again.

What else did you see?

Something you haven't revealed to the others yet: that the reason Cerise's little reality-rewriting traipse with Sand Reckoner got so fucked up, is because of you. You interfered with it. Her desire, to have her family back; and yours, to have a normal life - - melded. Like that poor motherfucker in the movie The Fly, they became grafted one to the other, and made this weird amalgamated mess, the Catachresis family.

You feel really guilty.

Was this part of the plan? You can't see that clearly into the heart of your past self, even aided by that implant of yours, which in theory you shared with that version of you. But you suspect that something has gone off the rails. Even the best laid plans always go awry. Now you're really cast adrift, you all are, in a reality that seems to come more and more untethered by the day.

Well, you always wanted revolution. The big one's coming.

It's made you weirdly horny, too. After a long session with Daddy and Mommy (can you call her that? She doesn't object to it anymore) -- you're sapped. They were in a fighting spirit when Daddy came back stinking like Charlotte, and they wound up taking it out on you. But even despite that somewhat painful session, you sneak out of bed, down the hall, and to Cerise's room.

You knock on the door, softly. The girl who answers is the one you wanted: Galatea.

"What did you see?" You ask her, whispering.

"you"

"Me? Or -- me? Which me, I mean."

"just you," Gal says.

You twirl an index finger in your hair. "Not blue Camelia?"

"you were red... i missed you, camelia... or -- do you still want to be amber"

You hold her face. She's about as tall as you, although she's so mousy that it doesn't seem like it. "Call me anything. I missed you, too. I remember enough to know that I really mean it, now... will you kiss me?"

She kisses you. And then she drags you into the room with her.

Gal sits down on the edge of her bed with her knees far enough apart to hike up the hem of the tee she's wearing -- no panties on underneath. She whips her head to one side to swing her long ginger hair back across her shoulder, and looks pleadingly up at you with big doe eyes. 

"Where's Cerise?" You ask, as you stoop and rain kisses on Gal's lips, forehead, and cheeks.

"downstairs..."

"She's okay with this, right?" 

"we sleep around... it's not a problem"

"Slut," you say, laughing gently, and then kiss her especially deep. She's such a nervous lover. Always all atremble. She was like that before, too.

You find the opening of the hole between her legs that makes her so slutty. You slowly push your fingers past the tight pink ring of its entrance and enjoy the warm slimy wetness within. Her breath is sweet and cool, and she sucks a gasp of air from your mouth when you begin to finger her.

But she's more assertive than how you left her as Camelia. You came to the room wearing only panties -- now she's pulling away from your kiss to wrap her lips around one of your nipples. Doesn't even ask, just does it. Ticklish there, you giggle, and finger her even harder as a light punishment for teasing you. Her cunt grips your fingers like it's trying to suck them deeper into her body... well, that's exactly what it's trying to do. She might be shy, but she's still a greedy slut at heart. When she purposely scrapes your nipple between her incisors, a full-body shiver wracks you and you nearly fall over. Immediately you feel your panties beginning to cream up. She remembered that this is a quick way to get you hot.

Her hand is already worming its way past the underwear's elastic and searching for your hole. When she finds the nasty mess already deposited there, she whispers: "you were fucking Sir weren't you"

"Uh huh..." you agree, tickling her clit. 

"is he mean to you like he is to me" Gal asks.

"Sometimes," you say. "And sometimes I'm mean to him."

"you should teach me how"

She pulls her hand from your panties and, staring you in the eye, she licks Daddy's cum off her fingers. One by one, sucking off the ropy jizz from each -- then going back for more. She stirs the sperm inside your sloppy gash, smiling devilishly up at you.

"you like walking around the house with Sir's cum dripping out of you -- don't you" 

"Oh fuck yes I do," you grunt. You hump up and down on her thin fingers, getting off on the way she's talking.

"get up on the bed amber... lets eat each other out"

You assume a position you're well familiar with: Gal on her back, you over top of her, 69ing to your hearts' content. Cerise never knew that you took Gal's virginity before she had the chance to snag it. So many long mornings, stretching into afternoons, at Gal's apartment with your faces in each other's cunts. You weren't a dyke before you met her. Gal has that effect on girls... a person like that, you can't help wanting to gobble up. You taught each other the contours of your bodies, how best to pleasure each other. She still remembers your buttons and you still remember her buttons. She remembers that you like to get your asshole fingered while she nibbles your clit. You remember that she likes to feel your licks alternated with hot puffs of air against the throbbing, surprisingly large nub of her own clit. The position itself is also nostalgic. It always feels really good to lie on top of her, and she loves your weight gently bearing down on her. Her fingertips against your thighs, your hands squeezing her soft butt... it just feels right. 

Of course, this time Gal gets a bonus she never had before; she gets to drink Daddy's spunk out of you. You used to joke that Alabaster was like a gross older brother you two had to bully. Now you're swapping his cum like a couple of whores. Granted, he's still like a gross older brother you two have to bully... but it's such fun to get pinned down and fucked raw by your gross older brother, you've found. 

Gal's cunt is as sweet as honey, same as always, although you taste just the slightest hint of alcohol on it; Cerise has had her mouth down here pretty recently. How horny can Gal be -- getting eaten out by her wife probably less than an hour ago, and still crawling to you for more. She's always been such a hopeless fucking pervert -- you wouldn't have it any other way.

Glancing to your side, you find a Hitachi magic wand lying discarded on the mattress. Oh no. Poor Cerise is getting up there in years -- she's got back problems! You pull it furtively towards you (Gal is way too distracted by trying to get her tongue as deep as it can go inside your creamy fuckhole to notice) and gently press the business end to her pretty pink pussy. She audibly gasps and begins to say something -- something like, "amber -- wait!" but you cut her off by clicking the power switch. The steady whir of the vibrator fills your eardrums. It sounds particularly lewd when you press the ridged plastic between the soft lips of her vulva and start to stir up all her wetness. It drips and patters and covers the toy with little dewy droplets... so pretty.

"aaa-aaaa-mmm-mmmm-b-b-berrrrr" Gal moans, her voice vibrating right along with the toy. You press the vibrating silicone dome directly against her slutty clitty and rub it in tight, quick circles, randomly varying the pressure. "i-itttssss t-t-t-toooo h-h-h-hiiiiiigh--" she squeals, "t-t-t-turn it-- t-t-t-turrrnnn itttt--- AAAA-- AAAAAA-- AAAA-AAIIEEE---!!"

Her voice goes hoarse then cuts out entirely, her whole body goes stiff as a board beneath you, her toes curl -- and she cums herself silly. You pull the humming toy off her pussy at the moment of her orgasm, and marvel as a geyser of her cum squirts in a perfect arc straight out of her. It curls up halfway towards the ceiling, and then back down in a wide fanning waterfall against the edge of the mattress about three feet away. "Coooool," you breathe. 

You press the toy against her pussy again. This time, you finger her too. This dual approach, pleasuring her from inside and out, has her squirting jets of cum in fast, but random intervals. Each time she creams herself, you retract your fingers and pull the toy off her squelchy hole to watch the fountain she lets loose. This of course also has the effect of teasing her horribly, prolonging her rolling orgasm and making her sensitive pussy-hole get ever more sensitive to the fucktoy's vibrations. 

Your lewd cruelty gets repaid ten times over, though. Gal latches her shrieking mouth to your own over-sensitive twat and does "that trick" -- the one you *expressly* forbade her from ever doing again, under penalty of death. As usual, it makes you cream yourself instantly. Your twat cums so hard that you drop the magic wand, lose control of your muscles and start to shake all over. With your muscles all loose like this, the stuff you cum all over Gal's face isn't only cum -- which should be deterrent enough to a normal person -- although she happily drinks it all down her gulping mouth like the dumb dyke bitch-pig she is. Your vision fills with stars and then you momentarily black out.

When you wake up again, still woozy, you're on your back, and she's on her tummy in front of you, eating your quim like she never stopped. She smiles up at you through a mouthful of your vagina, her glasses streaked with your fluids. 

"You fucking bitch!" You hiss. "I told you not to do that!"

"you're cute"

You try to kick away from her oral violation, but you're too weak to move much at all. Your cunt, still buzzing with raw tingly pleasure, feels like it's on fire as Gal suckles it. "You'll -- be sorry for that," you pant, chest heaving. 

"shut up" she says. "you love it don't you"

What has Cerise done to your obedient little church mouse? She's got a fucking mouth on her now... in more ways than one. And speak of the devil, here she comes now: Cerise enters the bedroom, groggily scratching her ass, only to discover her wife in the marital bed with another woman. Does Cerise blow a gasket? Throw things, scream, act jealous? No: she just sighs and says "really, Gal? I can't leave you alone for ten minutes."

"no"

And then Cerise is crawling into bed with you.

---

Coming in to work on Monday is a weird experience. The FBI security checkpoint in the front lobby has been there ever since Whitney took over as CEO; but no longer. Now, for the first time since David Darkbloom's death, you get to step past the badge swipe and the turnstiles without going through the song-and-dance of re-verifying your identity to feds in blue windbreakers on the other side.

You glance heavenward and silently tell Saul thanks.

Down in the R&D dungeon, Alex begins to reconstruct Diogenes in earnest. He and Dr. Carte make a good duo. As they clack away at their computer stations, you gaze at a whiteboard full of Alex's doodles and notes, and ask: "What is the actual difference, anyway -- between Sand Reckoner and Diogenes?"

Alex leans his upper half around his monitor. Although even as he looks at you and speaks to you, he doesn't stop typing. "Sand Reckoner can give you information at a glance, but it's only as good as the data it receives. GIGO: garbage in, garbage out. It's like being trapped inside the Chinese Room -- if you have a bad dictionary, you'd never know that you're mistranslating the characters slid under the jamb."

"...What?" You say.

Alex keeps going. "Diogenes mediates what you discern... it filters out the garbage. It tells you what's original, and what isn't."

"Isn't that Tiresias?" You ask.

"Hmm-- no. More powerful. Tiresias just makes Sand Reckoner blind to me. As a side effect, it can show me where Sand Reckoner has been used... but it won't tell me anything more than that. We still don't know the truth of the Catachresises, do we? Only a vague outline."

"It won't... erase them or anything crazy like that, will it?" You ask.

Alex is silent for a turn. He stops typing. "We don't want to erase them," he says.

"Of course not."

"So -- we won't."

That isn't good enough. You press him: "But could it?"

Alex sighs. "In theory, Diogenes can counteract anything Sand Reckoner has wrought. In theory. A basic example: if the Sand Reckoner platform is used to construct a deep fake, Diogenes can be used to remove the video's fictive elements. It can reverse anything assembled by Sand Reckoner."

"What if the wrong person gets their hands on it?" You say.

"The wrong people already have," Alex responds. "And they will again... if we don't get to it first."

"Ever play King of the Hill, Alabaster?" Dr. Carte asks.

You had intended to find Rose2 in the rec area, the place she usually haunts (seeing as she does nothing useful at this company) -- to check on her and see how she's doing. But on your way past a certain room, you get a certain psychic tingle at the back of your skull, and stop, and peek in. It's the creepy blacklit room of tanning booths, just across from the sauna. Inside, sequestered in one of the windowed sarcophagi, skin lit blue by UV lamps, lies Qiangxiang, wearing a bikini, and sunglasses, on her back, arms at her side, like she's lounging on a towel at a beach in Palau.

You rudely press the emergency release on the outside of the tanning bed. The UV lights cut out and the lid pops open. You lean over the opening. Qiangxiang has no reaction, positive or negative; does not even raise her sunglasses, although you can tell she's looking at you from behind them.

"How tan is too tan?" She asks.

"There's no upper limit."

"Oh? So you would have me charred as black as an Outback Aboriginal?"

"Why not? I've never had sex with a black girl before."

She rises to her butt, and takes her glasses off. "But I would surely develop melanoma."

"That sounds like a you problem - not a me problem."

"A man so consumed by his lusty whims that he would inflict terminal cancer on a woman just for a single night's exotic experience..." The content of what she says is recriminating, but how she says it is dreamy. "Have you come to me for some specific purpose, Alabaster, or are you just making sure that I continue to braise myself to your liking?"

>[x] "Do you know a man named Alyosha Kerimov?"
[ ] Don't ask her for help.

"Do you know a man named Alyosha Kerimov?"

"My late uncle knew him quite well," Qiangxiang says. "Please do not bring up such matters... I am still in mourning..." The wicked smile she wears says otherwise.

"Speaking of that -- who is CEO at Broad Dynamics now that you've gone and murdered the previous one?"

"Another uncle of mine. Uncles, in well-to-do Chinese families, are like cockroaches, Alabaster. Where there is one there are hundreds. You can never be rid of them."

You nod. "How did Li Xi know Alyosha Kerimov?"

Qiangxiang climbs out of the tanning bed and takes a squirt-bottle of lotion, and begins to lather it over her sweat-pearled body. The oily smell of it fills your nostrils. She purposely accentuates her tanned curves as she rubs the lotion in. "They were young diplomats in the tumultuous years of the Beijing Spring. Uncle traveled extensively to Moscow to learn from Mr. Kerimov how best to terrorize and starve people."

You arch an eyebrow.

"A political joke," she says. "Well, anyway: they worked together on the lighthouse."

Your heart skips a beat. "You... know about the lighthouse?"

"No more than you do. And Uncle no more than me -- may he rest in peace." She spits on the carpeted ground, and rubs it in with the ball of her bare foot. "I think I have mistranslated my words. They were not involved in constructing the lighthouse. They wanted to rediscover its location. But Li Xi, now, is dead -- very, very dead; and Alyosha Kerimov preceded him by nearly two decades."

"...Alyosha Kerimov is dead?" You say.

"Yes. He died in 2002. And his last known protege, a woman of the name Anastasia Lebedev -- you know her -- you snuffed her from existence some weeks ago. His only child, Mrs. Mara Darkbloom: also dead. Congratulations! His other, more distant relatives -- too involved in the vagaries of post-collapse Russian organized crime to involve themselves too deeply in matters of geopolitical intrigue. The Kerimov clan has become degenerate, like so much of Russia today: they would rather launder money, traffic sex slaves and sling heroin than chase the phantoms of Sand Reckoner. Short-sighted animals they are."

"Then who are the Russians who keep trying to fucking murder us?" You demand.

"I wouldn't know. That's why I tried to keep one of them alive, to interrogate, until Camelia's strange little boyfriend ruined everything."

"He is not her boyfriend, for the last time--"

"--but for some reason you have come to suspect the Kerimovs are behind it. Or rather their long-dead patriarch. Why?" Qiangxiang begins to put on her working clothes again, right over her bikini; the idea of her wearing a swimsuit underneath her blouse and skirt is weirdly erotic. "Don't tell me why, I already know. You've violated the law."

Are your goods now forfeit?

Of course, Qiangxiang wouldn't get it. You stay mum. She continues: "You used your implant, in flagrant contradiction of US law, to divine some new information. Now you want my help in tracking down the whereabouts of a man who isn't quite dead after all."

"It's your neck on the line, too," you say. "He's targeting you as much as us."

"He is. And I thank you for coming to me for help. It is a token of trust; and what's more, a milestone in our relationship."

"We have no relationship," you tell her.

"Yes we do," Qiangxiang says. She kisses you. Despite yourself, you kiss her back. Her breath tastes so strongly of mint that it's actually unpleasant. But she leaves the kiss with a warm, sincere smile. "I will set to work at once, and see what I can learn."

---

Rose2 is at the Morning Anime Club, as expected, sharing pocky with gangly Trenton McHalitosis (who never did recover from his ass-whooping at the tennis tournament) and Hamberly Manlove, who you've heard through the grapevine writes lots of AlabasterxDalton slash fiction -- a fact that makes you want to puke for multiple, complexly intersecting, reasons. The others in the ad-hoc club are hanging around in nearby seats too. Several seasons later, they're getting around to watching Darling in the Franxx. Well, at least they're finally watching something good, right? You were tired of being the only person around here with good taste in anime.

You hang around at the rear of the theater and just watch her. She doesn't know you're here. And she doesn't know this, either, but she's this group's leader, such as it is: they listen to her edicts and gravitate towards her tastes. She's slowly steering them in a positive direction, even. For instance, the MAC no longer watches their anime dubbed. By Rose2's decree, every show they watch must be subbed. Rose2 notoriously despises English voice acting in anime and will throw a temper tantrum if subjected to it. Her "YAAAAAA! YAMATE!!" can be heard on the tenth floor whenever someone tries to smuggle a dub into the rotation.

Some pidgin Japanese from a different source, now. "Subarashii!" Kimberly says as she bites into the wafer of proferred pocky -- and then laughing, pulls an exaggerated, greasy ahegao with dual peace signs. Rose2 giggles at the clown act; Trenton giggles harder, and higher. The other guys in the peanut gallery also encourage this degeneracy. Rose2 loops her scarf around her neck a little tighter and gnaws her own pocky, telling Kimberly sagely that she needs to start working in lewd catchphrases if she's going to make faces like that.

"Like what?" Kimberly wants to know.

"Like..." Rose2 replies, and puts a finger to her chin, thinking. Then, snapping, she comes out with: "You're impregnating me while I'm taking a duuuuump! ... I'm not sure what's going on, but my asshole is in danger! ... like that."

They giggle some more. You'd be a little disturbed at her speaking so lewdly with a room 90% composed of men, but you feel zero threat -- despite the Sahara-level thirst in here. And that's borne out by the fact that, when Trenton sees you back here watching from afar, he startles, and scoots a little bit further away from Rose2. So she finally notices you now, herself, and waves. "Ally! You never come here these days. Nice to see ya!"

Try as she might to maintain her same effusive personality, you can sense that it's a put-on. She's going through the motions, but she's rattled. Scared.

>[x] Heal her with tenderness.
[ ] Heal her with bullying.

"I'm taking you out of here," you say.

Her smile drops. "Huh? But Ally, we were just getting to--"

You grab her wrist, haul her upright, and drag her out. Her orbiters impotently watch her depart, as waving, she tells them: "S-sorry -- my boyfriend is such a jerk! -- I'll be back tomorrow, I guess!"

Into spacious area outside the theater now, where there are rings of space-age canvas chairs, and neon ottomans, and HDTV setups with attached video game consoles, and ping-pong tables, and foosball tables, and a rock climbing wall at one end, and all the other Silicon Valley employee-perk bullshit -- all of it lit naturally via the enormous curved glass walls -- you drag Rose2 past it all. "Geez, Ally, you're so rough!"

"Why do you hang out with those idiots?" You ask as you tote her like a sack of turnips.

"I dunno -- they're not too bad -- I--" She's still struggling to keep up with your brisk pace and brusque demeanor. "You're gonna bruise my hand!" She cries. "Geez! You're my big bro now, that means you can't bully me anymore!"

"Actually," you say, "that means I'm supposed to make bullying you my full-time job."

You pull her through a semicircle, depositing her past the threshold of a nearby room, and close the door behind you as you follow her in.

This is one of a set of small rooms on campus labeled "Rest and Relaxation." It's a cozy little space, with nothing but a twin bed, plus bedside table with lamp. There's barely enough floorspace for two people to stand facing one another -- as you do now. The intended use of this place is to take a nap during the workday, should you need it. You lock the door; Rose2 gulps.

"Y-you dragged me away from the MAC just to have sex with me?" She says.

"What?" You say. "No. I -- god, every time I end up in a bedroom with one of you guys, it's instantly with this 'ohhhh no, you obviously want to have sex' shit! Can't I just want to have a normal, private conversation with someone?"

Rose2 frowns. "But... you do want to have sex."

You take her by the shoulders and steer her to sitting position on the tiny bed. You sit beside her. "Are you doing okay?" You ask. "With the whole not being real thing. I need to know how you're feeling."

"How I'm feeling."

"Yeah," you say.

"How I'm feeling?"

You nod, frustrated. And that does it:

"Hidoi yo!" Rose2 shouts, punching the comforter. "It's bad! Real bad! A-durr. What the heck else is there to say about it? But... what am I supposed to do, huh? Curl up and die? Give up? What do you want me to say?" She's working herself up into a lather, her frayed mental state coming to the fore.

"Alex is wrong," you tell her. "You're real."

Her eyes go dewy. She's uncertain: "Am I, though?"

You lean in, and kiss her softly. She melts in your hands like snow and kisses you back even as she begins to cry. She tastes, as always, like candy. Smells like candy, too. And even looks like candy. Your candy girl: Rose2.

"Was that real?" You ask as you pull back.

"I don't know..." she sniffles. "I couldn't tell. Do it again."

You do it again.

"This is wrong, isn't it?" Rose2 says. "We're brother and sister."

"Rose... you've watched me fuck Cerise SO many times. I like doing it with my sisters. Being my sister just makes you more attractive to me."

Rose2 blinks rapidly, and blushes. You think it's because of your crass endorsement of brother-sister incest. But it's this: "You-- you called me Rose."

"I did? ... I did."

She leans against you, clutching your collar in her little fists, and takes a deep breath. "Ally. You have no idea how much I love you, do you? I don't want to hurt you. The very last thing I want is to hurt you. And the only reason I'm all scared inside isn't because I'm scared for myself, but because I keep thinking that if what everyone's saying is true, then somehow -- somehow this stuff that's been going on is all my fault. Mr. Mallory dying, and Alex getting kidnapped, and what happened on the freeway that night, and everyone being in danger... do you blame me for it? Do you want me to go away? I'm so sorry... I'm sorry, Ally... if it's my fault then I'm sorry... and -- if I go away, maybe that'll fix it, right?"

She's talking herself into a panic attack. What started as gentle tears is full-blown sobbing.

"You can't go away," you say. You tug her back from your chest, force her to let go of your shirt. You peer into her eyes. "You're my little sister."

"Do you believe that?" She asks, grimacing with grief. "Do you really, really, with your whole entire kokoro, believe it?"

"I believe it," you tell her. You pet her soothingly, and put a hand on her knees. "But do you think you can manage it? That's a pretty big job, being a little sister."

She's calming down again. She thinks for a very long time, and as her tears dry up, a smile shines through. "I can do that," she finally says. "Of course I can. No problem. Easy-peasy, squeezy... lemon." She blinks a couple times, confused at her own mistaken phrasing. "Um. Anyway. I can do that... if that's what you want. I can be the best imouto in the world."

"Arigato," you tell her. "Let's go get fed." You stand, as if to make for the door, but she stays you by grabbing your wrist. "Hmm?" You say, turning back.

She scoots her plump little butt backwards, and gets her back propped up against the wall. Spreading her legs in the tempting way she's learned to spread them, she says: "Ally... being an onii-chan is a pretty big job too, isn't it? You dragged me all this way. Aren't you gonna fuck your little sister?"

All these girls treat you like you're the nymphomaniac here, but they're always the ones begging for dick. It's crazy.
 
"I could do without the nii-chan stuff," you say as you get back into the bed with her.
 
She laughs. "What, you don't like it? I know Amber calls you Daddy -- and that's ten times weirder!"
 
"I don't like that, either."
 
"You're so lame. AND a liar~"
 
She boops your nose.
 
You swat her hand away. "Stop that."
 
"Liar, liar~" she chants in a sing-song voice. "Nii-chan is a pervert, I know he is!"
 
You cup a hand across her mouth to shut her up. Her eyes bug out in fright -- and then they smile, glimmering. She pokes your forehead. When you let go of her mouth again, she says: "do you remember, the first time you had sex with me?"
 
You nod. "What about it?"
 
"You put me in a mating press... that felt SO good, Ally. That small little karaoke booth and just the two of us, with you forcing yourself on top of me... and the way you--" she gulps. "The way you came inside me without even *caring* whether I'd get pregnant... or anything else..." she strokes your chest. "I wanna try it again... just like that."
 
You give no response to this, just stare down at her as she strokes your chest some more and smiles at the memory. When finally she realizes that you haven't responded, she glances up, confused. "Ally? I said--"
 
You grab her roughly and spin her around, forcing her onto her back. You crawl over her, propped up on her elbows, face above hers. "I heard what you said," you tell her.
 
"A-Ally--"
 
You drown out whatever else she was going to say with a deep French kiss. You probe her mouth with your tongue, roughly, and wetly. In her fright over your sudden forcefulness, she hiccups a couple times. It's cute. She's a cute girl. Overfed, obnoxious, occasionally bratty, always weird, and dim bulb to boot -- but cute regardless. You like fucking her just as much as she likes getting fucked by you. Driving your cock in and out of her womb and dumping a load inside it at the end... it just feels natural, little sister or not. She's too cute not to soil with your cum like that. That's the kind of cuteness Rose2 has: the kind of cuteness you want to stain with jizz.
 
You get your hands under her kneepits, and force her calves back over her torso, doubling her up. The cotton of her panties, patterned with little cartoon strawberries, goes taut. You can see the roundness of her ass and the plumpness of her mound. With a flattened palm, you rub that mound of hers, reveling in the way it squishes and gives. She can only stare helplessly at the way you grope her. Her bright, wide, innocent eyes are so adorable. She's got the pussy of a little sister, all right: puffy and a bit immature, sweet-smelling and ready to plunge into.
 
You grab her panties by one of the legholes and tear them. Sccrr-rrchh, just like that: you rip a hole in her underwear that reveals the bubblegum cunt she begged you to fuck. The torn garment hangs in shreds around her crotch.
 
"What the heck! Those were my favorite pair!" She whines.
 
"Be quiet," you snarl.
 
She makes a little squeak, and then shuts up. No more speaking out of turn.
 
You quickly get naked from the waist down, and when she sees your veiny dick bobbing in the air, her eyes glaze over. That's what she wanted, this hairy meatpole of yours -- big brother's big dick, ready to ram into her and mess her up. Getting on your haunches, you squat over her. Her thick butt and thighs are a perfect pad to support you as you line your prickhead up with her oozing, tight little honeyslit. She's still, after all the times you've filled her with your dick, got probably the tightest pussy of anyone in your harem. It's actively painful to get wedged in at first. It constricts your dick with such vicelike tenacity that it turns the shaft an angry crimson. That crimson color is such a lewd contrast to her pale, tiny pussy mound that it only makes you even harder. Rose2 bites her lip, trying not to scream with the pain of that initial penetration, and you grunt as you press down on her with your entire weight.
 
The tight ring of her cunt loses its resistance -- all of a sudden you sink inside her body, half your dick getting swallowed up in a single stroke. Once you're in, you're in, and it becomes so much easier. The difficulty of that first pump is so deceptive, after all -- inside, she's as soft as velvet and so fucking wet that you feel like you submerged your dick in a hot puddle. The sticky walls of her vagina cling to every ridge and bump of your cockshaft. Tight little Rose2's cunt has truly conformed to the shape of your manly dick. She's as easy to fuck now as anything.
 
Rose2 is in her own private heaven. Her eyes roll back and she grabs the edges of the blanket up by her head, holding on for dear life. Her own knees knock repeatedly against her own face as you begin to really fuck her. Her body jiggles and shakes and shifts beneath you, such a lewd sight to drink in. But her cunt, her silky, grippy cunt, is all you care about. You thrust and rut inside her like a beast, with your tongue lolling out. You make deep, guttural growls of pleasure. It's a picture-perfect mating press, just as she requested. This position allows for total penetration -- your entire cock, up to the root, stuffed inside this hole that's way too small for it. After breaking open the entrance of her cunny-chute, busting through her cervix is no bigger problem, and you have zero reservations about fucking her right down to her womb. You're well aware that when you cum, the head of your cock will be in there -- peeking up past the mouth of her uterus. Yeah, you'll piss a wad of spunk directly into her baby room, and the force of gravity will keep it sloshing around in there.
 
She must be thinking along these same lines herself. Her face is contorting into a mask of obscene, mind-destroying pleasure. This ahegao is for real -- having her big brother rape her womb is making her cum as powerfully as she ever has before. And what she says might be a hentai cliche but she means it whole-heartedly: "Cum... cum inside my babyplace, onii-chan! Please cum with your dick and knock up your little sister!"
 
When this pushes you over the edge and you start to squirt your seed, you smile -- an evil, perverted grin of sheer debauched enjoyment, as you fill this pink-haired slut with rope after rope of gloppy, sloppy jism. The mating press is great because for as much as you cum -- and you always cum gallons -- not a drop leaves her body. It stays deep, deep within her, where it belongs, filling her completely with your milky load. It's also great for this reason: when she cums with her candy-smelling cunt, she's cumming not on you, but all over her own body, and all across her own face -- soiling herself even further.
 
As at last you feel yourself emptying, you let her legs come back below her hips, and settle into a true missionary with her. Your load begins to seep out from her body, all around your crotches, and down to the bed below, as you make out. You've made a terrible mess of your clothes, the bed and the room. You don't care. You fuck her slow and gentle, then, and she whispers over and again: "Nii... chan... nii... chan... I love you... Rose2 really loves you a whole lot... so please take care of her, okay?"
 
"Nii-chan loves Rose a whole lot, too," you say back. You swipe her hair from her face. "Don't call yourself Rose2."
 
"I'll do my best..." she murmurs, close to passing out. You kiss her again.

---

The night before the wedding, you're roused from a dreamy sleep by roaring laughter down in the dining room. You go and check it out.

It's not like the perverted bachelorette party Rose2 got, but it suits Gal and Cerise. The couple sit at the table with Renee -- they're all racing to see who can finish a six-pack of beers the fastest. Samantha Smatters is the referee.

"Drinkdrinkdrinkdrinkdrink!" She chatters, pumping her fists. She is, as always, butt-ass naked. You resist the urge to go over and squeeze her cottontail. Daddy's bad habits are corrupting you.

Poor Gal is getting left in the dust, having barely imbibed her way through the first bottle-and-a-half. The seasoned alcoholics on either side of her are the real competitors. Eyeing each other viciously down the bridges of their noses, they pour the beers down their throats as fast as gravity allows, glug-glug, glug-glug.

Cerise, finishing just milliseconds faster, slams the final bottle down on the table with a triumphant belch and proclaims: "Take that, you busted old bitch!"

Renee, also belching, drops her bottle from her lips with a defeated "pwah" and struggles to catch her breath. "No... way..." she heaves.

"The winner by unanimous decision!" Smatters cries, taking Cerise's hand and holding it high aloft. Man, that bunnygirl has got a nice rack...

Gal stops drinking, too, since the contest is over. But her wife isn't going to let her off so easy. "Keep going," she says.

"but"

"No buts. Keep going." Cerise tips the bottle in Gal's hand back towards Gal's lips, forcing her to drink.

It's Smatters who actually first notices you lurking around. "Amber!" She says. "Come here and join us okay!"

Renee giggles drunkenly as you step fully into the room. "Someone wants a repeat of the last bachelorette party, huh?"

You sit down across from her, shrugging. "Are you offering?" You ask.

"For you and your illegal little pussy? Always." She's a lot more brash and bold when she's got some liquor in her.

Gal, who looks completely miserable, watches you from behind her bottle as she continues to drink. Renee finally snatches the bottle from her. "This is spousal abuse, Cerise. Quit abusing your wife."

"But it's so fun," Cerise slurs.

"thank you..." Gal murmurs to Renee. She burps, too. "excuse me"

"Uh huh," Renee says. "Now -- you were going to show me what this vaping nonsense is all about, weren't you?"

That's all it takes to replace Gal's intoxicated misery with a broad grin. "what flavor do you want to try"

"What flavor do you recommend?" Renee asks.

Cerise rolls her eyes. "Why do you encourage her? This is the most obnoxious shit."

"cerise is upset because she has the lungs of a baby" Gal says.

You laugh. Cerise shoves you. "Who invited you? Go away."

"she can't keep up," Gal tells you. "it's very sad"

Renee nods. "Well unlike Cerise, I can keep up. So -- what flavor is the best?"

"i like banana -- but you might like sour apple, i think"

"Smoking is not supposed to taste like candy," Cerise says. "Fuck."

Renee shushes her. "What do you know about smoking, baby-lung?"

"More than you know about drinking, apparently!" She fires back.

"I let you win," Renee says, dead serious, examining her fingernails.

"What!" Cerise howls. "You-- that's the stupidest fucking--"

"I let you win. Sorry, baby-lung, that's just the truth. I would have won if I had really tried."

"I won!" Cerise insists. She motions at the referee: "Smatters said so!"

"Y-yes!" Smatters squeaks. "It was a ruling b-by unanimous decision!"

Renee leans across the tabletop, leering at Cerise. "You might have taken the win, but you'll never be able to convince me that the win was legitimate. So you don't really get to enjoy beating me, do you?"

Cerise huffs, aghast, and angry. She can't think of anything to even say to that.

"Hurts, don't it?" Renee laughs. "Hahaha."

"Holy shit," you breathe. "Remind me never to play a game with you."

"She is a very scary woman," Smatters says sadly.

She should know; Renee's been lewdly groping her the entire time.

Renee's lewd groping of Samantha's tits and ass becomes outright molesting: right there at the dinner table, she starts to casually finger Samantha. Her middle and ring fingers work in and out of Samantha's pussy, while her pinky and index fingers keep the labia spread open. Renee isn't gentle about it, either. It's loud, wet-sounding -- cruel. Samantha leans woozily against Renee's shoulder and whines while Renee abuses her.

"You're going to fuck that poor woman to death," Cerise says. 

"Blah blah," Renee says. "She can take it. Can't you, Sammy?"

"Y-yes," Samantha says, struggling to speak through the waves of unwanted pleasure that Renee inflicts. 

"And why is that?" Renee asks her.

"B-because-- b-because-- aaahnn~" She trails off and nibbles on the side of her own hand to keep from screaming.

Renee forces her to quit the nervous self-gnawing. She grabs her wrist and makes her keep her hand down by her lap. 

"Because why?" Renee says.

"Because... b-because, I am a s-slutty bunny."

Renee takes her fingers out of Samantha's gash just long enough to give the bunnygirl a loud, vicious slap on her inner thigh. Samantha hasn't even had time to scream in pain, before Renee is already knuckle-deep inside her body again. 

"Nicely done!" Renee says. Samantha's muscles spasm, her eyes close and her mouth turns into a wide O. Then you hear the patter of liquid against the hardwood floor below the table; she's cumming on Renee's fingers. 

Gal watches, grinning, chin propped between her fists like a kid absorbed in a school lesson. "you are so cool renee" 

"Now you're just sucking up," Renee says. She's still fingering Samantha. She takes a brief moment to kick off her trousers and her panties. Settling again, she tells the bunny: "Do me, too."

Samantha does as ordered. Wincing in pleasure and narrowly opening her tear-filled eyes, she gropingly finds Renee's bare pussy. It's crazy how much Samantha really does look -- and act -- like a rabbit. The way her facial muscles twitch, the little high-pitched whines she makes, even the timid way she moves her hands. All suggestive of a person who's part bunny down to her DNA. Hell, maybe it's true. Because female bunnies love nothing more than getting fucked, right? And Samantha absolutely loves to get fucked in every hole, even to the point of unconsciousness, and well beyond. It seems she casts a spell on everyone around her that magically turns them into depraved rapists champing at the bit to do exactly that. Renee worse than most, clearly -- since she's already a depraved rapist to begin with -- but Samantha's sex magic does the trick to pretty much everyone. Pheromones, maybe? Is bunnygirl Samantha Smatters a person literally in heat, turning everyone around her horny with subconscious hormonal signals? 

You can't deny how horny you are, at least. Your panties are soaked through, and you're sitting in a small puddle, just from watching this lewd scene. Well: when in Rome, fuck as the Romans do. You slide a hand past the elastic of your waistband and start to play with yourself. No qualms and no hesitation, just casually masturbating while you watch.

"Slutty little teenybopper over here," Renee laughs. "Don't you have any shame?" 

"Nah," you say. You don't break the pace of your masturbation. "Anyway, you're one to talk."

"Mmmm," is all Renee responds with -- enjoying herself too much from Samantha's technique to banter back.

Gal prepares a vape pen for Renee, dousing a cottonball with flavored juice, but Renee waves her off. "No -- I need a real cigarette for this," she says. Her voice is low and husky. One-handedly, she takes a cig from her labcoat pocket, then a lighter, and lights up. After taking a single long, luxurious drag that makes the cherry glow neon red, she pulls the cigarette from between her lips, slouches way forward in her seat, and blows a huge billowy cloud of smoke. Through it all, Samantha's fingers work and work. "God, this feels so good..." Renee says. 

When Gal fires up the vape pen and starts to use it for herself, Cerise snatches it from her. She bonks it against Gal's forehead. "I'm banning you from this thing for the next 48 hours. I want your mouth pure for our wedding night, and the night after."

Gal sticks her tongue out at Cerise. 

Cerise, scowling, sets the vape pen aside and stands. Yanking down her shorts to bare her bouncy pale ass and bending over the table, she says: "Get under me and put that tongue to work."

Gal obsequiously slides off the chair, and down to her knees -- but not before winking at you. You swear, you never knew a turbo-sub like her could be so low-key cheeky. Cerise grins and enjoys the way her wife eats her out while she intently watches the same show you're watching, Renee and Samantha jilling each other. Peeking under the table, you see that Gal is her same selfish self, of course: she's sitting on her wide-apart knees, and both her hands are fucking both her lower holes while she laps at Cerise from below. 

For several very fun minutes, the only sound in the room is five horny cunts getting serviced in various ways; and five horny girls making little grunts, coos and murmurs of pleasure. Cerise cums on her wife, Samantha cums on Renee's hand, you cum in your panties. It's super cool.

Breaking this trance of erotic pleasure is Renee -- turning her head and asking you: "Hey, teenybopper. You ever eat bunny pussy before?"

"No," you say. Your voice is rough and terse, since you're still so focused on fingering yourself. The more you toy with your quim, the hotter you seem to get. "How could I? You and Whitney keep her monopolized."

Renee laughs. "I gotta keep in better touch with my inner Marx, then. Smatters is communal property. We all get to use her."

Maybe it's wrong, but treating people as property is pretty hot. And if anyone was born to be a piece of property, low-value property at that, it's Samantha Smatters. You bite your lip as you let another little squirt of cum out inside your underwear.

Renee gets Samantha up on the table, on her back, and forces her legs apart. 

"Eat my pussy yes!" Samantha pleads. She spreads it open for you with her thumbs, and you can see way up inside it, all its ridges and drippy parts, the little strings of her pussy juice clinging to the walls. "Slutty bunny pussy for master Amber to lick, okay!"

You get your face down to her fat little mound. The tail isn't attached by a buttplug, no: you can see her vagina and her asshole in all their glory. That pristine, glistening pussy of hers is so cute. Pink and soft and so smooth you'd think she never went through puberty. It's hot, too -- no, for real -- staring at her box, you feel like you've got a space heater set to low blowing directly against your face. When without further ado you clamp your lips around that wonderfully inviting fuckhole, your eyes bug out, and you think for a split-second you've literally burned your tongue. But it's only surprise that makes you think so -- her insides are only the temperature of a person with a very high fever. But no wonder the whore is always so keen to get fucked. She's burning up inside. In a house of people with unusually high libidos, Samantha surpasses you all: she is an actual nympho, in the clinical sense. 

More surprising than her temperature, though...

"Well?" Renee asks, rubbing your neck and shoulders in a very, very perverse way as she watches you lick the writhing bunnygirl out. "How does she taste?"

You pull off Samantha's quim, strands of her cunt juice hanging off your chin. "It's... ungh, fuck -- she tastes like strawberry."

Renee giggles. "Is that so?" 

"I mean literally -- it's *just* like strawberry..."

Samantha, on the table, whines pathetically: "master Amber, please... your mouth... please lick my slut hole more, please? Please?"

Cerise, who's already cum so many times on Gal's face that the poor bitch is going to stink like her pussy for the next decade, finally climbs off of her and stumbles drunkenly over to where you sit. "No fuckin' way," Cerise slurs, and shoves you aside to get at Samantha's hole. "You're lying."

She leans forward, and gives Samantha's pussy a curious sniff -- which makes Samantha cum a little, splashing Cerise's surprised face with a little splash of bunny cum. Finally then, Cerise dives in. She squeezes Samantha's thighs, which are badly bruised, you note (Renee must love wailing on them) -- and starts to suck Samantha's cunt in earnest. 

Like you before her, Cerise's eyes bulge at the moment of contact. About 30 seconds later she pulls back, sticky with Samantha's fluids, and she gulps and says: "It's not strawberry... it's pineapple... oh my god... it's--" 

"Master Cerise please your tongue PLEASE I need it in my pussy hole--"

Cerise obliges, and goes back for more of what she supposes tastes like pineapple. Samantha's humongous tits sway and jiggle, and her eyes roll around in their sockets, while Cerise performs expert oral on her. 

Renee nods. "See, I think it tastes like oranges and cream... Whitney swears it's watermelon... and Alabaster thinks mango."

Gal is at Cerise's side. "may i" she says. Cerise is reluctant though, and selfishly just keeps eating Samantha out, casting annoyed glances back at her wife who waits patiently for her turn with the slave. Even Gal's patience wears, though: "cerise don't be greedy" she finally says, and this gets her to move aside. 

Even for just the split second that there isn't a mouth on her gash, Samantha whines and squirms in frustration. 

Gal gets her mouth on the pussy now. It's a blessed relief for the bunny, who chews her lip and cums so hard down Gal's throat that it sounds like she's using the toilet. The way Gal eats cunt is really second to none. You can see the way her tongue moves around inside Samantha's hole, just from the way the surface of Samantha's mound kind of writhes and bulges. It's sexy as hell. You didn't think it was possible, but it makes your already sodden, translucent panties even wetter (something about wearing undies soiled by your own arousal really gets you going). Just to show Gal that you enjoy her handiwork, you reach behind her and finger her pretty ass and pussy for her. She exhales hard from the unexpected rubby-rubby and redoubles the pace of her tongue-fucking. 

Only because even she does have to breathe *eventually*, Gal at last pulls off. "this is bananas" she says.

"It really is..." Cerise agrees.

"no--" Gal says, "--this tastes exactly like banana"

Renee circles the table and pets Samantha lovingly. Samantha, tiny fists balled up  at either side of her absolutely massive knockers, looks Renee in the eye, wearing an expression that's caught between pleasure, pain, and subservience. "Am I a good slut, master Renee?" She asks.

"Sammy," Renee says, "you -- are a miracle of science."

With that, she lights up another cig, climbs on the table, and sits on Samantha's face. She smokes languidly, and humps Samantha like she's a dildo. When Renee ashes her cigarette, she does so on Samantha's body. 

You don't see Samantha's face again for about an hour. But you do see a whole lot of Renee's mature cunt, and how spectacularly it can orgasm.

---

"Alabaster -- come out already."

"No."

"Alabaster!"

"No!"

Cerise pounds on the bathroom door, so hard you worry it'll come off its hinges. "You little dickweasel! You made me a promise! Come out of there this instant!"

You pick up a can of shaving cream, so recently deployed, and chuck it at the door. It whangs and rebounds off with a metallic clang. Cerise, on the other side, yelps. Then she pounds back even harder. "Don't you make me come in there! I will drag you out by your fucking hair! You're gonna ruin my wedding!"

You clutch at your coiffed hair, panicking. The thought of her ruining hours of hard work by grabbing your hair and tousling is all up? -- no, wait, that's not why you're freaking out. You can't be seen like this, by all the people out there. A small ceremony? Yeah, right. There's like two or three dozen guests out there, and they're not just randos but all the people closest to you. How are you ever going to live this down? The thought of what Armstrong will say alone --

"Alabaster! God fucking damn it! Come out! The ceremony's gonna start in like five minutes!"

God, why does this thing fit you so well? You tug at it, but it clings so form-fittingly to you that you can't pinch up any fabric. (Don't get aroused, don't get aroused). Why did Cerise have one that fits you so well? You didn't need to shop around -- Cerise just whipped it right out from her closet as if she'd been planning this. Fuck. And not that you're not thankful to Alex for all his help in getting you ready, but it all just felt a little fucked-up, you know? The process of it, getting dressed together, like this, with him. Does the hair in these places grow back? It does, right? Now your kokoro's going all doki-doki and it won't settle down. Oh, god -- what will Rose2 say? Fuck, what will Rose say? No, no, no, no, no... Rose can't see this... you will, for sure, pay dearly, if she sees this. What were you thinking? Oh god, oh fuck.

The banging gets louder. "Alabaster!!!"

Through the walls, muffled, comes the swelling sound of live orchestra music in the backyard. Oh my god, oh my god... Vivian Darkbloom is going to see you like this. Vivian fucking Darkbloom is going to -- Amber--!!

"Alabaster!!!!!"

You pull yourself back from the ledge of panic-induced fainting. You slow your rapid, shallow breathing. You gulp hard, and then you step out.

Cerise's angry expression, and her raised fist, both freeze in place as the door swings open. Then the grimace morphs into a broad grin, as she covers her mouth.

"Don't," you tell her.

All she responds with, balling up her fists and shaking them excitedly, is this:

"Aaaaahhhhh!!!"

---

Rose bobs side to side, singing along with the music.

"Here comes the bride, and here comes the bride... here comes the bride, aaaand heeeeere comes the bride..."

"Shut up," you tell her.

"...and here comes the bride, and here comes the briiiiide..."

You punch her in the shoulder.

"Ow! What the frick!" She turns in her seat slugs you back. God, she hits like a freight train when she wants.

"Stop it, you two," Mom chides. "If you ruin this day, I'll make you both sorry you were ever born!"

"Were we born?" You say. "That's in question, isn't it?"

"I said stop it, Amber! You were born. I should know. I still have the stretch marks to prove it!"

You open your mouth and point down your throat in the universal signal of gagging. "Yuch," you say.

"You rude, obnoxious little--!!"

Mom stops as, walking past down the white runner in the grassy aisle between the seats, comes Gal. Or as maybe you should call her on this holy day, Anna -- Anna Soliloquy. It seems a bit backwards to be doing the wedding ceremony after the legal shit, but hey. They're a couple of queers anyway. She's as gussied up as you've ever seen her, her dress's poofy shoulders and bust and long veil and even longer tail, all a pure satiny white, make her already pale beauty look positively albino -- but she pulls it off.

Mom immediately gets misty-eyed. She covers her face with both hands and sobs. Charlotte, smiling, hands her a tissue, and Mom dabs her cheeks.

She isn't the only one crying. Behind you, you hear a nasally, choked sob. You turn in place to find Nelson Berenstoin biting his fist, trying and failing to remain stoic.

"...you okay, dude?" You ask.

Nelson gives up the ghost. He pushes his glasses up with the back of his palm and rubs his eyes. "Sorry... I always get misty eyed at these things..."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Armstrong, next to him, says. "We're at a gay wedding and you're still the gayest person here. What is wrong with you?" He pulls out a handkerchief and offers it to him, as Charlotte did for Mom. Nelson gratefully accepts it, and loudly blows his nose.

Armstrong laughs. But then something off to the side catches his attention. Looking up, and going slackjawed, he says: "I take it back, Nelson. You're the third gayest person here."

You furrow your brow. What is that supposed to mean? You swivel the other way and look -- oh, here come the bridesmaids. Renee is so pretty... and Alex is always much cuter when he's a girl. And-- and.

And.

You rub your good eye.

Daddy...?

---

You are Cerise Soliloquy, the only actual patrician to ever browse /a/ in its entire history and congressional candidate.

When it comes to traps, you are a gourmand. Or maybe more like a wine connoisseur. You can discern the fine nuances and undertones of the various different vintages and styles... sampling here, dabbling there, tasting as you please from the extensive collection you've accumulated in the wine-cellar of your bookmarks on ex. Yes, like a sommelier, you have a true love of the infinite flavors to discover -- and like a wino, you can gorge until you're blackout drunk and there's nothing left...

You know traps.

Alex is the feminine type. The "I drew a girl and then added a dick" type. His short-cut little dress, which reveals a little too much thigh by design, is nicely complemented by knee high socks and heels with little red bows (how cute). He carries his bouquet with all the poise and confidence of a real woman. He's not a woman, of course. He's got a dick under that dress, and it's hard. Everyone can see it, which is why despite his poise, he's blushing. You lick your lips.

Now, Alabaster, on the other hand. Oh, this is too delicious.

Alabaster is the masculine type. He doesn't want to crossdress. He's made it abundantly clear. (Fatal mistake.) You have foisted it on him, practically blackmailed him into it. He doesn't look girly, he looks like a guy dressed as a girl. His gown is even tighter than Alex's (you made sure of it), and his blush is an even deeper crimson. And since his dick -- that big, meaty, brotherly dick you love -- is much bigger, its hardness is more prominent. Oh Alabaster, what a naughty little brother... getting all worked up like that in front of all these people. Rose is beside herself at the sight of it, so is Amber. Vivian is playing cool, but you can see as plainly as her button nose that she's wigging out internally. But none of these dumb bitches can really appreciate it: the true, unparalleled adorably erotic thrill of a cute boy who's been unwillingly forced to wear the clothes of a girl!!

Now, what else is going on?

Oh yeah, you're getting married. Let's get that taken care of.

---

"So beautiful it is, to see two young people in the prime of their life, drawn together on a day of love," Fazil says -- rambling a bit there, my guy.

You squint at him. "Isn't this against your religion? You know. Two girls? I'm pretty sure Allah says it's supposed to be like this:" you make a circle with thumb and forefinger, then poke your other hand's forefinger in and out. "...Not like this:" you make a circle with your other hand, two opposing OK signs, and bump them together.

"We are all sinners," Fazil says. "I am happy for the Soliloquys."

What a nice boy.

Vivian is a little more focused on a different matter. "Impossible... no, my eyes deceive me."

"Your eyes do no such thing," you tell her.

"I died when we linked our implants together. That must be it. I have perished and become bodily transported into another realm."

"An isekai?!" Rose gasps.

Vivian takes out her phone and googles that.

"Yes. An iseaki."

"Maaaybe..." Rose says. She puts a finger to her lips. "That'd be so coool."

Mom is similarly agog. She can't focus on whether to be awed by Cerise's spectacular attire, or Daddy's... spectacular-for-a-different-reason attire.

He conspicuously tries to avoid looking at anyone, staring instead at sunset's bright orange sky. Is he hard? What a fuckin' pervert. For real.

"The prospect of the reception just got... much more fun..." Charlotte breathes. Ohhh man.

You kick the back of the seat in front of you. Rose2 spins around, growling: "What is wrong with you? Can't you behave for one second?"

"Hey Mommy, what do you think of Mommy?" You point up towards the wreathed altar.

Rose2's face goes slack for a moment as she thinks. Cautiously, she throws it back on you: "What do you think?"

"Cute. Cute!"

She lowers her voice. "If you can keep him held down in bed for me tonight, I'll pay you a million dollars."

Her tone and expression convey stone-cold, dead seriousness.

---

"Sir... ce-cerise...!"

Gal's voice is about as breathy as it's ever been. If a leaf fell off a tree at the same time she spoke, you wouldn't be able to hear her. And as she looks from you, to Cerise, and back, she doesn't know who to focus on.

You clear your throat, shift the bouquet so it covers your crotch.

No, you shouldn't hold it there -- that looks funny and just draws attention to the fact that you're covering up an erection. But... if you don't, then...

Aaagh, fuck.

"Just get this over with so I can change," you tell your loving sister and sister-wife. You tug at your brooch. Why did you have to wear the underwear, too? Why did you agree to that?

Cerise addresses you from the corner of her mouth. "You aren't getting changed anytime soon, Alabasterina. Strap yourself in."

You really don't want to hear anything about straps or strapping in while you're dressed like this. No sir, you don't like it.

But even Cerise's love for girls who aren't girls pales compared to her love for a particular girl who is a girl. The more she watches Gal standing across from her -- mousy little thunderstruck Gal, whose elaborately huge dress can't even make her look very large -- the more Cerise takes her in, the more Cerise's eyes well up.

Gal's gaze averts itself. She stares at her feet, abashed, and uncomfortable with being at the very center of attention. Even more uncomfortable with being the center of such powerful adoration.

"Gal, baby..." Cerise says.

She reaches out to part the veil, but she gets her hand slapped away.

"You gotta do your vows before you kiss her! Fuck!" Comes the voice of the ceremony's officiant, from the lectern between the two brides.

You gawp at Whitney. "You -- you're the --"

"What -- surprised?" Whitney says.

"I -- yes--" you hiss.

"Heeeh. You're a smokeshow today, Ally, by the way," Whitney tells you. "Same as last time. The hottest person at the wedding."

"Oh, and I'm just some ugly old lady then?" Dr. Carte pouts.

"Sorry ma. And sorry Cerise -- Gal! But Ally wins the wedding fashion award. Once again! Sausage."

"...Sausage?" You repeat.

"Isn't that how they say it? Sausage?"

"How who says-- what?"

"Rosie always says it. Sausage."

"Sasuga?"

"Yeah..." she shakes her head. "Fuck, you're getting me off track here. You fucking bimbo. Let's see..." she plops her copy of the bible down on the lectern and leafs through it. "Aha- here we go."

"But you're not a reverend," you hiss.

She glances up. "And you're not a girl! Anyway yes I am. I got a ordained online. They mailed me a certificate and everything."

"Seriously?"

"Uh huh. All you gotta do is answer a few questions about Jesus and stuff. Blah blah blah, died for our sins, do unto others," (she does an Arnie impression here:) "I'll be back." She giggles. "All that shit. Well, so, let's kick this pig."

She clears her throat, and addresses the gathering, who all fall instantly silent.

"We are here today to celebrate a union in holy matri-- matrim-- the holy wedding of two women, Cerise Soliloquy, and Galgal Soliloquy--"

Renee makes a pointed "ahem."

"--Anna Soliloquy, in holy wedding -- wait, no I said that part." She rubs the back of her head and glances down. "Okay, okay, yeah." She begins, adopting the same dignified, lilting cadence and boring gravitas of a real pastor at a wedding: "So. Do you, Anna, take this woman, Cerise, to have and to hummina hummina, for better or for even better, stinkin' rich or poor, in sickness and in healthy, to love and to cherish, and to bow chikka wow, chikka wow chikka bow -- for all time, til death do you part?"

Gal's response is a lot more mature than Rose's was at your wedding (how juvenile she was, you're still so upset). She immediately, and resoundingly despite her status as literally-blushing-bride, responds in the affirmative: "I do."

"And do you, Cerise... fuck, this is so much shit to say... have, hold, sick, poor, rich, healthy, et cetera?"

Cerise's voice breaks just a little as, nodding slowly, and staring Gal directly in the eyes, she smiles, and softly says: "I do..."

Whitney slams the bible shut. "Great. Fantastic. Then before you two start necking for everyone to see, I think you had some vows of your own?"

Gal is still thunderstruck, so Cerise is the one who takes Gal's hands in hers and begins the vow exchange. A bit haltingly at first, but gaining steam as she speaks:

"I -- I never thought I would... ever get married. And I definitely never thought I would get married to a woman. I didn't... didn't know what I really was before meeting you. I mean, not just about liking girls. Because that's always been-- but I mean-- I didn't know what I was. I was... I was really lost, Gal, before I met you. I was drinking myself to cirrhosis and stuck in a dead-end job and I was, sad, all the time. I was a sad sack. And when we met, we were both a couple of sad sacks, weren't we? Being sad together online. Wallowing in it together. But then something changed. We started bossing each other around. I made you eat more -- you made me drink less. We were so mean about it! Because -- because I didn't care if I was sad -- and you didn't care if you were sad -- or sick, or unhealthy, or anything. But we sure as shit weren't going to let the other one be that way! Isn't that what love is? I really don't know. I don't know anything, anymore, about anything. Life is so weird. And I don't know if that's really love. Who actually knows what love really is? But I do know this feeling in my heart whenever I see your face and when I think about -- how much you've accomplished--" she wipes away her freely flowing tears. "I'm so proud of you... I'm so happy I get to see you where you are now... this warm feeling in my heart, that can't ever go out, I don't care what you call it, but I know for sure that's forever! In this life, and wherever we go after... and no matter what comes... I want to go there with you. So I do love you. I love you so, so fucking much, Gal."

At that, she's apparently done, and silence descends over the crowd in the golden gloom. Silence punctuated only by the sound of Mom, sobbing her goddamn eyeballs out -- and, uh, Nelson, doing the same.

Gal's mouth is hanging open. She's swaying slightly, and she isn't saying a word. Thirty seconds pass, a minute. It grows awkward.

Dr. Carte elbows her. "Psst."

"i..."

"Go on," Dr. Carte whispers. She rubs Gal's shoulders.

"You can do this," Alex whispers. "I believe in you."

She glances back at the crowd. Her eyes are searching... searching for someone. And she finds her: Amber.

Amber, too, is crying -- smiling, hugging herself. When Gal catches her in that moment of softness, Amber quickly looks away, embarrassed.

"Say your vows, you fucking mute dyke!" She yells, concealing her face with one hand.

Gal looks back at Cerise now. Cerise nods.

Gal takes a deep breath, closes her eyes.

"i was going to kill myself"

Cerise's smile drops like a stone -- everyone's does.

Gal opens her eyes again.

"I was going to kill myself before I met you. I didn't care anymore about my life. Not even Amber, when she was -- not even she could make me change my mind about it. I didn't want to live anymore. I had no job. No friends. I hadn't been outside... in so long, even... I was a thief, and a hacker, and all I ever did, was to hurt people. And I was going to kill myself because the world would have been better without me in it. I had a bottle of pills -- these aren't my vows... I wasn't going to say any of this-- I'm sorry--"

"Keep going," Cerise says.

"I wanted to die so badly... it was all I wanted, but I was a coward, and I couldn't do it. My cowardice... kept me alive, until I met you. And I hurt you too, Cerise--"

"--No--"

"I did. Our whole relationship was built on lies. I'm so sorry. I don't deserve you... I don't deserve -- any of this. But I'm not a sad sack anymore. I'm not that girl anymore who pities herself and wants to die. You made me better... you believed in me even when you shouldn't have, and trusted me even when you should have kept me out. You... love me... even though you should hate me. You're so stupid. And I don't deserve you -- but I'll take it. Because I'm getting there, Cerise, I'm going to make it there. I'm going to be the wife you deserve. I'm going to be the woman who deserves you. It's the only choice I have left. Because I was going to die... but now if I do, that would be the worst thing of anything I've ever done. So I have to keep moving ahead. For you. And -- and for me, too. It feels good, to be better. To have all of this. I'll stay with you. Forever. I love you too. Cerise."

Whitney uses her wrist and forearm to wipe the snot off her face. Gruffly, she says: "ah-- so. By-- ah-- sorry, there's something in my eye-- ahem-- and, uh, in my throat. By-- fuck. Fall allergies. Y'know? Shitty weather today." (It's 70 degrees and sunny. Pollen count is low.) "So... where was I. By the power invested in me by the dumbasses who run the state of California... I now pronounce you dyke and dyke! ... You may now kiss the bride. With tongue, prefer-ably."

Cerise sweeps Gal off her feet in the most literal way, holds her and kisses her deep.

Gal kisses back just as forcefully.

The song they share their first dance to is weirdly dirge-like for a song called "I Love You, Honeybear" -- but you suppose it suits them. At least the music selection for when the rest of you join them on the dancefloor is more uptempo.

Amber twirls with Vivian, you with your wife, Whitney with a stuttering and abashed Nelson. Mom and Charlotte gab over cake. The other guests flit to and fro at random, all here together to celebrate a wedding you never really expected to happen. The sun finishes setting, and torches get lit, and the party continues.

Noelle is her typical wallflower self. She hangs back by the buffet table, arms folded, pouting as she watches the revelers -- the newlyweds in particular. "Fucking lesbians..." you hear her mutter to herself, between swigs of rum and coke.

Kay saunters by her. She holds out her hand. "C'mon."

"C'mon what?"

"C'mon and dance, moron."

"With you? With-- anyone?" Noelle sputters. "No. I'm not a dancer. It's a fucking nightmare, watching me dance -- I've got no sense of rhythm or--"

Kay grabs her wrist and literally drags her out onto the dancefloor. The noise Noelle makes as she surges forward with the momentum of it, is a surprised "hup--!" And then it's too late for her to get away.

The two dance all night long.

As you and Rose slowly revolve among the others with your hands interlinked, you stare into her eyes, and she stares back at you -- it feels good.

"Should we have done custom vows too?" You ask her.

"It's a little late to ask that question, don't you think?"

"Well. We didn't have time even if we wanted to..." you say.

"And they were so sappy anyway," she adds.

"So, so cheesy," you agree.

"Yeah."

You spin in silence with her for a bit.

"Are you happy we got married?" You ask suddenly.

"N--" she begins, as if by reflex, but stops. She's quiet again for a short turn, then: "It would be too much of a bother to get a divorce at this point."

"Of course. So much paperwork."

"Such a waste of time..."

You kiss.

It's a nice moment of tenderness, until Rose says:

"Does wearing a dress really make you that horny?"

"W-what?"

"I should have done this to you years ago. You're so into it."

"No I'm n--"

"You're going to fuck me through both of our dresses if you get any harder."

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I'm not even -- you're hallucinating--"

Her somewhat sadistic grin is a little too smug for your liking.

---

"Okay," Whitney slurs, "okay, okay, okay, okay--"

"Okay?" You say.

"Okay."

The visitors are already on their way out -- although some, like an utterly agog Fazil and Ken, have to be pointedly ushered from the backyard, given how distracted they are by the lez peepshow Kay decided to put on for everyone. At some point a little while ago, she pinned Noelle up against the buffet table, ripped the poor woman's pants off, and started feasting on her cunt. (Guess the hors d'oeuvres weren't cutting it.) Kneeling in the grass, Kay ate Noelle for a good half hour before you realized it wasn't going to end anytime soon, and so saw fit to start ordering everyone home. 

"I reckon I'm a touch green with envy at the denizens of this here abode," Ken says as Armstrong leads him away.

"Aren't we all," he says gruffly. "Horny motherfuckers."

Noelle, who can't hold her liquor, is totally at Kay's mercy. Who, as it turns out, is a rapey drunk. All Noelle can do under this oral assault is weakly writhe and whine. Her tailbone rests against the table's sharp edge while Kay, hands on Noelle's legs, keeps her face buried in Noelle's crotch. It's lewd, lurid, and loud. But this is all some pretty typical Nail House evening action, and most of the other girls continue to serve themselves drinks and cake from the table despite it. This hardcore, semi-consensual cunnilingus is just a pretty decoration to go along with the table-setting. Whitney, walking by with yet another wine glass, tweaks one of Noelle's nipples on her way past, and laughs at the pained yelp it elicits. That's about all the care anyone has for Noelle's plight.

"Okay, okay, okay--" Whitney downs her liquor in one gulp, tosses the empty glass across the lawn, and then calls for everyone's attention. "Sit down, sit down-- everyone, sit down!-- not you, you bitches!" She points at Cerise and Gal. "You two -- get over here." She strolls, or more like stumbles, to the lectern and beckons them over. "I wanna have one last 'I Do'."

"Drunk idiot," Cerise laughs. "We did that already."

"One more time!" Whitney says. She gets behind the lectern and waves for them again. "One more time, please -- it was so cute! I gotta see it one more time!"

Cerise casts an uncertain look back at Gal. But Gal, conflict-averse, approaches Whitney -- and so Cerise follows along. 

Since you're a bridesmaid, you join them. So do Alex and Dr. Carte. 

The rest of the girls all take their seats. Save Kay and Noelle, who are too busy cumming to notice the upcoming redux. Noelle's half-pained moans fill the cool autumn air. 

"Okay, okay, okay--" Whitney says. "Do you, Cerise... fuck. How does it go?"

"You stink like wine," Cerise says. "How much did you drink tonight?"

"You stink like beer!" Whitney shouts, laughing. "Who the fuck drinks beer at a wedding? Huh? Fuck you!" Huffing and puffing, she stoops, reaches under the lectern for something, and struggles with it when she finds it -- even as she plows ahead: "Okay, okay... Gal-- do you take Cerise -- for having and holding and fucking and sucking?"

Gal is as confused as anyone, but she rolls with the flow. "i do"

"And do you, Cerise -- take this bitch to be forever yours?"

"I already did," Cerise says. "And I do."

"I'm cumming! Fuck, I'm cumming! AAAAAHHH!" (That would be Noelle, doing... exactly what she says she's doing.)

Whitney finishes with whatever she's doing behind that narrow podium. She stands upright. "FAN-tastic. You may now kiss the bride."

The brides are still perplexed -- so, frankly, are the rest of you -- but they won't say no to the opportunity for more tonsil hockey. They embrace, and share a tongue kiss that in politer company would definitely count as indecent. Whitney breaks it up by clearing her throat: "ahem. AHEM. Hi." The blushing brides turn and face her. "This time -- how about you kiss each other the right way."

She steps past the lectern and reveals her surprise. She's donned a strap-on: a big thick motherfucker made of green silicone, 9 or 10 inches long. She puts her hands on either woman's shoulders, and gently, but forcefully, guides them down. They sink to their knees, the excess fabric of their dresses pooling around them as they settle. Like a couple of fairytale princesses they are, in their tiaras, and veils, and satin -- but with a big fucking cock protruding between them.

"Kiss the bride," Whitney says with a hiccup.

Gal glances back at the audience. What she first sees is what you also first see. Charlotte, in the front row, parts her knees and hikes up her skirt to reveal that she isn't wearing underwear. She flashes you and Gal with a devilish wink, showing off her young-looking pussy. Her bare cunt is visibly wet in the glowing light of the torches.

Cerise isn't paying attention to that, but it's just as well -- she grabs Gal by the head in that moment of distraction, and pulls Gal's face towards her own. Gal's eyes bulge as she realizes what's happening. But she doesn't fight. From either side of Whitney's fake cock, then, the newlyweds kiss. As if to reward them, plus also to keep them from pulling away, Whitney pets the backs of their heads. 

You've seen a lot of lewd things before, but this is a cut above: the reverend forcing a pair of freshly minted wives, still in their elegant dresses, to make out from either side of a giant strap-on dildo. Sighing, your sister and her wife resign themselves to something more than PDA -- something more like public sex -- and they kiss with the aim of putting on a show for everyone. Their tongues mingle and entwine and swirl around the length of the toy's rubber. Whitney lightly thrusts back and forth, just a bit, between their lips, to coat the ersatz dick with their collective slobber. 

"LICK MY CUNT! LICK IT, YOU FUCKING BITCH!" There's Noelle again, the chorus of tonight's debauchery, in a sense... she's got one leg hiked, foot on the tabletop, and she's bouncing up and down on Kay's upturned face.

Charlotte, first of the crowd to expose herself, now is the first of the crowd to become involved. She pulls her skirt fully back, baring her genitals not only to you and the others at the lectern, but everyone sitting in the chairs around her, too. And openly, she begins to diddle herself.

"Mrs. Mallory!" Rose2 laughs. "You're so lewd..."

"I am," she agrees.

"Floozie," Mom sneers. "You can't keep it in your pants, can you?"

"No," she agrees. 

Rose is blushing hard, and trying not to stare.

Samantha hops into action. "Charlotte!" She squeaks as she strides down the aisle. "Is your cunt getting wet? Do you need it serviced? I'll do my best, okay!"

She falls to her knees in front of Charlotte's folding chair and gets to work. Charlotte sighs in contentment, happy to let someone else take care of the hard part, while she just watches the show up front. Settling back, she languidly runs a hand through her blonde tresses. "Wow -- you're even better at this than you were in high school..."

"You and Samantha--!" Mom gasps. "I can't believe it."

"Oh come on, Scarlett," she says, rolling her eyes. "Spare me the puritanical act. Sam was the school bicycle. Of course I took her for a ride or two... or 20..."

Samantha has three fingers up Charlotte's cunt while she suckles on that big clitty of hers. She saws her fingers in and out, and sucks.

Stepping up behind Gal, Dr. Carte helps Whitney press the meek girl's lips to the shiny rubber dick. Taking that as a cue, you step behind Cerise, and do the same to her. So together, Dr. Carte, Whitney, and you force Cerise and Gal to fellate a dildo. There's something weirdly tender about it all. The way Cerise turns her face this way and that to rub her cheek and forehead against the toy, the way Dr. Carte mashes Gal's nose against the underside. The way the two wives' saliva mixes and froths up and runs in rivulets down the shaft. The way Whitney laughs to herself at the sight. 

And: the way the others in the audience follow Charlotte's lead, and begin to masturbate.

First Vivian. She slips her panties off from under her dress and starts to dig at the hole between her legs. You've learned that for as prim and proper as Vivian is in most areas -- when it comes to sex, she's a fucking degenerate, and can't stay dignified. Her two-handed method of playing with her tiny cunt is like something out of porn. And quickly it turns out her hands are not enough to satisfy her lust. She asks Rose2 for help. 

"With what?" Rose2 asks.

"Do you see what Samantha is doing to Mrs. Mallory's vaginal orifice?"

Rose2 slowly nods. "She's licking her!"

"Please employ your fingers and mouth on mine in the same way."

Rose2 giggles. "Geez, Viv, that's lewd. You--"

Vivian tugs her by the wrist and forces her off the chair. Rose2 grunts in surprise as she falls to the grass. Vivian grins down at her. "I should have asked less politely. Use your fingers and your mouth to pleasure me, right now -- or I will make you regret it." 

Amber slugs Vivian's shoulder, lightly but only half-playfully. "What gives you the right to bully my sister, huh?"

"The itch between my legs," Vivian says simply, looking her dead in the eye. "I need relief. If you want, feel free to assist her. I rather like two mouths serving me."

Amber instead moves on -- to the row of chairs ahead -- where Mom isn't having as much fun as most of you. She's got her hands cupped to her mouth and her cheeks are glowing bright red. Amber sits beside her, but not before unbuttoning her own short-shorts. As she sits, she gets a hand down the elastic of her panties and tickles her quickly moistening pussy. "Wild, isn't it?" She asks Mom.

"This is -- indecent--" she protests. "I don't think it's-- Amber!!" Mom finally realizes that Amber, too, is getting lewd. "What is wrong with you?"

"What?" Amber says. "Everyone else is doing it. I can't cream my shorts, too?"

Mom's voice is tremulous: "Y-you... t-this sort of thing... you're really a little too young..."

Amber snorts. "You didn't say that when I was busy eating you out. Don't be a hypocrite. Just enjoy the show. And anyway--" She nods at the altar. "Blame your dyke daughter. She's the one who turned everyone on just now, isn't she?"

Up front, the simulated fellatio on Whitney's fake dick has become a deepthroat contest. Cerise, hands balled up by her chest, gags hard as Whitney humps her face. The expression Whitney makes is as if she were a futanari fucking Cerise with a genuine dick: her lips are puckered into an O of pleasure that bares her teeth, her eyes are squinting and her features are all scrunched up. When Cerise can't take the abuse of her esophagus any longer, Whitney dismounts with a sick slrrrrch that leaves mucusy drool hanging off her chin, turns the other way, and starts to fuck Gal's face instead. Whitney is just as brutal on the red-haired little bitch, using her like a dicksleeve, and Gal is perfectly happy to be employed to that end. Back and forth, then, Whitney subdues the brides with facefucking. It's getting Dr. Carte all hot and bothered, seeing her daughter go hog-wild on a couple of girls this way. She rubs her mound through the fabric of her dress and squeezes her thighs rhythmically together.

"Renee?" Alex says.

"Get on your knees," she grunts tersely. "I need your mouth..."

"C'mon, Mommy..." Amber says, stroking Mom's arm seductively. She's playing up the not-so-innocent babe act again. "I'm suuuper hot right now. Aren't you? You are. Won't you sit on your little girl's face?"

Mom is indecisive yet still, but Charlotte isn't. Still riding Samantha's mouth, she grins Amber's way and says, "is your mother still being a stick in the mud, dear?"

"It's such a drag," Amber replies. Her fingers are still busy stirring up her own quim inside her jeans.

"She's always been that way. Would you be all right if I sat on your face instead?"

"Charlotte..." Mom murmurs. "Please d--"

"Cooool," Amber giggles. She walks a few seats down the row to where Charlotte is. "Can I call you Mommy too?" 

"Oh, absolutely," Charlotte says, agreeing emphatically. She pushes Samantha off her cunt like tossing away a tissue. "That's what you call my Rose, isn't it?"

"Uh huh."

"I like it." 

The two embrace and share a long, obscene kiss. They swap spit like they've been lovers for years. Amber pulls her hand out of her pants only for Charlotte to replace it with her own. She masturbates the young girl's cunt without reservation. Doesn't care that she's underage, and certainly doesn't care that they're technically cousins.

"Thank you for feeding me your pussy honey!" Samantha says, standing, and wiping her mouth with the back of her palm. She calls out, "Is there anyone else who needs cunt-service? Or dick-service?"

Rose2, gaspingly, pulls back from Vivian's over-saturated pussy just long enough to heave: "me -- kudasai! My pusshi needs it!"

Samantha is only too happy to lie on her back underneath Rose2's fat bubblegum butt, while Rose2 resumes serving Vivian. The house's fuck-bunny eats out the house's fuck-kitten, letting Rose2 smear her face with sweet-smelling girlcum straight from her pretty pink gash.

"You're one of Scarlett's girls, so I assume you know your way around eating pussy," Charlotte says. 

"Oh, absolutely," Amber responds, mirroring Charlotte's verbal tics. "But actually, it's because of your daughter. Rose makes me suck her off every night before bed, while Daddy fucks us..."

"Is that so?" Charlotte says, as she tugs her skirt off and chucks it aside. Not fazed by the revelation that her daughter's been using Amber's underage mouth for a toilet. "Did she teach you well?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself -- Mommy?"

Just like Samantha, Amber lies on her back in the grass. Charlotte straddles her ears with her knees, and lowers herself. The plumpness of Charlotte's calves, her thick thighs, and fat hips -- it's really something to behold. The way her fleshy, give-y form so obscenely contrasts against young Amber's tiny body. The older woman's sloppy pussy has left little trails of wetness all down her inner legs that Amber pauses for a moment to kiss and vacuum up. Charlotte thrills to this, and teases some more wetness out by tickling her clit while Amber works. She forcefully delivers her instructions -- like mother, like daughter -- "lick me, Amber. Lick me thoroughly -- inside and out -- clean me with your mouth. Make me cum."

She settles her weight fully on Amber's face, her fat ass compressing a bit, and spreading, to reveal her puckered anus. Fists gripping the turf, she leans forward, tits hanging low, and rides Amber without mercy. She doesn't let up, doesn't let Amber breathe. You realize then, that Rose's total indifference to whether Amber suffocates, is actually an inherited trait. Rose's mother is also a depraved sadist.

Rose herself finds a seat beside Mom. Both women watch for a long moment, the way Charlotte and Amber lez out. They're playing at disgusted, but in truth they're riveted.

"Your mother is awful," Mom tells Rose.

"She really is," Rose replies, "I don't know what's gotten into her. Or Amber for that matter..." Her glasses are getting fogged.

Mom paws at her own chest. "It's the bad influence of all these sluts. Your mother chief among them!"

"This is just like that night at the theater... we live with animals, Scarlett, we really do... shameless... slutty... cunt animals..."

Rose is, probably not consciously, stroking Mom's leg. 

Mom gives her a severe look. "Is what Amber said true? Are you raping my daughter, young woman?"

"E-excuse me--"

"Be honest!"

"W-well..." Rose says, stuttering, "she insists on sleeping in bed with Alabaster and I. And she's so... insatiable... she's *asking* for it, Scarlett. Literally... she *asks* me to rape her. To do these terrible things to her..."

"I understand," Mom says sadly. "I raised a filthy little slut. As you can see. She does ask for it, doesn't she."

"Yes! She does... so it's not my fault that I use her the way I do, is it?"

"No. No, it isn't..."

Mom is, probably also not consciously, returning Rose's skinship. They're groping and feeling each other up as they discuss the wanton whorishness of their family.

You hear what sounds like a high-pressure sprinkler head on full blast. But looking up, you find that it's just Noelle pissing cum straight into Kay's upturned mouth. They're both fully naked at this point and Noelle uses all four fingers of one hand to rub her pussy in fast circles as she nuts in Kay's face. The stream collects in the back of Kay's throat and despite the wide-open yawn of her jaw, she's smiling brightly. She drinks every drop of cream Noelle dispenses. Vain lesbian she is, Noelle won't let Kay hog it all. When she's done blasting Kay with cum, she pushes Kay to her back and climbs atop her and forces her tongue into her mouth. She drinks her own pussy juice straight from Kay's mouth and throat, gargles it even, then swaps it back and forth. They spit Noelle's cum from one mouth to another. It's a game to them... the two Christmas cakes writhe and run their hands over each other's bodies as they relish the taste of Noelle's pussy-cream. 

You, though? Wearing a skin-tight gown with matching underwear and fuck-me heels has you feeling abashed and uncertain. Even with all the debauchery surrounding you, and with as hard and aching as your meaty cock has grown in the restrictive confines of the dress, you're loath to draw attention to yourself by joining.

Thankfully then, it's Whitney who forces the issue. "These bitches need some real cock," she says. 

"we do..." Gal agrees, a bubble of saliva popping on her lips. She sniffles back her snot, but her pretty face is covered in the stuff.

"You," Whitney says, pointing at you. "Come here and do your fucking job already. Yeesh."

"M-me?"

"Yeah, Alabaster..." Cerise slurs. Her face is just as slimy and messed-up as her new wife's. "Come here... give your big sister a taste of that trap dick, huh...?"

You glance back. Rose is riding Mom's face, cruelly so, bouncing her asshole up and down on Mom's tongue. How that happened, and so suddenly, you don't know. You can hardly believe your eyes. "That's it, Scarlett... just like that... kiss it like you would a mouth. This is how I make your little girl eat my ass... do it just like she does..."

Mom is doing her best to keep up, hands braced against Rose's thigh meat, leaving little indentations in it. Rose is cumming on her face. It's a Mallory family attack on the Catachresis family: mother and daughter teaming up against mother and daughter. 

Cerise is insistent. "Alabaster, please... I really, really want your cock in my mouth."

You love your sister. You can't refuse her. You step forward, towards where she and Gal sit linking hands. They idly kiss and lick each other while they watch you from the corners of their eyes.

Meanwhile, Whitney forces Alex's face deeper into Dr. Carte's crotch. With Alex's head pinned between them as they stand facing one another, they make out for a few lingering moments. A deep, incestuous, mother-daughter tongue kiss that leaves them both half-lidded.

"Should I fuck his little asshole, Mom?" Whitney asks. 

Dr. Carte shakes her head. "You should fuck mine..." She arches her back so her butt is sticking out. 

Wheeze-laughing in her signature way, Whitney circles her mother and lifts the dress back and parts the older woman's ass with both thumbs. She stares down at it.

"I love your ass, Mom," she says. She spits on it, making Dr. Carte jump. Whitney rubs the spit in with one of her thumbs. "It's so fucking tight... think this thing will fit?"

"Only one way to find out, baby."

Whitney tries to force it in. Dr. Carte lets out a tiny scream, and bucks against poor Alex's mouth. You're not sure when the last time he took a breath was... he might be close to passing out. He wouldn't be the only one, either. Amber, beneath Charlotte, is convulsing, her arms flopping limply at her side as the mature woman takes her pleasure selfishly. Samantha is also struggling mightily under the surprisingly voracious face-fuck Rose2 delivers. Not that Rose2 is faring better herself because Vivian, hands gripping the pink curls by their roots, is mashing her little cuntlet as viciously as she can against the fatass weeaboo slut's lips. The wet noise of Vivian's puffy mound whapping repeatedly against Rose2's chubby cheeks is somehow cute, even if lurid.

Cerise strokes your legs. "You're so pretty today, Alabaster... or should I call you Alabasterina?"

"Fuck you," you mumble.

"Haha. You should wear that more often."

"Never again. NEVER again."

"we'll see" Gal says mysteriously. "i like you as a girl too Sir"

Cerise is rolling up the hem of your dress like a little kid unwrapping a favorite candy bar. Her glee, visible under the filmy sheen of her own saliva left behind by Whitney's deepthroat, is effusive and unconstrained. 

As Whitney gets a firm grip on her mother's hips and gets the strap-on seated deep up her anus, a sight that makes your cock deposit another creamy dollop of precum in your underwear, Cerise reveals it: she pulls back your dress's material far enough to bare your panty-clad crotch, its prefuck-dripping satin almost transparent with how wet it's become. This garment is far, far too small to contain the monstrous dick you're blessed with. The bulbous head and a good four or five inches of shaft are visible, pinned up against your tummy; and your balls make the panties bulge obscenely. No one would ever, ever mistake you for a girl. Cerise's mouth, literally, waters at the sight. She's in love. She's in deeper love with this incestuous dick in her face, than she is with her own wife, probably.

"Can I?" She asks, gazing up at you in desperation.

"Both of you," you grunt.

She pulls your cock up and out of the panties, and strokes it tenderly even as she guides Gal's face towards it, too. As with Whitney, they kiss each other over the length of your huge dick. The girls in the crowd watching coo and sigh at the scene. Cerise and Gal worship your dick like they need it to live. Never breaking eye contact with you, they trail soft kisses up and down the shaft and the head. These kisses start small, just pecks really, but gradually become lewder and lewder. Their wet lips part, their tongues snake out; they start to knead your nuts and slurp up your oozing fuckslime; they sniff and huff your manly scent; in short they transition from kissing your dick to outright blowing you, in tandem.

Dr. Carte's hypnotically undulating stomach and ass as Whitney fucks her into oblivion is almost as nice to focus on as these two girls submitting themselves to your powerful erection. "Fuck me, baby, fuck me," Dr. Carte repeats over and again. She holds the back Alex's head to keep balanced while her daughter anally screws her -- which of course also helps drive her pussy mound into Alex's mouth. A lucky woman, Dr. Carte: getting full service at both ends.

Down in the crowd, Rose and Charlotte have linked hands and now are kissing each other while they get their pussies off on the Catachresises. Guess Rose is over her last hangups about incest, if the way her tongue probes her mother's mouth is any indication. 

Vivian, shockingly, is the less selfish girl here. Having orgasmed a few times in Rose2's mouth, she climbed off the girl, and now is penetrating her with a vibrating egg (does Vivian just carry that around in her purse?) to help Rose2's rolling orgasm on top of Samantha. Rose2, as she always does, is pulling a true ahegao, her face all melty and droopy while she succumbs to pleasure of her roiling fuckholes. 

"Orgasm for me," Vivian commands. "Orgasm for me, you filthy whore."

"Say more mean things to me... pleeeease..." Rose2 begs.

"Harlot. Tramp. Slut... slit-slut... that's what you are, aren't you? Slit-slut. Pink haired slit-slut."

"Ffffuuuuccckkk," Rose2 wails, and creams.

You never knew Vivian to be so dominant when the mood strikes.

"Hey-- hey--" Dr. Carte thwacks Alex's head with her knuckles. "You. Yeah, you. Little cunt. Go up and give the brides a hand."

Alex, face like a fish out of water, struggles to his feet. "Wh-what?"

Dr. Carte lets her arms hang uselessly at her side while Whitney full-force rails her asshole. Her voice sounds like it's coming through radio static, from the violence of getting buggered. "Go-- go up by the brides-- make like Alabaster--"

Alex, in his prissy dress, with his prissy way of walking, stumbles towards where you stand. Like a lamb to slaughter; Cerise and Gal eye him hungrily. Since it's Cerise's special day, she's taking full advantage, and getting greedy: she tugs Alex closer and starts to roll up his wedding dress, too.

"Cer-- Cerise..." he mutters. He's shivering.

"Shut up," she mutters back, still rubbing her face against your veiny, leaky prick. She gets him standing in front of you: face-to-face, and cock-to-cock. She has one hand on your ass, one one his. Alex solicitously holds his dress's hem up around his thin but boyish hips, to bare his underwear -- which like yours is similarly lacy and similarly translucent with precum and similarly much too dainty and feminine to contain his thick dick. Cerise fully frees it, and lines them up, comparing the two. Gal watches intently, jaw slightly agape. Cerise tickles the balls, yours and Alex's alike, and strokes the slime-coated foreskins back and forth across the slime-oozing heads. Her eyes are afire with lust. She couldn't be happier. The view, the texture, the scent, the debauchery of having you at her mercy... oh yeah, she's cumming in her britches and she isn't even touching her pussy.

The two girls begin to lick and suck you both. Their tongues swirl around, and swab the fleshpoles indiscriminately. Since your combined girth is so thick, they add their hands to help things along. 

With her lips wrapped around your cockshaft, Cerise stares deep into your eyes, wordlessly thanking you for it all: total adoration there. Alex, feeling the waves of perverted pleasure along with you, as Gal's tongue scrapes across the sensitive underside of his own cock, whines and murmurs and fidgets. The added pressure of your dicks rubbing together, on top of this dual fellatio, is enough to start pushing you towards that delirious edge... you're about to blow your load.

"Ally..." Alex gulps. He looks up at you. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."

"Me too," you grunt.

Cerise exhales hard through her nostrils and redoubles her blowjob technique. So does Gal. They lick and stroke you together. Quickly, but softly, their fingers and their wet pink tongues coax you to blow your cocks. You grit your teeth and bellow deeply, Alex shrieks, and soon the two of you are painting each other's bridesmaid gowns with ropes of pearly white cum. You blast wad after wad of it, staring down at the way your two hard, dark red cocks jerk and twitch and pulse in tune with each other. And also at the way your sister's face, and Gal's face, below the cocks just keep licking and stroking and helping you to cum as hard as possible.

You'd think it might wind down after an orgasm so divine, but it's really just beginning. Blame Dr. Carte:

"We should have -- a competition..." Dr. Carte says. "Yes... between Cerise and Gal."

Whitney is handing her mother a second strapon of her very own, and then the depraved mother-daughter duo are leading Cerise and Gal from the altar: Whitney dragging Cerise by the hair, Dr. Carte dragging Gal. They dump the brides on the ground and part their legs. Smiling at each other, they begin to fuck. Whitney drills Cerise's dark, pretty little pussy; and Dr. Carte drills Gal's incredibly tiny, incredibly pale pink twat. They turn their heads to and fro in the grass, unable to deal with the deep dickings they're suddenly getting, largely against their will.

But Dr. Carte's idea for a competition involves none of that. It involves you.

"We've got a couple of guys who want to dress as women here!" Dr. Carte laughs. "And since these newlywed lesbian sluts like girls so much, let's see who can make these guys cum like girls first!"

"What-- are you talking about--" you pant, still trying to bring both your breathing and your heartbeat back to normal. Alex, for his part, rests weakly against the altar, a palm to his forehead.

You stare down at Cerise's big, fat, jiggling tits as Whitney rapes her.

"A little birdie -- told me--" Dr. Carte grunts. She gets hold of both of Gal's thin wrists and really starts to put it to her, driving the fake cock as deep up Gal's womb as it goes. "--That your sister likes to lick your asshole. Is that true?"

"Who told you that?" You demand.

"Heeeh," Whitney wheezes. 

"And I know Alex likes it, that little twink," Dr. Carte adds. 

"I do..." he heaves.

"So, let's see if you can cum from just that." She leers at you. "Get in touch with your feminine side, Alabasterina..."

Only because it's true, and you really, really, *really* like having your older sister's tongue lapping away at your anus, you agree to the competition. 

You balance on your haunches and squat over Cerise's face, and Alex over Gal's -- even as Whitney and Dr. Carte keep brutally slam-fucking them. Your cocks stand tall and hard and proud, poking up against your dresses. But you aren't allowed to touch them:

"Not a single person here gets to touch those cocks until one of them cums!" Dr. Carte shouts. "They have to cum with their asses!"

Those are the rules. And what's on the line? More fucking, of course. The girl who makes their trap cum first gets the pleasure of being traded around the reception and fucked by every other woman here. Being reduced to nothing more than a party-hole for a bunch of rampant lesbian bitches doesn't sound like what you should get for *winning* a competition -- but Cerise and Gal vie eagerly for that dubious honor.

Never mind that. You just enjoy the swampy heat of Cerise's mouth latched to your ass and that weird, impossible-to-get-used to sensation of her tongue wagging back and forth inside you. You've never tried to cum from only this, but you think if anyone can make it happen, surely Cerise can. She licks your prostate like an ice cream cone and kneads the cheeks of your ass while she does so. You watch the way her pussy goes from convex to concave and back again under the force of Whitney's fuck, how tenaciously that tight sisterly labia of hers clings to the silicone. Whitney smiles wolfishly at you. "Like what you see?" She asks.

"I do..."

Whitney fucks her even harder, just for you.

Out in the crowd, some tables have turned. Mom has wrested herself free of Rose's cruel grip; and Charlotte, weak from orgasming too much, is powerless to stop bratty Amber from getting on top of her and pulling out her titties and slapping them around for the hell of it. "Stop... stoooop..." she pleads, but Amber just tweaks and slaps and smacks the meaty udders to her heart's content, laughing, and letting the already wet denim of her shorts get wetter from arousal. Charlotte's titmeat begins to bruise and welt.

"Scarlett... Ms. Catachresis... please..." Rose begs, but Mom won't be swayed. 

Face covered with your wife's cum, Mom scowls, and spits: "My turn. Open your mouth."

If the way Charlotte rode Amber was mean, then the way Mom rides Rose is felony assault. She bounces on your wife like she's a sybian, mashing her neatly trimmed but hairy pussy up and down on Rose's beet-red face. Her cream seeps out, stipples her fat thighs, and runs down Rose's cheeks and forehead. Mom's cunt juice smears Rose's makeup all over. Mascara, eyeliner, and blush all clump up and become messy with Mom's milky cum.

Meanwhile, Noelle has gotten Kay onto her back, doubling her over so most of her weight is resting on her neck and head. Noelle takes a double-ended dildo retrieved from god only knows where, and shoves it down Kay's twat without foreplay. Kay yelps. Having buried about half of it in the helpless drunk reporter, Noelle climbs atop her -- cunt-to-cunt, and shoves the other half up her own quivering quim. She humps up and down. It's maybe like a more extreme, lesbian version of the mating press; and it has them both cumming like whores. And Noelle's attention, finally, is on you: she watches this bizarre rimming competition with perverted interest while she uses Kay for sexual relief.

Mom is also watching. While she rapes your wife, she cheers you and your sister. "Cum for me, baby!" She cries. "Cum on your sister's face! Then we can all FUCK her!"

Amber laughs. "That's the spirit..." She stands, and squats over the dazed Charlotte Mallory. "Lick me, Mommy. Lick me thoroughly..."

Rose2, Vivian, and Samantha are sitting all in a row, spread-eagled in the grass, leg over leg over leg over leg, sharing their fingers and a couple vibrating eggs between themselves as they watch the show. A three-way mutual masturbation to cap off their multiple orgasms.

The problem, as you see it, is this... as much as you love the sensation of your older sister slurping on your asshole (and you do) -- Alex, the fucking slut, is a quickshot. He's definitely going to cum first. Just the way he braces his weight with his fists and starts to bounce on Gal's tongue, cock slapping back and forth in the air as he does so, tongue lolling from his mouth, is enough evidence for that. Even though he just came, his useless fucking quickshot cock is about to spew another load... that means Cerise will lose...

And then, that little cunt, he plays dirty. He turns his head, grinning smugly at you, and calls for Samantha: 

"Sammy... come suck me. Suck my cock."

"Yes master Alex! Right away!"

She rushes over with all the speed of a jackrabbit, and kneels beside Alex's bouncing little body and starts to suckle on his meat. No hesitation.

"You're cheating!" You scream. "No one's allowed to touch your cock!"

"Haha.... Ally... Renee said no *person* could touch it... she said nothing about bunnies..." He pets Samantha's hair, and then starts to hump her face up and down on his dick like she's an onahole.

"He's right," Dr. Carte laughs, drilling Gal harder than ever. "He found the loophole."

Alex giggles again, and then he surrenders to the pleasure. He starts to really get into it. Gal's tongue rooted in his anus and Samantha's mouth around his cock: he's in utter bliss. He's mere seconds from dropping his load. You know that the unparalleled heat and wetness of Samantha's bunny-cunt mouth will bring him off in no time.

You're so fixated on your anger at this dirty trick that you don't notice it until it's happening -- Vivian's kid-sized cunt sinking down around your aching dick.

"Viv--" you breathe.

"Be still. Let me do all the work. Inseminate my pussy at your leisure."

Alex snaps his head around. "Hey-- hey--!! THAT'S cheating! Hypocrite!"

"Silence," Vivian sneers. "I am not a person, either -- I am a toilet."

"That's right, that's exactly right!" Whitney says. She squelches in and out of Cerise. "My kid sister is the best cum-toilet in the world!"

Alex looks to Dr. Carte for backup, but gets none. "Rules are rules," she says slyly. "Vivian is a toilet... not a person... so it's not cheating."

Vivian loops her arms over your shoulders and starts to fuck up and down your cock with her toilet cunt. Grinning, you kiss her deeply, and enjoy the bubblegum taste of her breath, the vestiges of Rose2's pussy on her lips. Bunnygirl Samantha might be the best deepthroating champ in the world, but nothing compares to loli pussy sinking down on your turgid cock while your sister rims you out. With your other sisters watching, as well as your mother, and your wife, and everyone else... you blow. You blow a thick, milky, creamy wad of sperm directly in Vivian's GothLoli uterus. Your nuts churn and surge and spit their seed. Whitney calls the game: "Ally's cumming! He's definitely cumming inside Viv right now! He wins!"

Cerise licks your insides a little faster to help you cum. She wants you to cum as hard as possible, even if it's inside Vivian. 

"Ahhhhh--!!" Alex screams, blowing his load too, but just a little too late. His cock pumps his sperm straight to the back of Samantha's throat, and he holds her bunny ears to make sure she keeps the head of his cock in her gullet until he's done. Gal buries her tongue up him and keeps it there while he deposits his jizz in Samantha's esophagus.

You were supposed to cum like a couple of girls, but you ended up cumming like guys anyway. Oh well.

When Vivian pulls off your still-creamy dick, and you reluctantly drag your anus off your sister's face, Vivian is again a role model of selflessness. She begins Cerise's reward gang-rape the right way, by kneeling over her face and letting your load seep out of her by gravity, in thick strands, all over Cerise. And Cerise lets it happen, smiling. 

Gal, seeing the nasty scene, pouts. "aww," she says. "i wanted to get raped too"

Dr. Carte slaps her hard across the face. Gal squeaks in pain and looks back at her. 

"We'll rape you later," she says. And it's a promise she makes good on.

---

When everything is dying down again, Charlotte approaches Cerise in the living room, a disk in hand. She passes it off: "I... wanted you to have this."

"Hmm?" Cerise says, confused, but taking it in hand anyway.

Rose, lying next to you on the living couch, perks up. She knows what this is -- you and her both got similar disks on the night of your wedding. For the two of you, at the time, it was merely a nice -- albeit saccharine -- little surprise. For Cerise, you know, it's going to carry so much more weight and import.

"Do I watch this or something?" Cerise asks.

Charlotte nods. "But-- let me go to bed, first." She kisses Cerise on the forehead, then Gal as well. "Goodnight you two. Congrats. And good luck."

She goes.

Cerise looks at you. "Weird..."

"Put it in," Rose prompts.

"Do you want to go to bed?" You ask Rose. "We can go if you want."

"No..." she says. "I want to see it."

"This isn't porn, is it?" Cerise asks.

"God," you say. "No. Just watch it."

Cerise pops it into the BluRay player.

The screen fills with a hyper closeup on Charlotte's face, holding a camera up high and pointing it back at herself: "Hiiii! This is Charlotte Mallory, June 14th, 2014."

She turns the camera around, so quickly that you get a bit motion sick, and reveals Saul sitting impatiently in the dining room of the Mallory house. He grumbles.

Cerise's face, watching the screen, goes wan. She settles back on the couch, and Gal hugs her close.

"We're rolling," you hear Charlotte narrate. "Say hi."

"Hello Cerise," Saul says, waving, although it seems he doesn't want to be a part of this.

Charlotte spins the camera back on herself. "This is your time capsule. We've missed a ton of milestones... first steps, first day of kindergarten, graduation... you came into our life a bit late! But we'll do what we can. You'll get this on the day you find some lucky man to marry!"

"Or woman," comes Saul's voice from off-camera.

Charlotte smiles. "Of course. Or woman. We wouldn't want to assume." She turns the camera back to him. "For now, though: any words to the future Cerise?"

"Get a job!" Saul says, folding his arms.

"Saul!"

"I'm sure you will," he adds.

Back to Charlotte's face: "We love you, Cerise! See you soon."

---

"This is Charlotte Mallory for Cerise's time capsule, January 24th, 2015."

This shot is of Charlotte in her car, the Volt that now belongs to you, holding the camera so that she and Saul are both in frame at the same time.

"Congratulations on the first day of your first job!" Charlotte says. "You'll be the best sandwich artist in the world!"

(Cerise, for a period of just a couple weeks, worked at a local Subway. The job went south when she showed up one day drunk... it was months again before she got hired at DBA.)

"She should set her sights a little higher than that," Saul says.

"Of course, of course," Charlotte agrees. "This is just a stepping stone--"

Saul tugs on Charlotte's arm to focus the camera on himself. "Screw Subway, Cerise--"

"Saul--"

"We'll keep interviewing you at better places. Or maybe you'll get into school. Anyway, by the time you watch this, you won't be jumping for joy to remember the day you began working at Subway. Capiche? I've failed in my job as a father-figure if this is actually still a highlight when you watch this video."

"Congratulations, anyway!" Charlotte says. "We knew you could do it!"

"I know you can do better," Saul says before the video cuts out.

---

"This is Charlotte Mallory for Cerise's time capsule, June 14th, 2015..."

Sitting on the back patio, she's glum. Saul yanks the camera from her and points it at himself.

"That's no good. You need to have some goddamn energy for this thing, Charlotte--"

"Give that back--"

"You're always telling me to have more energy on these things--"

"Saul!"

There's the sound of scuffling feet against concrete as Saul spins to keep his wife's grasping hands away from the camera. When he's still again, he continues: "She's upset, because an I-told-you-so is in order."

"Saul--!! We're cutting this! This isn't getting in!"

"I told you so," he says to the camera. "I told you. That you could do better. So congrats, Cerise, on getting in at Darkbloom Analytics."

"Yes," Charlotte says, "but--"

"That computer stuff flies right over my head, but I know you'll fit right in. In a few years, you're gonna kick David Darkbloom's ass to the curb and you'll be running the damn place. Bank on it."

"We love you, Cerise!" comes Charlotte's voice.

---

"This is Charlotte Mallory for Cerise's time capsule, December 6th, 2015. Congrats on the lease signing!"

"Thank god you're out of here," Saul says from the couch in the basement. "It's gonna take years to get the smell of beer out of this couch."

"We're cutting that."

"Don't cut that."

"It's not the right tone!" Charlotte says.

"Beer fumes aside... at least we get to use the rumpus room freely again..." Saul mumbles.

"Cerise, we're so proud!" Charlotte says. "A first apartment is such an accomplishment. Palo Alto is expensive, though! So watch out..." She refocuses, jostling the camera a bit. "Just know if you ever need a little help, all you have to do is ask for it. Our doors are always open!"

"Ours?" Saul says. "Shouldn't you ask me before making this decision? Why do I need to reopen my doors to her? I let her freeload long enough, didn't I?"

"We're cutting that, too."

Saul takes the camera.

"Fine. We're open," he says. "You make a much better freeloader than Alabaster does, anyway. And hey, even if you don't have to move back with us ever again... uh, side note -- please don't have to move back here with us if you can help it, seriously --"

"Saul!"

"Do come back for a visit and talk philosophy with me sometime. Maybe after your wedding. We'll hang out by the pool and get drunk like old times."

"We love you, Cerise!"

---

"This is Charlotte Mallory for Cerise's time capsule, July 1st, 2016."

"Promotion!" Saul says, walking past in his signature Spaghetti Friday pink apron. Charlotte swivels the lens to follow him. He sets down the crockpot he's carrying on top of the kitchen's center island. "Give me a high five."

Charlotte bops the lens into her outstretched palm.

"Knock 'em dead," Saul adds. "But I know you will. You're that type. You're going to go so far."

"We love you, Cerise!"

---

"This is Charlotte Mallory for Cerise's time capsule, June 3rd, 2018."

She's in a hospital ward you know all too well. Sitting on one of those ugly green pleather chairs in the waiting room.

"When you see this," Charlotte says, "this will all be a terrible memory, and nothing more -- s-should we cut this, Saul, do you think?"

She spins the camera on him. He looks bedraggled, and has a scruffy 5 O'clock shadow.

"I have not slept in... about 48? 72? hours," he says. "So -- I don't know."

"Maybe we should cut this."

"Cerise," Saul says. "I'm so sorry for what happened. Listen, you... you're... you're a fighter. You're sick right now. But you'll get better. I'll make goddamn sure of it. I haven't always been so... I don't know. Fatherly? You're not my daughter. To be frank I didn't want you, or Alabaster... but I got stuck with you. And I'm so lucky I did. I'm so thankful. You are my daughter. You're going to be okay again, Cerise, and when you're watching this you'll think this is all so stupid. I'm, uh, not sure we should stick this in your time capsule... but I know we definitely will stick in the day that you kicked Sand Reckoner's ass to the curb. Hang in there, Cerise. Stay strong and we'll bring you back when we can. This is just... a short hiatus."

Charlotte's voice from out of view is thick with tears: "We love you, Cerise."

"We do."

----

"This is Charlotte Mallory for Cerise's time capsule, September 2nd, 2019!"

"I'm stuffed... and drunk..." Saul complains.

They're at Baumé. At the time, you had wondered what they were doing off in a corner filming themselves.

"We knew you'd make it," Charlotte says.

"Welcome back. Hey, have fun being a billionaire."

"We love you, Cerise!"

"I'm drunk..." Saul mutters before the camera cuts out.

---

"This is Saul Mallory for Cerise's time capsule, October 21, 2019."

Cerise's face is a mess of hot tears by now. So is Rose's. And... yours too. Only a little.

His face fills the frame. There's soft crying in the background of the video, too. He turns it around to reveal his wife, sitting on the bed in their bedroom. She covers her face, and waves at him angrily: "Don't do that! We're cutting this!"

Saul laughs and gets the camera back on himself.

"I wanted to get this one up on camera right away, so that I don't forget -- because the big day approaches. I'm doing this one in place of Charlotte. Hope that's fine." He whispers: "She got this way when we did this for Rose and Alabaster, too. So don't worry." He begins to walk around the room. "You're downstairs, and you don't know it yet, but you'll be watching this video in, oh, about a week."

He sits beside his wife.

"Cerise -- we're so proud of you. You made a great pick with this Gal girl, too. You sure do know how to pick 'em. Life is a bit crazy, but you need to always set aside a little bit of time to appreciate the good parts. That's my best advice. And what you've got with Gal is definitely a good part! I'm so happy you came into my life -- and I know I can't replace your real father -- but I'll do what I can. I want to be a father to you. And Charlotte wants to be a mother."

"I do!" Charlotte cries. "I really, really do!"

"We love you, Cerise," Saul says. "Congratulations. So, then."

He stands again.

"When you're done cringing at this silly little video, come on out back, and the first beer's on me -- even if you are a billionaire. See you poolside."

Cerise, that night, by herself, without even you or Gal to accompany her, goes out and sits by the pool and drinks her way through a whole 12 pack.

You can't hear her from beyond the glass doors, but you see her lips are moving: she's talking, with long pauses between, carrying on a one-sided conversation.

END OF EPISODE 9.

Vivian is on your lap on the living room sectional, wearing only her bra and panties. Her face, scrunched up by the way you hold it in one hand, is both stupid-looking and sexy -- and her eyes are glazed with lust. With your other arm looped over the small of her back to keep her held close, you grope her butt through the sheer silk fabric of her undergarment. These skivvies are the best kind: the pointless kind, the see-everything-anyway kind.

You slap her.

Her face contorts in agony, but you scrunch it up again before she has a chance to say anything. All she can do is squirm and wiggle against you. Of course, she's wet already. And she tries to speak anyway: "mmmf... Arrrabashterrrr... prreashhh..."

You decide to be nice and let her talk for a moment. You let go of her cheeks. She smiles at you, her eyes twinkling despite the bruise spreading across her face, and her laughter is a low "hmmm~" of pleasure. She strokes your chest. "You are such a cruel man, Mr. Soliloquy.... do you enjoy beating young girls that much?" She grinds against your hardness. "Is this what arouses you... mister?"

(Vivian is taking after Amber, these days... she likes the M word.)

You slap her again. She reels, grimacing and smiling; both at the same time. "Whose fault is that?" You sneer.

Keeping her gaze averted, she admits the truth. "Mine... it's all mine, mister... please, beat me harder."

It really is all her fault: this is the scenario she asked you for. Occasionally her extremely masochistic side rears its head. A little bit ago, she asked you to -- this is verbatim -- "beat the humanity out of me." It seems that Vivian got a glimpse at one of Gal's ryona doujin and took an interest.

Now comes the critical moment when she'll find out if reality is as good as fantasy. Vicious open-handed slaps to the face are one thing, and for Vivian, they're already old hat. Punching her in the tummy is going to be something entirely new, and maybe, even for her, too much. You forced her in advance to agree to the tenderness clause, although she's loath to use a safeword; and you also know you'll have to gauge her reactions closely, ready to pull the plug yourself if need be.

You line your fist up with her tender navel, balling, then unballing, then reballing it for effect. She watches the way your forearm muscles flex, the way the veins bulge, and she's trembling. Haltingly, she wraps both weak hands around your wrist, and holds your hand to her board-flat stomach. The span of your knuckles is half as wide as her torso at her narrowest. This promises to be a short session. You might utterly demolish her with a single punch. But she's so enthusiastic to be ruined: "Please, mister... don't hold back."

You press firmly against her stomach a few times, testing its give; the spongy flesh, and the unshielded organs within. Vivian is still goading you on: "hit me... make me wet myself... bruise and batter my body..."

You pull your arm back, ready to strike, and then--

You're distracted by banging from upstairs before you can throw the first punch. It sounds like someone deploying a hammer: bang-bang, bang-bang. You gaze at the ceiling, then back down at Vivian.

She shrugs, and continues: "hurt me, mister... beat me black and bl--"

bang-bang, bang-bang -- it's impossible to carry on with this fucking racket above your heads.

You lift Vivian up by the armpits and set her aside like a toy. She makes a disgruntled "hup" as you do so. You rise to your feet. She crawls across the couch on hands and knees, after you. She whines: "Alabaster... please... ignore that noise. Come and finish what you have started."

"I'll be right back."

She purrs in anger. "Ridiculous... see a physician. You clearly have ADHD. You and Whitney both need a prescription for Ritalin -- Alabaster -- where are you going? Come back at once. I demand to be abused! Come here!"

She's on her feet now, too, and following you upstairs -- then up another flight again -- to the third floor.

You weren't sure what you did expect to find up here. But if you'd been pressed, this would definitely have been low on the list. It's Samantha -- and she's wearing clothes for the first time since moving here. It's her typically slutty bunnygirl outfit, granted, but this time it comes with some extra flair: a toolbelt, work gloves, steel-tipped boots, safety glasses and a hard-hat (with holes cut out on top for her ears to poke through, check).

The getup isn't just for show, either. She's actually working. The third floor bathroom is half-gutted, with clear plastic tarp laying over the part she isn't working on. The bathtub is out in the hall, having been removed; and Samantha is busily taking a sledgehammer to the wall, revealing the wooden framework and piping within.

Whitney is off to the side, drinking a beer and watching this demolition in progress. "Hey Ally," she says nonchalantly.

"I..." you begin. "What the hell?"

"What is the meaning of this?" Vivian demands. "You are letting your pet run rampant. She is destroying our furniture!"

Samantha hears you talking. She turns, tits jiggling, and sees you all standing there. "Oh!" She pips. "I am sorry to be making too much noise! I hope I didn't bother you, masters!"

"You bothered us quite a lot," Vivian grumps. "Why have you been entrusted with dangerous tools? Why are you out of your cage?"

Samantha giggles stupidly. "The hot tub outside is always so full! I told master Whitney that we should have a second one on the inside! Especially for when it gets cold! She says -- she says: heeeeh! If you want one so bad, install it yourself! So here I am! Okay!"

"You're installing a hot tub?" You breathe. "You... you know how to do that?"

"Oh, yes. I build a whole lot. I even built a house once!"

She turns and starts smashing the wall again. Calling over her shoulder, she says: "I will be fast! There are earplugs on the bench over there if you need some!"

That's when you notice the little yellow foam plugs sticking out of either of Samantha's ears.

You glance Whitney's way. "Do you... really think she's capable of this?"

Whitney shrugs. "Ask your mommies. They went to school with her. Said the only class she ever aced was wood shop. Go figure, huh?" She takes a sip, then adds: "Guess she's just really passionate about wood."

Her form with the sledgehammer, at least, is cool and confident, leaving little doubt that she's done similar work in the past. She strikes the wall low, knocking a hole in it; braces her foot against the wall for leverage as she unwedges the hammer's business end; takes a calm step back to recenter her balance, hoists the hammer over her shoulder and swings again. With every swing, she makes a cute little breathy grunt of exertion that sounds like "ha-aahh." And of course it makes her pretty parts jiggle, which is a bonus.

"Got another beer?" You ask Whitney. She hands you one from the cooler at her feet. Then, noticing her kid sister wearing only some very indecent underwear, she quirks an eyebrow and asks: "Did Sammy interrupt?"

"Yes! She did!" Vivian says.

Whitney hands her a can of beer, too. Vivian clacks it open, and takes a swig. The bitterness gets the better of her and she pulls a face, making a semi-disgusted "pwah" before adding: "She will be punished accordingly."

"Sounds fun," Whitney says.

"Yes!" Samantha agrees, between whacks -- not even glancing back. She's working up a nice sweat that's pearling and running down her back and butt. "Punish me lots, master Vivian! But -- later! I am very busy now!"

Vivian frowns. She sips at her beer with you and her sister.

---

"There we go -- theeeerrre we go."

"What the FUCK is wrong with you? I'm gonna kick your ass, Noelle! I'm gonna beat the shit out of you!"

Such empty threats only make Noelle laugh. Kay can't fight back. She's on her knees, legs and feet folded under her butt -- and tightly bound with sturdy red rope. There won't be any getting free from knots so well-tied. Her calves are roped to to her thighs, her wrists are roped together behind her back; her entire nude body is criss-crossed by a series of complex loops and braids. It leaves her tits, small though they are, beautifully accentuated, each one encircled by the scarlet nylon. The rope is constrictive, too; her skin is flushed in certain spots and blanched in others. Her poor abused titties, for instance, are beginning to redden nicely to match the rope squeezing them.

Kay resisted the entire time Noelle was tying her down -- kicked, punched, screamed and bit. And Kay, you know, is an athletic woman: a yoga practitioner, hiker, and health nut. She's also quite a bit taller than Noelle. So it's an absolute shock that Noelle was able to so handily overpower her. As you watched Noelle rip the clothes from Kay's body, and expertly bind her in this shibari, a sinking realization struck you:

Noelle can do all this despite her protests of not being into women. If Noelle was honest with her own feelings... she'd be a better, and more prolific, lesbian rapist than even Whitney.

Already, just the act of subduing the proud and uncooperative Kay Vera has her panting hard, and trembling, unable to contain her excitement.

"Nicely done," you tell her. "I didn't even have to help." You test the ropes. They're unbelievably tight; you can hardly get even one finger between the nylon and Kay's flesh. "You're good at this."

"I watch... a lot... of JAV..." Noelle admits.

You squat and look the scowling Kay in her eyes. She shrieks, "Fuck you, too, Alabaster! I'll kick your ass, too!"

"That wasn't nice -- what you did," you say. "Are you sorry for what you did? We'll stop punishing you if you say you're sorry."

She doesn't answer. Which is a bad answer. Noelle, herself naked save for a pair of black stockings, balances on one foot. She puts her other foot in Kay's face -- and rubs it in. Hard. 

"Rose special," she says, winking at you, as underneath her, Kay grunts and huffs and tries to turn away from the assault. Noelle won't let her. "It's a nice trick," she coos as she watches Kay struggle. 

"Are you sorry?" You ask again. Noelle pulls her foot away. Kay gasps for breath: "hhhhhuuuuuuhhhh--" her face is grimy with specks of black sock-material and sweat. Her glasses are all askew and askance, and streaked with filth as well. Her eyes flutter; she's dazed from the stink and the lack of air. You take the glasses off her face to see her better. 

Smiling, leaning in, you get your hand between her legs and rub her exposed cunt. The rope leaves this part of her on display, too, and she's leaking like a faucet. Getting hogtied turns her on. How nice. You have a feeling Noelle will use this information against her again, a lot, in the future.

Instead of apologizing, or even giving in and asking for a fuck like you know she wants to, Kay makes another mistake. She puckers her lips, and spits a thick wad of saliva straight in your face.

You don't betray any anger. You just stand, and frown down at her. Noelle, turning to face you, puts her hands on your chest, looks up at you, and says severely: "she's been like this all night. It's no use. She won't apologize for what she did. You're going to have to go with Plan A... cum on her face, Alabaster."

You're about to agree with Noelle's assessment when she leans in, and kisses you. But she isn't after a makeout session with you. She wants to lick up what Kay left on your face. She trails her lips over your cheeks, nose and forehead, sucking it up, grinning pervertedly as she does so. Even from this far away, you can smell her naked pussy creaming up. Just sucking another girl's spit off of you is getting her juicy between her legs.

Enough prelude. "All right," you tell Kay, stepping out of your bottoms. "I didn't want to have to do this, but you left me with no choice." You get hard, and start to stroke yourself against her lovely, smooth face. Her nicely tanned skin and long raven hair are a joy to rub your rigid cock all over. A joy to mess up. The fact that she can't do anything at all about this violation is just an added thrill. 

You need some lubrication, though. Noelle already knows this, and she's got you covered. She sinks to her knees and takes Kay's head in both hands. Leaning over the hogtied reporter, she drools -- it's Kay's own spit -- what Kay spat on you is now being drizzled all over her. This was Noelle's intent all along, you realize. Comeuppance -- karma. 

The saliva is slick and hot, and it causes her makeup to run nicely. Kay, utterly humiliated, shivers. 

When she's done lubing Kay up for you, Noelle doesn't stand. Rather, she stays on the floor and sucks Kay's face. That's literally what it is: she sucks Kay's face, as if trying to give her a hickey -- licking and nipping and slurping. Meanwhile she lets her hands roam all along Kay's slender little body. It's a full-on face-licking, body-groping session worthy of the worst subway perverts Japan has to offer; Noelle has learned well. 

With Noelle's mouth ravishing Kay's face from one end, and your twitchy dick rubbing dick-leak into it from the other, it's hard to see Kay herself at all beneath it all. But her mask of revulsion and anger, tinged with the pleasure of losing to cock -- it's plain as day. 

It so happens that your cock meets Noelle's lips every so often as you rub it on Kay. But Noelle doesn't mind -- she licks, kisses and rubs your member just as enthusiastically as she does Kay's face. She even eventually, helpfully, takes over the job of jerking you off. With one hand, she tugs your cock back and forth, sliding the foreskin over the head again and again. She takes special care to smear Kay with the fat droplets of precum that ooze out of the piss slit. 

"Oh fuck, Noelle -- just like that -- I'm gonna fucking cum on her face--"

"There we go... do it..." She grunts. "Cum on her... please... cum all over the place." She leans in and sucks on Kay's cheek from the other side as she continues to work you over. She bats her big doe eyes at you the whole time.

A sight like that is too perfect: a perverted lesbian bitch making out with the woman she overpowered, while meanwhile encouraging you to cum on them both. You groan, and then it's cumming: gloppy white strands of jizz firing from the head of your cock, painting the faces of both these whores. You can feel your nuts churning as you blast them with gob after gob of it. Most of it paints Kay's already messy forehead, cheeks and lips, but some of it overshoots and splatters Noelle too. She obviously doesn't care because she doesn't break her pace. Just milks out the rest of your spunk with a sleazy smile. When you're done nutting, she even makes sure to run her thumb back and forth across the underside, to squeeze out the last vestiges. These she rubs into Kay's hair.

"You... will both... pay for this..." Kay heaves. Somehow proud despite getting spattered with cum and groped by a woman half her size. 

"Be quiet," you tell her. "You fucking love it."

It's true, too. Noelle's busy hands start molesting Kay's horny cunt, and it isn't long before she's staining the carpet of their shared bedroom with her girlcum. She screams when she orgasms against Noelle's very, very, very skilled fingers, neck muscles going taut. She's fighting so hard against this pleasure, but it won't relent... as she cums herself silly, Noelle sucks on her tits. It's a nice opportunity, too, for Noelle to clean her cummy face off. She rubs the cum from her face, into Kay's chest, leaving the skin of her tits glistening with a sheen of spunk.

"Time for part 2," you announce. 

Kay, quivering, stares up at you. She didn't believe you'd really follow through... but oh yes, you will. Because of her shock and anger, she doesn't see Noelle reaching back, to undo the binding around her legs. It's not a reprieve, though. Far from it. When the ropes there are undone, the two of you force her to stand -- and lead her from the bedroom. 

It's time for her slut walk.

The other girls in the Nail House are... shockingly enthusiastic, and surprisingly sadistic. They join in the depraved punishment without hesitation.

When, for example, you march Kay past Vivian in the study, Vivian immediately understands the game. "Punish the slut," she says coolly, her eyes following the bound woman as you lead her around like a dog. Noelle hands Vivian a paddle, and has Vivian do the punishing she bid herself. Kay's ass is covered in deep, angry red welts by the time Vivian is satisfied. You didn't know Vivian could hit that hard. Kay moans in pain, agony, and defeat -- and walks with a limp from then on. 

Or, for another example, when you march Kay past your own bedroom, and Rose sees her. "Raping another girl, are you?" Rose says. But if her words convey judgment, her tone conveys interest; she drags Kay into the room and rapes her ass into the bedsheets using her strapon. The missionary position she uses on Kay is really hot, because her massive tits bearing down on Kay's chest oppress her nicely, and you can watch Rose's fat ass jiggle with every pump of the plastic cock. She sucks some of your sperm off Kay's face before you can warn her not to. But that's all right, because she replaces it with a few wads of spit. She also adds some cream of her own to the nasty mix when, done with raping her, she squats over Kay's head on the pillows, and masturbates to orgasm over her.

Kay gets used as a toilet like this by pretty much every girl in the Nail House before you shackle her to some hooks in the living room -- hands high above her head, feet secured to the floor (thanks, Samantha, for the installation of these.) Her body is still complexly crossed by braided red rope. The exposed flesh is covered in lewd writing now, too: "FREE HOLE" and "RAPE SOCKET" above her cunt and her asshole, respectively; across her forehead: "MEAT TOILET" and across her tummy: "DYKE BITCH" and "USE ME" and various other evil phrases. She's covered in cream, sperm, sweat and filth, and she's utterly, completely broken.

"Are you sorry?" You ask her.

"Yes..." she finally says. Her voice is small and shameful. "Yes... I am sorry..."

"Sorry what?" You prompt.

"I am sorry... master..." 

That's all you needed to hear. You nod at Noelle. Noelle is more than happy to play cleanup duty. She gets down underneath Kay, and licks her. While she pigs out like the lesbian slut she is, you decide to bust another nut too -- and this one on the inside. You're pretty much addicted to cumming inside raw cunt at this point; you really need that release before you can feel truly sated. Noelle is going to have to be all right with eating Kay's cunt while you penetrate it with your dick and fuck it full of cum. Of course, you know she will be. And she is: as you hold Kay around her midsection and start to hump her, Noelle just keeps on happily licking. 

"I hate you... I hate you..." Kay repeats. "Fuck you. Fuck you both..."

But she's humping back against you, and she's cumming like a bitch on Noelle's face. When finally you lose your load inside Kay's grippy, rubbery cunt-hole, you feel her spasm internally, and she lets loose an extra-sloppy squirt on Noelle. Noelle, whore she is, masturbates herself to a climax of her own as she sucks up the sperm and cunt juice in equal measure. 

You cut Kay loose from the ties that bind her and she collapses in a nasty, used-up heap on the floor. Noelle -- as energetic as when it all began -- clings to her like a pup nursing on a bitch, and licks her from head to toe. Literally. Face, neck, chest, cunt, and asshole -- everywhere, every square inch of Kay's body -- her legs, her feet, between the toes even -- her arms, her armpits, her navel and her ass. Noelle's tongue misses absolutely nothing. She uses her mouth as a squeegee, to mop up whatever was deposited on her by the many people who used her today. It's cute. 

Hopefully from now on Kay has learned her lesson, and won't ever mix paper with aluminum in the recycling bins again.

---

"I hope Rose gets pregnant soon," Charlotte says, sipping her tea at the kitchen's center island.

"I agree -- I absolutely agree," Scarlett says as she whisks the melting chocolate into the heating cream on the stovetop. Then, realizing, she says with a frown: "Oh. You mean that Rose."

"Well of course," Charlotte giggles. "She is his wife, after all. Don't tell me you want Alabaster to impregnate Rose2!"

Scarlett shrugs. "Why not? My Rose is just as good as yours! Better, even!"

"Scarlett, please! Rose2 is a dim bulb... not good genetic material, no... and besides... they can have their fun, but siblings bearing children is risky at best."

"As if it's much better to bear children with your cousin!"

"Once r--"

"And anyway, they're not siblings." Scarlett wheels on her niece, points at her with the dripping whisk. "Not really. They're from different timelines... or... or something..." She finds her resolve again as she adds: "Sibling incest between timelines isn't real incest! Everyone knows that!"

"Uh huh," Charlotte says. "Well if you want a bun in Rose2's oven, she's got some catching up to do. My Rose has been off the pill for weeks now."

Haughty, Scarlett puts a hand on her hip and tilts her chin up. "My Rose hasn't been on the pill to begin with!"

Charlotte is aghast. She sets her cup down. "You're joking."

Scarlett shakes her head.

"Does Alabaster know this?"

"Of course he doesn't. He'd doubtlessly object!"

"I should hope so!" Charlotte says. "Anyway, shouldn't he have some say in whether he fathers a child with someone?"

Scarlett folds her arms. "He's the one who's ejaculating inside her without even asking whether she's safe. I had the birds and the bees talk with him when he was younger -- he knows the risks. If there's an accident, that makes it all his fault."

"My goodness," Charlotte says, clasping a hand to her chest. "I rather think Alabaster would like to know this information... should I go t--"

Charlotte jumps in her seat as Scarlett surges forward and pounds a hand on the island's marble countertop. "Butt out, hussy!"

Charlotte regains her composure in the silence that follows. She smooths her blouse, and smiles at her still sneering aunt. "All right. I can see that this is important to you. What is my silence worth to you?"

Scarlett narrows her eyes at her niece. "What do you want?" She finally asks.

"We both have a horse in the race," Charlotte says. "There's no reason Alabaster can't impregnate both girls -- is there?"

"Hmm..."

"If you give me a hand..." Charlotte says slyly, "I'll give you a hand too... a little quid pro quo."

By the time dessert is done, they've already planned every possible combination of double baby shower: boy-boy, boy-girl, and girl-girl.

---

You knock softly on Alex's door.

"Come in, Ally!" you hear from the other side.

You come in. He's lying on his stomach on his bed, clad in a tee and a pair of comfy looking shorts, socked feet in the air, reading a book on his E-reader. The tablet's stylus hangs from his lips. 

"How'd you know it was me?" You ask.

He smiles. "I can tell by how you knock. And the sound of your footsteps, too. It's super distinctive!"

Fair enough, but you're still a little taken aback.

"What's up?" Alex asks.

"Well -- it's been such a strange night," you begin, "with everything that happened with the implants... and so I wanted to tell you... that I'm glad you let us know about Rose2, even if it complicates matters."

His smile falters, if only a little. "I'm sorry, though. I know you care about Rosie. Even if you won't admit it! I don't know what'll happen next. But I hope we can--"

He stops as Dr. Carte pushes into the room -- shoving you aside and stepping past the threshold.

"Ms. Car-- Renee-- uhh -- hi!" Alex squeaks. He looks from her face to yours. "Did she come with you, Ally?"

"Yeah," you admit.

Dr. Carte, hands on her waist, peers down at him. "You, young man -- you and I have unfinished business to attend to."

He turns in place and rises to his butt, concerned: "Of course, Ms. Ca-- Renee-- anything you need! I'll help however I can."

"Good," Dr. Carte says. "Take off your clothes."

Alex coughs like he's been punched in the chest. 

You laugh. "You really have no sense of foreplay," you tell Dr. Carte. "Do you?"

Alex makes a pouty face. "You guys scared me for a second."

"You should be scared!" Dr. Carte insists. "This is scary business! We need to verify that you're not invisible!"

He giggles. "This again? Tch-- you're so weird sometimes, Renee. Tiresias didn't make me *invisible*-- ah--"

His protests dissolve into a pinched little squeak of fright as Dr. Carte crawls onto the bed, and loops her arms over him from behind. She rubs his chest through his shirt.

"Alex, you silly little gay boy," she says, "you can't know that unless we test it. You have your hypothesis, great -- that you're not invisible to Alabaster -- but now, we have to run an experiment... that's just basic scientific practice."

She rests her chin on his shoulder. He's blushing deeply already, and the dirty stuff hasn't even begun. Dr. Carte gets her hands under the hem of Alex's tee, and runs them up and down his torso. She stops only to pinch his nipples. Under this extremely gentle cruelty, he starts to shake like a leaf. "A-Ally... are you going to... let her take advantage... of me... like this?"

You nod. "Why not? That's why we came by."

"Arms up," Dr. Carte commands. 

He lifts his arms. With the light rustle of fabric, off comes his tee, inverting on itself as Dr. Carte pulls it past his head. He's bare-chested. Dr. Carte, still rubbing him up and down with both her hands, sets her chin back on his shoulder. 

"Well?" She asks you. "What do you see?"

"I see a half-naked little gay boy," you say.

"Nnn-- Ally..." He murmurs. Then, when Dr. Carte pinches his nipple, again: "Owie! Ow..."

"You saw that?" She asks.

"Oh yeah. But do the other one, though, so I can make sure."

She pinches his other nipple now, even harder, trapping it between her fingernails and squeezing. His back arches, but she keeps him held fast -- her arm snaking around his flat tummy.

"Renee, please-- not so rough--"

"Shh, shh," she coos soothingly, directly into his ear. "It's okay. We're just making sure of a couple things, that's all. Science. That's all. You like this, don't you?"

He seems uncertain. Dr. Carte brushes the hair from his face and repeats the question. 

"I do..." he admits. "But... can't you be a little more gentle?"

"Oh, sure, sure," Dr. Carte says. "I'll be gentle. I'll be so gentle with you, Alex." She reaches down and tenderly cups the tenting crotch of his shorts. "I'll be real fucking gentle with you, you little pervert... I'll make sure Alabaster is, too..." She switches sides, and whispers in his other ear: "take off your pants."

Alex is as compliant as a paid whore now. Still trapped in Dr. Carte's embrace, he raises his butt just a bit off the mattress, and removes his shorts. They slide down his baby-smooth legs, to his ankles; Dr. Carte helps them the rest of the way off. She takes them in one hand, wads them up, and puts the crotch to her nose. She inhales deeply. Slut. 

"You smell good," she tells Alex, after a few moments. She tosses the shorts aside.

Alex wasn't wearing underwear, so now he's fully nude in Dr. Carte's arms. As always, he's shaved completely bare, not a trace of hair to be found anywhere around his fat, pulsing, leaking cock, already hard from all this gentle domination. 

"See anything?" Dr. Carte asks you.

"I think," you say. "Maybe. It's hard to tell, though... it's possible that he did turn invisible..."

"Allyyyy..." he whines, and chews on his finger. 

Dr. Carte reaches down and runs the flat of her hand across the length of Alex's inner thigh -- first one, then the other. "Can you see his legs?"

"I think so."

"Not sure?"

"I dunno."

Grinning evilly, Dr. Carte slaps Alex's thigh meat -- thwack -- it's a sharp blow that resounds in the little room. He winces and cries out with that girly, high-pitched voice of his. But his cock spits up a little wad of precum, all over his sheets. At heart, he likes getting slapped around.

"Okay, I think I saw that," you allow. Your own cock is getting harder by the second in your trousers. And, not wanting Alex to feel like the odd one out, you decide to get naked too.

Dr. Carte follows suit, disrobing even as she keeps Alex held tight. Soon this older, taller, plumper woman has Alex held against her naked body, his back to her giant chest, her legs wrapped around his butt. He stares madly at the sheets, embarrassed. It's like a scene from an /ss/ manga. Not, uh, that you would know anything about those.

"Play with me, Alex," Dr. Carte commands. She takes his left wrist, and guides it towards the space between their bodies. He gets the idea. His fingers curl up and find the opening of Dr. Carte's perpetually horny lower hole. Or at least you assume he finds her fuckhole, given how loudly Dr. Carte sighs, and how dreamy the smile that spreads across her face is. Alex is jilling her off right now. 

"Okay, Alabaster," Dr. Carte says after a moment, "we need to make certain of--" She pauses, slaps Alex's thigh again. "Don't you fucking stop, Alex, I didn't tell you to stop-- that's it-- keep playing with my cunt--" She glances up at you. "We need to make certain he's 100% visible, now. Do you see anything else below his waist?"

You put a finger to your chin. "Feet?" You say. "Knees?"

Dr. Carte shakes her head. "This is no good... this is really serious. His best parts might be invisible to you..."

You can hear the wet squelching of Alex's fingers working inside her. She gets her hands under his knees, and spread his legs wide -- real, real wide, calves in the air, sock-clad feet hanging limp, so that his entire weight is resting on his coccyx. In this position, he's utterly exposed. Not just his cock, and his testicles, but that hole in his rear -- that delightful boypussy you're so fond of sinking into.

"Do you see this?" Dr. Carte asks. She wraps a hand around his cock, and wags it back and forth. Little droplets of his prefuck go flying. 

"Oh -- yes!" You slap your forehead with the heel of your palm. "There it is. Of course." Your own cock is dripping, too... all over the carpet of Alex's room.

"Gooood~" She purrs. 

Alex is beside himself, shaking his head, biting his fingernails.

With the digits of her other hand, Dr. Carte finds Alex's asshole. She gets him spread open, displaying the soft pink interior. It's amazing how dexterous she is, and how she can manage this position. With her arms supporting his legs under his knees, and both her hands toying with his genitals... he's totally at her mercy. Playfully she nibbles his ear.

"Do you see this, too?" She asks you.

"See what?" You ask. You take a step forward.

"This," Dr. Carte says. She starts to finger him, in and out, slowly. At the same time, she also starts to slowly masturbate his cock. "This little fuckhole. This little pussy. Do you see it?"

You crawl up onto the bed, on your tummy, and get your face way up close. "Hmmm," you say, as if lost in contemplation. "Let me take a closer look..."

Dr. Carte lets go of him so you can have your way. She keeps his ass spread with both her hands so you can see. You use your fingers to poke and prod him lewdly. Alex -- who's still obediently playing with Dr. Carte's pussy for her, as instructed -- squirms and lets out little breathy exhalations while you prod his anus. Staring down at you from above, face crimson, cock dripping, he can only manage: "Alllyyy... Alllyyyy... you're so mean..."

"I'm sorry," you say, "but I need to make sure. I would hate if I couldn't see your pussy anymore. Wouldn't you?"

He nods.

"Isn't there some other way we can check?" Dr. Carte says. "If you're having a hard time detecting it with your eyes... maybe you can use some other sense?"

"Good idea, doctor," you say. "Hmm... taste?"

"Ally--!"

He didn't expect this, for sure. You latch your mouth to his boypussy and start to lick. You eat him out like the horny bitch he really is. You get your tongue way up deep inside, and swirl it around. It's just like eating a real girl's cunt. And just like a real girl, he has much the same reaction: legs shaking, voice going shrill and staccato. He gasps and chokes and sputters. Even moreso as, laughing lowly, Dr. Carte resumes jerking him off. 

Alex's insides taste sweet, like honey. Now you know why Cerise and Gal and the others are so enthusiastic about getting him ready for you to rape. You'll have to do it more often, yourself. You find yourself lost in the delicious heat and aroma of it, the meaty texture, the tight way his pussy grips and twitches against your tongue. You eat him out for much longer than you intended. The scent of his arousal mixes with the much muskier scent of Dr. Carte's, and melds inside your nostrils. It makes your cock, trapped underneath you on the mattress, strain and ache. You really, really need to fuck something... you need to jab your cock into a hot, wet hole, and cum inside it. Male, female, it doesn't matter... you just need to fuck.

"Ahh-- ahhhn~ -- I'm -- I'm cummminngggg--" Alex sighs. Your dual efforts have brought him over the edge. Gasping in his feminine way, he blows a very un-feminine wad of spunk in Dr. Carte's palm. She milks it out expertly.

Dr. Carte laughs. "You quickshot, you," she teases. She slowly pulls her hand off his still-jittery dick, making sure to trap all the sperm. Like dispensing a handful of sand, Dr. Carte raises her balled fist above Alex's face and lets his jizz seep out of it. It descends in a single, long, unbroken bubbly strand of white. He knows what to do. He tilts his head back, parts his jaw, and lets the runny seed pool in the back of his throat. His eyes droop, going half-lidded as Dr. Carte feeds his own cum to him. This degrading act, and the sight of you still licking Alex out, seems to be enough to bring Dr. Carte off, too. You hear her cunt squirting against Alex's back as he helps her cream herself.

You pull your mouth away from Alex's ass. "I don't know," you say. "I still can't tell."

"This is even more serious than I thought," Dr. Carte says with a husky voice. She flattens her palm and smears Alex's cum all over his face. "Hmm..." she purrs, even as her palm runs in circles and trails slime all over him, and he gasps and chokes on his own spunk, "...maybe you can try sense of touch next."

"Great idea," you agree. You get up on your knees and roughly grab Alex's knees. "I've got the experimental apparatus ready -- right here..."

Your red, veiny cock is raring to go. Dr. Carte reaches down and pets it. "I see," she says. "Are you sure this is the proper size for the application?"

"It might be too big," you admit.

"Seconded. You might break the test subject..."

"That's a risk we'll just have to take," you grunt, and jab your cock in Alex's silky boypussy.

His whole body tenses, and his neck muscles strain, and he gasps in pain. Dr. Carte coos and pets him. "Quiet, quiet... you're used to this, Alex... just let him fuck you... just let him fuck you, okay?"

"Ms. Carte... Ms. Carte... it's too much... please..."

She rolls her eyes. "Stop whining. God. You got to cum, didn't you? So let him cum, too. Selfish brat."

He shudders. Nothing gets him off harder than being humiliated by a strong woman. You start to fuck in earnest, enjoying the buttery texture of his interior walls, the hard nubbin of his prostate and the way the head of your prick scrapes against it. Such a nice hole to fuck -- tight, and hot... a perfect place for your horny cock to burp up a load of sperm. In this position, with Dr. Carte assisting, you have total access, and fuck upwards into Alex's body without a care in the world. Dr. Carte watches on, enjoying the sight, a voyeur at heart just like her rapist daughter.

"So?" she prompts. "Can you feel him?"

"Yes," you pant, "oh yes, for sure... fuck, yes... he's so fucking tight, Dr. Carte..."

Her curious hands play with you both -- petting his slimy cock, patting your belly and crotch, egging you on. Gulping, she says, "y-you... need to ejaculate inside him... lots, and lots... it's the only way to be completely certain..."

"Fuck..." you heave.

"Allyyyy..." He locks eyes with you. "Please -- please, spunk inside my pussy!"

"Aghhh," you groan, unable to contain it any longer. You're spunking all right, just as he asked. A big fat load just for him. You piston in and out at lightning speed, your hips a blur, while you fuck him full of cum. He jizzes again, too, the horny cunt. It squirts up in a tall arc that falls back against his chest, his face, and the top of Dr. Carte's head. 

"Yessss!" He screams, cumming like a whore. "Make me a girl, Ally! Fuck, you're doing it!! Make me your girl! Make me a bitch!"

You feel like you'll cum a whole gallon into him as your cock pumps squirt after squirt of the sticky stuff. It seems like it'll never end. And when finally it does end, when finally you've emptied your nuts entirely inside the depths of Alex's tight asshole, you fall forward, collapsing with him and Dr. Carte in a sweaty, heaving pile. Your still-erect cock remains buried to the hilt in his ass. You can feel his prostate throbbing against the shaft, just under the head.

"Ally..." he coos. "I love you so much..."

"You do, don't you," you pant.

"Mmmhmm."

"You're a fucking bitch for me, aren't you?" 

"Yes, I am," he agrees unhesitatingly. 

"My little cunt?" 

"I'm your little cunt, Ally."

You kiss him on the forehead. "I love you, too."

Dr. Carte writhes herself free of the love pile, and circles the two of you like a vulture. You lift your head to find her squatting over you, presenting her mature cunt. Her fingers are digging at her itchy hole. "You're not done," she tells you. "We need to make sure there were no side effects."

"Dr. Carte--"

"Can you see this?" She asks. She tickles her clit. "Oh dear... we need to do some more testing... extensive testing..."

She starts to rub herself against your face.


---

You've been eating Mom's cunt for hours now. In her own bed, lying on your stomach before her, while she sits propped up on the pillows. This is the longest you've ever eaten pussy. Not Rose, in her cruelest turns at me-time; not Cerise, in your laziest, sweatiest summer afternoons spent 69ing; not Whitney, when you bet her that you could lick pussy better than any girl can -- not anyone has ever gotten such a lengthy oral service from you. You're doing it to be a good son, of course, but also because you're kind of addicted. They way her pussy tastes and smells: sweet like cherry pie, sort of like Rose2's cunt -- but also dirty and musky, the way a woman's cunt should be. That paradoxical mix of sugariness with raw sex invading your nostrils and your tastebuds, it's perfect. You could keep your mouth and nose buried right here, inside her, forever. And every time you think you'll quit, to get up off your belly and sink your achingly erect cock into that divine hole of hers, she does something to keep your tongue rooted right where it is. Pets your hair, or cums in your face, or hugs your ears just a little tighter with her meaty thighs. Or says something like: "oh baby, you just love to lick your mommy, don't you? You naughty boy." Or: "that's it, keep playing with mama's holes!" Or: "I'm gonna cum again! I'm cumming on your tongue, baby, fuck! Drink it!"

Not only are your lips and tongue working overtime, but your hands, too. You dig at her overheated fuckholes: three or four fingers tickling her from inside her vagina, and another one or two corkscrewing around inside her rear orifice as well. Full service, today, for mommy: every skill you've learned from the many women you've been with, all employed to keep her cumming on you for hours. Your reward is a seemingly never-ending stream of mama's cream, just for you, to suck from her meaty twat and gorge yourself on. It's amazing how soft and squishy your mother's jizz-holes are. The pad of her pubic mound is infinitely compressible: you can push the heel of your palm against it and never feel bone. Just the squishy give of mature, motherly cunt. The same with her ass, too, of course: her smooth, fat, jiggly ass, concealing the soft dark pucker of an anus that's almost unbearably hot, and as easy to get inside as anything, despite how tight it is. Her asshole isn't too concealed just now, though; her position on the pillowtop keeps her ass nice and spread for you, and her gash, too -- granting total access to her beloved son, so that you can do the best job possible of getting her off. She holds herself under her knees and keeps herself spread. All her words just encourage you: alternating between calling you "mama's good little boy" and "naughty little pervert freak" -- both types of praise make your cock throb. 

And it's only because of her -- because of her burning need to get fucked, to get railed hard by your incestuous prick -- that you stop eating that wonderful pussy. She presses her fingers gently against your forehead, and you pull your puckered lips off her mound to look her in the eyes. 

She strokes your slimy cheek. "Oh, Alabaster... what am I going to do with you? You would lick me down there forever if I let you, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," you grunt, gulping down fresh air. Still fingering her asshole, you lean towards her, and latch your mouth to one of her nipples. You can't help yourself. Mom's chest, her enormous tits bigger than any woman you know, her huge, hard, dark pink nipples -- are too inviting. You nurse on her and keep prodding her pliable anus, staring up at her through your peripheral vision. She shudders, moaning, and hugs you. Arms around your back and ankles around your hips. She strokes your hair, as if trying to comb it with her fingers. 

"You're such a horny boy," she murmurs. "So incorrigible."

You nod, and keep sucking on her tits. With your other hand you grope her other breast, and enjoy the way this part of her, too, is unendingly soft and hot. Whether it's her asshole or her udders, she's a woman who gets feverish all over when she's aroused. And the way she hugs you, pulls you into her, encouraging you to grope her both inside and out... the way her skin against your back is also hot, and clings stickily to yours... it fuels your lust to even higher heights. 

"I feel your cock, baby..." Mom says. "It's so hard... and it's wet, too... are you leaking on me?"

She's got your number. Your horny prick is pressed up against her plump leg. Your piss-slit made a puddle on the sheets while you were eating her and now it's stippling her thighs with the precum that oozes continuously from it like a broken tap. You can smell this as well: the nutty aroma of your own arousal, melding with the sweetly dirty scent of hers. It's driving both of you wild.

"You got all hard from this, didn't you?"

You nod. Mom giggles low and husky, and tilts your chin up so you can meet her lips. You kiss her, then. You're connected to her on both ends, fingering her butt, and swabbing your tongue around at the back of her mouth. Taking out your unbearable horniness on her body as, all the while, your cockhead drools against her leg. You really are a naughty boy. This is such a naughty, dirty thing to do to your own mother, isn't it? But you can't help it. Your cock is all hard for mama's body. She's such a nice mother to let you have your perverted fun on her.

"Do you want to fuck now, baby?"

The low, needful moan you make is all the answer you need to supply. She settles back a bit and spreads her legs a little wider. What a nasty, sexy moment that is, the moment your mother spreads her legs for you to fuck her raw. Not only that she would commit incest with you but that she'd let you do it without even mentioning a condom -- it goes totally for granted that you're going to creampie her. She knows that's what your cock needs. It's what she needs, too. She needs the feeling of her own son's seed spilling out and painting the back of the womb he came from...

So getting down on top of her, and lining your cock up with the dewy opening of her slit, you fuck your mother.

"Unngghhh," she groans, throwing her head back at the moment of penetration. Her pussy is still nice and tight, and she has a hard time taking your enormous member. You sink slowly, but violently, in, and relish the slippery insides of your mother's body. That sweet-smelling fuckhole she's got has become all tender and supple from the hours you spent licking it. She's been marinating in wetness for so long that now she has one of the softest cunts you've ever been inside. The lubrication of her natural juices combined with your saliva, and the way her inner walls have absorbed all that moisture, to become all puffy and slimy, make it one of the most pleasurable fucks you've ever had. So snug but so inviting, so slick but so sticky, your mommy's mommyhole is the absolute best relief your pervy cock could get. 

You rut inside her like a dog, and after this foreplay that lasted for so long, you know you'll drop your load inside her in no time. She knows it too, and encourages it. Arching her back to bring her tits up towards your face again, she lets you nurse on her some more while you fuck. She goes back to gently stroking your hair and talks dirty to you, whispering softly, directly into your ear. "That's it, baby, fuck mama good. As much as you need to, okay? That's my good boy. Cum whenever you want. Oh -- so rough -- you must be really horny right now. That's okay. I made you lick me for so, so long, didn't I? That wasn't any fair, was it... you deserve a big cum, too, don't you? A nice, big, wet, messy cum. Do you wanna cum, baby? Inside mommy's gash? Make a cummy mess inside me. Shh, that's okay, quit moaning, just cum for me... oooh... oooooooohhhhh..."

That's what her lust-crazed tirade dissolves into, as you seed her, just a series of low, almost painful "ooooohhhh" sounds from the back of her throat. She makes them in tune to the throbbing of your wet orgasm, hot air blowing against your eardrum. "Oooooh.... oooooohhhhh.... ooooohhhh..." 

You suckle on her nipple, as your tingling cock expands and pulses inside her. You're so wet all over, with sweat, and she is too; and now she's all milky inside. She's trembling like a bird and smiling like a fiend. 

Cumming only once, after all that, was never going to be close to enough. For you or her. But you need a moment of respite. When you're finished jizzing inside her, you lie still, and focus on the hard pink nubbin of her nipple in between your lips. You need a moment for your cock to calm down: it's still completely erect inside her thick body, but it's painfully sensitive from having just ejaculated, and you can't take the pleasure of thrusting right now. Your system is coursing with the rush of adrenaline and endorphins, and your prick is buzzing with electric enjoyment. You'll fuck her again, in just a second, but for now, some depraved pillow talk:

"I can see why Cerise and everyone else is so hooked on this..." Mom tells you, breathing heavy, back of her palm against her forehead.

"Uh huh."

"You cum like a stallion, Alabaster... do you know that?"

"I've heard."

"You nasty, dirty little boy."

Your cock jerks inside her at that.

"You fuck your sisters just like this, huh?" 

"Yeah."

She gyrates her hips a little and squeezes your shaft with the sloppy walls of her cum-stained pussy. "Tell me more about the cruel things you do to Rose."

"Which one?"

"My Rose."

You, very slowly, start to fuck in and out of her. It's still too sensitive, but it's hard to resist fucking while you talk like this:

"I spank her."

"Mmm, that's good. You spank both your little sisters, then."

"Yeah. I slap her, too -- across the face -- and on her cunt. When she gets out of line."

"Oh Alabaster, that's so nice of you... you're keeping them disciplined. You're such a good big brother."

Your sperm squelches inside her as you pump your cock gently in and out of her battered hole.

"I'll have to lend a hand," Mom says. "They get so unruly and bratty. We need to keep them focused on what's most important..."

"Which is?"

"Making their big brother's cock feel good of course... and their big sister's hole feel good, too -- they should be keeping Cerise satisfied just the same as you... that's their job in this family, isn't it?"

You moan deeply at that, and deposit another couple creamy wads of jism in her. She mashes her lips to yours and kisses you hard. Then, turning with you, she gets you on your back, with her on top. Her enormous jugs hang down and press heavily against your chest. Your cum seeps down out of her body, around your still rock-hard prick, and over your crotch. Holding your face in her hands, she keeps kissing you, and starts to fuck back and forth atop you. She does all the work this way, in this reverse missionary, bringing your overstimulated cock more pleasure than you can stand -- and cumming on you like a fucking bitch in heat. There's nothing you can do but let her pin you down and fuck you. The ridges inside her cunt, already spattered with your dense and sticky seed, try hard to milk even more out. Her twat flutters around you, squeezes and kisses your prickhead.

"I wanted to fuck you for so long, Alabaster..." she coos. "So very long..."

"Oh fuck, Mom..."

"Ever since you were little." She gulps, and moans into your ear at the depravity of her own confession. Then she rests her chin on your shoulder and really starts to fuck herself on your cock. Her hips become a blur and the wet shlicking noise, of your prick stirring up her cummy cunt, fills the room. All this sperm you've already loaded her with just provides a bit of extra cushion for the desperate forcefulness of this incestuous mating session. You grab her fat ass and hang on to it for all you're worth, as she continues: 

"I walked in on your playing with yourself, when you 14... do you remember?... and ever since then... oh god, I'm such an awful mother..."

You kiss her and groan, "tell me more."

"I played with myself all the time, thinking of it... I fingered myself while you were away at school -- sucking on the used tissues in your wastebasket... I licked the cum from your dirty boxers... I masturbated in your bed!"

You nuzzle her neck and feel your cock swell as she tells you all the sordid details. Her cunt is getting even wetter. 

"You have an awful pervert for a mother, Alabaster! I'm such a fucking pervert! I've wanted your cock inside of me ever since then! Cum inside me, baby, give me everything inside your nuts! I want it so bad!"

Your muscles tense from head to toe, and you give your mother the sperm she so hungrily craves. It spurts out in ropy glops, overfilling her. Like a cream donut that's been stepped on, the filthy mess explodes from her twat in a geyser of white, staining your crotches, and the bed below, and making the room stink even worse than it already does. She rises to a cowgirl position and rides the orgasm out. Getting spermed makes her cum, too, and she squirts so hard that it reaches your face. This only eggs her on -- she rubs her clit with her flattened palm and deliberately cums on her own son's face. "I'm sorry I'm such a degenerate whore! I'm sorry, Alabaster! Forgive me! But don't stop cumming inside me! Never, ever!"

That's the last intelligible thing she gets out. The rest is just wailing as you force more spunk into that already spunky pussy-hole and uterus.

You fall sleep together, coated in each other's cum and sweat, and kissing sweetly, with your cock buried deep inside. As you drift off, you tell her:

"You know... Cerise and I... we have this sort of tradition."

"Hmm?"

"We call it family movie night."

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, brother-in-law and sister-in-law.

This is National Public Radio. News Now. November 4, 2019.

The President met today with heads of state from other NATO member nations in a summit with Vladimir Putin. Characterizing the meeting as fruitful, the President agreed to new trade terms. However, the summit was fraught with tension as other NATO states continue to accuse the Russian Federation of aggression in arctic waters, citing covert military exercises that breach international boundaries. Russia denies the allegations.

Human rights organizations have criticized Chinese mega-firm Broad Dynamics, accusing the company, which recently attempted unsuccessfully to buy Google, of using slave labor in their factories. The company is believed to be working on a Chinese version of the controversial Sand Reckoner technology, banned in most western nations. These accusations of slave labor come on the heels of a recent report concluding Broad Dynamics is the "single worst perpetrator" of cyber crime and computer hacking in the world. The report, released last week by MIT researchers analyzing digital signatures in over 1 billion hack attacks, was conducted over the past five years.

Speaking of hacking: Cerise Soliloquy, the reclusive figure at the center of the 3/10 hack, continues her campaign for congress in California's 18th Congressional District. The seat, open following the untimely death of Congressman Devin Isstein, will be up for grabs in a jungle primary on Tuesday, November 25th. If Mrs. Soliloquy can secure a majority of the votes, she will win the seat outright. It will not be easy, however, as sources say that the late Congressman Isstein's widow, Karen Isstein, who was wounded in the accident that killed her husband, is also mulling a run. Party insiders have additionally refused to throw their support behind Mrs. Soliloquy, whose deep ties to the scandal-ridden Darkbloom Analytics make her less than appealing.

And now back to All Things Considered.

---

"Thanks so much for meeting with me!" Whitney says, taking her seat across from the governor. His office is wide-open and furnished with dark wood, adorned with flags, both of the US and the state of California. Whitney does her best attempt at British, which comes out sounding more like a Scottish brogue: "Pip tally, guvnah! Throw another shrimp on the barbie!"

The governor is not amused, and folds his hands one over the other as he leans across the desk. "Ms. Darkbloom, I know you want me to support your sister-in-law for congress, but--"

"Sister-in-law?" You say, looking quizzically over at Whitney. But she shushes you with an upheld hand as the governor continues:

"--Karen is a dear friend of mine and she wants to run for Devin's seat. You understand. In any case--"

"I gotcha. I gotcha. Look, this politics stuff is such a drag, you know? Let's cut to the chase."

You pick the aluminum case up from by your ankles, set it on the desk, and clack it open. The lid pops up, to reveal that 1 million dollars sit inside.

"That's a down payment for announcing you'll support Cerise in the primary," you tell him.

The governor cackles. Loud and long. "This is a joke, right?"

He looks from you, to Whitney, and back, but receives only stony silence. His good humor turns to astonishment: "This is like something out of a damn cartoon, Ms. Darkbloom! There's bribery, and then there's... a literal case full of literal money on my literal fucking desk. Get out of here right now."

(Of course, his eyes are glued firmly to the moolah.)

Vivian, who has remained standing, and whose idea this entire insidious ploy was, steps forward. "That is the carrot. There is always the stick."

"I said get of here," the governor growls, voice going rough around the edges. He's ready to reach for a button that will probably summon security. The last thing you want is a fracas between Noelle and a bunch of statehouse guards. Thankfully, Whitney, pulling out a printed list, cuts him off:

"Okey dokey. Here's a few of your recent googlings."

The governor stays his hand, face already going pale. Then Whitney begins to read:

"Gay for pay. Rentboys Sacramento. Asian Massage Sacramento. How to tell if wife thinks you are cheating. Symptoms of chlamydia. Symptoms of gonorrhea. Symptoms of leprosy. Does incest cause leprosy." Whitney glances up: "The answer to that one is no. I hope." She looks back down, and keeps going. "How to find wiretaps. How to know if under audit. How to know if followed by FBI. When can my attorney break attorney-client privilege. Cayman Island banking. When legal to kill wife." Whitney looks up again: "Never. It's never legal to kill your wife, Mr. Governor. You don't need google for that."

"Stop, god, stop," The governor heaves.

"I haven't even gotten to the really sick shit, though," Whitney says.

"I think he has heard enough," Vivian intones.

"What do you say?" You ask him, smirking. "Can we count on your support this November?"

The next day, you receive an unwelcome meeting invite on your calendar: David Darkbloom wants to have a chat. You visit him prior to a boardroom meeting.

"What is it, David?" You say on your way in the door. "I'd like to keep our time together at a minimum -- you know."

"Oh, I know. And so would I. So I'll make this fast. While you were busy fornicating, I was putting out fires." Darkbloom starts producing some documents, and dropping them on the desk: "Our Taiwanese parts supplier who Whitney alienated? I not only brought them back to us, but used the opportunity to negotiate terms more favorable to our organization. Our competitors? I slammed the Lightflower Company with a cease and desist that has completely frozen all development of their Diogenes copycat for the foreseeable future -- and litigated some former DBA employees back into line, who had defected to them. The Chinese? Our servers have been under a barrage of hacking attempts on a round-the-clock basis -- I've been personally assisting Anna in patching holes that they could have otherwise wormed through, not that you care about any of it. And--"

"You've been working with Gal?" You say.

He throws his arms up. "Yes I've been working with her! Does your egotism know absolutely no bound? Does it upset you to hear that I've been assisting her in keeping you alive?" Your eyes drift down, to an onyx geode on his desk -- he notices this, and adds: "A healing crystal. Meant to promote familial harmony. Yes, she gave that to me -- no, it doesn't work, unsurprisingly."

"Thanks so much," you say bitterly, "for all your help. Want a gold star?"

"Don't thank me, Alabaster!" He roars. "Not even sarcastically! If you died tomorrow, I would shed no tears. I do what I do for those I love, and no one else. You're just floating along for the ride, like a turd that won't flush."

"What an awfully crass analogy for you."

"You're an awfully crass person to be dealing with." He sits again, and pulls his chair forwards towards his desk. "I wanted to apprise you of what I've been doing so that you have some sense of where I stand. I stand with this company: I stand with Whitney and Vivian, and Renee and Anna. Since you at least agree with me on this -- I hope you can trust me to that extent."

"Uh huh."

"Chloe tracked down Alyosha. I could help us establish a direct line of contact."

"Where is he?" You ask.

"Belgium, apparently."

"Who else knows?" You ask.

"No one," he says. "I want this to be a matter with as few people in the know as possible. The more my girls and the others I care about are told, the more danger they face. Thus the reason I tell you."

"I feel the love."

"Good."

You sigh deeply. "And when you manage to meet with Alyosha, what then?"

"It's simple," Darkbloom says. "I will do to him the same as I did to his daughter."

You can't help laughing at that, grimly. "All right, David. What do you need from me?"

The hair on the back of your neck bristles as the door of the office opens again. Without checking, you can somehow tell who's behind you: Qiangxiang.

"I need you to turn me off for a little while," Darkbloom says. "Chloe knows Alyosha's whereabouts but she has no trusted contacts to arrange a meeting. As it turns out, though, Dalton Cantor does. If you disable Penelope long enough to bully Dalton into establishing the meeting -- that's all the opening I need."

"I will assist the operation in any way necessary," Qiangxiang, behind you, says.

>[x] Do it. (Sub-choice: [x] Do it David's way / Ask help from the others.)
[ ] Don't do it; get to Alyosha some other way.

"You want me to help cut your head open?" You say. "You know just how to convince me, don't you."

"Not my head," Darkbloom says. "It belongs to Mr. Cantor. I'm just living there as a squatter."

"Rent-free?" You say, reflexively.

But he's confused: "That's... what I said. Yes."

"Never mind..."

Qiangxiang sidles up to you. "Do you know much about the procedure to install and uninstall implants, Ally?"

"I told you not to call me that," you glower.

She smiles warmly. "And I asked not to be called Chloe. It seems we will both be disappointed."

"He can be taught," Darkbloom says. "He'll do. This is less invasive than an installation since all you need to do is power it down. Less complex, too."

"And," you add, "if I mess it all up and kill him, no real loss."

"Absolutely correct," Darkbloom says, surprising you. When you reply with muteness, he stands, and says: "I hate you so bitterly. But I know that in some way, some twisted way -- you love my girls. I love them too. What we're embarking on is to protect them: this is the overarching priority. We, both of us -- you and I are expendable. You may die soon, Alabaster. Apprehend that. If you die in defense of the people you love, it won't have been in vain."

"Fuck you," you tell him.

"Fuck you too, Alabaster." He gathers his things, and says: "We have another meeting now. Let's not be late. Vivian complains so terribly if we don't keep to the agreed-upon timetable."

---

"Alabaster-chan!" Armstrong roars. "You're just in time for the heated debate!"

"Chan...?" You breathe, sitting down at the conference table. "Since when did pidgin Japanese become your thing too?"

He slaps your back. "I need a fucking diplomat. This is about to be World War III here. See, Gal is upset at Nelson because Nelson isn't going to be watching the new Meguka Magica next season--"

"it's madoka"

"Right, which she says is only the most chino of all anime--"

"it's kino"

"I just never got into it," Nelson says.

"shut up," Gal says. "just shut up. you imbecile. you absolute piece of dogshit."

"Whoa!" You cry.

"She's feisty ever since she became Mrs. Soliloquy," Nelson says. "So opinionated."

"opinion. it's not opinion. it's not a matter of opinion nelson. and when you ignore an important series while watching nothing but ecchi moeshit at the same time--"

"It's not gonna be as good as the original, you know that, right?" Nelson says. "And Nekopara isn't just some ecchi moeshit. It's got a lot of mature themes! And Overflow looks cute, too--"

"Wait. Madoka's got another season coming?" You say.

"oh my god Sir" She shakes her head and rubs her eyes behind her spectacles. "nobody talk to me until the end of time. i'm done with speaking to you."

"We're gonna be watching it together, Ally!" Rose2 tells you. "You're welcome to join us!"

"Does anyone actually invite you to these things?" Rose asks her, showing up, and taking her seat alongside you.

"Uh... hmmm," Rose2 says. "Geez. I dunno."

"The answer is no," you say.

"Then maybe you should g--" Rose begins, but she gets cut off by Whitney's gavel.

During the meeting, which drones on and on, you find yourself focused intently on David Darkbloom. The way he assiduously takes notes and interjects at reasonable junctures; the way he asks probing questions and moves things along. He's not the CEO anymore, but he still has the poise of a man you'd expect to be the CEO. Moreover, you pay close attention to Whitney; the way she watches "bio-dad" and seems to be picking up some of his habits. You never saw her takes notes before Darkbloom started attending these meetings. Now, she does.

She doodles in the margins a lot, though.

"...and Kimberly Manlove will not be coming in to work for the foreseeable future," Vivian continues.

This grabs your attention back. You wait for more. When it doesn't come, you say: "So?"

"So?" Vivian repeats. "She is one of our key systems engineers. So this is a less than ideal situation, wouldn't you say?"

"Hamberly Manlove is a systems engineer?" You sputter.

"You didn't know that about her?" Nelson says.

"You spend enough time with the fat bitch," Armstrong adds. "You really never knew what she does at this company?"

"No... I didn't," you admit.

"What's wrong with her?" Rose2 asks. "Is she sick or something?"

"Revealing any details would be a violation of h--" Rose begins.

Vivian interjects: "She has stage III vaginal trichinosis."

Rose2 puts a hand theatrically to her lips: "That sounds serious! Is she gonna be all right?"

But the rest of the room, who understand what words mean, is turning slightly green at just the implication. Nelson's jaw hangs open. Darkbloom seems to force back vomit. Gal, seemingly subconsciously, reaches down and lightly touches her crotch, cringing.

"I cannot believe you," Rose says. "I would expect impropriety from certain other people, but you should be above this kind of gossiping. You know you can't just go around telling people why an employee took FMLA leave. That's a violation of Kimberly's HIPAA rights."

"Sounds like she's used to having her hippo rights violated," Armstrong laughs.

"Yeah, if she's got worms in her vag," Nelson adds. "Poor hippo."

"Hold on," you say. "How does Vivian even know about this to begin with? She's not HR. Someone told her."

"Yes," Vivian agrees, turning to Rose: "How is it that I know of Ms. Manlove's unfortunate genital malady? Telling me that information was a clear violation of her hippopotamus rights..."

Rose slams her binder shut. "You are impossible. This is the last time I CC you on FMLA issues. I thought you were a more responsible COO."

Vivian giggles haughtily.

"Parastic vaginas aside," Qiangxiang says. "I think we are due an update on the work of Mr. Takagawa."

"Right," Gal says. "We've made some good progress."

It seems Gal's voice kicks up a few decibels and down half an octave whenever she has to speak officially at these meetings.

"The fake dossier we handed him has made it back to Beijing, as expected," Qiangxiang says. "Broad Dynamics and the Chinese government -- not to mention also the Japanese --" (her upper lips curl in disgust) "-- all believe that we are hopelessly lost on Diogenes. We've earned ourselves a little bit of breathing room."

"Good work, Gal," you say.

"Thank... thank you." (Her voice goes back to a whisper, but only for a moment.)

---

After the meeting, out in the hall, Noelle is whispering with Vivian as you pass. Noelle is aghast: "Vaginal trichinosis is a thing? ... It comes in stages? ... Kim's at stage three?"

Darkbloom meets you by the elevators. "I'd like to do this as soon as possible. Do you think you could come on your own to Chloe's condo this evening?"

You glance furtively over your shoulder. This sets off Noelle's spidey sense: she's over by the two of you in no time.

"Skullduggery afoot?" She asks.

"I've heard enough about feet recently," you say.

"That's your own fault. Stop hanging out in /csg/."

"I was just saying goodnight to David," you tell her. "A warm-hearted goodnight and fuck you to cap off the day."

You step into the opening elevator, and Noelle, shrugging, follows you. But Darkbloom holds his hand out and stays the doors. "Ms. Keki, you'd be a good asset. Are you free tonight?"

"I thought we were keeping the people we love out of this," you say, fuming.

Darkbloom doesn't reply. Obviously, Noelle means less than nothing to him.

"I can be there," Noelle says. "Someone has to protect this dumbass from the red menace. It may as well be me."

Darkbloom lets the elevator doors drift closed.

"You wanna fill me in?" Noelle asks in the descending compartment.

"No. But I guess I have to now."

There's a brief silence. Then, Noelle says: "...You love me?"

"I love you," you say.

This simple admission, coming without a petty barb or a snide remark attached, shocks Noelle silent.

"Or maybe you want me to say it the other way?" You ask. "All right. Daisuki."

"You ruined it."

You turn on her, and put a hand against the wall of the elevator, trapping her. With your other hand, you stroke her chin.

"Now you've really ruined it," she says.

You kiss her.

"I love you too," she says softly. "You ass."

When you arrive in Qiangxiang's condo, she's sitting on her sofa eating a Big Mac and fries. She wears a napkin as a bib.

Not exactly how you expected to walk in on the "red menace." She was so absorbed in eating that she didn't even answer the door, just rang you through remotely.

"I got you addicted," you say, sitting across from her.

"You did."

"You'll get fat," you warn her.

"I will. Is that a problem? I happen to know that you like women on the thicker side of things. The woman you married, for example."

"I've been trying to get Rose to lose weight for years," you say. "She's an unfuckable cow, really."

"Unfuckable," Qiangxiang repeats with a smirk. "That might be the worst lie I've heard in my life."

"Oh, so you think she's fuckable?" You say.

Qiangxiang sets her hamburger down in its little cardboard container, and sets the container aside. "Homosexuality is degeneracy of the worst kind. No, I would not have intercourse with Rose."

"What if it's his fetish?" Noelle asks.

"Are you sure it isn't yours?" Qiangxiang replies, resting her cheek on fore- and middle-fingers.

"It's both of ours," you say.

"Hmmph," Qiangxiang sighs.

"Not mine," Noelle insists. "Definitely his, though."

This conversation might have continued, but in comes the evening's patient: David Darkbloom arrives.

Qiangxiang is only too elated at the prospect of scooping out Dalton Cantor's eyeball. As she dons the surgical mask and gloves, you think that she's a vision of the devil herself. So why is it so attractive?

With diagrams and video -- the video of the installation of Catchresis into Camelia all those years ago -- Darkbloom explains where to find the master power switch for the implant.

"We're in a fortuitous situation," he says. "This was put inside Dalton as an aged adult: his brain wasn't plastic enough to become symbiotic with it. Nor was it ever exposed to the full, raw power of Sand Reckoner, as Cerise's mind was. Turning it off for a period of time should have no adverse effects on Mr. Cantor's body."

"Should," Noelle says. She's skeptical at the low level of confidence here.

"Right," Darkbloom says. "But it may. And if it does -- simply be prepared to switch it back on."

Qiangxiang flicks a hypodermic needle, eyeing the fluid inside it. She squirts a little of the fluid out of the tip. Satisfied, she tapes Darkbloom's eyelids open, and readies the needle to inject it into his cornea, bringing it swiftly in.

Darkbloom does not even flinch as she brings the needle down. Then just like that it's inside the jelly-like structure of his eye -- you cringe, and look away -- you hear Darkbloom grunt, but that's all the sign he lets on of his discomfort.

Noelle, fighting back gagging, also can't watch. "I feel like the fucking Third Reich, here."

"You should be numb," Qiangxiang says. She lightly touches Darkbloom's eye with her gloved fingers. "Do you feel that?"

"No."

"Then let's begin."

Qiangxiang does the dirty part. She takes the eyeball out with that scoop you've become all too familiar with. Your role is to handle the implant itself; to switch it off.

The moment you do, Dalton flops around like a fish, straining against the straps that tie him down to Qiangxiang's coffee table. You and Noelle hold him still as Qiangxiang stares icily down at him.

At first, it seems that he still thinks he's in the Mallory rumpus room, all those weeks prior. Gasping, he picks up right where he left off. "Please, Mrs. Mallory -- Vivian -- you can't do this -- you -- oh, fuck -- I can't feel my face! I -- I -- I..." he trails off, staring up at Qiangxiang. His sense of time and place disturbed, he stammers: "Who are you? Where did you come from? Where... where am I?"

"You've been asleep for a very long time, Mr. Cantor," Qiangxiang says. "My name is Qiangxiang Xi. I'm here to rescue you."

Dalton can't see you holding him, from where you stand behind the table. Only Qiangxiang and Noelle.

"N-Noelle Keki...?" He breathes. "Why are -- I... oh, god, is my eyeball -- I can't see! Did you blind me in one eye? What's going on?"

"Calm down," Qiangxiang barks. "Do you know who I am?"

"I know you. You're -- you're from that Chinese company. Broad Dynamics." He's still breathing hard, and has a crazed, panicked catch to his voice.

"Very good. We are competitors with Darkbloom Analytics. Mr. Cantor, I have unfortunate news. Mara Darkbloom is dead, her Vail facility is destroyed. David Darkbloom hijacked your body, and used it to kill her. He's been living under your identity for some months now. Whitney Darkbloom and the rest of the fools at DBA remain in power there. They still hold Sand Reckoner -- and now, Diogenes..."

Dalton is hyperventilating. "My family... where is my family... are they okay? Tell me they're okay!"

"I'm afraid your family is in great danger," Qiangxiang says. "It seems that Alyosha Kerimov thinks you are a traitor. After all, as far as he knows, it was you who killed Mara."

"Oh my god -- Hazel, Finn --"

"Quiet, now. We have very little time. And we've rescued you from limbo, at great personal risk -- thank you, Noelle."

"Anytime," she says, playing her part. "As long as the money's good."

"--And I'd like to get in touch with Alyosha Kerimov myself. A strategic partnership between him and Broad Dynamics portends great things for the future! And of course... safety for your family..."

"Anything... anything..." he says.

"Do you know who to reach out to?"

"Yes. Yes, hand me a phone, I'll do anything!"

"Very well." Qiangxiang says. She's smiling brightly.

Noelle holds the phone for him. He speaks into it, explaining the situation as best he knows.

"Chloe Xi?" Comes a thickly accented Russian on the other end. "Is impossible. She works at Darkbloom Analytics now. She is on their side."

(Qiangxiang is none too pleased to hear that her nickname has gone international.)

She speaks up for the first time: "It was the only way to get close to Sand Reckoner -- and now, also, Dalton Cantor."

The man on the other just grunts.

"Chloe wants to partner with Alyosha," Dalton says. (Man, people take to this nickname so quickly.) "I'm still an ally too."

The man grunts again.

"Whitney Darkbloom and her coterie of morons are unreliable, at best," Qiangxiang says. "I am ready to partner with people who know what they're doing. I am ready to pick up where my uncle left off."

"You killed your uncle," the man on the other side says.

"I did," she says instantly, and adds: "he deserved it, too."

The man grunts.

"Alyosha and I have commiserate goals," Qiangxiang says. "We both would like to find the lighthouse."

"I know nothing about no lighthouse," the man replies.

"Then you are worse than worthless," Qiangxiang snarls.

"Dumb bitch," the man snarls back. "Maybe I should do how your uncle did. No?"

"Do not waste my time with lies and coy remarks," Qiangxiang says. "Can you help me speak with Alyosha or can't you?"

"There were Chinese at Vail," the man says. "Why should we trust you?"

"Please," Dalton interjects. "We want to be partners!"

Qiangxiang shushes him. "I happen to know that Alyosha Kerimov is old and infirm. He has few options remaining if immortality is his goal. He can die if he wants. I'll find the lighthouse on my own."

The man grunts, again. Finally then: "Alyosha will be in touch."

He hangs up.

"When can I see my family?" Dalton asks.

"No time soon," Qiangxiang says. "Thank you for your help."

You circle the table and reach for the eyeball still dangling on Dalton's cheek, to switch the implant back on. Dalton's other eye goes wide with dismay. "Alabaster Soliloquy--!! No!"

That's the last thing he says before Darkbloom resumes control.

At home that night, you've got your pick of the litter.

[ ] A wholesome bedtime story with Amber and Rose.
[ ] Gang up on Rose2 with Mom.
[ ] Vivian's evil scheme!
[ ] Quality time with just Whitney.
>[x] This house ain't big enough for three MILFs. Or is it?
[ ] Something else?

Dr. Carte sits at the edge of your couch as you noisily suck her cunt.

Since everyone's fucking everyone in this house, you have no reservations about doing these things right out in the open. Why not? No one's going to be scandalized by it, right?

You have both the finesse and eagerness to get her squirting on your face in no time. Your wet slurping of her engorged clit and labia echoes off the high walls. Dr. Carte, you've found, tastes a lot like her daughter. And as much as you like to eat Whitney's twat, you like to eat Dr. Carte's even more because hers is meatier, more tender, and hotter to the touch of your tongue. If this is how Whitney's cunt is going to mature... you've got many years of happiness in store.

"Jesus, Alabaster..." Dr. Carte sighs. "You're too good at this. You're way too good at this. How did you get so good at this?"

You decline to state.

Instead, you just take a swig of baby oil, and grin up at her, and then spit. The oil forms a long, gentle, laminar arc, and splashes against her nude upper body, smearing her chest and her naked tits. She becomes shiny under the room's bright ceiling lights. The oil runs down the length of her soft body in dozens of long, slick streams -- under her udders, across her tummy, down to her lap and her thick upper legs. She giggles. The rest of the oil in your mouth, you squirt through your lips directly against her pussy. It's a sharp, forceful stream, like ejaculating against her clitoris. She shivers despite the warmth of the liquid, clutches your hair, and holds your head to her crotch. "Like that," she pants. You begin to lap at the oily mess you made of her fuckhole. "Just like that. Nice and wet... nice and fucking wet... oh god..."

She squirts again on you, hugging your head between her legs as she does. Nice and fucking wet indeed: your face is coated in Dr. Carte's fragrant fuckslime. 

Your reward when you come up for air again is just what you wanted. Dr. Carte switches places with you, getting on her knees before you to service your meaty prick with her giant tits. It's why you spat all that baby oil on her -- and she more than understood the purpose of it. Dr. Carte, mashing her jugs together, stares lustily at your shaft pistoning up and down between them. The oil, mixing with your precum, flies up in little droplets that hit her face, your stomach, and the cushions. You sit slumped back, posture wide and loose, and let her do the work. It feels good... it feels really, really good to get paizuri from Dr. Carte. 

You hear Mom's voice from the entry to the living room. "Oh my god! What are you doing?!" 

So there is someone who'd be scandalized after all. Rather than hide what you're up to, or try to cover up in the slightest, you just stay sitting there as Dr. Carte lewdly works you over. You smile up at your mother; she's come back with Charlotte, just in time to witness the fun.

"Alabaster..." Charlotte breathes. She shifts her weight, mom jeans straining. Her pants are always a couple sizes too small. 

"Why are you using that horrible... drunk skank?" Mom demands over the slapping noises of Dr. Carte's tits against your thighs as she fucks her boobs up and down on you.

"Can it, lady," Dr. Carte sneers. She's still staring at your oil-slick dick. "If you want this cock, you'll have to wait in line for it."

Whereas Mom is indignant, Charlotte plays the concerned maternal figure. She strides into the room, and sits beside you. She strokes your bare shoulder and forearm, cooing: "Oh, honey... if you were backed up, all you had to do was tell me. No need to resort to cheap, used goods like Renee..."

"Fuck you too," Dr. Carte says, but she doesn't stop the titjob. You try, and fail, to suppress a groan. Charlotte coos again, and holds your shoulder a bit tighter. "You poor thing," she says. Then, she begins to pull her sweater off, revealing her bare, sweaty torso. "You want me to take over, right? I'll wring all that backed-up cum out of your balls for you, don't worry..."

Mom springs into action. She won't be the odd one out. She sits on your other side, and strokes your other arm, and says: "Don't listen to these sluts. You want your mama's body, after all... right?"

It seems even as your two mommies try to seduce you, they're paying close attention to the way your dick slides in and out of Dr. Carte's supple tit-flesh. Boldly, Charlotte begins to fondle your nutsack, and says: "they're so heavy today, baby. You need a good place to empty that load, don't you?"

Mom circles a finger around one of your nipples. She bites your earlobe. "You can cum inside me... see if you can make a baby with me, okay?"

But all their obscene attempts to pry you away from Dr. Carte have the opposite of the intended effect. Moaning deeply, your balls tighten. Then your cock is spewing a thick white load all over Dr. Carte's chin and the top of her breasts. Dr. Carte smiles delightedly as you hose her down, and doesn't shy away from the load you're depositing on her. She holds her mouth open and lets a few stray spurts land on her tongue. The jizz on her chin hangs down in strands that refuse to snap, and the jizz on her tits lies in a pearly puddle atop the oil it can't mix with, jostling like jelly as she continues to slide her all her delightfully soft meat up and down on you. Your cock becomes streaked white with your own sperm as she continues the titfuck unabated.

"Alabaster..." Charlotte says, guilting you. "Why would you waste your sperm on her face, when you could leave it up my holes instead...?"

"Nonsense," Mom says, joining the guilt trip. "The only hole you want to fuck next is one of mine, right? Which one do you want?" She's already fighting out of her jeans and shirt. She turns, gets on all fours. She leans against the couch's armsrests and holds herself wide open for you. "Mama's pussy? Or mama's asshole? You can pick, Alabaster. Either one is fine with me..."

Charlotte mirrors her aunt's obscene display. Flipping her hair over one shoulder, she stares back at you with fiery eyes: "You don't want some loose fuck that you won't even feel, do you? You want a nice, tight... hot piece of ass... like mine. My pussy is even tighter than Scarlett's asshole is... and my asshole is so tight that it might hurt both of us... I don't mind, though... let loose on me, all right?" She wags her hips, shaking her fat butt and making it jiggle.

Dr. Carte grins devilishly up at you. She's still the one in control of your dick right now, and she won't relent for anything. "Your mothers are the real skanks here," she tells you. "Look at them wagging their asses for you like a couple of bitches. Hey! This kid's your son, you fucking whores -- do you realize that?"

"Of course," Charlotte says. 

"That's why I want him to fuck me..." Mom adds. She starts to finger her own cunt as she explains: "It only makes sense that a mother's body is the one most compatible for her son, doesn't it?"

When their attempts to sway you don't seem to succeed -- Dr. Carte's paizuiri is just too divine to quit, even for a moment -- Mom and Charlotte resort to the desperation tactic. They get down on the floor with her, and jockey for position. A rude, three-way, back-and-forth shoving match commences:

"Get off me, bitch!" -- "Fuck you, you skank!" -- "Stop molesting my son!" -- "You psychotic cunt!" -- "He's mine! He belongs to me! Let go of his dick right now!"

You end it summarily: taking the bottle of baby oil in hand, you dump it over them. Like pouring vinaigrette on a salad, you drizzle it over their heads and faces and chests, back and forth across all three of them.

"Alabaster!" Mom gasps, her features becoming blurred and her hair becoming slick. Her voice sounds strange with oil burbling off her lips, like trying to speak underwater. "You inconsiderate-- rude-- nasty little boy!"

"Shut up," you command her. 

This forceful demand shocks her quiet. All three women stop -- stop moving entirely -- as you dump the oil over them with a steady glug-glug-glug. They sit there and take this humiliation, as your cock still throbs between the soft, tender confines of Dr. Carte's titties. It's fun to degrade them like this.  

"Share," you tell them. 

"But--" Dr. Carte begins. "Don't you want--" Charlotte says. "You shouldn't waste your time with--" starts Mom.

"Share," you repeat, voice husky and thick with lust. "Or I'll go upstairs and fuck someone else instead."

The three women take a moment to pout at each other, proud despite the oil dripping off every curve and prominence of their faces, chests, and torsos, and the cock that they've fallen to their knees to pleasure.

Dr. Carte reluctantly makes way for Mom and Charlotte to get in. With her in front of you, and your mommies on either side, then begins one of the most heavenly experiences you've ever had: a three-woman titfuck. Six huge, swaying hunks of titmeat all pressed up to your horny dick, trapping it, in their oily, sweaty heat and plumpness. The excess of oil you poured now pools at this central point, and so, staring down, you see that your cock is submerged beneath a puddle of warm, clear fluid. It's such an erotic sight, your red veiny penis fucking in and out from between the nubbins of their nipples, each a different shade -- all three mature women working hard to bring you off against their chests. Their mouths curl in pleasure, getting off on simply getting you off, and being treated this way by their dirty little boy; you can smell their arousal tinging the air. When quickly you lose another load, you can see your cock pulsing beneath the surface of the lube, adding your fuckslop to the mess between them all, and they just keep rubbing you until you've shot it all out. 

Sighing in sheer contentment, you lean back, and close your eyes. But if you thought your pet MILFs were done with you, you were wrong. You feel weight bearing down all around you, and open your eyes to find them wrangling you, forming into a pile on the sofa with you at the center, climbing up with you and crushing you between their considerable bodies. It is... unbelievably soft and heavy at the same time, like lying on a cloud that wants to smother you. Your face is pressed up against someone's tits, someone else's shoulder, and another's head; they're writhing and moaning and it's impossible to tell who's who because their fleshy bodies are contorting your face and forcing your eyes shut. Their hot bodies, coated in oil, slide frictionlessly back and forth over yours, making an utter ruin of the couch below in the process. You know that your cum, and their cum, is part of this nasty admixture too, but none of them seem to care. 

"Mmmmggg-- mmmffffgggg--" You try to speak, but can't get anything out.

"Shhh, baby, shhh," Charlotte says, petting your hair with a slimy hand. "Don't talk..."

"Suck me, honey -- there you go..." Mom whispers into your ear, directing your lips to her chest. You latch on to one of her nipples and suck. Someone, maybe her, or maybe someone else, grasps your still erect cock and starts to tug. Their hand is as slick as anything else, and it feels just like fucking a wet twat. Another hand's wet fingers find your asshole -- don't penetrate you, but just the sensation of the encircling fingers tickling you there is divine all on its own. As the women slide back and forth across you, someone dumps the final dregs of the baby oil over your collective bodies. Your face is all puffy and drippy, now... 

"Cum for me, okay?" Dr. Carte whispers.

"No, baby... cum for me," Mom says.

As they tug you off, they direct your face this way and that, making you nurse on them, each in turn... all three women get the use of your mouth. Occasionally, as they writhe and squirm with you, your penis slips into the inviting folds of a pussy or an ass, and the lucky woman fucks atop you for a few moments, before letting another have their turn. They've learned to share, all right. They're going to share you until there's nothing left. There are worse ways to die. Trapped between all this supple skin, these motherly bodies, as they cum on you and you cum on them -- a few squirts inside their bodies too, since all three mommies are so hot to get spermed in their wombs -- you have no choice but to enjoy it to its fullest extent. 

You're not sure which of the wads you blow feels the best. The one you blow in your own biological mother's cunt-hole, holding her slippery ass with both hands as you desperately slam up and down into it and paint her insides white? The one you lose, moaning, in between Dr. Carte's extremely skilled fingers, as she masturbates you and makes you suck her tits? The one you pump in Charlotte's asshole, with only the tip of your prick nestled inside, a load you have to force out by straining your abs because she's so, so fucking tight, while she jerks the rest of your shaft off to help you orgasm inside her squishy body? They're all great, and all the cums you have are great too, as you lie entangled with them for hours upon hours, the meat of a MILF sandwich. You could feel like you're being used, but you don't care. Your mommies can use you anytime they want, as long as they're okay with taking all this jism.

"Here you are, Cerise -- the lawn signs you requested."

Cerise is in the auditorium where all those months ago you made memories of sensitivity training with Rose. Vivian is showing her the yard signs she had a local print shop make up for the campaign. The reason this is taking place in the campus's ballroom-sized auditorium and not somewhere else is because Vivian, in her typical fashion, went overboard. She printed an entire gross of grosses of these signs, which were delivered by truck today, and now lie stacked in their thousands along the walls. Cerise, peeling the saran from one stack, and taking the first sign in hand to examine it, smiles.

"This is great work. I love it."

As if on cue, in comes barreling Armstrong.

"What the fuck, Vivian!" He roars. "We're supposed to be managing this campaign together! Am I hearing right that you had over 20,000 lawn signs made up without telling--" he stops in place and glances around the sign-stacked room. "Oh Jesus tittyfucking Christ, you did."

"It is Cerise's design. I think it gets her platform across beautifully."

Armstrong snatches the sign from Cerise's hands. "Asshole!" She shouts.

He reads it. The vein on his forehead throbs as his face turns red. "We're not distributing this shit. Have you gone nuts?"

You walk over to the stack, and take one of the signs to read it for yourself.

>Guns... keep 'em!
>Abortions... have 'em!
>Opinions... speak 'em!
>Soldiers... don't quarter 'em!
>Cerise for Congress!

"You can't be pro abortion, you morons!" Armstrong says, voice so choked with anger that it sounds like he's croaking. "You're pro-choice -- but you can't endorse abortions! And this is California, you can't be touting how much you love guns in a political campaign!"

"Blah blah blah blah blah," Cerise retorts, flapping one hand like Pac-Man.

"And this message about soldiers makes it look like you hate veterans! You have to love veterans, Cerise! You have to do everything short of treat a veteran's dick like it's your brother's!"

"Low blow," you say.

"I learned all about low blowing from watching your web stream!" He shouts, pointing at you.

"This message will resonate," Vivian insists. "It is an encapsulation of Cerise's respect for constitutional principles. People want more of that in Washington."

Cerise snatches the sign back. "The slogans were Saul's idea. I'm not changing it."

Armstrong sighs. Saul was a friend of his. The two men became golfing buddies over the past year, and frequently lunched together on campus. Armstrong told lawyer jokes; Saul told politician jokes. Armstrong won't let on, but he's sad that Saul is gone now -- moreover, he knows he won't sway Cerise on this matter.

He's still angry, though. Next he pulls out his cell and shoves it in Cerise's face. "You need to put a lid on the tweeting. What the fuck is this?"

The first tweet on the timeline is something about a beanie baby that looks indescribably horny. You read aloud: "'Dear god, someone please take one for the team and suck this thing's dick before it commits an atrocity'... whoa"

The next few down are a bunch of retweeted racy anime drawings, mostly of traps, plus some sort of Ben Shapiro parody copypasta.

"I don't get it," you say, reading the copypasta to yourself.

"You wouldn't," Cerise says.

Armstrong takes his phone back. "You're running for a damn House seat. You can't be tweeting out Japanime drawings of cute boys in dresses and weird stories about daddy's little cumslut! And you definitely can't talk about horny beanie babies!"

"You think the boys in dresses are cute?" Cerise says.

"What? Goddamn it -- focus on the important issues here. This isn't how a congresswoman behaves. It's electoral poison."

"Cerise gets more engagement on her tweets than any congressional candidate in the nation," Vivian says.

"Yeah," Armstrong grunts, "from weirdos on *Chan. They'd engage with her tweets if she tweeted videos of paint drying. Unfortunately, you can't build a political base on people who live in their mothers' basements."

"You sure about that?" You say.

"Sure I'm sure," Armstrong says. "Not here in the valley. Cerise needs to expand her reach. Does Cindy Lou Soccermom want to vote for the drunk NEET who's obsessed with crossdressing?"

"The polling firm I hired shows that Cerise wins independents by 30 points, Democrats by 80 points and even takes a bare majority of Republicans in the district. The election will be a rout. She has truly cross-sectional appeal."

He isn't convinced. "A huge lead can go down the sink, the moment someone points out that you spend half your day looking at hentai."

"Likely voters indicate that her interest in animated pornography only endears her to them," Vivian says.

"Christ almighty," Armstrong says. "Polls aren't everything, kid. Polls can be wrong. Sometimes you need some common goddamn sense."

"And sometimes," Vivian says, "you need to be cognizant of changing political winds. It isn't the same world it was when you served as a Senator. The ground has shifted beneath your feet, has it not? Cerise will do admirably." She turns to Cerise. "I will have these signs placed around town, and distribute them for free to employees also. I may post a link to purchase in /csg/, too -- but I want to make sure we only send them to addresses in the district -- they're wasted otherwise."

"You do astroturf on *Chan," you breathe. "I knew it."

Vivian frowns at you. "Is this a discussion you want to have? Should I inform your sister how much you post in that thread?"

You choke on your words.

Armstrong checks his wristwatch. "I'll deal with you shits later. I need to go meet the generals. Uncle Sam waits for no man."

"Where's Steven?" Darkbloom asks as he takes his seat at the boardroom table with the rest of you.

"Generals," you tell him.

"Oh boy," Whitney says sarcastically. "Situation room time. I didn't see any emails about the generals coming today."

"The generals" are a group of half a dozen high-ranking military and intelligence officials, give or take a few, mostly actual generals but including a few rear admirals and advanced colonels, who occasionally drop by to window-shop your tech. Maybe the only reason Darkbloom Analytics hasn't gone the way of the dinosaurs is because you share your troves of data with the military, not to mention the ongoing promise you have, now enshrined in law, to let them use Sand Reckoner and/or Diogenes at the unspecified future date you perfect the technology.

Armstrong knows a couple of the generals personally, from his days as a power broker in the US Senate; and given his personality too, he's the perfect liaison for them. He's the one who always takes care of their visits.

"I heard nothing of it either," Vivian says. "According to Steven, this was a surprise visit. Very little advance notice."

"Pain in my ass..." Whitney grumbles, and gavels the meeting to order.

It's typical meeting filled with the typical issues:

"I don't think that's legal, Vivian," you tell her. "We can't force Facebook users to pay money if they want to delete their accounts."

"Why not? Deleting an account is a service like any other. Why can we not charge money for services?"

"We'll discuss it later," Darkbloom says, his catch-all response to move his youngest daughter on from topics she's stubborn about.

---

"Server uptime in quarter two was 100.0%," Gal reports. "Except the... Diablo Grande facility... which of course had a much lower uptime."

"Percent?" Whitney asks.

Gal can deliver prepared material but always withers a bit at being questioned.

"erm... something like 72%"

"Why so low?"

"...it... it exploded, whitney"

"Oh yeaaah."

---

"Scuttlebutt is that the Chinese government has some kompromat from your little vacay there," Nelson says.

"Kom-what?" Whitney says.

"Blackmail material," you explain to her, for probably the 50th time.

"Yeah, probably," she says, shrugging. "I'm extremely blackmailable." She points at him. "In theory. In practice I don't give a hoot."

"What sort of kompromat?" Darkbloom wants to know. The worst wounds are always self-inflicted.

"Uh..." Nelson says.

"Go on -- tell us," you prompt.

He rubs the back of his head. "Well, supposedly they bugged your hotel room, and, uh... have you on video peeing on each other?"

"Absurd," Darkbloom says.

"Yeah, we didn't do that there," Whitney agrees. Darkbloom's face whiplashes from relief to dismay between the words "that" and "there."

"We didn't do that there, did we?" Whitney asks you.

"No," you say. "...Pretty sure, anyway." You turn to Rose. "Did we do that there?"

She gazes up at the ceiling for a moment, thinking back. "No... no, I don't think so."

Darkbloom is beyond miserable.

"I've heard no such thing, myself," Qiangxiang says. "Your stay at the hotel in Beijing was dreadfully dull and uneventful. ... Supposedly."

"Rumors, you know," Nelson says, waving his hand, the way you might try to dissipate the odor of a fart. "Am I right?"

"I think this meeting is quite done for now," Darkbloom says, and stands.

But he can't leave the room; because standing at the door is Armstrong, wearing an expression like you've never seen before -- and behind him, the generals.

"We're in a meeting," Whitney says.

The generals stroll in like they own the place.

"Excuse you," Whitney says. "You deaf or just dumb? Armstrong, get these guys out of here. We can talk later."

"We're not going, Ms. Darkbloom," one of them, the highest ranking, whose nametag identifies him as M. Pershing, says. He pulls up a spare chair and sits, very near to Whitney's position at the head of the table; his comrades encircle the table and stand at the ready, behind you all. It's fucking spooky.

"Whitney -- I'm sorry--" Armstrong begins, still standing impotently at the threshold.

"What is the meaning of this?" Vivian demands.

"You've all been keeping secrets from the US government," General Pershing says.

"Privacy is a constitutional right," Darkbloom says. "We are entitled to keep business matters a secret. From you or anyone else."

"No, you aren't," Pershing replies. "Not where it implicates national security." He motions for one of his fellows, who hands him a manila folder. He opens it: "We've been getting chatter from Chinese and Russian channels, who've reverse engineered some of your technology. Sand Reckoner is far more powerful than you've ever admitted to us, Ms. Darkbloom. It isn't just a database of information, now is it."

Both the misses Darkbloom stay mute.

Pershing pulls out some satellite photos next, and sets them on the table: a burnt-out facility in mountainous terrain -- you recognize it.

"Don't think what happened at Vail escaped our notice," he says. "And now with everything else we're getting from intel, plus without even the FBI here any longer to provide a bulwark against the wanton lawlessness of this organization -- the situation has become much more critical than we ever thought. Ms. Darkbloom, tell us now: what is Sand Reckoner?"

"That is none--" Vivian begins, but Pershing shushes her.

"I want to hear it from the CEO. Not her underlings."

"You should go now," Darkbloom says, his voice grimmer than you've ever heard it. "We will file emergency briefings and take you to court over this infringement on our--"

"We can send you all to a place you will never be heard from again," Pershing says. "As of now, you are in a realm beyond constitutional rights. Tell us what Sand Reckoner is."

Whitney stands. "Sand Reckoner is mine. It belongs to me. That's what it is -- a thing that belongs to Whitney Darkbloom. Get out."

"Whitney, please," Darkbloom says, clutching her hand; there is fear quavering in his voice. You turn in place, and Rose meets your gaze with scared eyes.

Whitney won't sit. "Tell me what you guys really want so we can comply with whatever bullshit orders you've got and get you the fuck out of our hair."

"All right. I'll tell you how this is going to work," Pershing says. "You're going to turn over all of your project files to us and vacate the premises."

"Excuse me?" Whitney sputters.

Pershing motions for another of his fellows, who hands him a sheaf of stapled papers; it's a list of names. "We're installing an interim CEO in your absence, and removing any employees we think might be national security risks -- of which there are many. Several of whom sit in this room."

Reality is beginning to set in for her: "What are you... what are you telling me?"

"Put simply, Ms. Darkbloom," Pershing says. "You're fired."

He begins to read: "Vivian Darkbloom, Dalton Cantor, Rose Soliloquy, Anna Soliloquy, Alabaster Soliloquy -- Alex Best -- where is Mr. Best?"

"He's... downstairs, working," Nelson replies, sounding like he's had the wind knocked from him.

Pershing nods, then keeps going: "Oh, and of course, Qiangxiang Xi," he says.

Qiangxiang has been quieter than usual. But now, as two men in vests that read ICE on the back enter the room, and put their hands on either of her shoulders, she begins to seethe. She slaps one of their hands away with a little grunt, but the agent just puts it right back.

"Since you no longer have a job in the US," Pershing tells her, "you are here illegally. We're deporting you."

"Must you manhandle me?" She says.

"No," Pershing says, smiling. The agents force her to her feet and lead her from the room; she's cursing in Mandarin the whole way. You wonder whether you'll see her again.

Vivian sounds seasick as she says: "This cannot be legal. We will fight it."

"Fight it, then," Pershing says. "You won't win. This is a cut and dried eminent domain case. Sure, though, you can fight us in court. But you'll leave today, or die."

One of Pershing's comrades nudges Whitney. "Time to go, Ms. Darkbloom," he says.

"Let me get my--" Whitney says.

"No," Pershing says. "You leave now. No stops along the way. Any personal effects you have, you can enumerate, and we will see what we can do to get them back to you. But that will be a lengthy process. Be thankful we're not sending the lot of you to prison."

Your temples are throbbing and your mouth is dry. Gal looks like she's on the verge of crying. So many thoughts are swimming through your head, the most terrifying of which is this: what if they decide to turn off the servers, or otherwise incapacitate your link to them...?

"Over the coming weeks we may call on you, or any of the other employees we terminate today, to provide us with usernames, passwords, encryption keys, and so on, as needed. I advise you to comply with all of these requests. Becuase they aren't requests."

Hot tears are streaming down Whitney's face. She slumps in her seat, staring up at the ceiling, shaking her head. When another figure walks into the room, she snaps to, and glowers at him. "Muskfucker."

"Hello to you too, Whitney," he says. "I'll take over from here."

"I can't believe you," Rose says. "After that scene you made at the solutions forum about how damaging Sand Reckoner is, now you're taking over the project?"

"I am," he says. "No hard feelings. You should have taken that internship I offered you -- you'd still have a job." He looks up, at the portrait of Darkbloom still scralwed with "ASSHOLE (mostly)" -- frowning, he says: "That's the first thing to go."

"Sorry, kid," Armstrong whispers to you, as you and the others walk down the hall, sandwiched by officers and agents. "I weaseled a stay of execution for me and Nelson. We're staying."

"Seriously?" You say. "But--"

"It's for the best," he says. "Now I won't be able to just show up to your playboy mansion willy-nilly, but... if the situation ever calls for it... it's good to have friends on the inside. I'll see you."

Everything is falling apart. In the campus's main lobby, employees are milling around, dazed, as a good 1 in 10 or so are led forcibly from the building.

You pass Fazil, who's flanked by ICE agents as well. He manages to break free of them long enough to hug Whitney, Rose, and you, each in turn. The agents, apparently charmed by him, let him bid you goodbye.

"Ala-bast-or!" He says. "I am told my visa no longer is going to suffice. Farewell, my friend!"

"I..." you whisper back. "Farewell."

He presses a slip of paper into your palm, secretly. He kisses you on either cheek, hugs you again, and whispers: "I am jobless on my return home, so I go and stay with my little sister in Istanbul. This is her number. If ever you need my help: I am a phone call away. Farewell my friend. May we meet again."

Ken isn't as lucky. He's sitting in handcuffs and manacles on a chair near the reception desk. Whitney flips out: "What the fuck! Why are you arresting Ken?"

Pershing is airy: "He's a spy."

Your stomach does cartwheels; they only think he's a spy because you put him up to it. Revealing that truth would put you and everyone else you love in dire legal jeopardy... but not revealing it could condemn an innocent man, who only wanted to help you, to an unimaginable fate.

Ken looks up at you and Whitney with a sad expression. "Mum's the word I reckon," he says.

While you agonize internally, Whitney proves that she has more of a backbone than you ever did. "He's not a fucking spy. I told him to pass fake bullshit on to the Japs. It was me! I'm the one who did it! Not him!"

"That's another thing you're lucky not to go to prison for," Pershing says.

"Let him go!"

"Don't worry about Mr. Takagawa," Pershing says, and refuses to reveal any more about what awaits the man who prefers to go by Ken Smith.

"Whitney--!" Dr. Carte cries, pulling her into a hug. "Are you okay?" She's just coming out of the elevator with Alex and a few other employees. They're as thunderstruck and shellshocked as the rest of you.

Dr. Carte hugs Vivian next. Emotions burbling to the surface at this affection, Vivian begins to softly cry.

"They're taking everything," she says, voice trembling pitifully, like a scared little girl. "They're... taking everything from us."

Alex looks angrier than you've ever seen him. "They wouldn't let me take anything with me. Not even Sable's things... not the birthday presents I got for her, or the photos I have in my office. What's the national security issue with taking a couple of framed photos!"

"We'll get your shit back," Whitney promises. "We'll get it all back."

In the milling crowd, you spy Mom being led out too, along with Rose2, and Charlotte. "Where's Cerise?" You ask them.

"Already out of the building," comes Mom's reply. "She just texted."

As you pass through the security turnstile for probably the last time ever, with all your girls in tow, Noelle laughs bitterly. "And you guys accused the FBI of being fascists..."

"Just shut up," Rose says.

At the gates, past the fountain and a swarming retinue of even more agents, Noelle pauses and glances back at the building. "Hey. Did any of you guys see Kay coming out?"

Whitney has been sobbing into your chest, lying on the couch atop you, for a good hour or two. The mood of the rest of the people in the living room is maybe not much happier. Except Kay.

"What is your job at Darkbloom Analytics, again?" You ask her. "Help me understand."

"I don't have one," she says. "I'm not on any of the employee rolls. Just a journalist doing research who happens to have some borrowed office space there..."

"So no one knows you're there?" Dr. Carte asks.

"I mean -- they know I'm there in the sense that they've laid eyes on me and know I was physically on-site. But I don't think anyone's stopped to wonder who I am or whether I'm technically supposed to be there. I wasn't on anyone's shitlist so they never kicked me out."

"Why did we never kick you out?" Rose wonders aloud.

Kay shrugs. "Good question. Great question."

"So you'll still be going there every day?" You ask her.

"Oh, yeah, sure," she says. "My visitor badge still swipes. As long as that's true, I might as well keep on keeping on, right?"

"If they ever suspect that you're passing information back to us, they could..." Vivian says. She shakes her head, trailing off. "There could be terrible consequences for you."

"Cool," Kay replies.

"You don't have to," you say.

"Oh yes I do. There's a short list of people I trust less to manage this Sand Reckoner bullshit than you fuckers, and the US Armed Forces is at the top. Or at the bottom, as the case may be. I know the military. They're going to cock this up in epic fashion, as always. The sooner we can figure out a plan B, the better."

"Thank you," you tell her.

"Don't mention it."

You nod, petting Whitney's back to soothe her heaving ugly cries.

"No, seriously," Kay appends. "Don't mention it."

"We need to do the sensible thing, now," Rose says. "It's time to get on a plane to Palau -- have Gustav take those fucking implants out of you all before the army kills you by disabling the servers -- and maybe when he's done, we can just stay put there, forever."

"You want us to move to Palau," you say flatly.

"Yes."

Amber, from over by the dining room, cradling her head in one hand, speaks up. Her voice is equally flat: "It's not happening."

"I didn't ask your fucking opinion," Rose snaps, trying to leverage her maternal authority over Amber, but all of that was just play-acting after all. Amber is steadfast.

"How many times do we have to have this conversation?" Amber says. "We're committed. We're keeping our implants." She looks your way. "This wasn't ever about what's logical, was it. The whole reason you, and Gal, and Viv, and me -- and you --" she nods at Darkbloom, "you miserable fuck -- the reason we always drag our asses about pulling these things from our brains isn't because it makes any sense, or because it's the right play. It's because these little grains are a part of us now. I am Catachresis. Gal, you are Galatea. And Alabaster, you -- you're Camelia." She takes a sip of her soda. "We're in it until the end, no matter what. You wouldn't understand, Rose. It's the one thing about Alabaster you never will."

Rose looks your way. You only nod. She's so upset she can't even speak.

Noelle comes in through the front door. "We've got a visitor at the gates... Chloe. You might want to come talk to her."

---

You thought you'd never see her face again, but here she is: standing uncertainly in the drive, at the front gates of Whitney's mansion. You speak to her from the opposite side of the bars. The others hang back, watching on.

"How did you get away from ICE custody?" You ask.

"I planned for this contingency," she says. "Or one like it, anyway. I have forged documents that give me permission to stay here even without a job -- I am, supposedly, a foreign exchange student at North High."

"North High--" you sputter.

She smiles. "A private joke for myself I never intended you to discover. I mean nothing by it."

You glower at her. She laces her fingers around one of the wrought iron bars, then reaches her hand and arm entirely through. Her reach is just far enough for her fingertips to grasp weakly at your shirt sleeve. She tries a few times to clutch it, failing, before she finally managed to grip a small portion of the fabric. "I am in a precarious position," she says. "It is only a matter of time before US authorities discover that I am here illegally on forged documents. I have only succeeded in delaying the inevitable. They will deport me."

"I'm sorry to hear that," you tell her.

"My position at Broad Dynamics was predicated entirely on being close to Darkbloom Analytics. Since killing uncle, I -- if I do not have my position at DBA..." She relinquishes her weak grip on your shirt sleeve and lets her arm fall back to her side of the gates. She holds the bars with both hands. "They will kill me if I go back to China."

"Are you asking me what I think you're asking me?" You say.

"It is your choice... if you let me stay, I will help you against any forces arrayed against you. You are the only ally I can turn to... Ally."

>[x] Let her in.
[ ] Send her back.

"Let her in," you tell Noelle -- never breaking eye contact with Qiangxiang. Qiangxiang puts on a good poker face, but you see her lips twitch, the barest hint of relief showing through her determined aloofness.

"Oh, fuck me," Whitney says. "This day can't get any worse anyway. Invite the chicoms into our humble abode without asking permission why don't you."

"Do you have a problem with it?" You ask her.

"I have problems with everything on Earth right now," Whitney says.

Vivian takes you aside. "Are you certain about this, Alabaster?"

"Yes," you tell her. "I don't know why, but I am."

Noelle buzzes her through. The gates slide open, and she strolls up the drive.

"Sieg heil, Anne Frank," Whitney sneers at her, giving her a mock Nazi salute. "We'll keep you in our crawlspace, safe and sound."

"Mm," Qiangxiang nods.

She doesn't notice Samantha bounding up, until Samantha is upon her. She takes both of Qiangxiang's hands in hers. "A new master! What's your name!"

"...Chloe," Qiangxiang says, after a moment of stunned silence.

"Feel free to use my cunt tonight okay! It's free!"

Qiangxiang blinks. Dr. Carte leads Samantha away. "Come on, you. Let's get you in the bath."

"Oh yes, please! Use me lots!"

Qiangxiang watches the dirty pair make for the house again, as the others all follow suit. The girls pass her by as she stands motionlessly in the drive, considering her decision.

"This will be an interesting time," Qiangxiang finally murmurs, seemingly to herself, as she too starts towards the entrance of the Nail House.

Kay sets up an air mattress for Qiangxiang on the floor of the bedroom she shares with Noelle. No one else wanted to bunk with her, and she refused any of the common areas in the house, including the tea room. According to her, this is one of the few rooms of the Nail House that doesn't "stink like sperm."

Noelle is beside herself -- upset that Kay unilaterally extended an invitation.

"Listen here, you fucking communist. I'm not gonna let you be the third wheel. If you ever see a tie on the doorknob, stay out!"

"...Why?" Qiangxiang asks.

"Privacy," Kay says.

"I see. Yes, I will grant you the privacy you seek."

"Good," Noelle says. "Kay and I are gonna needs lots of it."

"In your dreams, dyke," Kay says, taking the pump's nozzle out of the inlet. The fully inflated mattress lies between the two beds.

"That thing is sort of useless, isn't it?" you say. "You and Noelle usually wind up sharing one of the beds anyway. Right? You could just give up pretending you need two beds and let Chloe take the other one."

Kay turns red. "What! I don't know what Noelle is telling you, but that's a lie."

Qiangxiang appears to be deeply reconsidering her choice of living accommodations.

You sleep that night in a love pile with Whitney and several of your other girls.

You wake up late, sometime after 4 AM. Heading into the second floor bathroom, you pour yourself a glass from the tap, and quench your thirst.

Maybe it's serendipity, or maybe it's reverse serendipity: your phone buzzes. And when you pick it up, it's Darkbloom.

"Are you alone?" He asks.

You set your cup down on the counter. You stare into the mirror, back at your own reflection, as you speak to Darkbloom.

"Yes."

"Do you know the address of the Cantor residence?"

"Yes."

"Can you come, alone?"

"Is there someone there with you?" You ask him.

"There is. I can say nothing more."

[ ] Go there alone.
>[x] Bring backup.

You half expect to find Noelle with her head between Qiangxiang's legs when you enter their bedroom, but the trio are sleeping chastely. Kay and Noelle are cuddled up together, of course, but at least they're (mostly) clothed.

You nudge the cakes awake.

"Whuh?" Noelle says groggily, stirring. Then, seeing you, she startles, and bolts to an upright sitting position. "I wasn't sleeping with her! What! Kay, what are you doing in my bed! What the heck! I didn't give you permission! This is crazy! What!"

Kay, also rising to her butt, and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, sighs. "Shut up," she says.

Noelle shuts up.

Qiangxiang, lying on her back on the air mattress, peers up at you quizzically. "Prowling the house in search of women to ravish?" She asks.

"No."

She seems a bit disappointed at that.

You sit with the three girls around the dining table in the darkened house. You figured it was inevitable that Kay and Noelle would become involved if you stole Qiangxiang from the room in the dark of night, so at least this way, they won't drag any of the other girls into it.

"We have very little time," Qiangxiang says.

"Is it this Alyosha person, do you think -- or someone associated with him?" Noelle asks.

"It surely is," Qiangxiang says. "And given that David wants you to come there alone, I have to assume the worst." She thinks for a turn, then says: "You have men at your disposal, do you not?"

You do: the PMC that gave you some assistance in Vail.

"We go in guns a-blazing, there's going to be blowback," Kay says.

"I can assure you that Alyosha Kerimov does not travel alone, nor does anyone who answers to him," Qiangxiang says. "Alabaster will be walking into a trap -- without considerable force to extricate him from the mess, he may as well kill himself now."

"No," you say. All heads turn to you. "Those men are guarding the house right now. If I take them with me -- any of them I take -- are a few less people here keeping this place safe. Those Russians want Rose2, don't they? They could be diverting our manpower to get to her."

"They want any of the implants they can get their hands on, too," Qiangxiang says.

You think back to the night you lay in bed with Rose after you got back from China, and her desperate question to you: "do you think we're doomed, too?" At the time, you said no, and she said yes. Was she right?

You think also of the night you've had, just tonight -- having sex with her, and Whitney, and Vivian, and Cerise, and Dr. Carte, and Mom, and Amber, and collapsing together in a sweaty, exhausted pile. You think of all the similar nights you've had in the past. So many of them. If you died tonight, wouldn't it have been all perfect, for those moments? And wouldn't it have been worth it?

"I think I should go alone," you tell them.

"Yeah, right," Noelle says. "We're coming too."

She's already loading a pistol, and so is Kay.

"I might have a few men yet at my disposal also," Qiangxiang says.

"How's that?" You ask.

"I do not know if they would still answer to me if I called on them," she says. "It's quite possible that uncle -- erm -- my other uncle, who now heads Broad Dynamics -- has already told them I am persona non grata. But it is worth a try. Do you agree?"

"Sure," you say.

"Kay, Noelle, and myself, will follow behind," she says. "We will keep the perimeter of the Cantor residence surrounded. If things should turn violent, we will be ready to join the fray at a moment's notice."

She reaches up her dress -- and produces a dagger from a holster strapped around her calf. She examines the sharpness of its blade. "Let us commence."

---

Dalton Cantor lives, or lived, in an upscale suburban development that belies his wealth. It's a large home, with a huge backyard, but it isn't a mansion on a hill. Opulent but not decadent. In the predawn, there is no activity anywhere about -- not even the birds are stirring -- and you stroll across the lawn in deathly silence, to the porch, and up to the front door. Do you knock? That would be absurd. You're expected here, right now. You just try the knob, and sure enough, it's unlocked.

Darkbloom is tied to a chair in the foyer. He's placid. You lock eyes with him -- no anger on your end, either. You expected this, and he expected that you expected it.

"Where is--" you begin. Then, a white-hot rush of agony which actually precedes your brain's ability to process the gun's report. You wail, as the bullet shatters your kneecap in a mist of bone-flecked crimson. You fall to your back on the tile floor, still screaming. A man's form shadows you. It's him: Alyosha Kerimov.

"Hello, Alabaster," he says.

You pass out.

---

The back-and-forth of automatic gunfire lights up the night outside. It's a raging battle. Alyosha is displeased, to say the least, as he gazes out the Venetian blinds.

"He didn't come alone," Alyosha says, rather obviously.

He's not the man David Darkbloom knew a couple decades ago. For one, he didn't wear that visor around his head. He looks like Geordi LaForge in that thing -- ridiculous. For another, he has deteriorated physically to an almost decrepit state. In fact, he's a vision of death itself. Even his voice is just barely a dusty groan, no force behind the syllables he utters.

Alyosha turns as one of his men leads a struggling Karen Cantor down to the first floor.

"Is this your wife?" Alyosha asks.

"Yes," Darkbloom says. "Please let her go."

"Dalton! Oh my god, Dalton! What's going on?" She pleads.

"Don't you want to tell this woman the truth, David?"

Darkbloom stays quiet; Karen is still shrieking. "What's going on? Who is that? Who is that boy on the floor? Dalton! Dalton!"

Alyosha nods. "All right." He points his pistol now at Karen's head, and kills her. She slumps, limp, in the arms of Alyosha's man; and then the man lets her fall to the ground.

"Why?" Darkbloom demands, revulsed. "Did she deserve that? Bastard."

"She was annoying me," Alyosha says. "It makes no difference. Once you help me find the lighthouse, all of this will be as if it were nothing but a terrible nightmare."

"I don't know any more than you do, Alyosha," Darkbloom says.

"Oh, no -- you don't," Alyosha agrees. He leans in, face directly across from Darkbloom's. "But Penelope does. I thought this implant was lost a long time ago. Now fate has brought it back to me. With Alabaster's as a spare to experiment with, I should have all I need. Your daughters will be safe. I am a man of my word."

Darkbloom glances down at Alabaster's supine form. Alyosha's man is applying a tourniquet to stanch the bleeding -- seems they intend to keep both of them alive for the time being.

"AAAAAHHHH!"

There's a savage, high-pitched squeal from somewhere by the hallway. A blurred form zips past -- it's Hazel, charging at a full run towards Alyosha with a knife from the kitchen. She stabs him in the gut, and Alyosha trips backwards, croaking in pain. He falls to his butt against the wall, right beside Alabaster.

"Run!" Darkbloom screams. "Get out of here!"

But too late: Alyosha's man has her in hand, and he's subduing her and tying her down already. He rushes to his boss, then, and tests the knife in his belly. Alyosha groans something at him, through the pain, in Russian -- a command not to take the thing out of him, maybe, because the man doesn't touch the knife's handle after that.

Alyosha spits a bloody wad of phlegm. "You told me, when we took the boy -- that he and Dalton's wife were the only other people in the house tonight." (When Alyosha's man in the house hadn't been able to find Hazel, Darkbloom said she was sleeping over at a friend's house tonight; but she was hiding, and hiding well, smart enough to know that something was wrong the second these thugs stepped foot in the front door.)

The boy -- Finn Cantor -- from the living room, is screaming through the tape over his mouth.

"You lied," Alyosha says. The blood is seeping darkly through his shirt.

"Of course I lied. I don't want harm to come to the children."

Hazel looks Darkbloom in the eye. Though she's crying, her face is a mask of raw anger. "You're not my daddy, are you?"

"I'm not," Darkbloom admits. He's starting to cry too.

"I knew it. I knew something was different about you."

He looks to Alyosha. "Please spare them. They've done nothing."

"And the children you experimented on," Alyosha says, nodding at Alabaster who he sits slumped beside. "They did nothing also. Did they not? You are the ultimate hypocrite, as always, David."

His man brings Finn into the foyer with the rest of them, and cruelly, removes the tape from the boy's mouth.

"I'll kill you!" He screams. He struggles uselessly against the man's strength. "Leave my sister alone! Leave her alone!"

"Finn..." Hazel says. "Finn."

He stops raging, and looks at her where she's hogtied on the floor.

"I did steal Harper's joycons," she says softly.

"You did...?" Finn says.

"I'm sorry you got in trouble because you thought I didn't."

He shakes his head. "It's -- okay," he says. "I don't care."

Alyosha kills him.

Hazel trembles for a few seconds, distraught. But steeling herself, and maybe accepting that the same will happen to her in just a few moments, she tells Alyosha, voice as clear as crystal and vicious with hatred: "Fuck you" -- and then he kills her, too.

Darkbloom throws his head back and moans as if he himself had been shot, flexing his hands and fingers beneath the ties that bind him.

"This is because of your lies," Alyosha tells him. "Remember that." He starts coughing, spitting up blood -- he's very badly wounded.

---

You wake with a fuckass-awful kink in your neck, or maybe that's just the weight of your cow of a mother lying on top of you. You wrest yourself free of the "love pile" -- Whitney's term -- and make your way to the bathroom for a piss. As you pull your panties down and sit on the toilet, elbow on knee and chin on palm, something feels wrong. Daddy wasn't in bed, was he? Well, he's probably in another bedroom fucking some other broad -- or some other boy, maybe -- Alex was abusing Sammy in his bed tonight, wasn't he? Maybe Daddy was feeling a little cucked by that and decided to horn in on the action.

Something tells you that isn't the case. You feel ill. Or maybe that's just morning sickness.

No... no, there's definitely a disturbance in the Force tonight.

"OW! Fuck!" You hiss, jerking your arm away from your knee. All of a sudden you've got a shooting pain in it. "Jesus," you mutter. You rub it to soothe the pain. All this time spent getting laid by MILFs and Christmas Cakes lately, has a side effect: their old ladiness is rubbing off on you.

No... that's not it.

You feel like you're ignoring the truth you don't want to face.

You peel back your eyepatch and take a look-see.

---

This happens in the span of about 20 seconds:

Some of Alyosha's jackbooted men, unable to hold back Chloe's little squadron of goons, storm into the Cantor residence, ready to take up siege tactics.

Kay shoots through one of the kitchen windows, and leaps into the house. Noelle is already providing her cover fire as she follows her in. The double-fronted assault, Kay and Noelle from the rear, Chloe's men from the front, forces Alyosha's men to grab him, and Daddy, and Darkbloom, and haul them upstairs towards the second floor.

But you and Chloe are lying in wait on the staircase. You fire and she stabs, remorselessly, together. You kill a few men, and she a few more. With nothing left but to drop their hostages and flee, they do. Alyosha, encircled by a half dozen of his remaining people, make it out, but on their own -- Daddy and Darkbloom are still with you.

Alyosha was already bleeding like a stuck pig, and despite your lack of depth perception, you manage to nail him in the groin, and again in the chest. It'll be a miracle if he lives through the night, but somehow you figure he will.

"Oh my god..." Noelle breathes as she steps into the foyer and sees the hideous things there.

You kneel over Daddy and try to wake him. But he's out cold. Still has a pulse, thank gosh. He's gonna have a bum knee for the rest of his life.

Darkbloom lies on his side, still tied to the chair, at the bottom of the stairs. Kay cuts him free from his binding, and he thanks her weakly.

Chloe enters the foyer now too. It's hard to tell what she's thinking as she looks from corpse to corpse -- she stares for a very long time at the children. But then, nice girl she is, she says exactly what's on her mind:

"The people responsible for this must die. Slowly."

You stand up, as Darkbloom does too.

"This is because of you," you tell him. "I should have killed you in Vail, too. These kids died because of you."

"Because of me," Darkbloom repeats with no affect to his voice. Then, roaring: "Because of me! Because of me?!" He charges you, and pins you against the wall, lips flecked with spittle, neck straining. Kay and Noelle both draw their guns on him. "Let her go!" They're both shouting over and over. But he doesn't.

"Because of me?!" He screams. "No! Because of you! This is all because of choices you made! A sequence of events you created! You did this! I tried to give you everything! I tried to give you the entire world, Amber! But no. You couldn't be happy with that. You spat on it. You rejected it. Because of your pride, and your stubbornness, and your ridiculous ideas! You ignorant child! We live in a ruined reality because of you. You should have killed me? I had every opportunity, for as long as you were alive, plotting against my life, to end you. And I didn't. I let you live. Foolishly I let you live, and this, now, is the price I pay for it!"

"What price did you pay?" You ask him. "It was us who paid. And now them -- Finn and Hazel Cantor. You didn't pay anything. The children did."

He stumbles back, off of you, and falls to his knees, weeping.

"There is no way, after all this violence, that Dalton Cantor can be seen again," Chloe says. "He would be taken into custody the second he showed his face, wanted for questioning in the awful things that happened here."

"I know," Darkbloom says. He stands tall and dries his tears.

Daddy is coming to. His voice is weak and pained: "We have to get you guys out of here... Palau... Rose is right..."

"There is nowhere," Darkbloom says, "on the face of the Earth, where you will be safe. Until Alyosha Kerimov and any of his acolytes are dead, we will be hunted... more than that... until we destroy any trace of Sand Reckoner, we won't be safe."

"Oh, now you want to destroy it," you say.

"Yes."

"Cat's out of the bag, Dave," you say. "Even if we destroy it, someone else will just make it again."

He rubs the bridge of his nose. "Alyosha mentioned taking us -- Alabaster and I -- to Kamchatka."

"Don't talk to me about Kamchatka," Kay says. "I'm still upset over Renee invading me there."

"...What?"

"Levity. Never mind. I'm not in the mood either."

Chloe is talking to one of her men in Chinese. Only a few of them survived the gunfight, and now they're dousing the foyer with gasoline.

"Do you know anything else?" Noelle asks.

"I can help Anna stay inside Darkbloom Analytics systems. There are some backdoors that they won't ever find. At least that way, we can keep tabs on them. I'll help you find Alyosha, too."

"You're bargaining for your life right now," you say.

"No. Just putting it on the table."

"Let him live," Daddy groans. "We need him."

"We don't need the body, though," you say.

"You're right," Darkbloom says. "I suppose Dalton Cantor ought to burn here too. Should we let him say goodbye to his loved ones?"

"Too painful," you say. "Ignorance is bliss."

"You're right. Amber, would you like to do the honors?"

"Don't make a little girl kill you," Noelle says, lips curling in disgust. She hands him her gun. "Do it your fucking self."

He takes the gun and shoots himself in the head.

Or more accurately, you guess, shoots Dalton in the head. Kay digs the implant out and takes it along with you, back home. Black smoke from the burning Cantor residence is visible in the lightening sky for hours after.

END OF EPISODE 10.

One particular evening, Kay calls it an early night. Lying out on the Nail House's living room couch with Noelle in her arms, she just can't wrap her head around Noelle's taste in media:

"Is this seriously all you watch? Animes about rampant lesbian high schoolers?"

"No," Noelle counters. "Sometimes they're rampant lesbian middle schoolers, or rampant lesbian office ladies..."

"Gross," Kay says. "No wonder you're such a queer in real life." She kisses Noelle on the cheek, lets go of Noelle's midsection, swings her legs over the side of the couch, and stands. "I should walk the dog. Wanna come?"

"No thanks," Noelle says, smiling up at her. "I'd rather watch the next episode than go play pooper-scooper for your yippy little mutt."

"Guy isn't yippy."

"Guy is so fucking yippy. She woke me up yesterday at 4 in the morning."

"Yeah, because your piece of shit cat was getting on her nerves."

"Don't bully my cat."

"He's literally named 'piece of shit'! What do you want me to call him, huh?"

Noelle sticks her tongue out. Kay, exhaling hard and rolling her eyes, tromps off.

Alone again in the living room, Noelle gets to enjoy her degenerate anime in peace for a little while. But only a little while. Because soon Alabaster is coming downstairs, and he's dressed to go out. As he slips his shoes on in the entryway, he glances back towards the living room and raises an appreciative eyebrow. "Magical Witchy?"

"Uh huh," Noelle says, stretching long and luxurious. Her back arches and her legs shake. She yawns. "I was showing Kay what a good series it is."

Alabaster makes a show of glancing all around, as if searching for the missing reporter.

"She didn't like it," Noelle avers.

"Of course she didn't like it," Alabaster says. "She's way too normie to get it."

Noelle sits up. "Where are you going?"

"Taking the dogs out for a walk."

Noelle frowns. "There's only one dog in this house. Kay already took her."

"No. Right now there's two others," Alabaster says. 

Noelle's frown only deepens. "What does that mean?"

Alabaster is about to reply, something smarmy no doubt, but down the stairs comes all the answer Noelle needs.

"Cerise -- please -- this is way too embarrassing! Please can't we just play inside?"

"No. Shut up. Let's go."

Noelle's eyes are dinner plates as the two come into view. Cerise is dressed in her typical business casual, a skirt and blouse with coat. But Alex is dressed like a cheap whore. He has on a skimpy camisole that doesn't even cover the lower half of his torso, and leaves his smooth arms bare, plus a micro-mini skirt that's hardly low enough to cover his ass. The top is baby blue and the skirt is candy pink. On his feet he wears fuck-me pumps that make it difficult for him to walk, and thigh-high leggings that pinch his flesh deliciously. His face is smeared with a thick application of makeup: mascara, eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. But maybe most shocking of all is that his wrists are tied behind his back -- and around his neck, he wears a choker much like Cerise's. Except that his has a lede attached to it, dangling down over his chest and ending at the crotch of his skirt, waiting for someone to take it.

"Magical Witchy?" Cerise asks, nonchalant, as she puts her flats on in the foyer.

"I..." Noelle stammers. "Yes."

"Shit taste. Bunch of moeshit garbage. No wonder Alabaster thinks you're some sort of cultured expert."

Despite the surprise of seeing Alex in such a sorry state, Noelle cannot let insults like that stand unchallenged. "Oh, fuck you," she says. "I'm not going to be lectured by the woman who unironically likes Boku no Pico. You're just a fujo who can't admit it to herself."

"Throwing stones in glass houses, don't you think?" Cerise says. With her shoes both on, she stands upright again, and puts a hand on her hip. "At least I'm into boys. You're out here throwing a Japanese clam bake every night and claiming to be straight."

"2D is different from 3D!" Noelle insists. "It's not the same!"

Cerise flaps her hand as if to say, "blah blah blah."

"Don't you give me that shit!" Noelle hollers. "You fucking dy--"

"can we go now please. im dying of embarrassment..."

Noelle does a literal double take. Joining the madly blushing Alex at the base of the stairs comes Gal. She's dressed the same way Alex is: barely-there top, micro skirt, thick makeup. Her hands are also tied up behind her, and she has a leash to take hold of, too. Noelle tries to say something, anything, but all she succeeds at is wordlessly flapping her jaw a few times.

"Which one do you want to walk?" Alabaster asks his older sister. 

"Slutboy for sure," Cerise says. She grabs Alex's leash. "Come on, whore."

She yanks, forcing Alex to stumble forward a couple steps with a light "oof" sound.

"Then I guess this useless cunt is my responsibility," Alabaster replies. He takes Gal's leash with equal viciousness. She also stumbles, and in her case, she nearly falls over as she rolls one of her ankles.

"th-thank you Sir"

"Shut the fuck up," Alabaster tells her. She shuts up. 

These two horny siblings are not playing around right now. They're really intending to abuse these poor victims of theirs in public...

Cerise tilts her chin Noelle's direction. "Hey, Alabaster. I think your guard-dyke is interested."

"She would be," Alabaster laughs. "We've got two slutty girls on parade."

"One," Noelle says. "You've got *one* slutty girl on parade."

Cerise, giggling, agrees. "Finally you're right about something. Alabaster hates pointing it out, but yes. We've got one slutty girl -- and one slutty boy..." She reaches down, takes the ruffled hem of Alex's skirt, and lifts it. Noelle gets an eyeful of Alex's thick cock dangling, half-hard, between his slender legs; he doesn't have underwear on.

"D-don't look..." Alex pleads with her. Noelle looks.

Cerise wraps her hand around Alex's dick and slowly starts to stroke him, smiling cruelly at Noelle. "See? It's cute, right?" Alex's cock is quickly waking up and hardening in her grip.

"It's disgusting, is what it is," Noelle says, gulping.

"Right," Cerise says. "How disgusting it is, is what makes it cute..."

She lets go of Alex's now mostly-erect penis, to reach around behind him. She slips a couple fingers into his asshole and starts to fuck him. Alex, with his cock poking up from under the hem of the skirt, writhes and moans in his girlish voice. He surrenders to the sensations coming from his asspussy, and starts to shamelessly hump back against Cerise's skilled fingers, mouth hanging open and eyes going vacant. Like the "dog" they're treating him as tonight, all he cares about is getting off. His ass slaps meatily against Cerise's palm.

"We trained him to cum from just his asshole," Alabaster says. "So even if he's technically a boy, it's really like he's just another girl. Because he cums hardest from getting fucked like one."

Alabaster is getting handsy with Gal, too, feeling her cunt up underneath her skirt.

"Yesh..." Alex says. "I'm a bitch... I'm a dirty fuckbitch..."

Noelle isn't sure what to focus on. Her mind is being overwhelmed.

"That's what makes traps so much more fun than normal girls," Cerise says. "Girls already have pussies. Traps have a cute little hole that you have to turn into a pussy yourself, over time..."

"Is your pussy wet?" Alabaster asks Noelle.

"Oh, it's wet," Cerise answers for her. "I can smell it from over here."

"just like that, Sir... im gonna cum..." Gal whines under Alabaster's continued molestation. Her eyes are tightly shut and she bites her lower lip. Alabaster takes his fingers out of her pussy, then slaps her hard across the face. She gasps in pain and shock. The look of sudden betrayal on her face is so hot...

"You cum when I say you do," he tells her.

"y-yes Sir"

Noelle exhales like she's been punched.

"Where... where are you guys all going like that?" She asks.

"Out," Cerise says.

Noelle shakes her head. 

Cerise tugs on Alex's leash. She's still ruthlessly fingering his asshole as she commands: "Tell her where we're going."

"They're... taking us out for a walk... downtown."

As she fingers him, Cerise tickles his balls. He shivers, cries out, and blows a thin wad of cum all over the tile floor. Cerise giggles. 

"Clean that up," Alabaster tells him.

"Yesh..."

Cerise forces him down, on his knees with his butt high in the air. She uses her foot to mash his face into the runny white mess. He licks it all up, an expression of pure bliss on his face. 

"You'll... you'll be recognized," Noelle warns them.

"That's no problem," Cerise says, never looking up from the lewd sight of Alex slurping his own jizz off the ground. From her breast pocket, she produces a pair of huge sunglasses and a surgical mask: the Sakura Dokuhaku special. A sorry disguise, but good enough to provide plausible deniability. Alabaster and their two slaves also don the getup -- the slaves with the assistance of the sadistic brother-sister duo leading them.

"You can come, if you want," Alabaster tells Noelle.

"No -- nooo," Noelle drawls. But her eyes are glassy and she can't stop watching the lewdness on display.

"I'll let you fuck my wife," Cerise offers.

"nnn-- cerise..." Gal whispers.

"She licks pussy like no one's business," Cerise says. "She'll have you cumming on her face in no time."

Gal would say something in protest, maybe, but Alabaster is occupying himself by choking her. She wheezes, and her face turns crimson from lack of air.

"I'll get dressed," Noelle says.

---

Palo might be a pretty liberal city, but this sadomasochistic sexual display still turns heads. As Alabaster leads Gal, and Cerise leads Alex down the busy thoroughfare, passersby turn and gawk. Some whistle and cat-call -- turned on by the obscenity. Others shake their heads, gasp and tut, casting shame on the perverts. At one point, one scandalized woman actually, no-shit says: "I never!" At another point, an older man stops to spit on Alex's feet as he passes, yelling: "whore!" This, of course, only makes Alex moan pitifully.

Gal and Alex have similar, but slightly different problems to contend with. Gal's slut pussy is getting all overheated and drippy from being on display, and soon the evidence of her arousal is plain for anyone to see. Her inner thighs are shiny with her lust in the late afternoon sun. Alex is also getting hot, and without the use of his hands, there's no way for him to conceal the tent developing in his skirt. His pink nipples are also hardening, and poking through the flimsy material of his top, completing his whorish look. As girly as he looks, there can be no mistaking that he's anything other than the slutboy Cerise so meanly calls him, being led around with a hard cock in public.

Noelle follows along too, and despite her earlier reservations, she's fully on board now. Whenever the coast is even remotely clear, her curious hands drift underneath Gal's sheer skirt and start to toy with her genitals. Gal, like Alex, is going nopan.

"n-noelle..." Gal breathes. "you're gonna... you're gonna..."

Alabaster tightens his grip on Gal's leash to choke her and cut her off. Leering in delight, Noelle violates her, unfettered by resistance. She fingers both of Gal's holes indiscriminately. 

"You really are a lesbian," Cerise marvels. "You've got a cute boy to abuse over here and you can't quit playing with pussy..."

Noelle stops, turns, and faces Gal head-on. She strokes the frightened girl's reddening face. "The delicate beauty of girl surrendering to pleasure is impossible to surpass," Noelle says sagely. "Besides... I owe this bitch a little payback for all the trouble she caused the FBI as Galatea -- don't I?"

"i-- i'm sorry," Gal says.

"You will be," Noelle says, smiling. In such little time, she's come to relish flaunting her sadistic side.

Even as they trade these dirty remarks and gestures, pedestrians mill around them -- whispering, murmuring, and pointing. Alabaster doesn't care, nor Cerise, nor Noelle. But Gal and Alex, subjects of this extremely public humiliation-play, are feeling precisely that -- humiliated. They stare at the sidewalk and blush. Gal's pervy pussy drips and Alex's pervy cock throbs. 

"I need my cock sucked," Alabaster grunts. "Let's find somewhere to get one of these cunts on their knees."

"I like the way you think," Cerise tells him. Together, they lead their toys into a public park -- how's that for walking the dog? They find a spot with a bench that doesn't get a lot of foot traffic. Alabaster, sighing, sits. He unbuckles his pants and gets out his straining cock. Right out in the open. 

"Which one of you two wants it?" He asks, wagging it back and forth.

It's Cerise, though, who answers. "Why waste it on the dogs? I wanna suck it."

Alabaster lets go of his cock and loops his arms over the back of the bench, as his way of telling Cerise to go ahead.

Cerise squats down in front of the bench. She traps her brother's cock in between the mask she wears and her lips. She loves the scent of her little brother's sweaty fuckpole, and takes several long moments just to enjoy it, kissing and suckling and smelling his cock perversely. Alabaster pets her in appreciation. There's nothing better, in their opinion, than brother-sister fellatio.

"What... what about me?" Noelle wants to know.

"Sit down," Alabaster says, patting the benchtop beside him.

"Get off with us," Cerise says. Her voice is muffled by dick.

Noelle does as suggested. She sits on the bench. Standing before her, are her two options: the shy and submissive girl, or the shy and submissive boy. Both a couple of fucksluts ready to help her get off however she chooses to. Normally it would be no contest, she would pick the slutty girl 10 times out of 10. But Alex looks so like a girl himself right now, and his cock poking up is so adorable, that Noelle has second thoughts.

"Use them both," Alabaster says, sensing her indecision.

Noelle grins.

Cerise begins to gag herself on her brother's hard cock as Noelle lifts her butt from the bench and strips her trousers off. It's much further than Alabaster went, who only took his dick out of his fly. She gets completely naked from the waist down, tossing aside her pants, and then her sodden panties too. The cool air of the outside wafting over her hot cunt sends shivers down her spine. Glancing from blushing face to blushing face, she lazily tickles her hard clit and the meaty lips of her pussy. Then, she points at it -- a silent command for them both to service her.

The two whores get down in front of her, cheek-to-cheek. She hugs their ears with her legs, smiling at them. Wordlessly, Alex kisses one of her thighs. Gal kisses the other. They trail their wet kisses up and up, sucking up her sweat and cream, until finally they're at her cunt. Noelle frigs herself while the two begin in earnest to lick her. It's kind of loving, in its own obscene way, and it feels so, so fucking good. But she needs more... more attention, on both her hungry lower holes. So she slinks forward a little ways, and raps her knuckles on the back of Alex's skull. 

"Lick my ass," she tells him. 

Alex moans like a bitch against Noelle's quivering twat. He droops a little lower and gets to work rimming Noelle out. Gal, with full access to Noelle's cunt-hole, goes to town. Latching her mouth onto Noelle's pussy, her nose against Noelle's clit, Gal demonstrates that her pussy-licking skills truly are second to none. Noelle can't suppress her whinny of delight, nor can she hold back the messy squirt she deposits straight in the back of Gal's sucking throat. Meanwhile, Alex's pink tongue is lapping at her anus from the inside, demonstrating that as good as Gal is at munching carpet, no one on the planet eats ass like Alex Best. Noelle chose well. Her detective's intuition has paid great dividends, and she's getting the absolute most divine oral service imaginable right now. Backed by the steady glug-glug of Cerise choking herself almost to the point of unconsciousness on Alabaster's monster cock, it's almost good enough to make her woozy. 

Just the sight of these two sluts on their knees in front of her, hands tied securely behind their backs and skirts riding up over their plump, pale butts, is unbelievably sexy. That anyone at all could walk by and see it, is only an added thrill. Alex's twitchy cock is jutting out at a 45 degree angle, plainly visible, the head oozing precum from the piss slit, all over the footpath below. Gal is also leaking -- all over herself and the dirty ground. They're getting horny just from having their mouths used -- true sluts.

"So -- what do you think?" Alabaster asks. Noelle glances his way. His arms still hanging over the back of the bench, he humps his sister's face hands-free. His cockshaft is shiny with her saliva. "Traps or yuribait?"

"Both," Noelle gulps. "Definitely... definitely both."

"Good choice," Alabaster says. Then, grunting, he starts to fuck Cerise's throat even harder. He fucks his sister's face like it's a cunt. "Oh, fuck... I'm about to cum..."

"Me -- me too," Noelle says, grimacing.

"Come here," Alabaster says. He clasps Noelle's chin and draws her face towards his. Together, as they cum their brains out, they kiss. Alabaster lets his cock fire off in his older sister's gullet and Noelle squirts the horny cunts below her with her girlcum. No one slows down: Cerise bobs up and down on Alabaster's shaft undaunted, diligently milking out every last drop of his sperm with her skilled throat muscles. Gal shakes her face back and forth and runs her tongue in circles around Noelle's burning-hot snatch. Alex sucks her asshole like a lollipop. It's a glorious, wet, messy orgasm for Alabaster and Noelle alike. A few people are walking by on the distance now, and they see it all. But neither Alabaster nor Noelle realize they've got an audience, because they're too busy rooting their own tongues around in each other's mouths as they drop their loads. 

Cerise pulls off Alabaster's cock and looks up at Noelle. A little cum-bubble pops on the edge of her surgical mask, and a couple nasty strings her brother's jism hang down off her chin. "So you decided you like traps?"

"Not over girls..." Noelle pants, still enjoying the dual oral.

"Just wait until you see one getting raped though," Cerise says. 

Noelle pulls Alex's face off her ass. "Did you hear that?" She asks. "These sadists intend to rape you."

"Uh... uh-huh..." Alex pants.

"Do you want me to save you?" Noelle asks. "I could arrest them."

"N-no..." Alex says softly. 

Noelle smiles. "How come?"

"I... want to be raped..."

Noelle presses his face back into her butt. Alabaster is already circling around to do the deed.

---

You rail your mother over the kitchen counter. There was something electric in the air tonight, or maybe it was just the aphrodisiac effect of her baking. But as you cooked dessert with her, you couldn't hold yourself back, and neither could she. Things went from wholesome to primal all at once. You tugged her pants down to her ankles and flipped her apron back and started invading her pussy. She didn't try to stop you at all -- and anyway, knew that she couldn't, even if she wanted to. 

Now you've got her bent over, and your cock is thrusting between her legs, embedding itself in that luxuriously hot, squishy hole that birthed you.

"That's it, honey," Mom says as you fuck her in and out. "Cum inside me..."

Just a normal night, right? Except right now Mom seems especially fixated on this: the idea not just of fucking you, not just of letting you creampie her, but of gleefully letting your horny cock fuck her pregnant. This isn't just incest, this is deliberately procreative, cum-inside-on-a-dangerous-day incest. Somehow, being around all of this fucking, and knowing how virile you are, has flipped her switch. She wants you to make a baby in her. Or maybe more accurately, you suspect, she's priming you to want to make a baby inside someone else -- Rose2, or Amber, or Cerise. Or all three. She wants you to knock your sisters up.

It makes no difference to you. As long as you get to have raw creampie sex, damn the consequences. Mom's tits sway pendulously, and you grope them as you hump her. She's a soft woman, and that's her softest part, her udders that give like playdoh under your relentless squeezing. Your crotch slapping against her butt is a wonderful, fleshy noise to fill the kitchen with. The way her cunt cream sluices down your dick and runs across your heavy balls is such a nice relief, and soothes the ache inside your rock-hard shaft, that ache that commands you to rape a tender hole. The silky texture of her fuckhole is just perfect, too -- and she knows just how to tense her insides to coax out your incestuous seed in no time. It won't be long before your cock is spitting a wad of sperm directly into her motherly womb. Could life be better?

Lovingly, you hug her around her back and nuzzle her neck. You trail kisses up and down her. With a free hand, you find the downy tuft of her bush, and toy with with her clitoris, too. 

Gripping the counter hard, fingernails clacking against the marble, her eyes roll to the back of her skull and her jaw hangs slack. "Fuck me baby, fuck me baby, fuck me..." she breathes. She sounds like she's turned into an idiot already just from the force of your thrusting dick. "Fuck your mommy, fuck me..."

"Hey -- Whitney wants to know when the cake's gonna be..."

Dr. Carte's voice from the doorway catches, and then trails off, as she realizes what it is she's walked in on. This obscene mother-son fuck session is already approaching its climax, and neither of you care that you've got someone watching you right now. Besides, Dr. Carte can hardly complain, since she herself has been fucking her own daughter without compunction for some time now... it would be hypocritical of her in the extreme to say that you can't do this, right?

"You can't do this!" She says.

Mom turns her head and smiles. "We're already doing it," she says simply. She wags her hips for effect. 

Dr. Carte, uninvited, steps deeper into the kitchen, and observes. "This is nuts! Alabaster is your son, isn't he?"

"Yes," Mom replies, "he is." Her pussy twinges around your cock as she says this. The only thing she likes more than pointing out the incest angle herself, is having it pointed out for her.

"And you're not--" Dr. Carte begins, gulping. She leans way forward, hands on knees, to get close to eye level at the union of your cock to Mom's squelching pussy. "You're not!" Still leaning forward, she peers up at you. "You're not even using a condom!"

"What's a condom?" you ask wryly, never breaking pace. Your cock swells and you can feel a trickle of prefuck leaking from the tip. Mom's hungry pussy swallows it all up.

Dr. Carte sighs. "You're so stupid, Alabaster... you too, Scarlett... talking about it is one thing, but actually having risky sex like this is -- well -- it's risky!"

"That's the fun of it," you say.

"But--"

"Butt out!" Mom barks. "Can't you let a boy cum inside his mother in peace?"

Dr. Carte huffs. As much as she purports to be anti-incest, you suspect what her real motive is: jealousy. She's jealous of your mother, and wants you to use her own pussy instead. Dr. Carte would rather have you using one of her holes as a cumdump than inseminate your mother.

"You... know how dangerous this is... don't you?" She asks. She takes a chair from over by the kitchen's center island, and brings it to where you and Mom are fucking. She sits, hands in her lap. "If you... cum inside without protection... she could... she could actually--"

"Get pregnant?" Mom asks slyly.

"Yes!"

"I want to," she says. 

Dr. Carte shakes her head. "You've gone crazy. You're letting your vagina think for you -- you don't know what it is you're really asking for!"

"Oh yes I do!" Mom cries. "I want my own biological son to deposit his semen inside my pussy so that it fertilizes me and makes me pregnant! Get the picture?"

Dr. Carte's face is trembling. 

"Don't act like you don't want the same thing," Mom says. "How could anyone not want to get pregnant on this wonderful cock? It's only natural! I don't care if it belongs to my son! I want it to make me pregnant!"

Despite herself, Dr. Carte is unbuttoning her trousers and reaching down past the waistband. Gulping for air, she starts to masturbate as she recites all the risks: "There could be... genetic defects... and... how would you explain it to the world? Not to mention the child itself -- and..."

"Don't care," you grunt, crotch thwapping against Mom's fat ass, cock sawing in and out. She's got such a nice, soft cunt to fuck. So you really don't care -- you just want to feel the awesome release that goes along with spurting your cum inside her.

"We've got the best genes," Mom says. "It's fine. Our baby will be so wonderful..." She turns, and pulls your face towards hers, and kisses you deeply. You run your tongue through Mom's mouth as your cock throbs and twitches inside her and violates her most intimate spots. 

"You would really let your own son..." Dr. Carte breathes. Her knuckles, bulging out the fabric of her pants, quicken. The slick noise of her schlicking joins the sounds of your incestuous breeding.

"Yes!" Mom screams. "And not just me! All my girls!" She locks eyes with you. Her voice is smoky and thick with lust. She's close to cumming, too. "I'll show them all how to make sure it takes. We'll keep them on their backs, with their butts on a pillow, after you cum in them... so that it all oozes down, right into their ovaries... yeah? We'll have their bellies swelling out to here in no time..."

What a nasty, perverted woman. You love her.

"Alabaster..." Dr. Carte says. "Please be careful--"

"I told you I don't care," you moan. Your nuts are tightening and you're about to spew.

Dr. Carte creams herself. Squeezing her hand between her own thick thighs, she appends: "No -- I mean -- be careful that you save some -- you need to get Whitney pregnant too, don't you?"

"Oh fuck," you heave. 

Dr. Carte slides off the chair, to her knees, directly under you. Still holding the counter, Mom peers down at her. With Dr. Carte's face just inches away from the lewd sight of your fuck-show, you blast a gooey load of spunk. The tip of Dr. Carte's nose is practically touching Mom's clit as she drinks the sight of it in. Mom grins at her, and cums against your pulsing dick. 

"Amazing, amazing..." Dr. Carte repeats. "You really don't care at all, either of you... you're like animals..."

Your strokes inside your mother's body become slow and lazy as your cum stops squirting out. You just enjoy the sensation of stirring up the spunky mess inside her. It starts to leak out from the seal of your cock in her vagina, and drip across her meaty labia, and down onto Dr. Carte. 

"Skank," Mom says reproachfully as she watches your pearly semen dripping on her skin. "You would criticize us for having sex, and yet here you are underneath us, letting us cum on your face."

Dr. Carte just masturbates and watches you stirring up your mommy's pussy. She opens her mouth and lets the creamy slop drizzle onto her tongue. You have a feeling that she won't be satisfied just drinking your leftover jizz with her upper mouth, though.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, NEET and cripple. 

July 21, 1969

Dave and his friend Billy are out exploring the woods. They're playing moonman: Dave is the brave astronaut sent to explore the ruins of a lost city on the dark side of the moon, and Billy is the alien king who wants to kill him. Even out here in Middle of Nowhere, Tennessee, the first lunar landing has electrified everyone, old and young. It's all anyone's talking about.

But the game is winding down now as the sun dips lower in the sky. Both are due back for supper, and neither wants to get their hide tanned. They trudge back through the bramble together, tromping over stumps and stumping over roots. Through the branches overhead, the moon is already visible in the bright sky. Dave pauses to gaze up at it, and Billy stops a few paces on.

"I wanna go there too," Dave says. "For real."

Billy laughs. "Quit playin. We ain't gonna get there for real."

"Why?"

"'Cause it ain't for us, that's why," is Billy's answer: resigned already at the age of seven to a life as his father and his father's father and his father's father's father lived.

"Ya ever hear the word podunk?" Dave asks, when finally he tears his eyes off the moon.

"Yeah. How come?"

"Apparently we're podunk. But that don't mean we gotta be podunk forever, right?"

Billy giggles. "Apparently. Hahaha." He pantomimes holding a teacup, pinky out. "Apparently we're podunk. Apparently. Apparently."

Dave blushes hard.

"Get over yerself, Davey. We gotta be home soon."

"I'll be catchin up," Dave says. He sits at the base of a nearby tree, sullen, and embarrassed. Idly his hands fiddle with a flower in the soil between his legs.

But Billy is like a shark smelling chummed waters, and approaches. "Hey, Mr. Flowerboy. Whatcha got there?" He knows that Dave likes to collect bugs and flowers, and identify them -- one of many brainy activities that make him stick out like a sore thumb.

Dave shrugs.

"Hahaha," Billy laughs. "Gonna put that one in yer diary too?"

"It's not a diary," Dave snaps. "It's a journal -- for specimens."

"Specimens," Billy snorts. "Apparently you got yerself a new specimen."

Dave plucks the flower. Then he's on his feet. "I do! And it's a rare one, too. I got smarts, Billy. I ain't ashamed of it. That's how I'm gonna get outta bein podunk. 10 or 20 years from now I'll be on the moon while you're down in a mine, and we'll see who laughs then!"

Billy grimaces. "You a little fancy boy, Davey? Everyone says yer a pissant. This is why. You think you're better'n us? You ain't! Just 'cause you can read a dicti'nary! Well so what!"

Dave shoves him in anger. Billy raises a hand to punch back. Dave intercepts the fist, but Billy kicks him in the shin instead. They get into a tussle, a real tussle, not the play tussling of the moonman game. And as they roll around on the ground, Dave passes through a wildberry bush, scratching his skin all over on the thorns and bristles. Then directly on the other side, he goes tumbling over a sheer drop, some 6 or 7 feet. He hits the earth again at a galloping roll, and careens head over ankle down a steep slope, into a little vale.

"Davey!" Billy hollers from the rim of the vale. "You okay?"

"I'm okay," Dave calls back, trying to fight his way standing again. He's bruised all over, dirty and concussed. His hide's getting tanned for sure tonight.

A terrible stench fills his nostrils. As he stands, he surveys where he's found himself.

Last winter was unusually long and frigid. Early in May, despite the spring finally having bloomed, there was cold snap that iced things over for a few days. A whole herd of does and fawns hunkered in this vale to huddle and preserve warmth -- but the steep slopes covered with hoarfrost, and insulated from thawing by natural shading, prevented the deer from being able to get back out again, and they died. So what Dave finds in the bowl of the vale is the grisly sight of hundreds of half-putrified, flyblown deer carcasses lying in the tall grass. It's a hideous mass grave. The air is thick with buzzing insects and the whole ground undulates with their young. Millions upon billions of maggots, as far as the eye can see, feasting on rotted deer viscera, and Dave is ankle deep in them. Having fallen among them, he glances down at himself in horror to find that they're writhing around on him, too. He swipes at his shirt and pants, to fling them off, doing a panicked little dance. He feels, with growing nausea, the sensation of the larvae getting lodged inside his shoes and smashed by his feet and toes. He screams, high and shrill, scrambles to climb back out of the vale. Billy, laughing at his friend's predicament, helps him up and out. Calls him a girl for being grossed out by a couple of the bugs he so loves to collect. Helps him swipe the things off his body and shake them loose from his boots.

Dave realizes then that only he can get himself to where he wants to go -- which is far, far away from here. And far from the specter of death, too, like the death which befell those countless innocent does and their issue.

In all the tumult and panic of the moment, Dave dropped the flower specimen he had collected, among the dead deer. It was a Camellia, a brilliant amber-colored one. A cultivar found, in the wild, only in southeast Asia. How it ended up in Appalachia is anyone's guess, and Dave never finds another like it in the woods ever again.

---

"3, 2 -- okay we're rolling. Thanks for being here."

Cerise sits across from a certain notable podcast host in his cozy little recording studio. She leans into the felt-covered mic.

"Thanks. I'm glad to be here."

"I guess I can't call you congresswoman yet. What's the right word? Congresswoman-elect?"

"That's fine. I think that's fine."

"Congresswoman-elect Cerise Soliloquy."

"Sure."

"Do you find that things have changed now that you're in politics? Like do you get people stopping you on the street, 'why haven't you fixed things yet!' -- like that?"

"No--" Cerise says. "Not really, no. Not yet, anyway. When they swear me in next week I guess that might be different."

"Right. Voters are really demanding. You have to watch out." He grins in his open-mouthed way. "I wanna switch this up for a second. We can come back to the issues. I'm sure you want to talk about the issues too."

"Not really."

"Well I just want to ask a few things I never see you get asked by mainstream outlets. Okay, this stuff is super interesting."

"Oh, sure."

"Traps."

"Love 'em."

The host laughs. "Next question!"

Cerise is laughing, too. "But really."

"Yeah, really, though. You have to, like, enlighten me here. This is a debate that's been raging on the internet since... about as long as I've been aware of it." He turns in his seat. "Do you know what we're talking about, Jamie? ... He won't say. He doesn't want to admit he knows." He glances back to Cerise. "I'm gonna get, like, hate mail for this because it's a slur now. Even though -- even though I see people who self-ID that way."

"Oh, yeah. Some people hate it. I've gotten a lot of people responding to me the same way."

"Not woke enough."

"Not nearly."

The host scratches his nose. "But we're not talking about the real life equivalent. These are fictional people here. Japanese animes of boys who dress like girls. Traps. You know, like, cartoon crossdressing."

"Yeah, basically," Cerise agrees. "You've got the idea. Been doing a lot of research?"

"Only, and here's the part that's so unfair. It's so unfair. It's not like crossdressing in real life. In real life, nine times out of ten, you can tell. You can be like -- okay, yeah, that's a dude. In an anime though, that's impossible to see. Okay? What these anime artists do is they're just drawing a woman and then putting a weenie on at the end --" Cerise snorts at that. "I don't mean to be so direct. But that's what it is, right?"

"A lot of the time," Cerise says. "But there's a whole gradient -- you know, of how feminine they are --"

"Sure, sure." He bobs his head up and down. "Oh man. I'm gonna get so much hate mail."

"Your Twitter's blowing up already, I'm sure."

"But now the debate is -- is it gay? To be into a drawing of a girl that happens to have a weenie. That's the question on everyone's mind. This is true. This is older than anything else on the internet. Are traps gay?"

"100% gay," Cerise says. Then diplomatically adds: "In my opinion."

"I agree," the host says. "This isn't even a transsexual thing, right."

"Right."

"This isn't even a person born biologically as a man who wants to identify as a chick or anything like that. This is just a guy who gets sexual kicks from dressing like one. So if you're into that, if you're like, sexually attracted to that, that makes you gay. Has to. It has to."

"But that depends, doesn't it?" Cerise says.

The host points at her, becoming animated. "Right! So here's the thing. This debate goes back and forth all the damn time, but always it's guys having the debate. It's dudes online arguing about hentai like, I'm not gay. You're gay. You like boys in dresses, huh huh huh."

"It's gay, though," Cerise says. "That's what makes it cute. In my opinion."

"For a guy," the host says. "But now, you're a chick. So I'm gonna put it to you: is it gay, for a chick to be into traps?"

Cerise smiles. "Probably not. But maybe. But -- maybe not. It's complicated."

"It's super complicated." He pauses, wrists together, swiveling a little this way and that in the chair. "I guess... are you into the boyness of the trap, or the girlness of the trap?"

"Why not both?" Cerise asks. "What makes it sexy -- to me -- is you've got this almost but not quite masculine body -- androgynous, really -- dressing up in sexy clothes that almost but not quite can convince you he's a girl. But you treat him like a girl. With a little surprise in there."

The host leans way into his mic and whispers softly: "I'm very uncomfortable with this conversation."

"You started it."

He leans back and picks up the volume again. "But now you're a congressional candidate -- actually scratch that, an elected representative. Congrats."

"Thank you."

"And you're tweeting out these incredibly racy, basically hentai drawings of boys in dresses, like, all the time. Do you ever worry about how that makes you look? Like people are gonna be, oh, here's that sex freak Cerise Soliloquy, I don't want her representing me in Washington."

"I don't think people care," Cerise says. "Not in my district anyway. Maybe in eastern Tennessee or something. But not here. Everyone has their things that they're into -- what matters is if I can do a good job representing them on important political issues. I won, didn't I? No one voted for me thinking I'm a Catholic nun."

"You've tweeted out a few drawings of guys crossdressing as nuns, I'm pretty sure."

"Even so," Cerise laughs.

---

"Worry. Worry. Achoo."

"This is fucked up. This is too fucked up. I need therapy after this."

Cerise uses a handheld device with pushbuttons on it to control the surgically modified furby, whose skin lies peeled-off in front of it on the table, revealing the hard black plastic casing beneath, with only the thing's beak and eyes and eyelashes still attached. The camera focuses in on it. It's a demonstration the host asked for, but now he clearly regrets it.

"I -- am -- in -- pain. Achoo."

"Oh my god," the host says. "Put this thing of its misery. What the fuck."

Cerise turns it off.

"I want this banned," the host says. "I'm gonna need you to pass a law that says no one can do this, ever again."

"I'll think about it," Cerise says.

---

"I'm gonna ask the big question now."

"Okay," Cerise says.

"Are you Galatea?"

"No."

"People say it a lot. A lot of conspiracies going around about that."

"People say a lot of dumb shit. People say the Earth is flat. People say the moon landing was faked. I'm not Galatea."

"Do you know Galatea?"

"No--"

"Is she your wife?"

"You've been reading *Chan way too much. People who never even met me think they've got my whole life story figured out. It's bullshit."

"*Chan -- you know, I avoid *Chan like the plague, because it's such a fucked-up space -- but I did do some research there for this episode. You've got quite the following."

She shakes her head. "It's so gross. I don't know why they're so fixated on me. But I wish they'd stop."

"They're -- for those of you who don't know -- it's this web forum for, like, incels with a foot fetish. Mostly foot fetishes. And they decided that Cerise is some sort of goddess, basically... it's kinda like E-stalking, right?"

"They talk about me 24/7. /csg/. They've got pictures of me that I didn't even know existed, videos -- they write fanfic and argue about who loves me the most. Yeah, it's stalking. Stalking mixed with a cult and some sexual fetishes thrown in."

"Super weird and fucked-up."

"I've just been waiting for one of them to crawl through my window or something and stab me in my sleep. It's gonna happen."

"Right? But I've got a theory. Of how to get them off your case."

"Okay."

"If you show them your feet -- just once, like hi-def, 1080p, real close up--"

"Oh my GOD."

"No, no. Hear me out. 80% of these losers are fantasizing about your feet. It's like how if you're afraid of heights, the best thing is to expose yourself to it and, like -- desensitize yourself. Right? You have to desensitize them to your feet." He pantomimes jacking off: "Let them skeet over a high quality close-up of your feet. Then once they skeet, they'll have that post-nut clarity, you know? Like -- oh man. I'm wasting my life on this website."

"I don't buy it. It'll just encourage them more."

"How can they be more encouraged than a 24/7 chat dedicated to masturbating over you? They're at essentially max encouragement right now, I'd argue. The last post I saw there was 2,304 words -- we counted them -- 2,304 words about using a feather to tickle your naked body. It does not get more encouraged than that."

Cerise sighs. He's got a point, unbelievably enough.

A few moments later, she's slipping out of her flats, and propping her pantyhose-clad feet up on the table.

"Let's get a zoom on that," the host says. "Aw yeah. There's the money shot, right there. Wiggle your toes -- oh hell yeah."

"This is so gross," Cerise complains from off-frame. She turns her feet this way and that, and wiggles her toes as instructed. The camera shows everything in all its glory.

"Okay. That should do it." Back to the host's ugly mug: "You just killed a few hundred people with orgasm poisoning. I hope you realize that."

"Good."

He laughs. "So if nothing else -- it'll keep them busy. Right?" He rubs his nose. "Do you have a favorite poster there?"

"No. God, no."

"I don't mean one you actually like -- let's be clear here. I mean how you might have a favorite freak at the freakshow. One of the chimps whose shit-throwing amuses you maybe a little more than the others."

Cerise thinks, silent for a turn. "Well there's the guy who wants me turn him into a couch."

"Couch guy!"

"Couch anon. I think he's got schizophrenia or something."

"We saw him in those threads too. Always with these long, crazy-involved screeds. Jamie, pull that up. Here we go." The host reads aloud: "A permanent human meatcouch, magically transformed meat-furniture for Cerise's personal use... She rubs her sweaty, bare butt on your magic transformed, leather couch-body... yeah, this has schizoid written all over it."

"If it weren't about me, I'd laugh at it. It's so weird that it loops back around into being kinda funny. But since it's about me, it makes me... ugh." She purrs in disgust. "The worst part is that there isn't really anything we can do to desensitize someone to that. I can show people my feet but I can't turn them into couches."

"I dunno. Do you have a magic wand? I'd totally let you transform me into a couch if it'll get this guy to stop posting. I'll take one for the team."

"The only person I've ever used as a couch is my little brother," Cerise says.

The host is briefly silent, taken back, open-mouthed.

"Oh, come on. You know what I mean."

"I'm... not sure I do, Cerise."

"Let's just move on."

"Might be for the best."

---

"I wanna get your wife in here. She's outside, right?"

"Don't ask her the Galatea thing."

"No."

"No. She's a really shy person."

"Sure. I wanna ask her something much more important than that."

"What?"

"Vaping."

"Oh my god."

"She's heavy into vaping - so I've heard. I want her to teach me her ways."

---

Soon the little recording studio is swimming a cloud of sweet-smelling vapor.

"You can put CBD oil in these, right?" The host asks. He puts the pen to his lips and inhales.

"yes"

"Do you ever do that?"

Gal is mum.

"It's legal in this state, you can answer."

"sometimes"

"Can I be honest here?" He asks.

"ok"

"I don't see the appeal. I'm trying. But I have to side with Cerise on this one."

"Thank you," Cerise says.

"Now if you get some CBD in here, some nootropics, psychadelics -- is there such a thing as vaping mushrooms?"

"i've never heard of that" Gal says.

"You should get on that. Pioneer that shit. You'll graduate from billionaire to trillionaire."

"we'll think about it"

"If you're gonna smoke," Cerise says, "it shouldn't taste like candy. It's absurd." She waves her hand back and forth to dissipate the vapor cloud.

"But it's better for you," the host says.

"Is it, though?" Cerise asks.

"studies have shown--" Gal begins.

"Now you've got her going," the host says.

"--studies have shown that it's much less impactful on health than just about any other form of smoking"

"What studies?" Cerise demands. "You always say -- studies show. Studies show. What fucking studies."

"Trouble in paradise," the host whispers into his mic.

Gal takes rips on her vape and blows the cloud at Cerise. Cerise coughs angrily.

"Okay, I don't do this super often on the show, but I thought this was topical." The host is pulling out a few bottles of beer and setting them on the table. "You're a beer connoisseur, right, Cerise?"

"Oh hell yeah."

"This is -- can we get a close up?" He holds the beer so the label shows. "Sand Reckoner IPA. This is from 421st Street Brewery here in LA." The label shows a stylized pyramid with an illuminati-style eye in the pinnacle cap, only the eye glows cybernetically red, like HAL 9000 or a Terminator.

"I hate IPAs," Cerise says.

"Oh shit. Really?"

"I like maltier beers."

"I didn't know that. Supposedly this is really good shit, though. You down to drink one?"

Cerise shrugs. "Beer is beer."

He cracks the bottles open, hands Cerise one, and Gal too. They toast, and drink.

"I like it," the host says.

"It's shit," Cerise says. "Bitter and nasty. Definitely an IPA." Despite that, she takes another deep swig. "I hate it."

"Anna?"

"i'm not into beer." Cerise gently takes the bottle from her, and starts drinking from it as well, while Gal resumes vaping.

"It's really floral," the host says, making a face. "Like it's got flowers mixed in it."

"It's kind of overpowering," Cerise says.

"I'm trying to decide yet if I like it," he says.

"You just said you did."

"I'm deciding, though."

---

Tipsy, somewhat high, and getting loose-lipped, Cerise and Gal enter the second hour of the podcast.

"Whitney Darkbloom," the host says. "Is she as dumb as they say?"

"she's so dumb," Gal replies. "but not. smart dumb. the smartest dummy."

"You know, the weird thing is, I get that," the host says.

"yes"

"I've known a lot of smart dudes who are idiots, and a lot of idiots who are the smartest people you'd ever want to know."

"right"

"We love her," Cerise says. "Smart isn't just what you score on an IQ test. And I wouldn't let her design a rocket ship, but she's got her own set of skills."

"How is she handling retirement?" The host asks.

Cerise and Gal share an uncertain look.

"She didn't want to go," Cerise says.

"But she sold the company. To El--"

"No," Cerise says. "That was forced."

"Wow. Elaborate for me here. What do you mean, forced. How was it forced?"

"cerise..." Gal murmurs.

"The US Army came into Darkbloom Analytics a few weeks ago and told us that they were taking things over. That if we didn't let them do it, they'd kill us. It was forced."

The host's mind is getting blown to kingdom come right now. He can hardly find words; he's fidgeting in his chair. "The US Army."

"Yeah."

"Threatened to kill you?"

"Are we live?" Cerise asks.

"Yeah, man. Live to the world right now."

"Good. Good. Yes, they broke into our company and took it over. They want Sand Reckoner all to themselves. And the guy they put at the top -- I won't even say his name, but he's a friend of yours -- he's just their pawn."

"If this is true..." The host says. "This is maybe the biggest scandal in the world right now."

"It is."

"What does the army want with Sand Reckoner? Do you know?"

"I mean, you fuckers talk enough about it on your show." She takes swig of the SR IPA again. "It's mind control voodoo shit -- in your words. It is. That's how they want to use it, anyway. Look, I know you guys didn't exactly like Darkbloom Analytics, back when Whitney owned it -- but you're going to like it a whole hell of a lot less now that the US government has shadow control over it. Whatever the military wants with it is definitely not wholesome. All Whitney wanted to do was run milkshake restaurants and have sex with my little brother. You're gonna miss having someone that simple in control of this tech. Believe me."

"Do you feel like you're in danger?" The host asks. "Telling us this."

"Yes."

"I'll go ahead and say you probably are," he agrees. "This is heavy shit."

---

You watch Jeopardy with Vivian and Dr. Carte in the hospital room.

"Love didn't keep this famous husband-wife recording duo together -- they split in 2014."

"Who is Captain and Tennille," Vivian says offhandedly. Half a second later, a contestant buzzes in with the same answer.

"Shouldn't it be 'who are Captain and Tennille'?" You say.

"No. Captain and Tennille is the name of the band. The band, taken as an entity, is a singular, and conjugates with the verb 'is,' not 'are'. You wouldn't say, 'who are The Beatles', or 'who are The Who' for example."

"Sure you would," you say.

"Specious. Utterly ridiculous--"

"That's how I'd say it," Dr. Carte tells her.

"Do not take his side just because he is injured. That is patronizing. If he is wrong, as he clearly is here, tell him so without reservation."

"He's not wrong, though."

"Ms. Carte has a soft heart," Vivian tells you. She scoops up a spoonful of applesauce, which you reluctantly let her feed you, as she adds: "She cannot bear to tell you harsh truths at the current moment."

"There's only one person here who doesn't want to hear the truth," you say. You push her hand away when she tries to give you another spoonful. "I didn't shatter my jaw. You know that, right? I can eat solid food."

"Open up," she says, and tries again to push the spoon past your lips.

You push it back. "Vivian. I am not eating any more goddamn applesauce. Not another bite. Okay? You've fed me applesauce every single day for three weeks. Every time you're here: applesauce. I don't need applesauce. Go down to the cafeteria and get me a bag of Cheez-its or something."

"Say aaaa."

"God fucking damn-- oof--" She wiggles the spoon past your lips and forces another dollop of cinnamon-tinged applesauce onto your tongue. You glumly swallow.

"When can I go home?" You ask Dr. Carte.

"Soon. I'm going to assist with the operation to replace your patella. You'll be part robot!"

She's way too excited at that prospect.

"Will I... walk again?" You ask.

"Yes," she says. "You won't have full mobility -- you'll never be a runner, or a soccer player -- but you'll have maybe 80-90% of your old range of motion."

"I guess it's better than nothing," you say. "Still, it really--"

Noelle's entrance interrupts you. She stands at the door of your hospital room. "Your sister is an idiot."

"Shut up," you say. Then: "Which one?"

Noelle walks to your bedside and picks up the remote. She flicks over to FNCNN:

"...erupted suddenly after congresswoman-elect Soliloquy's appearance on the show earlier today. The newly elected representative, who has close ties to former Darkbloom Analytics CEO Whitney Darkbloom, accused the US military of ousting Ms. Darkbloom and taking the company over by force -- a story that stands in stark contrast to public claims of a peaceful buyout by private entities. Now, demonstrators have flooded the gates at Darkbloom Analytics, and are demanding to know what if any role the government is playing in the powerful technology known as Sand Reckoner..."

The screen shows throngs of protestors marching, holding signs, and crowding the sealed-off gates of the campus.

"Oh Jesus," Dr. Carte says.

You feel a knot in the pit of your stomach. "Get me back home soon," you say.

Rose, in the chair beside you, snorts, and bolts upright. "I'm awake!" She slurs. She rubs her mouth with the back of her palm. "What was that?"

She basically hasn't left that chair in three weeks, and it's starting to drive her a bit batty. Her and you both. But you can hardly complain -- she was able to give you a blood transfusion that kept you stable in the immediate aftermath of your gunshot wound. How she knew not only her own blood type, but yours too -- is a question you won't probe too much.

"I think we are making final preparations for Alabaster's surgery," Vivian tells her. "Perhaps we should excuse ourselves, and take an evening stroll around the hospital grounds, to freshen up, and allow Alabaster some privacy."

"No thanks," Rose says.

Vivian, with almost inhuman strength, forces Rose up and out of the chair and drags her from the room with her. Struggling in vain against the pint-sized loli, Rose looks back over her shoulder and calls: "Don't go under without letting me see you again!"

"Yeah," you say.

"I'll kill you if you do!"

She goes.

"When does Cerise go to Washington?" You ask.

"Next week," Noelle says.

"We have to keep her here -- where she's safe."

"She has to get sworn in," Dr. Carte says. "No avoiding that."

"Fuck congress," you say. "She can resign. She painted a target on her back just now. If she goes to DC, she'll get merked."

"Alabaster might be right," Noelle says. She looks at Dr. Carte. "Are you doing the surgery tonight, then?"

"We can push it up, yeah. It'll be for the best if everyone's back at home as soon as possible."

"Good," Noelle says. "I'm sick of standing guard out there and listening to him bicker all day with his cousin."

"Do I need to say it?" You ask.

"No."

>Who do you want to visit you first when you wake up from surgery? Pick between 1 and 3.
>Whitney, Mom, Cerise

"Count backwards from 100 for me," Dr. Carte says, affixing the rubber mask to your face.

"One hundred... ninety-nine... ninety... eight..."

She wheels the gurney towards the OR. Several of your girls follow along with it, but it's Rose who's gripping the siderail up near your head, who leans over you, and who gets your attention as you drift into oblivion: "I love you, Alabaster."

You shake your head dazedly from side to side.

"Ninety... ninety... I... I lo..."

The warm embrace of a drug-induced sleep grips you.

You come back to consciousness with a terrible, throbbing, radiating pain in your knee -- but what else is new? "Errgh..." you groan, reaching under the covers, and touching the incision site. It's still tender, and swollen, and you can feel the sutures in the flesh.

"Shh -- shh," comes a voice off to your side. It's your mother, striding over. She wipes your forehead with a cool, damp cloth. The moonlight makes her look even paler than normal. "How do you feel, baby?"

"It hurts," you rasp.

"Ally! You're awake. Mom said you wouldn't be up until morning." Whitney's at the foot of the bed, grinning broadly. She puts her hands on her hips. "Shows what she knows. She doesn't know that you're only the strongest boyfriend in the universe!"

"It went okay, then?" You ask.

"You're alive, aren't you?" Whitney asks. "Of fucking course it went okay. Don't you think Mom knows what she's doing?"

Mom is stroking your face. "I wasn't worried," she says, an obvious lie. "But I am glad you're up. D-don't get shot next time, y-y-you idiot!"

You glance to your left. Curled up in the chair beside you are Rose and Cerise; they slept like a couple of wombats huddling up together. Cerise stirs, and wriggles free of Rose, stretching and yawning. "Alabaster," she says. "Still alive. Color me shocked."

"I could say the same thing," you reply. "What were you thinking?"

She rubs her elbow and averts her gaze. "So you already heard."

"Trust me, she got her spanking already!" Mom says.

This remark gives you pause, but Cerise pushes forward: "It was the heat of the moment. I just... blurted it out. The world had to know."

"You did the right thing," Whitney says. "Even if consequences aren't ever gonna be the same."

"You gotta call off the swearing-in," you tell Cerise.

"Why?"

"It's not safe for you anymore."

"When was it ever?" She asks.

"You don't actually want to be in congress, do you?" You say. "It was just Whitney's dumbass idea."

"Hey!"

Cerise shrugs. "I kinda got used to the idea. Maybe I could do some good."

"Let's talk about it when we're home," Mom says. "Right now we need to focus on keeping your strength up."

"Uh huh..." Whitney says. She crawls into your hospital bed with you, startling you. On hands and knees she trots forward, like a kitten, smiling. "We'll keep your strength up, all right." There's that all too familiar lilt in her voice that sets in whenever she's ready to ditch her spats.

"Whitney..." you stammer. "I'm -- on so many different schedule II narcotics right now -- I'm basically as high as a kite."

"So?" She says. "Doped-up sex is probably super fun."

"Whitney!" Mom sputters.

"That's rape, you know," Cerise says wryly. "Technically speaking."

"So hot," Whitney says. "And you only get this one chance at it, right, Ally?" She starts to rub you through the covers. "C'mon. You've been out of commission for three weeks. Vivian's jizzing strap-on can't keep me satisfied forever..."

You gulp. 

Whitney brushes the hair from your forehead, leans in, and kisses you softly. "Don't be such a wuss," she whispers. "I'll do all the work. You just have to lie there and enjoy it, that's all. I *need* your dick inside me... I need it really, really bad."

"In front of my Mom?" You whisper back.

Whitney smirks. "She can watch."

You glance over at Mom, where she stands still holding the cloth that she wiped your face with. She fiddles with it with both her hands, chewing her lower lip. 

Whitney slowly nods.

"Mom?" You ask.

"Y-yes," she stammers. "I'll go... don't mind me... have fun with Whitney, honey."

"Wait," Cerise says. Mom stops at the threshold, turns. Cerise, frowning down at you as Whitney sucks your neck, says: "I know my little brother. He wants us to put on a show for him, too. Little pervert freak."

"Heeeeeh~" Whitney laughs between nips.

"What?" You demand. "I didn't ask for any such thing."

"I can see it written all over your face," Cerise says. 

Mom's wan expression turns slowly sly. "You're right. He can't be satisfied with just his girlfriend's body." She tilts her chin at you. "Can you?"

Whitney is already pulling the covers off your body. The recirculated air of the hospital room is cold against your sticky skin. 

Mom joins Cerise's side at the foot of the bed. "Do you want to see how your sister and I have been occupying ourselves?" Mom asks.

"He does," Cerise answers on your behalf. 

Mom's hand snakes behind Cerise's back and starts to lewdly grope her ass.

Cerise sighs. "You're getting way too comfortable with that, you know?"

"Am I?" Mom asks.

"Well yeah. Molesting your own daughter and everything..."

Even as she says that, she turns her head and meets Mom's lips with hers. Mother and daughter start to make out while feeling each other up through their pants. It might be a show for your benefit -- but they're doing it for themselves, too. For their own debauched enjoyment. They're perverts just like you. 

Your cock starts to stiffen. It pokes up from under your hospital gown. Whitney, feeling it against her tummy, lets out a hot exhalation into your ear. "There he is," she coos. "What are you gonna do with that big hard thing? Huh?"

"I want your ass," you tell her. 

"Ooooh," she says. "That's gonna hurt, with it as big as it is. You want to dump your first load inside my asshole, Ally?"

"Yeah."

"Even if it hurts me?"

"I don't care."

Whitney shivers. She kicks her spats off, revealing her toned, tan butt. She slaps it, causing the supple skin to jiggle. You reach around her and feel her up -- her muscled backside is so fun to squeeze and play with. You could probably get off just like that, groping her the same way Mom and Cerise are groping each other, while you rub your horny cock against her navel. You're on a hair trigger anyway. But Whitney doesn't want the fun to end with a milky load exploding across her tummy -- she wants all that jizz inside her body, where it rightfully belongs. 

"You're even bigger than usual tonight," she says happily. 

"It's been so long," you say.

"Or maybe it's from seeing your sister and your mother getting freaky?"

You can't deny that part of it, either. Mom and Cerise are stripping each other's tops off. Then, bare-chested, they embrace -- tits mashing against each other -- and start to really French. Their slimy tongues entwine and squirm around, and their saliva drools freely in long strands down over their fat jugs. If there's an opposite of a wholesome kiss, this is it; it's like each woman is treating the other's mouth as a cunt that they're licking out. While they make out and breathe hard against each other, their wandering hands drift past the waistbands of each other's pants. Cerise plays with Mom's pussy inside her jeans; Mom plays with Cerise's pussy inside her shorts. You can see the contours of their knuckles through the tight fabric. And, too, you can hear the sound of them fingering each other from across the room, they're so wet.

"You wanna get me ready to fuck my ass?" Whitney asks. She doesn't wait for your answer before doing a 180, squatting over your face, and pulling her ass cheeks wide apart. "Say aaaaa," she commands lewdly. She rests the pucker of her anus against your lips and sighs in ecstasy when you immediately begin to rim her.

"That's it, Ally... you're so good at that..."

She rides your face for a little while, your hands gripping her athletic calves. But the pleasure is too much, and swooning, she falls forward. It's all for the best anyway because lying across you, she can 69 with you. She pulls your erect penis up and starts to rub it all over her face, smearing her skin with your stink. Your already wet dick get even wetter with her spit. Maybe Whitney's fellatio is the best in the world -- it feels that way at the moment, anyway. Paired with the tart flavor of her anus, and the sweet honey scent of her lewdly dripping pussy, the sensation of your cock slipping into Whitney's well-trained throat is heaven. She can service you without gagging -- can swallow all 8 or so inches of your dick without retching or heaving. Even when you hump her mouth. Even when you treat her face like a pocket pussy onahole. She doesn't choke one time. Except for when she decides to amp up the eroticism of the throat-fuck by purposely sputtering -- by deliberately inducing her otherwise nonexistent gag reflex to heave up a wad of phlegmy saliva from deep in her throat, that explodes out from her lips and coats your straining dick in viscous fluid. It feels so nice and hot running down the shaft in rivulets. The fact that she does this of her own free will -- that she willingly degrades herself this way, turning her face into a slobbery, snotty ruin, making your precum drip from her nostrils and her mouth fill with warm spit -- that she does it just to bring you a little extra pleasure, is unbelievably sexy. 

Making a strange purr from the back of her irritated throat, Whitney pulls off your member. "Think it's wet enough?" She asks, voice hoarse.

"Yeah."

"Awesome... let's do it. Fuck my ass like you own it."

She spins back around and straddles you, sitting on her knees. With one hand, she lines her spit-slick asshole up with your spit-slick dick. 

"I do," you tell her. "I do own your ass."

"You do."

"It belongs to me."

"Only you, Ally. It's your own personal tomboy spunk-hole."

"Oh fuck," you moan -- and at that moment, she slams down, and forces the head of your prick past her rubbery back hole.

Her eyes roll to the back of her head. She's gone delirious, just from getting your dick up inside her. "God, it's so hot..." she grunts. "Your cock is so hot inside me..."

But it's her body that's really hot. The grippy walls of her ass almost burn to the touch. Is this what happens when she goes without your dick for an extended period? She gets this overheated and needy? It's too good. This buttery, slippery texture, this radiating heat, and the way her sphincter hugs the root of your dick like it doesn't want to let you go. Whitney wants to keep your dick embedded in her asshole forever, probably... letting out jet after jet of your cream directly into her belly for eternity, while she lies atop you and swells and swells with the volume... or maybe that's your own fantasy.  She hugs you close, and nuzzles your neck with her still slobbery face. She gives you a series of hickeys, and you don't mind.

Meanwhile, you watch the incestuous display your Mom puts on with Cerise. At some point they got totally nude. Mom has sat down in a chair on the other side of the bed, and Cerise is nursing on her titties while masturbating Mom's cunt for her. Mom soothingly pets Cerise's hair and stares into her eyes. "You get me off so good," Mom tells her. "Keep doing it just like that." Cerise does as ordered, and continues to diddle Mom's twat for her.

"Do you think he'll fuck us too?" Cerise asks.

"I'm not letting him go back to sleep before he does."

This makes Cerise happy, and she resumes sucking Mom's nipples. Mom hisses in enjoyment, and parts her fat thighs just a bit wider to give Cerise total access.

"Cerise," Whitney says, and looks back at her. "Why don't you cum on Ally's face a little?"

"...Huh?" You say.

"That's a great idea," Mom says. She nudges Cerise. "Go sit on your brother's face."

Reluctantly, Cerise pulls away from Mom. She stoops over and gives Mom's pussy a lecherous kiss goodbye -- a kiss that turns into tonguing it for a few moments -- but Mom gently encourages her to go use you. She gets into bed with you and Whitney. Whitney, rising back up to a cowgirl position, makes way for your older sister. 

"Hold on," you say, worried. Whitney riding your mouth was one thing -- but you're still a bit fucked up on drugs right now, and you don't know if Cerise's weight bearing down on you is the best idea. 

They don't give you time to object any further. Cerise swings her legs over your head, and sits down on you. 

This is what you were worried about. Cerise weighs considerably more than Whitney does, and she isn't gentle. Her thick, sweaty butt clinging to you leaves absolutely no breathing room -- in the literal sense. With her thighs hugging your cheeks and her wet genitals sliding back and forth over your nose, your lips, and your forehead... you feel quickly deprived of oxygen. You were already lightheaded because of the medication. Now you're ready to pass out. Your entire existence is reduced to just that: Cerise's skin pressing against yours, her pussy leaking all over you, her holes getting off on you. The clean but heady smell of her anus, melded with the aroma of her girlcum -- somewhat like the smell of your own cum, but feminine. And she's so heavy. That jiggly butt and plump mound is like a ten-ton weight crushing your skull. It's cruel -- she's trying to be nice, maybe, but the way she rides your face is still so cruel, selfish, and completely depraved. She's using her little brother as a receptacle for her lust. She's using you as a cum toilet. Your nose pokes past her asshole, your tongue past her cunthole. She squirts on you, down your mouth, and across your chin and bare chest. Your mind is completely inundated with the smell and taste of your sister. You hear the patter-y, echo-y sound of it as she cums for you. You also hear, as Whitney continues to ride your cock, the noise of the two girls kissing above you. They've linked hands to support each other, and they kiss deeply while Whitney gives your dick perfect anal service as only she can do.

"Don't suffocate him," Mom warns. Her voice sounds muted through the fat of Cerise's flesh pressing against you.

"I'll cum soon," Cerise says huskily. 

"But-- but he--" Mom says.

"I'll cum soon, it's fine... he can take it..." 

You feel motion above you, and you can tell that Whitney is playing with Cerise's clit while she fucks your face.

"Yes!" Cerise howls. "Fuck, that's good..." she starts to bounce up and down while Whitney frigs her. It gives you meager but precious air, that you try to gulp down in the millisecond intervals that her ass lifts off you before slamming viciously back down again. Whitney's ass also starts to slap up and down. The little hospital room fills with meaty slapping. Your cock sings in utter delight, electric pleasure coursing through it. The undulating of Cerise's fatty legs, like half-set gelatin, whaps repeatedly against your cheeks. She shrieks, climaxing, and pisses cum down your throat. Even as you feel your grip on consciousness slipping, your nuts are tightening and you feel your own hot jizz surging up your urethra. 

"Oh god, he's cumming!" Whitney cries. "Yes! Breed my ass, Ally!"

You have no choice: you breed her ass. But Whitney isn't happy with just that. As your cock spurts geyser after geyser of spunk, Whitney starts to alternate -- she jams your cock to its root inside her anus, then pulls completely off, and sinks it into her cunt. When you lose a couple more spurts of jizz in her cunt, she pulls off once more and gets it lodged in her ass again. Back and forth, over the course of an agonizingly long, pleasurable ten seconds or so, Whitney takes your orgasm in both her well-used holes. The squelchy, slappy noise of it joins the chorus. And she gets off on it too, sighing dreamily.

Cerise finally pulls off your gasping, sweaty face, letting blessed oxygen fill your burning lungs again. When the stars clear, you see Mom, legs looped over each of the armrests, hands busy in both her holes while she watches. She licks her palm and rubs against her meaty cunt. "Whitney..." she gulps. "Come here... let me taste it..." 

Whitney laughs to herself as she dismounts you. She saunters over to Mom. She gets up onto the chair -- standing -- and lets your cum ooze from her fucked-out orifices. She keeps her ass and her cunt held spread to assist gravity's pull. Mom, under her, keeps her head tilted back and her mouth open wide to catch it all. She never stops masturbating. 

Cerise gives as good as she gets. She sinks down on her belly in front of you, opens her mouth, and starts to suck you clean. She sucks your leftover jizz off your piss-slit, then starts to deepthroat you. Unlike Whitney, she can't help gagging; but she couldn't care less. She just wants to fuck your cock with her mouth right now -- and to rim you, too. She goes back and forth between these self-appointed duties with equal gusto, orally servicing your dick and ass. 

Whitney gets into the face-sitting spirit again herself, and squats over Mom. Mom just latches her mouth to Whitney's holes to suck the cum from its sources. Whitney plays with her slit while Mom sucks. Mom's plump, sweaty body heaves and her neck muscles jostle while she gulps your seed from out of Whitney's body.  So greedy.  "Yeaaah," Whitney sneers. "Fucking eat it... eat that creampie..." She likes to be demanding, and Mom likes to have that demand hurled at her. She cums on her fingers while she cleans Whitney's holes.

Cerise, smiling bright, meets your eyes. "Cum in my pussy next," she says. You don't think you'll sleep much tonight.

---

"It's a design Cerise came up with, actually," Renee tells you. "We were going to do this months ago, but then... other events... got in the way."

You sit at the computer in the Nail House's den, while Mommy sucks Daddy's dick on the couch in the living room. Those animals have absolutely no dignity...

Renee glances back their way. She snaps her fingers. "Uh, hello? You two wanna come over here and take part, or what?"

"No," Daddy grunts, running his hands through his loving wife's blonde tresses. Everyone's been jumping his bones 24/7 since he came back from the hospital. So shameless.

"Okay, well," Renee says, turning back towards you. "It'll give us the opportunity to speak with him again, directly, if we want to."

You examine the mess of circuitry and wires on the desktop. Beside it sits the implant where David Darkbloom lives -- switched off, for the time being, ever since the events at the Cantor residence.

You look back up at Cerise. "You built this yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Shit. You're smarter than you look."

She slaps you across the back of your head.

"Ow! Fuck!"

"Show some respect. I'm your older sister."

"Oh yeah," Daddy groans, out in the living room. "You love it, bitch." You roll your eyes.

"What do you think?" Whitney asks you. "Should we wake bio-dad up? I'll refer to you on that one."

"Defer," Vivian says.

"Blah blah," Whitney snaps back.

"If we turn Penelope back on," you point out, "who's to say that the spooks running your company right now won't know it? They could swoop back in and steal it."

"Well we need to do something," Kay says. "I can run interference with Nelson and Armstrong internally -- and Gal externally -- if they've got any way to monitor whether another implant goes active, we can sabotage it."

"They could know right away, though," you say.

"nelson is running the sand reckoner project," Gal says. "he'd be the first to know -- and i'm sure he wouldn't tell anyone before consulting us. we're safe to turn david back on."

"Yeah! Yeah, fuck her!" Daddy's got Charlotte bent over the couch, and Rose is encouraging him to nail her.

"Pipe down in there!" Kay hollers.

"That's what I'm doing!" Daddy hollers back.

Kay huffs. "The way I see it, we've got three options," she says.

"You and your fucking plans A, B, C," you grumble.

"We have three options," Kay repeats. "We turn him back on now, we keep him inactive for now -- or -- we destroy Penelope and be done with it."

>[x] Turn David Darkbloom back on.
[ ] Keep him off.
[ ] Destroy the implant completely.

"Furbytize the fucker?" Dr. Carte asks Cerise.

"Check," she says.

She begins to gather up the circuit-bent innards of the furby, plus the implant, but Vivian's hand stays her. "Please, no," Vivian says.

"No what?" Cerise asks.

"Putting him in one of your Furby toys would be so... undignified. Is there nothing else we can use?"

"He doesn't have to go in anything, strictly speaking," Cerise says. "I'm just using the voice chip from the Furby to give him something to speak with."

"But he should have some sort of body," Vivian says. "An existence with no body would be awful. A half-life..."

"I'm not letting you put that bastard inside your skull," you tell her. "I'll crush that thing to dust before I let you do it."

"That's not what I'm suggesting," Vivian says. "He doesn't need to go inside a human body -- or even a living body -- but he deserves at least the dignity of some physical form. Something better than a Furby. That's all."

"Then what?" You ask.

---

Cerise finishes stitching up the seam on Johann the penguin's back. One of the stuffed toy's eyes glows a steady blue, just barely discernible behind the nearly opaque black of the glass bead.

You wave your hand up and down in front of it. "Hello? Can you see us?"

There's a pause, and then a sound like microphone interference -- a clearing of the throat, in a sense -- before a modulated voice sort of like Stephen Hawking responds: "Yes."

"You're a penguin now," you tell him. "Congrats."

"We have much to discuss," Darkbloom says.

"We are all ears, father," Vivian says.

"We must destroy Darkbloom Analytics," he says.

"Why?"

Chloe descends the stairs, steps jaunty and smirk... smirky. Her typical haughty self.

"Sable Guiteau was a once-in-a-generation genius," Darkbloom says. "On the level of Albert Einstein or Leonardo da Vinci. She made Sand Reckoner far more powerful than it was intended to be. She made it not only into the eye of God but the hand of God, too. Of the billions of people on Earth -- only she was capable of doing that. If we destroy the infrastructure of what she created, before lesser minds can fully apprehend it -- this is our only hope remaining."

"It is too late," Chloe says. "Your government has seized it and will be reverse-engineering the secrets of Sand Reckoner before you hatch a plan to stop them. The Russians already have theirs -- one possibly more powerful, if rumors of the lighthouse are true. I can personally attest that the Chinese also have the basic idea of what Sand Reckoner can wreak at its full potential. They will pursue it relentlessly until it is realized. What need have you, after all, of a single once-in-a-generation genius when you can just throw thousands of regular geniuses at the problem?"

You sniff at the air. "Chill our with the suntan lotion, will you? You're gonna get skin cancer."

"The world's great powers will each have perfected this technology by year's end," Chloe says. "And perhaps it is for the best. Like nuclear weapons, each government is prevented from using theirs by the threat of retaliation. No one can act."

"Perpetual stalemate," Renee says grimly.

"Not a stalemate," Chloe says. "This is the classic chess situation known as zugzwang. No one wants to recreate Sand Reckoner -- all would like to be rid of it. But they are compelled to move by the logic of their position."

"Then even you agree Sand Reckoner should be destroyed," Vivian says.

"I have no use of normative discussions. The word 'should' has no place in my vocabulary unless there is a way to transform it into 'will'."

"Triumph of the will?" You say sarcastically.

"Yes," Chloe says.

She doesn't get the reference. Or maybe she does.

Daddy's finally getting pantsed back up and strolling into the den stinking like his wife's and his mother-in-law's cum. Chloe distastefully plugs her nose.

"There you are," Daddy says. You can hear the click and whirr of his bionic knee with every step he takes. He's using a crutch to help him get around, and probably will be for a while. Not exactly the Six Million Dollar Man -- but it's cute. You wanna give him a leg massage. "I'm surprised you didn't get raped to death by the lesbians you're sleeping with."

"I've had other sleeping arrangements since you were in the hospital," Chloe tells him.

He gives her a severe look. You begin explain the situation: "I slept in Rose's room. And since you and Mommy were sleeping in the hospital..."

"I've been sleeping in your room," Chloe tells him.

Mommy's back at his side, and she's even madder than he is at this news. "What did you just say?" She demands.

"I hope you don't mind. Your marital bed is quite comfortable. I made myself well at home. Well at home."

Mommy grips her by the collar of her blouse. "You slept in my bed?!"

Chloe is passive. She puts a hand forcelessly on Rose's where it grips her collar. "It belongs to Ally. Not to you."

"Forget it," Daddy tells her.

Mommy shoves her away. "Stay out of my fucking room. You're lucky I'm even letting you sleep here."

"That was not your decision either," Chloe says.

Mommy moves as if to charge Chloe -- but Daddy holds her back. He turns then towards Pengu-Darku, now: "Even if we destroy DBA, we have to destroy the lighthouse too -- if this is going to work at all. Any of these devices with the power to alter reality need to be done away with."

"Yes."

"We haven't seen hide nor hair of any Russians since that night," Kay says. "Do you think Alyosha is dead?"

"No," Darkbloom says.

"That's what I thought," Kay replies.

"He will be back sooner rather than later," Darkbloom says. "I am sure of it."

"Alyosha wanted Rose2," Daddy says. "Now all of a sudden he wants you and me instead. Why?"

Darkbloom replies: "he thought Penelope had been lost. Rose Catachresis is an anomaly created by Penelope harnessing the power of Sand Reckoner. So within that anomaly, you might find telltale information about the implant. But why pursue that avenue at all when you can steal the implant itself?"

"Put simply," Vivian says, "Rose the Second is a fingerprint -- but Penelope is the perp."

"Look at you with the Law & Order lingo," Kay says.

"Mm," Vivian murmurs.

"But you don't know where the lighthouse is," Daddy says.

"No," Darkbloom replies, "but think of this. The same way I can blot out the consciousness of a person, like Dalton or Cerise... maybe I am also blotting out the full capabilities of Penelope. My consciousness is a layer above, obscuring the layer below."

"So it's like this," you say. "If we could get your consciousness out of that implant, we could find the lighthouse?"

"Alyosha intimated as much, yes," Darkbloom says. "I do not know so for a fact. But I believe he wanted to transfer me over to Alabaster's implant, so Penelope would be reset -- and usable then as the conduit to find the lighthouse."

"How can we do something like that?" Daddy asks.

"I don't know," Darkbloom admits. "But there is an alternative. Diogenes can undo what Sand Reckoner does. It could delete me from this implant entirely."

"Father--" Vivian begins.

"Alex is the next best thing to Sable Guiteau," Darkbloom says. "If Nelson recommends that only Alex can finish the project -- which is the truth, as far as I am concerned -- he might be allowed to return to Darkbloom Analytics as the chief project engineer."

"No," Kay says.

"Excuse me?" Darkbloom says -- conveying indignation as best as possible with the use of an affectless modulator simulating human speech.

"That has subterfuge written all over it. The idea of inviting Alex back to the company has to seem like it came from their own heads. If Nelson comes to them with it, they'll smell a rat."

"That's true," Daddy says. "...Where is he, anyway?"

"Upstairs," you tell him, "molesting the bunny."

"Totally hooked on bunny pussy," Renee adds. "It's quite sad."

"Oh, you're one to talk," Kay says.

[ ] Find a way to send Alex back to Darkbloom Analytics.
>[x] Find an alternative way to remove Darkbloom's mind from the implant.

"Hey kid." Whitney knocks on the door of her own bedroom and steps inside. Alex is lying on the bed, sweaty and spent, limbs all entangled with Samantha. Bare chest heaving, he crawls free of her and rises to his butt. He sits Indian-style with the heels of his palms resting on the mattress between his legs. And... with something else sticking up, still twitching.

Whitney explains -- poorly, but passably -- what the situation is.

"Oh," Alex says, looking serious. "Sure. I'll go back to Darkbloom Analytics, if it'll help."

"No," you say, "I don't want you going back there."

"Why not, Ally?"

"Because you'll be in danger. There's another way. I don't know what. But there has to be. You've been through enough... Vail was enough. You don't need to put yourself at risk like that again."

He blushes, hard, all over his pale, wet, nude body. "Ally... you're... you're so sweet."

You're blushing, too. "It's just because I..." you begin. But you stop, sighing. That thing is still poking up from his lap, slimy and twitching. Exasperatedly, you motion at him with a palm. "Could you please put some fucking pants on when we're having a heart-to-heart?"

He giggles. "Sorry." He gets dressed. Samantha doesn't.

Alex, decent again, sits back down on the bed. "In a situation like this," he says, "I ask myself: WWSD."

"Please tell me that doesn't stand for what I think it does," you say.

"When it comes to Sand Reckoner, sometimes you have to think like she does. Or -- like she did."

"Wait, wait," Whitney says. She doesn't know what you two mean. "Let me guess. WWSD... hmm. World Wide... no. We Won't Stop -- hmm. We Will Stop Sand Reckoner?"

"That would be WWSSR," you say.

"Fuck."

"What Would Samantha Do!" Samantha says. She rapidly kicks her feet on the mattress. "Welllll... I know what I would do... since I am her."

Alex slaps her ass. She giggles.

"I'm stumped, then," Whitney says.

"What would Sable do," Alex tells her.

"...Oh. Shit, yeah. That makes sense."

"Sable wanted to destroy Darkbloom Analytics, too," Alex says. "In the end, she got to the same conclusion we did. And she had a way to do it. Without endangering you, Ally -- or anyone else who got their eyeballs tinkered with."

You cock your head.

"I found it in her notes. I'd need access to the central server hub underneath the campus, but -- I guess Nelson could do that step. I can coordinate finishing Diogenes with him, from the outside -- and once it's done, it can be used to upgrade your implants so they function without the need of the servers. And Diogenes could reset Penelope, too, just like David suspects. Once that's all done... well... the sewer system under the campus still has plenty of room for some plastic explosives, right?"

It has the basic outline of a plan, anyway.

---

That night, you lie in bed with Rose. Amber snores softly between your bodies.

"Do you think we're doomed?" You ask.

Rose turns to her side and gazes at you. "Hmm?"

You mirror her. Your chins are practically touching over the crown of Amber's head.

"When we got back from China. You said you thought we were doomed. Do you still think so?"

"I don't know," she says. "Do you?"

"...I don't know."

"I just want to get to the next day," Rose says. "If I get to tomorrow with what I have today... that's enough. Thinking about the future beyond that is too exhausting."

You kiss her.

"I feel gross," Rose says. "Just knowing that that Chloe cunt was sleeping in here."

"Language, language, language," you say.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"You're not going to fuck her, are you?" Rose asks. "I know she's a pretty girl and this is the Nail House and everything -- but even you have to have standards."

You shrug.

"I could beat her ass, I'm so mad," Rose says.

"Are you sure you don't wanna fuck her too?" You ask.

She shrugs.

[ ] Let's fuck Chloe.
>[x] Let's make Chloe really want it.
[ ] Let's find something else fun to do.

>[x] Let's make Chloe really want it.

You kiss Rose deeply. You always like the way she seems a bit surprised whenever you kiss her. She tenses up, her muscles going taut as you pull her towards you and press your lips to hers. Then she swoons, her muscles going soft and squishy again, as she submits to the kiss and returns it. You breathe hard against each other, through your nostrils, as you taste each other's mouths. You've kissed her so many times in so many ways but it never fails to make your cock stir a little whenever you really go at it. Especially when, as now, she makes sweet little high pitched moans into your mouth as your tongues wrap around one another.

You pull back. Your lips are linked to hers by a thin bridge of saliva. "I don't want to fuck her just yet," you say. 

"Just yet?" 

"Let's make her really want it. Let's make her beg for it."

"And then deny her?" Rose prompts, smirking.

"Of course."

"I love you so much," she says, voice dreamy, and kisses you again.

---

You sneak, as well as you can on a crutch, to the bedroom that Qiangxiang has moved back into. You figure that you'll have to enlist Kay and Noelle as partners in crime for this dirty deed, but they're nowhere to be found: just Qiangxiang, snoozing all by herself on the air mattress. 

Kay and Noelle are probably drunkenly sucking each other's cunts out back by the jacuzzi, you figure. Since they have no real privacy in their bedroom anymore, they just fuck out in the open. 

Their loss. You and Rose are going to have to go it alone.

Qiangxiang sleeps with one eye open, it seems. She rises to her butt as soon as you step past the threshold.

"Have you come to ask my help on another suicide mission?" She says.

"No."

She pauses. "...Prowling the house in search of women to ravish?"

"Yes."

Qiangxiang smiles. She pulls her covers away from her body to reveal the nightie she wears. A long, conservative silk gown that comes just about to her ankles, and halfway to her elbows. Not the outfit of a seductress, but it's quite becoming in its own way. 

When Rose steps past the doorway and joins you at your side, Qiangxiang's smile vanishes.

"Do you know how big Alabaster's cock is?" Rose asks her.

"I've heard rumors," she says coolly. "It's improbably large, or so they say. Three or perhaps close to four sigma above median. And I've seen it through his trunks, so I suppose that is probably a good a estimate."

Rose strides to the inflatable bed and hauls Qiangxiang out of it. She moves so swiftly and with such purpose that Qiangxiang doesn't even begin to fight -- doesn't have time. Rose lifts her up -- Qiangxiang is a tiny, frail, lightweight little girl -- and tosses her onto the the bed that's ostensibly Kay's. Qiangxiang lands on her back with a soft pomf. Rose follows her. 

Qiangxiang says something reproachful in Mandarin -- something long and involved. Big mistake. When Rose gets in a mood like this, she's not a person to anger. She hits Qiangxiang across the face. It isn't a playful love-tap. It's a full-force, open-handed slap that leaves a mark and sends Qiangxiang reeling with pain. It shuts her the fuck up, too.

Rose looms over her, on her knees. Qiangxiang tries to sit up, but Rose forces her down to her back once more. The look on Qiangxiang's face right now could shatter glass.

"Do you want Alabaster to fuck you?" Rose asks.

"He already wants to have sex with me," Qiangxiang says. "I can see it in his eyes. He burns with lust for my body."

You flip the lightswitch on the wall to its highest setting. Under the bright ceiling lights, the image of Rose -- clad only in underwear that are a bit too small and pinch her plump skin so deliciously -- and, lying under her, Qiangxiang, wearing a loose, frilly nightgown, face streaked red in the shape of Rose's palm, and scowling in anger -- is really, really hot.

"I didn't ask what you think Alabaster wants. I asked what you want." 

"Not with you involved," Qiangxiang says. "You disgusting, fat American cow. How Ally could maintain an erection when looking at your repulsive obesity--"

Rose slaps her again, and harder this time. It's louder than the sound of two hands being clapped together as forcefully as possible. The thwack of flesh against flesh rebounds off the stucco walls. But other than wincing, Qiangxiang doesn't let on her pain -- doesn't moan or grunt, doesn't tear up or beg for mercy.

"Don't call him Ally," Rose tells her. So that's what angered her -- not the accusations of being a fatty. Rose holds Qiangxiang's wrists together over her head, incapacitating her, and looks your way: "Come show this cunt how big you are." Her voice is husky with need. 

You strip. Slowly. Shirt first, socks, and pants. Only your boxers remain. Qiangxiang, despite the murderous rage plain on her face, is also desperately curious to see. She can't take her eyes off your underwear. Rose hardly needs to keep her wrists held; she'd lie there watching you regardless. But you know this is fun for Rose, too.

You join your wife on the bed with your victim. 

"And so you'll rape me now?" Qiangxiang asks. She tries to sound accusatory, but it comes out sounding a little hopeful.

You say nothing. Neither does Rose. You just reach for Qiangxiang's bruised-up face, and stare into her eyes as you stroke the tender skin. The silence is too much for her to bear. She fills it herself: "I knew it. You can't resist. Can you? You want to have sex with me. Despite all the women surrounding you, who you could use as holes for your lusty whims -- it's me, at last, who you want the most. You would even come into my room late at night and rape me to have your way."

You spit on her face.

The foamy, slimy wad of spit lands on the bridge of her nose, and seeps down either side, over her eyes, forcing her to shutter her eyelids. Her face puckers in surprise and disgust. She writhes, but with Rose holding her hands, she can do nothing to wipe the mess clean.

When at last she narrowly wrenches her eyes open again despite the spit coating them, to look up at you through the filmy slop -- Rose spits on her, too. You didn't discuss any of this with Rose beforehand, but you're of the same mind when it comes to tormenting a horny bitch like Qiangxiang. Qiangxiang winces again, and recoils as if she'd been shot. Again with the cursing in Chinese, and now she's really thrashing, trying to get loose -- she's going nuts with anger and barely-concealed arousal. 

Rose shifts in place to make room for you as you straddle Qiangxiang's face. Your prick, straining against the material of your boxers, makes indirect contact with Qiangxiang's slobber-slick flesh. She goes instantly still. You jut your hips, back and forth, roughly rubbing your hardness against her. Rose, cooing and blushing, watches approvingly -- still holding Qiangxiang down. Qiangxiang turns her head this way and that as if trying to get away, but all it really does is smear the spit all around, plus now the dollops of precum seeping darkly through the cotton. The delicate oriental beauty of her face is getting all puffy and slimy. 

Finally, you let your cock free, pulling it through your fly. You pull your testicles out, too. Despite her disgust, panic, and outrage, in that moment, all of Qiangxiang's attention focuses squarely on the enormous fleshpole you've just presented to her. Her eyes cross and she stares up at it in pure awe. It casts a shadow over her head -- from your vantage, almost completely conceals her facial features. You squat a bit lower -- only a hair -- so that the sensitive underside of your shaft just barely touches the sharp edge of Qiangxiang's tiny nose. Her breaths become shallow, and rapid, but you know her nostrils are filling with your manly scent.

You let your prick hover over her like that, hard, and throbbing, leaking fuckslop all over her forehead and into the part of her hair. It's her turn to decide what she'll do next. For long moments, all she does is lie there, silent, staring. Smelling you. Letting you leak on her. Neither you nor Rose give her any direction or tell her what's going to happen next. You speak not a single syllable. 

Her breaths become shallower, her eyes go vacant. The heat of your prick, its huge veiny size, the stench of it, the way it marks her with its precum, is starting to melt her brain. Does she want it? Oh yeah. Finally, after what feels like forever, she gives in to her own need to be raped. She arches her back, and tilts her chin up -- parts her jaw, and licks you. 

Her little red tongue makes contact with your horny dick for only a fraction of a second. As soon as she does that, as soon as she unmistakably signals her own desire to get fucked by this fuckmeat of yours, you raise yourself off her face.

"No--!" Qiangxiang moans. A delayed moment later, her eyes bulge, and she gasps, as she realizes that she just begged you for it.

Rose's butt replaces your cock against her. She isn't close to as gentle as you were. She pulls her wet panties off and sits on her, bearing down. Those panties become a gag, too, that Rose shoves to the back of Qiangxiang's annoying mouth to keep it stuffed -- a degradation that makes her retch. Rose, naked from the waist down then, rests her full weight against Chloe's forehead. Behind her back, Rose continues to keep Qiangxiang's hands held securely with one of her own. 

Rose's pretty, puffy little innie of a pussy is so aroused that you can see a rare glimpse of her pink labia, blooming a little with how engorged they are. It only makes her cunt all the cuter. Her entire hairless crotch is shiny, her inner thighs too, and she's dripping all over Qiangxiang. Her arousal mixes with yours; Qiangxiang is your cumrag tonight.

You hold Rose by either thigh, down by her knees, to keep her plump legs spread. She undoes her bra, and tosses it aside -- such a pretty sight, her swaying, jiggly udders. You drink that sight in as you seat yourself to the hilt in the lovely confines of her twat. 

"Ungh," you moan deeply -- joined by her own, "ooooh..." A chorus of erotic enjoyment. 

As you begin to thrust inside your wife, you peer down. Qiangxiang, ruined and defeated, coated in slime, and gagged like a roasted pig with an apple, watches with bright eyes. You grope Rose's tits, enjoying the way her big pink nipples harden under your rough palms, and the way her fleshy body gives to every bit of pressure you apply. The swampy heat of her moist cunt is almost unbearable -- doing this to Qiangxiang with you has turned Rose on like little else. Her sticky insides are going to milk your load out soon. You're about to cum raw inside her, right above this vain girl's face who wants it so bad.

In the moment right before you burst, you remove the panties from Qiangxiang's mouth. Her lips pucker, as if trying to keep ahold of them, but she lets you take them. 

Staring down at her over the length of your thrusting penis, you smile cruelly. It's a wordless question, and one she answers, meekly:

"Please... I... do."

"Do what?" You grunt.

"I... do... want it."

Rose laughs at her. "Too bad," she grunts. You kiss her, and jab your tongue to the back of her small mouth, as your cock unloads its sperm in the very deepest parts of her pussy. She tenses, and cums hard against your spunking dick. Qiangxiang can only watch -- and feel your nuts throb rhythmically against her chin as you inseminate Rose.

When you dismount her, Rose wipes her pussy off with the panties that she used to gag Qiangxiang. She catches the majority of your creamy load in them, then wipes the excess from the edges of her reddened, fucked-out hole. Finally, she wads the soiled garment up, and sticks it in Chloe's mouth again. 

You dig through a bedside table and find what you suspected you would -- a roll of duct tape -- Kay and Noelle are a couple of kinky bitches. You use the duct tape to tie Qiangxiang's hands above her head the way Rose was holding them. You use another strip make sure the cummy panties stay firmly lodged in her mouth. 

"Sleep on it," you tell her. "Then let me know how bad you really want it, in the morning."

You leave with Rose, laughing, and go to the bathroom with her for a much-deserved bath in the indoor hot tub Samantha installed.

Whitney is there already, bathing, by herself -- arms looped over the edges. The blissful look on her face tells you that she's enjoying the tub's bubble-jet feature. Her eyes are closed, and she doesn't notice you two until you're climbing in with her. You and Rose, shin-deep in the hot water, stand on either side of her. She grins at you.

"Scoot," you command her.

"Heeeh," she laughs. "Don't wanna."

"Is that thing blowing up your ass?" Rose says, craning her neck.

"Ayep. Feels fucking awesome."

"Scoot," you tell her again, more firmly. 

Whitney points at you, and tells Rose: "See? He wants it up his butt. Prostate massage."

You shove her aside. 

"Hey! Assface!"

You settle in, sitting next to her. Rose sits too. 

"Are you pregnant yet?" Whitney asks her. "You two look like you've been fucking enough."

"We're working on it," Rose says.

(That might be the first time either of you have ever admitted it aloud.)

"Got any left in there for me?" Whitney asks, touching your dickhead with a forefinger beneath the surface.

"For you? Always."

"Awesome." She does a 180 and gets in your lap. Underneath the water, you're already slipping into her rubbery fuckslit. When you grab her by her legs and start to full-force hump up into her, she doesn't expect it. She drifts slowly backwards, through the water, until her spine is resting against the opposite edge of the tub. Her body is at a roughly 30 degree angle like this, just perfect for nailing her. She lets her eyelids drift closed again, the way they were when she was getting off with the bubble-jets, and lets you fuck her. Rose watches, and lazily masturbates.

Suddenly Whitney opens her eyes again. "Hey, cow-tits. Get over here. Let me soap you off while Ally screws me."

Rose is more than amenable to that, and wades over to Whitney. Whitney takes a bottle of non-foaming bodywash from the tub's rim, squirts a dollop into her hands, and starts to toy with Rose's huge jugs while you fuck. Whitney's hands work roughly, and lewdly. She comprehensively coat Rose's rippling fleshbags with the shiny liquid -- all over them and in between the cleavage, too. She can hide both her hands up to the wrists at the same time inside Rose's cleavage, which she does, repeatedly. Whitney would never admit it, but she's more than a bit jealous of how well-endowed Rose is, and she finds endless fascination in just playing with Rose's breasts.

You find fascination in Whitney's B-cups, too. Small but perky, and lots of fun to feel cupped beneath your palms. You rub them while you rut in her.

With all this fun going on, it would be easy to miss Qiangxiang standing at the threshold, hands still duct-taped in front of her, mouth still gagged. Her face is bruised and coated in drying cum. Her nightgown is ruffled and wrinkled and soiled. 

"Shit," Whitney squeaks, startling as she notices the intruder. "What happened to you? Did these pervs rape you?"

Qiangxiang shakes her head sadly.

"You look like you got raped," Whitney says. 

You slowly fuck in and out of her. Her pussy is tightening at the idea that you and Rose raped Qiangxiang.

Qiangxiang shakes her head again.

"She wouldn't admit how bad she wants it," Rose says. "So we held her down and fucked on top of her."

Whitney laughs. "That's so hot." She looks back at Qiangxiang. "So, do you want it now?"

Qiangxiang nods. 

Whitney's response is exactly the same as Rose's. "Too bad." 

She starts to buck her hips back against you, making splashy waves in the water. "I'm using his cock right now... it's real, real good, too. So big and hard and spongy... and it hits me in all these spots, way up deep inside... it kinda hurts, but that's what makes it feel so good. And it's so hot... and when it cums... it cums so much. It feels like it's gonna burn my womb up when he cums in me."

Qiangxiang is shaking like a leaf. She steps slowly up to the tub.

"Look at you," Whitney says. "You look like a slut."

She nods.

"I heard through the grapevine that you think lesbians are disgusting," Whitney says. "Is that true?"

Qiangxiang is still for a long moment. She nods again. Her eyes are simmering.

"Here's the deal," Whitney says. "I'll let Ally jizz on your face -- if you agree to eat my pussy after he's done. What do you say?"

She's still again for a much longer moment this time -- and then finally, an expression of complete resignation on her face, she nods.

When, a few moments later, you feel your nuts begin to tighten, you pull out of Whitney's lovely twat -- reluctantly -- and sit on the edge of the tub. From either side of you, Rose and Whitney jerk your cock off in tandem. They stroke your shaft expertly, corkscrewing their soft fingers around, teasing the springy head. It's not long before they coax out your second load of the night. Qiangxiang stands before you obediently, eyes fixed on the lewd scene, and lets it happen to her. With a guttural moan, you blow your load on her, and she doesn't flinch. Beneath her gag, you think you even see the barest hint of a smile, as you paint her face white with sloppy ropes of spunk. Maybe, in her own twisted way, she thinks it's a victory to get tied up and cummed on.

You've hardly finished cumming when Whitney claims her fee. She rips the duct tape viciously from Qiangxiang's mouth. She sees, then, the panties waded up in her mouth. "Whoaaaa... wicked. So fucking hot." 

She takes the panties out of Qiangxiang's mouth, and puts them to her own face. She holds them to her nose with both fists, and huffs deeply for a few long moments, enjoying the mixed scent of your cum, Rose's cream, and Qiangxiang's runny saliva. 

When she tires of that, she takes the utterly sodden, dirty garment, and puts it over her face like a mask, the crotch against her nose -- to wear like that while she forces Qiangxiang's cum-splattered face to her pussy. Qiangxiang, without the use of her hands, can do nothing but acquiesce. Whitney fucks her face. She rubs her cunt and asshole all around, and gets off hard all over her. Qiangxiang's little tongue is skilled at this task, and she scoops up all of Whitney's cream. Although she despises this, or claims to, she swallows it without protest. Whitney's cunt, mashing and rubbing against her, smears the jizz you deposited on her all around, as well -- and this ends up in the bowl of her tongue too, before sliding along with the rest of the slop, down her slender throat. 

When Whitney's done cumming on her, you all fully exit the tub and surround her. As she sits on her knees in between you, you take a piss on her. She smiles while you do it, catching the golden streams in her mouth until it fills completely, then swallowing, and catching more. The excess splashes all over her and makes the nightgown stick to her skin, turning transparent. It mats her hair and drips off her sharp facial features. It's nasty, and perverted, and the perfect capper to the torment you've just subjected her to. 

As you empty your bladders on her, her hand snakes up under her nightgown, and she begins to masturbate. With the way your piss has made her pajamas turn see-through, you can tell that she has no underwear on. But her tanning regimen has left her with some beautiful tanlines, describing the phantom contours of a tiny bra and a g-string. You piss in her hair, in her mouth, up her nose, and down her shirt, all three of you do; and when you're done, you wipe yourselves off on her face. You leave her there on the bathroom floor, in a puddle of cum and piss, still tied up -- Whitney gags her again, too -- to sleep and dream about the debauchment she just suffered. When she wakes up, she'll be a fully-fledged resident of the Nail House -- ready for the real fucking to come.

---

Rose2 lies across your lap on the couch, sucking you like a lollipop. And alternating that with sucking an actual lollipop. You idly watch TV, petting her (why did she feel the need to wear cat ears?), while she does all the work.

When Rose comes into the living room, stretching and yawning, she sees it. She freezes, growing indignant:

"Hey! You said I'd have first turn this morning!"

"You slept in," you tell her, shrugging.

Noelle, sitting beside you, smiles at her. "That's what you get for living like a disgusting NEET. Early bird catches the worm."

Rose trots hurriedly across the room and tries to get down on her knees in front of you, to force Rose2 to share. You push her back, though.

"Let Rosie have her turn," you say. "You got more than enough last night."

Rose, standing again, stomps angrily.

Rose2 pulls off of you, and grins smugly up at her, chin coated in saliva. "Rose wins," she says.

"Tch -- you little fucking -- I can't even believe --"

"Rose wins."

She resumes her task, as Rose storms out.

Noelle is already back to browsing the web on the thinkpad in her lap. "Excited?" She asks.

"I'm excited to blow my load in a few seconds," you say lewdly, bouncing a little.

"Not that, freak. Comiket."

You glance her way.

"Comiket's next week," she says.

"With everything -- you still want to go?" You say.

She shrugs. "Could be dead tomorrow. Might as well live life to its fullest."

You shake your head and channel surf some more as you enjoy Rose2's skilled mouth. As you flick through the stations, you wind up on the news. A reporter is broadcasting live from the gates of Darkbloom Analytics. The demonstration, now in its second day, is getting unruly. Protestors are setting little fires, banging drums and throwing stones. The network's reporter is on the roof of the parking garage across the street from the gates, which gives a nice vantage of things. Darkbloom Analytics looks like a medieval castle under siege, surrounded on all sides by a sea of humanity.

"...no clear indication of what their intentions might be. The White House, meanwhile, refuses to comment, saying only that it continues to work closely alongside Darkbloom Analytics on all matters that pertain to national security. But as you can see--"

The reporter suddenly stoops, clutching his earpiece to his head and holding his other hand out, the one holding his mic. He stumbles forward, out of frame, as gunfire rings out in the crowd below.

"Jim, get that, get that!" He yells to his cameraman.

The screen becomes a nausea-making whirl of indistinct motion before settling again on a view of the crowd. The image is blurry at first, as if through gauze, but refocuses a few moments later. And so that's when you can see it: police decked out in full riot gear, mowing down the screaming protestors. And they aren't using rubber bullets, no sir.

END OF EPISODE 11.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, ecchi sketchi bitchii booper and 1% robot 1%er.

---

"I miss ya, Whitney," Armstrong says. He drums his fingers on the restaurant's table.

She does her trademark wheeze laugh. "That's rich. I don't think a day went by without you saying to me--" (she lowers her voice as deep as it can go) "--'hurr durr hurr, you're the worst CEO in history.'"

Armstrong takes off his glasses and wipes them clean. "You ever hear that Churchill quote about -- you know what, I'll just assume you haven't. To paraphrase: Whitney Darkbloom is the worst possible CEO, except for all the others."

Whitney slurps her milkshake.

"Where's Cerise?" Armstrong asks. "I wanted to give her an attagirl for winning her seat. I'm surprised Vivian was able to manage her campaign so well in the final days..."

"She's at some weeaboo shit in San Fran with Ally and the others. Alex and me will be headed there too, after this."

Alex, next to her, nods.

"What, that comic book convention?" Armstrong asks.

"Ayep," Whitney says.

"The world's fucking falling apart here," Armstrong breathes. "I have to be choppered into work every day. Only our most absolute critical systems engineers and project devs are on-site, and they have to live inside the building, because it isn't safe for them to leave the gates. Russia's ten seconds away from invading Alaska, and Broad Dynamics is deliberately tanking the entire globe's tech sector in a temper tantrum over being cut off from Darkbloom Analytics. It's World Fucking War III, and you mean to tell me that you and your friends are going to a comic book convention?"

Whitney pulls her lips off her straw long enough to say: "Ayep."

Armstrong, appalled, and looking sort of queasy, shakes his head.

Kay, sitting with Armstrong on his side of the booth, says: "Let me guess. It was Noelle's idea."

"Of course," Whitney says.

"Stupid bitch," Kay huffs.

"Do you want to come, too?" Alex asks. "You've been cooped up at Darkbloom Analytics since the riots started -- it might be nice to get away for a while and hang out with us."

"Sorry," Kay says. "I gotta go back with Armstrong. Best to keep as many friends in as you can -- right?"

"Well, we'll tell Noelle you said hi," Alex says.

"I didn't say hi to that stupid bitch," Kay gripes.

Whitney winks. "Sure. Gotcha."

Armstrong takes some paperwork from the satchel at his foot and slides it across the sticky table. "Well, it's your lucky day. The army doesn't want to deal with running a failing ice cream chain in addition to managing the end of civilization as we know it. So they're handing Shake 'Em Up back to you. Plus a bunch of other random shit from your old portfolio. Darkbloom Analytics is undiversifying, and you get to keep all the junk. Congrats. I guess."

"Awesome," Whitney says. She calls to a passing waitress: "Hey Mavis, get this man a shake on me." Then, only after lodging an order does she glance back to Armstrong, and ask: "what do you like?"

"I don't want a milkshake."

"He'll take a vanilla shake with caramel."

"My name isn't Mavis," the woman tells Whitney.

"Can you get him a shake or not?" Whitney says.

"Coming right up."

Alex rifles through the paperwork. "Wow," he says, "I didn't expect them to give us *Chan back."

"They're laser-focused here," Armstrong says. "They don't want to manage anything other than Sand Reckoner. But I really shouldn't say much more. I don't want to end up in goddamn Guantanamo Bay."

Forms and waivers get signed and co-signed, and files change hands. In the back-and-forth, Alex surreptitiously passes a note to Armstrong. Such an analog bit of trickery, a sleight-of-hand that any watchers watching would easily miss. Contained in that note are ciphered instructions, intended for Nelson, on how to finish the critical components of Diogenes. And what to do when he's done. Armstrong, who didn't expect to be passed a secret message, takes the note without missing a beat and stows it in his satchel for safekeeping. While he finishes half his unwanted milkshake, he and Kay exchange some final pleasantries with Whitney and Alex, and then they bid one another farewell.

---

"What do you mean you don't want to wait in line?" Noelle says.

"What do you mean what do I mean?" You sputter. "Who wants to wait in line?"

"At Comiket?" Noelle says. "That's part of the experience!"

You lean way off to one side, to peer around the man directly in front of you, whose head is a giant foam P obscuring your view. The line extends all the way to the end of the block and then around the corner. The entrance of the convention center is a five minute walk from here, and the sea of con-goers milling through means that you'd be waiting for a good four or five hours if you stood your ground. It's unseasonably cold in San Francisco today, and seasonably foggy. You don't exactly want to wait around all wet and frigid when you have a golden ticket to the head of the line.

Cerise echoes that sentiment. "Waiting is for chumps. We've got VIP passes." You can see her breath when she speaks -- god, it's so cold.

"You've got VIP passes," Noelle says. "Us hoi polloi don't."

"Hoi polloi?" Rose2 says. She's bundled beneath a thick down parka, plus mittens, and booties. Half her face is covered by her scarf. As plump as she is, she has zero tolerance for cold. "Is that Japanese?"

"There's no L in Japanese, you dumb--" Noelle begins, but stops herself. "It means commoners."

"Silly," Rose2 says. "I'm not a commoner! If I was a commoner, would I have a billionaire's sperm inside me right now?"

Noelle chokes and blushes.

"That VIP pass was a birthday present from my sister-in-law," Cerise says. "I'd be--"

"Congresswoman Soliloquy?!" A group of guys who look a bit more professional than most of the anime fans here -- like day traders on a brunch break, in button-down shirts and trousers -- come strolling up. "Wow, it really is. You are such an inspiration. Can we get a--"

As if materializing from an alternate dimension, your security steps to, and warns them back. "The congresswoman isn't taking photos today."

"But-- but we--" one of the guys begins.

"Please step away."

Scared, they comply.

"Fuck, I need to go incognito," Cerise says. "All the more reason to use my pass. And like I was saying -- it would be ungrateful of me if I didn't use the birthday gift that my lovely, amazing, best-sister-in-law-on-Earth gave me."

"Of course," Rose says. "And I would be just utterly crestfallen if my stupendous, upstanding, kindhearted sister-in-law spurned that gift..."

"Ham it up some more," Noelle says, frowning.

Grinning, Rose and Cerise loop their arms over one another's shoulders.

The line inches forward two steps. This is fucking torture. Of course a career bureaucrat like Noelle would get jazzed about waiting in an orderly queue.

"Where's Gal?" Noelle asks. "I thought she was coming with us too."

"She's helping Mom," you say.

"...With?"

"They've got a--" You begin.

"Let it be a surprise," Cerise says.

You shrug. Noelle, frustrated, sighs.

"If you didn't want to wait," she says, "you shouldn't have come so early. You can get in right away by noon. That's what Vivian's doing."

"Yeah, and all the good shit's gonna be sold out by then," Cerise says. "Of course Vivian doesn't care. She's not in this for the merch. She just wants to fuck up some bitch from her Lolita circle."

"That's the eternal quandary of Comiket," Noelle counters. "Go early and wait, or go late and miss the good stuff."

"No quandary here. I have official permission to cut the line. I'd be an idiot not to use it. Later, bitchface."

She strolls off.

"The only one she's hurting is herself," Noelle says sadly. "She'll never have the true Comiket experience."

"Sounds like the rationalization of someone forced to wait in a really long line," you say.

She shoves you.

Rose glances your way. "I'm heading in, too. Coming, dear?"

"Just a sec, honey," you say.

Noelle mimes puking. (Rose2, amused by the game, joins her.)

"Hey, you told us to ham it up some more," you chide.

"Don't blame me when the memories you make today are deficient," Noelle says.

[ ] Use your pass to cut in early with Cerise and Rose.
>[x] Stay in line with Noelle and Rose2.

You hand Rose one of the the two bags that you've been toting around. It's got her gear in it -- she's part of a contest later on. Your own bag you keep for yourself.

"You're not coming?" She asks.

Noelle can hardly hide the smile on her face.

"I've said it once, and I'll say it again," you tell her. "I'm not an anime convention guy. I never wanted to go to this stupid thing. You guys are forcing me. The longer I can delay actually walking through those doors, the better."

Rose is unamused. "I swear to god, Alabaster. If I hear that you got your dick sucked by either one of these girls while you waited in line, I'll bite it off."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" You say. "Do you actually think I'm incapable of going a few hours without sex?"

Her silence is deafening. And not even Noelle or Rose2 rush to your defense.

---

You sip a juice box. Rose2 handed it to you a few minutes ago, and although you're probably even less of a juice box guy than you are an anime convention guy, you can't deny that you're thirsty. Staying hydrated is important, right?

In an hour, the line has advanced less than a block. Your feet hurt. Your ears are numb. You wanna go home and fuck your bunny.

At least you're not one of the leagues of even less lucky people queuing up behind you.

Noelle peers at the map of the con, circling the tables she wants to go to. You notice that she seems to be conspicuously routing herself to avoid the Touhou section. Oil and water, her and Rose.

Rose2 is less discerning. She intends to mostly just wander around aimlessly to look at all the sugoi merchandise. There's only a handful of eroge devs that she has any specific interest in seeing.

And you? You've got some interest in certain R-18 materials, but that's all.

Rose2 burps slightly as she sips her own juice box.

"Ugh," Noelle says.

"Gomen."

"Ugh."

"I'm surprised," you muse. You hand Rose2 your empty carton of juice, which she crumples, and puts in her purse. "I thought for sure you'd be cosplaying too."

"I was gonna," Rose2 says. "But Viv-tan wanted me to wear some Lolita with her! She's bringing a change of clothes with her."

Rose2 in a GothLoli getup. Now there's an image to give you pause.

You glance down at the map Noelle is working on. "KanColle, KanColle, KanColle..." you say. "I didn't know you were such a big fan."

"Not particularly," Noelle says, "but there's some good doujin circles for it."

"I see," you say, waggling your eyebrows.

"Grow up."

"Ohhh admiral," you whine in a high-pitched voice. "You're turning this warship into a bitch!"

She jabs you with her elbow. "Ass. I told you that I exclude the ugly bastard tag, didn't I?"

"Gunboats can't love gunboats," you warn her.

"Says who?"

The line inches forward.

You knock on Vivian's door with your toe, and enter at the same time. You're carrying a tray, packed full of nutritious shit that Vivian likes to eat: toast slathered with strawberry jam, eggs cooked over-easy, and some fresh kiwi. There's a plate here for you, too: cheesy scrambled eggs with bacon, bacon, and a side of bacon, with extra bacon.

Hands occupied as they are, you have to open the door with your butt. The glasses of orange juice slosh around and threaten to spill.

Vivian stirs, flops to her side, and finally rises. She's still groggy, and rubbing the sand from her eyes.

"What is the meaning of this?" She mumbles.

"Breakfast in bed," you say. "Isn't that obvious?"

"...But why?"

You shrug. "I 'unno. I was making myself something to eat and thought I'd do you a solid. Since you'll be in the land of weeaboo assholes soon and all. Figured you could use a breakfast of champions to keep your strength up."

You set the tray down. But there's an unwelcome third. As you crawl into bed with her, the covers shift, and you see Johann the penguin. Vivian is still sleeping with it.

"Goddamn it," you say.

"Do not be like that," Vivian says. "I keep him in here because he would hardly like to be anywhere near the libertine activities going on at all times elsewhere in the house. What else would you have me do with him?"

"You don't have to sleep all cuddled up with him," you say.

"It was my request," Darkbloom says. "Do not be angry at Vivian."

Regardless of whose idea it was, you want him out of here. You pick Johann up by his head, march out into the hall, and dropkick him over the banister. You hear a squeak from down below: Samantha saying, "oh! Mr. Darkbloom! Why are you flying around like that?"

Darkbloom replies, "Good god, woman, are you perpetually nude?"

As you shut the door and turn again towards Vivian, she nods, and says: "My point has thus been proved."

"Who cares about that asshole," you say. "Anyway, it's for his own good. This place is about to get a little libertine too."

You get back into the bed with her. She smiles warmly as you crawl towards her on hands and knees. You stroke her face, and she kisses you. Even her morning breath is sweet.

"So," you say. "Do you want breakfast first, or a bath? Or..."

The Moscone Center is hardly Tokyo Big Sight. It doesn't have the same striking visual appeal, and as a result -- although you suppose the space is larger -- it doesn't look nearly as grand. Its squat, mostly glass facade and blandly curvy architecture are a bit too reminiscent of the sensibilities of the Darkbloom Analytics campus. But maybe it's something else reminding you. While you've been waiting in line all morning, many of people in the crowd have spoken in worried tones about the rioting in Palo Alto, which centers itself around DBA -- wondering whether any of that violence will spread to today's events. You try to put those thoughts out of mind, but can't.

Whitney shows up, out of fucking nowhere. You startle when she sidles up to you. "Warn me," you tell her.

"Whoaaa," she croons. She casts an appreciative nod at the guy with the giant P for a head in front of you. "Sweet costume."

Mr. P turns around and cocks his P head. Whitney, grinning, gives him a thumbs-up.

Meanwhile, Alex, accompanying her, gently says hello to you, and the two of you hug. It would be a nice moment, if not for Rose2 obnoxiously squeeing in the background.

At her insistence, Whitney and Mr. P take a selfie together. Mr. P never says a word.

Plenty of other people do, though. Whitney can't show her face in public without being recognized. Just as security rebuffed people wanting to get close to Cerise, they rebuff people wanting to get close to Whitney; but unlike Cerise, Whitney is unconcerned with safety. She takes several more grinning selfies with several other surprised convention goers, against the strong advice of your guards.

"I wish you'd be more serious in places like this," Noelle fusses.

"Don't be such a wet blanket." She hands the most recent fan's phone back to him, and as he walks away, she tells you: "That's a /wdbg/ user if I ever saw one."

"What gave him away?" You ask.

"The dick-cheesy smell, the way he wouldn't look me in the eye, the way he hover-handed me..." She rolls her eyes to the back of her head, staring at the sky, thinking back. "OH! And the way he kept telling me to 'zoom' in. Of course, I refused." She looks back down at you, laughing. "Can't zoom the Darkbloom, bitches."

Alex laughs. "You're so much nicer to your fans than Cerise is."

"Well I should be. I'm like the least popular woman in America. The few people who do like me need to be encouraged."

"No one like that needs to be encouraged," Noelle says.

"You're just mad there's no /nkg/," Whitney says.

"If there's one thing I'll never be mad about, it's that."

Whitney chortles. Then, realizing something, she adds: "Oh! Kay was with Armstrong at the meeting this morning. She wanted me to tell you hi. She misses you!"

Noelle's eyes twinkle and she's mute for a beat, before she catches herself. She huffs. "That dumb bitch? Well, I don't say hi back."

Whitney winks. "Sure. I gotcha."

Once you're finally at the convention floor, you break off from Noelle, Rose2, Alex and Whitney. "I gotta go get changed," you tell them. "Meet back up at the food court in an hour?"

"Mr. Not A Convention Guy," Noelle hums. "Sure. Go get changed into your costume."

You click your tongue against your palate, but you don't have a comeback.

The truth is that you were shanghaied into this by Rose, who didn't want to enter the contest by herself. But you're putting minimal effort into it. She can make you participate, but she can't make you try!

You search along one of the far walls for the bathrooms. The women's room is open, but the entrance to the men's room is tarped off, and barriered by caution tape. A workman tells you that they're doing renovations, so the bathroom on this side of the convention floor isn't open to the public. He directs you clear to the other side of the venue. Great, more delays.

Grumbling, you push and trudge your way through the crush of humanity filling the entire floor. You pass table after table, and it seems almost as if it was purposely planned for tables of Japanese sellers to alternate with American sellers. This is truly a cross-cultural experience. Despite yourself, some of the covers of the doujin on display catch your eye, and you have to resist stopping to window shop. You're not going to have any fun here, even if it kills you. Anyway, the lines at almost every table are already over-long, with people jockeying to get closer, and you don't want to deal with all that headache.

You get to the nearest open bathroom, and change into your cosplay.

---

"I should depart," Vivian says, pulling her panties back over her slender legs and ass. You watch her from the covers, the way she bends over, the way her pale skin shines in the sunlight, the way she spreads open a little bit when she stretches.

"Don't let any otakus fuck you," you tell her.

"It is far too late for that," Vivian says in mock sadness. Wearing only those frilly black panties, she sits down at her vanity, clicks the lights around the mirror on, and begins to do her makeup.

"Well don't let any other otakus fuck you, then," you say.

She stops applying mascara, and peers at you through the reflection. "Oh? And what will you do if I have a fling with someone else?"

"I'll be forced to whip to you."

"Then I should certainly have a fling, no?"

You sigh. "Then I'll be forced to not whip you. How's that?"

She resumes putting on her mascara. "You are so over-serious, Amber. I would hardly put at risk my use of your holes to traipse around with the human detritus at Comiket. It would be like trading a Ferrari for a rusty bicycle."

"That's all I am to you?" You say. "Holes?"

"No, of course not," Vivian says. "I love you so madly I can barely contain myself when I am around you. Your holes are only three very good reasons of millions."

"Boy, do you have a way with words."

She clacks open a compact of foundation and begins to swab it onto her face. "Would you like to accompany me?"

"Renee was feeling pretty drunk and lonely yesterday," you say. "She wanted me to go out with her today. If I don't do it, she'll be stuck here with a horny bunny, and you know how that always turns out."

"Have you told Ms. Carte that she cannot have you -- that you belong to me, and me alone?"

"No."

"Please disabuse her of any notions to the contrary. It is entirely unfair to lead her on."

[ ] Go to Comiket with Vivian.
>[x] Go on a date with Renee, Samantha, and Chloe.

As you make your way to the food court, you get intercepted by your lovely older sister. She whacks you over the top of the head with something hard.

"Ow! What the -- Jesus fuck, that hurts. What the hell was that?" You rub the fast-developing welt on the back of your head.

"There you are!" Cerise shouts as you turn to face her. "Why on Earth did you choose to wait in line when you've got a VIP pass?"

"Because I'm incapable of accepting gifts from Rose. Acquiescing to her graciousness is as good as groveling at her feet."

"You don't like groveling at her feet?"

You make a face. "You wouldn't understand."

"Well?" Cerise asks. "What do you think of my cosplay? Am I gonna win the contest or what?"

You squint. "...Cosplay?"

"Yeah!"

"You're not wearing cosplay."

She whacks you again.

"Jesus!" You howl. "What the fuck is that?"

You stomp her foot. Yowling now herself, she jumps back, and whacks you a third time. The two of you are about to get into a fistfight right here on the convention floor, but she de-escalates?:

"You don't recognize me? I'm Touka Takanashi -- from Chuunibyou." She wags her ladle back and forth for effect. "Only the coolest older sister ever."

You shake your head. "Rikka was way cuter."

She's a fucking deadeye with that ladle. She nails you again, this time square in your forehead. You can see the deep red mark it leaves when you cross your eyes.

"Admit it," you tell her, still wincing in pain. "You picked that character so you could just wear your normal clothes, give yourself a cowlick, carry around a ladle, and call it a day. You're not putting in any effort at all."

"So what?" Cerise says. "At least I'm actually cosplaying."

"What do you mean? So am I."

"No you aren't."

"Yes, I am! You don't recognize me?" You hold your arms wide, and stomp. "I'm Hachiman Hikigaya -- from Teen Romcom Snafu. One of the best, most complex MCs in recent years."

Cerise rolls her eyes. "Kill me," she says. "And you have the audacity to tell me that I chose my character to avoid putting in effort? But you would choose 8man, wouldn't you, you weepy fuck."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You snarl.

"S-something..." she stutters, feigning oncoming tears. "S-something... genuine..."

You're about to get into it again when Rose shows up, to save you both from yourselves.

"Da ze~!"

"Oh my god," you say, appalled.

Rose's face sours. "Hey! I put a lot of effort into this! The least you could do is compliment me!"

"I always knew you'd become a witch," you say.

She shoves you. "Ass! And when are you gonna get changed, huh?"

"Goddamn it. Why can't anyone tell that this is my cosplay?"

"You're not wearing cosplay," Rose says.

"Yes, I am!"

She shakes her head.

"I'm Hachim-- forget it. The contest isn't even for another few hours anyway."

Rose folds her arms. "Right. So what do you want to do in the meantime?"

>[x] Touhou doujins with Rose!
[ ] Electronics with Cerise!
[ ] Check in with Gal and Mom!
[ ] Browse questionable material with Alex!
[ ] Annoy Noelle!

When you come downstairs, Charlotte is in a semi-involved conversation with Renee.

"...told her that costume was absolutely ridiculous, but she thinks it'll impress the two most important men in her life."

"Who?"

"Alabaster, and that Japanese man who makes those toohoo games she loves."

Renee cackles. When she sees you strolling into the kitchen, she nods at you. "Hey, Amber. You sleep with those lovebirds enough. Tell me, do you think Rose would gussy herself all up to impress Alabaster?"

"Oh yeah, absolutely," you say. "She's as smitten as a kitten." You grab a coke from the fridge. Renee cackles again.

"I heard you two are going on a little date of sorts," Charlotte says.

"Yep. Wanna come, Mommy?"

Charlotte turns a spectacular red. What aroused her in the throes of the wedding ceremony, now embarrasses her in the harsh light of day.

When she regains herself, she says: "I would, but I'm supposed to go help Scarlett with her little mission today."

"What mission?"

Charlotte puts a finger to her lips, and winks. "Top secret."

"Your funeral," you tell her. You guzzle your drink.

"Do you mind if Sammy comes?" Renee asks.

"You're hopelessly addicted," you say. "Aren't you."

"She asked to be included!" Renee says. "It would be cruel to say no, wouldn't it?"

You begin to reply, but Chloe comes into the kitchen. She's as naked as the day she was born. Despite yourself, you can't help admiring the way her darker skin tone fails to extend past the edges of the micro-bikini she must have been wearing when she was tanning. Only her breasts and her mound, plus a few lines around her back and hips, are still ghostly pale.

"Dear, you seem to have forgotten your clothes," Charlotte tells her.

"Is this not how people conduct themselves in this house?" Chloe says. She pushes past you, and takes a pitcher of filtered water from the fridge. Nonchalant as can be.

"You might get felt up if you go around like that," you warn her.

"So be it. I am resigned to my sorry fate."

"Resigned, or inviting it?" Renee asks.

She sips her water glass.

"You're cracking up," Charlotte says. "Poor thing."

You giggle. "Your daughter is a big part of the reason why she's like this. You know that, right?"

"I know nothing," Charlotte says, winking.

"We do need get you out of the house," Renee tells Chloe. "Wanna go grab a bite to eat?"

"Will I need to dress?"

"Since we'll be in public..." Renee says. "...Maybe. I'll leave it up to you."

Chloe actually takes a moment to consider it.

---

The Japanese mangaka bows deeply, repeatedly, and rapidly as Rose proffers the cash. Rose takes the book from his outstretched hands. It's some sappy lovey-dovey series of 4koma about Marisa teasing Reimu.

"Don't bow to her," you tell the artist. "It'll just go to her head. Trust me."

She jabs you in the ribs.

"You are the best Marisa!" He tells her. "You look just like her!"

"Da ze~," she says.

"Would you please stop doing that?" You ask her. "It creeps me out."

The mangaka bows to her again. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"I'm trying to get into my role," she tells you, carefully placing the book in her bag as if it's a cherished treasure, looping the bag's straps back over her shoulder, and continuing on. You follow beside her. "Honestly, Alabaster. If all you wanted to do was whine, you should have gone and done something else."

"I like Touhou too," you say. "It's only natural that I'd want to visit this section."

"You still can't clear a single game on normal."

"Touhou is so much more than just the games. You know that. Don't give me that shit."

She rolls her eyes.

You're headed towards the next table on Rose's itinerary, but it's slow going with all the people who accost her and ask to take her picture. She really does look perfect -- not that you'd admit it aloud. She poses with the broom between her legs, smiling toothily; or holding her enormous hat in front of her, and winking -- that sort of thing. It seems like she relishes the chance to play a character who's rough around the edges, unrefined and not very feminine.

You stop at a table selling R-18 doujins. Now this is more your speed. Rose only notices you aren't still following along after a couple paces, and has to backtrack.

"Alabaster -- god."

You hold up one whose cover shows a frightened Marisa with torn clothes, surrounded by a bunch of cruel faceless men in a bathroom. "Just so you know, this is what most guys here are thinking of when they look at you."

She makes a disgusted tch.

You turn the book back over in your hand, and examine it. "Man, this looks pretty hot. I hope someone scans it." You glance back up to find that that the artist knows English well enough to be displeased by that comment. "Uh, and I'll buy it too," you add.

This assuages his bad mood.

"Don't," Rose tells you. "I'm not here for porn, Alabaster."

"So?" You say. "I am. And anyway -- your bookmarks tell me otherwise. Between the two of us, I'm definitely not the one who's masturbated the most to Touhou porn."

She exhales. "Tell the whole world why don't you! Goddamn it, Alabaster--"

You hand the man some cash and flip shamelessly through the book while you follow Rose from table to table. You can't understand the kanji, but you don't need to; the hardcore public use it depicts is a universal language.

Although you're in the middle of the most public space imaginable, perusing this hardcore doujin is having the expected effect on you. The blood is leaving your brain, and migrating south for the winter. Marisa is far from your favorite 2hu, but seeing her get raped over and over (and over and over) has undeniable appeal. Casting your view from the black-and-white panels up towards your buxom wife, you make the obvious mental connection. Even under that audacious costume of hers, her hips are well defined, and sway with every step she takes; her tits jiggle. This conference hall is over-warm from the body heat of tens of thousands of people, and Rose is feeling it: her forehead shines with sweat that she wipes with the back of her palm. You can only imagine how damp she is with perspiration under her layers of clothes.

You fire a quick text to Gal asking if she can meet you at a certain spot during one of her breaks, and she replies immediately in the affirmative -- never one to deny Sir. Her talents are going to come in handy. Having arranged the festivities, you put the plan into action. You buy a decorative headband from one of the tables that you pass, one that bears the image of Alice Margatroid in the midst of a mind-shattering ahegao. Rose stops to register her disapproval in the bitchiest way she can. She hurls insults and recriminations at you. But you don't dignify her with a response. You just calmly and wordlessly slip your new headband over her face, using it as a blindfold. 

"How dare you!" She hollers as she reaches for it. You grab hold of her wrists and stop her from removing it. She kicks against you, tries to pull away -- but you fend off her feeble attempts to escape. 

You're drawing eyes, though, from the throngs of attendees swimming past. So you whisper to her as firmly as you can: "Stop fighting or I'll really make you suffer, Rose."

"I'll scream," she warns you.

"No you fucking won't. If you scream, I'll beat you bloody."

Her lips quiver. "I... can't even. I can't even believe you. First you buy that *disgusting* porn book, then this demeaning piece-of-shit headband -- and now you do this. You repulsive freak. Can't have one nice day out without trying to fucking rape me, can you. Pig."

Although she lobs these accusations, she doesn't fight you anymore. To the people passing by, it looks like a bit of master-slave roleplay conducted in public. She stands there letting you hold her wrists, blindfolded and trembling, while you gaze sternly back at her.

"You've been awfully mouthy today," you say. "I don't want to rape you. I want to teach you a lesson."

She hocks a loogie, and spits it on your face. Disgusted, you take her hat and use it to wipe your face clean -- before setting it back on her head. She shudders. You tell her, quite simply: "you're going to really regret that one," before rudely tugging her by the hands, and forcing her to follow you. Blindfolded, and without control of her arms, she lacks coordination, and stumbles as she tries to keep up.

"Al-Alabaster... stop -- you're going too fa--"

"Shut the fuck up," you growl.

"You--!! You nasty, chauvinist piece of trash -- what are you -- uff-- where are you -- what are gonna do, huh? Gonna do something disgusting to me right here in the middle of the con? I'll make you pay ten times as much, the second I--"

You stop, somewhere near the section for virtual Youtubers, and pull her body close to yours. Sellers and buyers alike gawk. 

"Let's see whether you followed your normal habits today here, too," you muse. You stoop to reach the hem of her dress where it comes to her ankles. Snaking your hand under it, you stand again, and run your fingertips across the contours of her supple thigh meat. As you expected, the interior of her dress is swampy with her perspiration and body heat. And also as you expected, she isn't wearing panties. "You fucking whore," you tell her as you tickle her slit.

"Fuck you."

"I'm gonna take you into the men's bathroom, Rose, and get you properly raped."

"W...What?" She says, a catch developing in her voice.

"I'm gonna sell your mouth for five dollars a pop, and your lower holes for ten. All these otaku shitstains you like to look down on? You'll be their private cum dumpster today."

Rose is having a full-blown panic attack. "You-- cannot be serious -- you would never--"

"Watch me. Or actually, don't." You tug her by the wrists again, and cruelly start dragging her towards the fate that awaits her.

"Alabaster..."

"Don't worry. I'll charge a buck extra if they want to go in without a condom."

"Alabaster!"

You ignore her.

"Tenderness!" She wails.

You stop instantly, turn, and pull her close. You lift the blindfold from her eyes. They're bulging, and full of tears. She's shivering like she got stranded in the arctic, her little chin jittering. 

You kiss her softly. Her eyes drift shut as she lets you do it. And when you pull away, she seems capable, at least, of breathing again.

You nod once, slowly, eyes locked to hers. "Trust me."

She calms her fit of shivering over the course of a long half-minute. Swallowing hard, she sighs, and manages: "I trust you."

"Okay?" 

She nods.

You slip the blindfold back over her eyes and pick up where you left off. 

Toting her behind you like a unruly child, you receive no shortage of strange looks. Some are appreciative, some reproachful; you get catcalls of all kinds. Rose begs and pleads you to stop, but doesn't deploy that word again. Among all the cosplayers here, she has to be one of the cutest, and you know that your little BDSM exhibit is turning on every geek and asperger-suffering weeaboo here. Man and woman alike.

Outside the entrance to the bathroom, Gal is already waiting. But she's brought unexpected, frankly unwelcome guests. 

Whitney flashes you a thumbs-up, and jerks her head in the direction of the workmen who are just trotting away. She must have done the dirty work of paying them off -- so that's why Gal invited her. She wasn't comfortable performing bribery on her own. That explains that -- but why are Alex and Noelle waiting around, too? Why is Alex dressed like a cheap prostitute? And who the fuck invited Rose2?

The mouth of the men's bathroom is tucked past a little dividing wall, opposite the entrance to the women's bathroom. The setup allows you all to slip in without notice when the coast is clear. As you thought, the facility is pristine since it hasn't been used at all today. Some of the stall walls are ripped apart, the toilets uninstalled, with various tools lying out and pipework jutting up. But Rose can see none of that. She can just feel the chilly air in here, hear the echoing of footsteps, and then -- for effect, you flush one of the urinals. All she knows right now is that she's in a public bathroom.

Gal plays her role to a tee -- she'd make an excellent improv comedy partner. Adopting a plausibly masculine, albeit nasally and weirdly Canadian voice, she tells you: "Hey buddy, I think you got the wrong bathroom. The girl's room is two doors down."

"Alabaster, please--!" Rose cries.

You force her to her butt in front of one of the urinals. Noelle is already on top of things -- she binds Rose's wrists to the chrome pipework above her head. Rose becomes a sniveling, pleading mess, and to shut up her up before she brings unwanted attention, you take off one of her long white socks, ball it up, and shove it in her mouth. She retches. Payback's a bitch.

"I'll go find some paying customers," you tell her, testing the tightness of the knots. But of course, Noelle is an expert hand, and the knots don't give a millimeter. Rose tries to say something through her gag, but it only makes her... well, gag. She's so cute when she struggles.

You leave, and let her wait in frightened anticipation of what's to come. Outside the bathroom, you demand to know why so many people showed up.

"I couldn't let you dorks have all the fun without me!" Whitney says. "It's been too long since I got a good rape in."

"We were with Gal when you texted," Noelle says. "Of course, I'm always down for some police brutality when it comes to that fat pigbitch Rose Mallory."

"Rose Soliloquy," you say, internally frustrated that this is becoming a instinctual tic every bit as strong as "once removed." You turn Alex's way: "Why are you dressed like... like that?"

He's got on denim shorts cut hyper-low, long white leggings and tennis shoes. Plus suspenders and a crop top that ends just below his chest. 

"I'm Misty!" He says.

"You look like a fucking slut," you note -- not insultingly, just stating an obvious fact.

"I'm slutty Misty," he corrects.

"Super cute," Whitney says. "Makes me wanna finger his butthole."

Alex blushes.

You can guess whose idea "slutty Misty" was, then. 

"And what are you doing here?" You demand of Rose2.

"I'm here to rape Rose! A-durr. Did you really think I'd miss out on the chance to beat *her* up?" 

Whitney pulls a bag from her shoulder and opens it. It's full of enormous, veiny, lifelike dildos. "Vivian brought us her stash from back home. I got ahold of her right before she left. Lucky timing!"

Rose2 reaches in and tries to pull one out. Noelle slaps her hand away. "Could you not? Right out here in the open? Idiot."

"Gomen." 

"GOD." Noelle spins on her heels and retreats to the bathroom.

"Be quiet in there, guys," you tell them. "Gal and I will do all the talking."

Rose2 salutes you. "Hai!"

Inside the bathroom, Noelle is already pulling her pants off. The jangle of her belt buckle and the unzipping of her zipper make Rose's breath go jagged. She strains against her binding. Sprawled on the tile floor, legs splayed and wrists tied, she's 100% open for use.

"How much again?" Gal asks, in the voice of a wheedling nerd.

"With a rubber, 5 for the mouth or 10 for either of her bottom two fuckholes."

"Dollars? That's it?"

"Yep."

"Whoa..." Gal says. Then she adopts the piggish cadence of a fat otaku, and throws her voice to her left as if by magic: "huhuh... do we *have to* use a condom?"

"She really doesn't want you to do her raw... but for another dollar, I could look the other way."

Rose shakes her head violently from side to side, arching her back, trying in vain to escape.

The other girls are already strapping on their plastic cocks. Vivian, the pervert, owns only dildos that ejaculate -- she so loves to get blasted with sperm deep in her womb -- so this experience is going to be steeped in verisimilitude. Among other things.

Alex doesn't need a fake cock, of course. All he has to do is tug down his barely-there shorts, and kick them away, to bare a pretty dick that's already erect and drooling precum. He keeps the leggings and shoes, ditto the suspender straps and crop top. Somehow it makes him look lewder than if he'd just gotten naked.

"11 bucks to fuck her raw?" Gal asks.

"Sure."

"I can cum inside her?"

"Of course. Why else would you fuck her raw?"

Gal throws her voice again and says: "6 bucks for a raw throat-fuck, right?"

"Yes."

"I'll buy that -- I've always wanted to fuck a girl's throat..."

You take the sock from Rose's mouth. It's coated in her own drool, and when you pull it away, she gasps for fresh air. "A-Alabaster! Please, don't do this! You told me to trust you! You TOLD meee--"

You free your cock from your fly, kneel down before her, and hike her dress up. Her bare, sticky pussy is out in the open, not the slightest hint of hair on it even under these harsh fluorescent lights. Gal provides commentary: 

"Whoooa... she's going nopan and all."

"Fuck you!" Rose screams at the stranger she thinks is exposing her. "You dumb piece of shit! Get away from me! GET AWAY! This pussy doesn't belong to you, you worthless fat sack of shit! You--"

You slap her hard, across the face. She reels. Her rage turns instantly, then, to despair, and she begins to cry pitifully. Her shoulders and chest both heave. "Alabaster... make them stop... please... pleeeeaseee... don't do this to me..."

"Stupid bitch," Gal says. "I can't wait to punch my V card in your cumdump pussy."

"No... noooo... it isn't yours -- you can't do this to me -- Alabaster -- PLEASE -- t-tend--"

You shove your cock into her. Her spine goes rigid, like she just got tazed. Her wrists pull against the red rope, leaving equally red striations in her flesh there. She clamps her pussy muscles tight, as if in a last-ditch effort to bar you entry. But your thrusting hips and battering-ram of a member are far too strong. She isn't really wet at all: the only thing to help you slide home is some residual arousal from when you were molesting her earlier, and the dampness of her sweat. But as you settle your horny prick into her, and Gal moans like a 20-something virgin finally getting his dick wet, Rose suddenly goes still and quiet. 

She lies there in mute motionlessness, tied up, your hands keeping her thighs spread, as you begin to hump.

"That's right, bitch, you love my cock, don't you?" Gal snarls.

Whitney steps up, her plastic cock strapped across her own bare pussy, and starts to whack Rose's face lewdly with the prickhead. Noelle, on Rose's other side, mirrors this.

But Rose isn't paying attention to the dick-abuse her face is taking. She's "looking" -- directing what would be her line of sight, were it not blotted out -- to the spot where your cock is stabbing in and out of her twat. Her tears stop flowing, and her cunt starts to drip. All at once her internal walls are turning on, loosening up and softening, getting damp, and slimy, and hot. You stop having to force your way into her body because her body is accepting you. You glide in and out of her cunt like always, your slippery dick getting all warm and lubed from her arousal. She doesn't say what she's thinking. But you have an idea. You've fucked her hundreds and hundreds of times by now -- she knows what it feels like.

"This bitch has an amazing pussy!" Gal barks. "Oh god, this is heaven! Can I really cum inside?"

Gal answers her own question, in the voice of another would-be gang-rapist: "Yeah! Nut inside her, man!"

Rose would be staring right into your eyes, were it not for that blindfold. You stare back and unload inside her. You fire off thick, cloying ropes of smelly semen, right into Rose's steamy pussy. Her jaw parts, and she moans deeply from the back of her throat. 

"Unghh..." she heaves. "No... noooo... this hole isn't for you... it's my husband's..."

Even as she says this, she's cumming hard against you.

"Suck me," Gal growls. 

Whitney uses that as her cue to jam her dildo down Rose's mouth. She holds the top of Rose's head with both hands, and humps her with utter abandon. It's vicious and selfish like a mouth-rape should be. Rose's pitiful retching and gagging echoes off the tiled walls. Rose2, ever helpful, tickles Whitney's cunt and asshole from behind her, to turn her on and encourage her to go extra hard.

If there was any doubt left in Rose's mind, though, that should settle it. 

You pull out of Rose's cunt and enjoy seeing the torrential shower of spunk that flows out of her hole when you do. It smears her in-turned labia, her plump butt, and makes a puddle on the ground. 

"Pay up," you say.

"Here you go, bro," Gal says. "That was worth every cent." 

"Yo, is that safe?" Gal asks. 

"Exactly!" Gal says. "Is it safe to cum inside her like that?"

"No," you say. 

Rose chokes and sputters, spittle flying from the corners of her tightly stretched lips. Noelle tugs Rose's blouse down, baring her sweaty titmeat and hard pink nipples. 

"I can fuck her ass, too?" Gal asks.

"Absolutely -- 10 bucks with a condom, 11 bucks raw, same as her cunt."

"All I have is 7..." Gal says.

"Whatever. That's fine."

"Thanks, man!"

Gal takes her turn. She gets in front of Rose the way you did, and rubs her dick through the cummy mess you left behind, to get it wet. Then unceremoniously, she jams it in. Rose would probably be shrieking in agony right now, if Whitney didn't have an 8-incher embedded inside her gullet.

Noelle is fascinated by Rose's jugs. (The flatties in your life always seem to be.) She amuses herself by groping and molesting them, while meanwhile rubbing her dick all over Rose's chubby cheeks. Rose's lips are distorted by the cock plunging in and out of her mouth, giving her a barely human expression, especially with how ruddy and tear-streaked it still is.

"Oooh... oooh fuck... I'm gonna cum in your mouth!" Gal yells.

Whitney barely manages to contain her giggle. She takes the hand-pump and squeezes it, blasting Rose's throat with an explosion of semen. The force of the ersatz cum is so strong that it backflows from both of Rose's nostrils, with a huge bubble forming on one of them. Whitney keeps humping, full force, as she cums down Rose's throat, while Rose2 daintily licks her pussy for her from behind. Towards the end, Whitney settles the fake dick as deep as she can, right to the root, and gives some last few squeezes, emptying the reservoir completely inside Rose's tummy. She keeps the dick lodged there while Rose2 eats her cunt out and gets her off.

When Whitney dismounts, Rose2, still on her knees, helpfully sucks the slop off the end of her cock. Rose's jaw is unable to shut, and stays hinged open. Sperm is swimming on her tongue, hanging in strands off the roof of her mouth. She pants hard for precious oxygen. Every once in a while, looking nauseous, she burps up a little wad of spunk, that drools out of her slackened mouth, across her chin, and down onto her expensive costume. Rose2 adds to the mess, drooling the cum she sucked off Whitney's cock back into Rose's open mouth.

Rose doesn't have very long to catch her breath before Noelle is taking Whitney's place. 

"Slut," Gal spits.

You see Rose's cunt let out a little squirt of girlcum as Gal buggers her.

Alex steps to Rose and starts jerking off over her face. He runs his prick through the wads of fake spunk that coat her, enjoying the hot slimy texture. 

"Blowing a load on her is free," you say.

Rose shivers.

"Hey..." Gal says, gulping from the exertion of fucking. "Hey... let's cum in that hat of hers, huh?"

Alex is already spunking, and he can't help the somewhat girly, albeit still obviously male groan of satisfaction he makes as he cums. He paints Rose's neck and face with his jizz. Whitney pays Rose2's hospitality forward. She makes good on her desire to finger Alex's butt, and gives him a slow, deliberate prostate massage with two of her fingers while he orgasms. 

Noelle prefers Gal's idea, though. She grabs Rose's hat and empties her fake cock's spunk into it. It's a hot sight. Noelle jerks the dick like it really belongs to her as she coaxes out all the cum. The last few dregs she saves to splatter against Rose's bare, sweaty udders. 

Rose is delirious, and ranting: "You can't do this... you can't cum inside, anything but that... I'll get pregnant... not safe, not saaaaafe... I don't want your babies... please! No!..."

With cruelty you never suspected, Gal takes her dick from Rose's asshole, and shoves it directly into her pussy. This dirty cock that was just rubbing inside Rose's anus is going to cum inside Rose's uterus against her will. 

"Noooo--!" Rose screams. But too late. Gal is emptying her dickload into Rose's pussy-hole.

"Take it, cunt!" Gal says.

Rose weeps. But even as she weeps, she squirts whole geysers of cream. 

When Gal steps off, she takes the hat from Noelle, and gets it under Rose's quim to catch the flowing mess. Gal's sperm joins Noelle's in the frothy brew. 

Rose2 attempts a baritone as she mounts Rose. "Take my dick, fat bitch! Ha, ha!"

Gal jabs Rose2 in the ribs. "Shut up, bro!" She says sternly. Unlike Gal, Rose2 can't make herself sound anything close to male.

Of all Rose's rapists, Rose2 is somehow the meanest. On her knees, she nails Rose like she's trying to make her lose consciousness. Maybe she is. Rose's head bangs repeatedly against the porcelain lip of the urinal, and her meaty thighs whap painfully against the hard tile floor. The back of her legs turn black and blue as they bruise. Rose2 isn't happy to stop there, though. She grabs Rose by the hair and forces Rose's face into the bowl of the urinal. Occupied by that, Rose2 fucks Rose's pussy hands-free, butt bouncing up and down off her own ankles. It's a transfixing sight, the way both girls' plump flesh ripples and jiggle with the violence of it. When Rose screams and cums for the 50th or 60th time, Rose2 finally relents, hops to her feet, and adds her messy load to the voluminous soup inside Rose's hat. The thing is full now to its very brim.

"Stop... for the love of god..." Rose begs. Her face is all puffy from crying and getting slapped and cummed on. 

"We'll stop when we knock you up," Gal says.

You start round two inside Rose's battered cunt. After all this hard use, both her lower holes are gaping, and offer zero resistance. Whitney, who's a horny bitch herself, isn't satisfied merely to masturbate while she watches. She bends over the urinal beside Rose and has Noelle start to fuck her. It's a nice view, from below the pair, to accompany the divine feeling of raping your wife. Noelle jams her dildo in and out of Whitney's cunt with a look of ecstasy, and plays with her own asshole behind her back while she does it. With Gal and Rose2 making out, swapping a wad of fake spunk back and forth, this is quickly degenerating into an orgy. Alex, unable to contain himself, milks another load out of his straining prick, that Rose catches on her tongue with broken moans.

You snap your fingers to get the attention of Gal and her playmate. Rose2, wearing a grin that looks downright demonic, retrieves the cum-filled hat, and steps to Rose. 

"Put it on her head," you say.

"Noooo-- pleasshe--" Rose whines, slurring her words through all the cum in her mouth.

Rose2 of course doesn't listen. She tips the hat upright and puts it on her. The hot stew of mixed spunk slides down her hair, matting it, and over her face, obscuring it. It runs down her cheeks, her shoulders, and her bare titties. It clumps and sticks to her chin, the ruffles of her blouse, the fabric of her dress. Drips off her earlobe. Pools in the lap of her skirt. Paints her almost entirely in a filmy coat of white. Whitney, watching this, claps her hands over her mouth to stop from crying out, and cums against Noelle. Noelle holds Whitney's shoulders for leverage and really pounds that tomboy pussy for all its worth, panting like a dog the whole time. 

It's enough to make you lose another load up Rose's already loaded pussy. You squirt that hole of hers even fuller -- it belongs to you anyway.

When, heaving with sheer satisfaction, you finish ejaculating, you pull the blindfold slowly off Rose's eyes. 

She gazes up, expression vacant. You and the others lean over her. She looks from face to face, now finally and completely certain that it all really was just a perverted game.

"See? I told you to trust me," you tell her gently.

"I did..." she says weakly, enervated. 

"Good." You hock a loogie, and spit on her face. You told her she'd regret it.

---

It's a little chilly to swim outside, but the pool you go to is indoors, and not very busy at this time of day. It's mostly old fucks and single moms with fussy kids, and they stay at the shallows. You've got the deep end all to yourself. Sure, the enormous, glass-walled swim room stinks of chlorine, and it's uncomfortably humid, but it's a nice getaway regardless.

"Watch me ok!" Samantha yells from the top of the diving board. Her one-piece leaves very, very, very little to the imagination. It's just a small red band of nylon covering her pussy, splitting in two to cover her nipples, and converging again below her cottontail, down near her asshole. It's an absolute marvel that A) she doesn't get get kicked out, and B) the thing actually stays in place to keep her naughty parts covered.

Another marvel: she gracefully pirouettes through the air, doing a double forward flip, and then slices into the water without a splash. It's a dive worthy of the Olympic games. When she surfaces, her bunny ears have lost their spring, and lie flopped over her forehead like bangs. "See?"

"Very nice work," Renee says.

"Do you want to learn how! I can show you!"

"Fuck, no," Renee says. "I'm too old for that shit."

Samantha pouts.

"Too old," you say, and "too fat." You poke her in the side of her tummy. She startles, shifting her weight to the opposite side of the deck chair she lies on. Then, reeling, she punches you in the tit.

"Jesus!" You moan. "That fuckin' hurts, you cow! Learn to take a joke!"

Chloe lies on your opposite side, inscrutable behind her sunglasses. Her two-piece is almost as revealing as Samantha's swimwear. The extreme edge of her bikini bottom exposes her tanlines -- and the very slightest hint of the crease of her pussy. You find yourself staring. So does Renee.

"Degenerates," Chloe murmurs.

"Ohhhh," Renee huffs. "You have some nerve. You're the one dressed like that."

Samantha watches curiously from the pool's edge.

>[x] Gently guide Chloe further down the path of corruption!
>[x] Ruthlessly bully Chloe in the water!

You rifle through Renee's purse for the thing you left there in anticipation of this moment. Renee is hardly happy to see you digging through her shit, and starts to say something bitchy. You shush her as you pull the marker out.

"What the hell is that?" She demands, still not amused.

You stand just long enough to straddle Chloe's tummy, facing her feet, and sit down again. Her bare skin is nice and soft against your butt -- she makes a good cushion.

"Uff-- get off of me," she demands.

You uncap the marker. Renee and Samantha watch on mutely as you set to work. You put the felt tip to Chloe's groin, just between her navel and her mound, and start to draw. The wine-colored ink has little flecks of glitter in it as well.

"What are you doing?" Chloe demands. Even with you hunched all the way forward, forehead practically touching Chloe's pussy, she can't see what you're up to. She lays her palms impotently against your tailbone, just above the hem of your own swimsuit.

"I'm doodling," you tell her. "Hold still."

"I've seen that before!" Samantha says, as the drawing takes shape. She hoists her body out of the pool, dripping from head to toe.

"Of course you have."

Renee cocks her head. "You've got quite the drawing hand."

"Stop this idiocy at once!" Chloe says, but she does nothing to force you up. As Samantha towels herself off, the temporary tattoo begins to take shape. Drawing upside-down like this is a real bitch, but worth every second of effort. You bite your tongue and furrow your brow in focus. And when at last you're finished, you get off of her, to let her see.

She gazes at her navel, chin touching her chest. After a few moments, she runs a palm along her taut tummy, down to her own crotch. At first she lightly touches and tests it, as if disbelieving that it's really there. Then she roughly rubs the ink, but it won't come clean.

"I like it," Renee says.

Chloe stops trying to rub it off, and considers it for several long moments.

"A heart..." she mutters. "Only with tendrils. Is this meant to be reminiscent certain anatomy within me?"

You laugh. "You're a smartie -- so you tell me. What do you think?"

She traces her forefinger from one ovary to the other.

"I like it too," she says at last.

Samantha plops down on her back on a deck chair beside Chloe. "Me next! Me next!"

You sigh. Horny bitches everywhere...

"I'm glad I used a waterproof ink," you say airily as you continue to draw on Samantha's soft belly.

Chloe tilts her head. "Why?"

Renee already understands your meaning. "This is why," she says, and grabs Chloe, and tosses her like a sack of radishes into the pool.

Renee dives in after her, and so do you -- and Samantha, too. When Chloe bobs to the surface, scared and soaked and trembling, Renee cruelly dunks her again. Chloe's got fight in her, though -- Renee's body suddenly lurches and disappears underwater, as Chloe tugs her by the ankles.

A four-way waterfight develops. Ostensibly four-way, at least, but it's more like three-on-one. You each target Chloe mercilessly, dunking her again and again. She gets her licks in, managing to subdue each of you at least once -- but she's no match for three larger girls ganging up, all in better shape. The tussling takes on a weirdly sexual energy, as, in an effort to keep Chloe down as long as possible, the three of you take to trapping her head between your knees, her face against your crotches as she struggles beneath you. It feels good -- it feels really good -- and Chloe is playing along.

After one particularly long dunk, in which Renee spends close to half a minute rubbing herself on Chloe's face in an obviously masturbatory way, you clear your throat, and warn her: "Uh -- Renee? You should let her breathe."

She lets go. Chloe, surfacing, gasping, has a wild smile on her face. When she's done hacking up water, she tells you: "It's fine. I like not being able to breathe..."

"Why don't we get some subs now!" Samantha says -- even she's put off.

---

Rose tugs her dress straight in the mirror of the men's bathroom, and then checks her new application of makeup.

"I can't believe you brought a spare costume," Rose2 says.

"Why wouldn't I?" Rose snaps. "I'm surrounded by vicious rapists."

Rose2 frowns. She was so happy about the thought of ruining Rose's cosplay, and now those hopes have been dashed.

In the next mirror over, Gal is getting dressed in a maid costume. One of Cerise's? It suits her oddly well.

"how do you like it Sir"

"Cute," you say. "Cute!"

She smiles.

Noelle looks her over from head to toe. "What's with the getup?"

"we're running a maid cafe"

Noelle gawks. "No. Nooooo."

"yes. yeeees," Gal says mockingly. "scarlett and charlotte and i"

"That'd be a nice name for a picture book," Alex says offhandedly. What a sweet thought to come out of the mouth of a boy dressed like a street whore.

You check your wristwatch. "Well, we've got time. Who's hungry?"

How Mom got such prime real estate at the center of the food court on such short notice is beyond your comprehension. You realize only after you arrive with your group that she must have hijacked her spot -- stolen it from some other schlub who was already intending to run a maid cafe at Comiket. But surely your mother would never barge into a kitchen not under her management and take it over. Right?

Regardless, you appreciate the sight of your mother in a French maid costume. Like mother, like daughter. And you aren't the only one to appreciate a MILF who can barely squeeze into a black-and-white dress that leaves a little too much cleavage on display. Cerise herself is at a table close by, staring unashamedly at Mom as she cooks in the booth, when you sit across from her. You have to clear your throat to grab her attention.

"Oh!" Cerise says, startling. "I thought you ran away."

"No, I was just raping Rose."

"Tell me next time!" Cerise says, genuinely annoyed.

"What's on the menu today?" Alex asks, sitting beside you.

Cerise drools. This whole "slutty misty" thing is definitely in her wheelhouse. "Oh my goodness, Alex..."

Whitney slaps Cerise on the back. "Thought you'd get a kick of that. Perv."

"It's so cute!" Cerise says.

"I know, right!" Whitney laughs.

"It makes me wanna finger his butthole," Cerise says.

Alex blushes. You shake your head. Cerise and Whitney think way too much alike when it comes to these matters.

Gal goes off to work, and Charlotte approaches to bus your table. If Mom barely fits inside her maid outfit, then Charlotte is halfway popped out of it already. You think you can glimpse her areolae. "Welcome to Sweet Sweets," she says with a smoky graciousness, as she probably does for all the other tables. She holds a round platter down by her belly, which has the side effect of accentuating her fat tits. "Today we have tiramisu, pineapple whips, vanilla cupcakes, and handmade mochi. What would you like to sample?"

"You," you tell her.

She giggles. "Naughty boy."

You place your orders -- the real ones, this time -- and she scurries off to let the chef know.

Mom glances you way. "There you are!" She shouts, loud enough to make herself be heard over the din of hundreds of con-goers. "It's not free for you just because you're my son!"

"No special discount?" You call back.

"None! Nada! Full price!"

"I'll take a little something extra later, then," you call back. Turning crimson, Mom glances back down at her work.

At the next table over, Gal is taking an order from a group of unruly dorks who've had a bit too much to drink already.

"w-welcome to sweet sweets. t-today we have... today we have tiramisu... p-pineapple w... pineapple..."

They leer and make kissy faces at her. She stands before them somewhat similar to how Charlotte did at your table, circular tray flat against her belly, but she has no breasts to call attention to. No matter. Her admirers are tipsy, and naked in their lust:

"Hey baby! Forget the food! How much for you to suck my dick, huh?"

You'd come to her rescue, but she doesn't need it. Gal steels herself, drawing a deep breath. "Suck my dick, motherfucker."

The customers at the table are straight-up flummoxed by that one. They glance from one to the other, murmuring. "Trap...?" "No... I mean... maybe?" "What the fuck..."

Gal turns and leaves without taking their order.

Alex is certainly living up to his slutty Misty label. "Hey Ally. Did you know they sell onaholes here?"

You cough. Of course you knew that. You were intending to check them out too. "No, I didn't..." you mutter, glancing away.

"Hah," Cerise laughs. "Why do I feel like you're lying?"

"They have so many! And lots of other fun toys!" He grabs your arm. "We should definitely go shopping for some!"

His enthusiasm makes the whole thing sound almost innocent.

Rose2 comes back from a different booth with an armful of canned beverages. "Hey, check it out. I found this Japanese energy drink!"

She lets the cans tumble from her arms onto the table, barely catching a few that threaten to roll off. She picks one up then, and turns it so you can all read the label.

"Rosie..." Cerise says.

You hold your hand up, to signal to Cerise: let it happen.

Rose2 turns the can back around and peers at the label for herself. "Strong Zero... must be diet! Zero calories, tons of flavor. I love lemon... anyone else want one?"

"No thanks," you say. You can hardly get it out before you're drowned out by a sea of moans. The first customers of Sweet Sweets are now being served... and boy, are they being served. This place is about to become a downright Babylonian chorus of food-based self-gratification. Maybe it's time to roll out.

>Choose 2.
>[x] Help run the maid cafe!
>[x] Visit the Q&A with Rose and a certain notable game dev!
>[x] Help Rose2 slip into her GothLolita dress and accompany her with Vivian to the meet!
[ ] Shop for pleasure toys with Alex and Whitney, and test them out!
[ ] Ogle cute cosplayers with Noelle and Cerise, get drunk and make a scene!

"Give me the chocolate, Alabaster."

You hand Mom a few boxes of semisweet chocolate. She adds it to the mixing bowl and begins to stir it up. You're not sure why she felt the need to get you into a frilled frock like the other maids are wearing, but you're getting some praiseful comments. Should you be proud that you turn people on in an outfit like this? You feel as if you shouldn't be proud of it.

At least it's not full-blown crossdressing, though. Right?

"I can't believe you talked Gal into doing this with you," you say as you pour cupcake batter into the baking molds. You watch her zip from table to table, dutifully taking orders. It's like something from a fever dream. Over the course of the past hour or so, she's gotten so much more comfortable in her skin working as a waitress. You think maybe she's mimicking Charlotte, who's a natural -- her tone and mannerisms.

If someone had told you a year ago that you'd be watching Galatea wait tables at one of the busiest venues in the world, you'd have called them crazy. Yet here you are.

"Talked her into it?" Mom says. "I didn't talk her into anything. She asked to take part." She opens the oven door, takes the tray of cupcakes from you, and sticks it in. Space is limited in this booth, and you have to step aside so she can maneuver to get the cupcakes inside the tiny, compact little convection oven. She takes an already completed tray out and sets it to cool. Charlotte is already coming back to grab a couple up and deliver them to some more orgasming customers.

"Look alive!" Mom tells her from across the register.

"Oh, get bent," Charlotte says in an uncharacteristic show of anger, blowing a bang from her face. She looks exhausted and sweaty. If there's one thing that can make Charlotte Mallory crabby, it's the heat and rush of cooking. She shares that in common with her aunt.

"Enjoying your first Comiket?" You ask.

"First and last," she grumps. "This darn outfit is so... restrictive."

You poke the top of her tit. Both she and Mom slap your hand at the same time.

"Ow," you say, jerking back.

"Cosplay is not consent!" Charlotte says, fists on her hips. "Haven't you seen the signs?"

"You definitely consent."

"Save that energy for my daughter," Charlotte tells you. "You need to make a baby in her, pronto!"

You're not even done registering your shock at such a lewd remark when Mom adds on: "My Rose first! Or Cerise!"

You rub your forehead. Do maid costumes make girls unnaturally horny? Or have your two mommies always been this way?

Charlotte trots off. You get to work mixing up pineapple whips for the paying customers.

"As I said," Mom tells you. "I didn't have to convince Anna. She convinced me. She said she wanted to help."

"Really?"

"Yes. She knew we'd be slam-packed with customers, so she wanted to take the load off." She sighs happily. "She's such a good daughter..."

"In law."

She smacks you with a ladle.

"Fuck," you grunt. "Now I know where Cerise learned it."

All the while, Rose2 is slamming back Strong Zeros like the world is ending (well, it kind of is). Sitting by herself at a nearby table, over the course of three cans she goes from alert and boisterous, to loopy, slouched, and drowsy. She lies with her cheek on her hands, kicking her feet back and forth under her, hiccuping.

"These energy drinks are so dangerous," Mom says. "They give you a burst of energy, sure, but then -- the crash!"

You wouldn't know where to begin explaining, so you don't.

Gal stops by Rose2's table to check on her. Holding her tray flat against her stomach in a now-familiar pose, she leans to one side and peers at her. "are you okay"

Rose2 bolts upright, which in turn startles Gal back a couple steps. "Okay?! Hecky to the yeah I'm -- hic -- oh frick yes I'm -- hic -- silly! I'm fiiiine."

"maybe you should stop drinking that--"

Rose2 jerks her hand away so Gal can't take the can from her. She slams back another gulp. "Don't you boss me around, commoner! I'm not a commoner!" She takes yet another gulp, makes a satisfied "pwah" and then points at Gal with the can holding her drink, squinting suspiciously. "Hey. You look like a girl I know."

"i am a girl you know"

"Oh my gosh! ... ... ... ... ... Amber?"

"please stop drinking"

Glug, glug, pwah. No stopping the lemon vodka train.

You'd better go intervene before she blacks out.

It's a good thing you're aware of an abandoned, slightly cum-smelling bathroom in the venue that you can help Rose2 change in. She'd never be able to change on her own in this state. You help her struggle out of her outerwear. You find yourself feeling a mixture of disgust and arousal to discover that her panties are sticky, damp and stained -- she wasn't lying about that remark in line earlier this morning.

"You're the best -- hic -- best big brother ever, Ally!" She informs you as you help her step out of her skirt, and she twists to one side, and accidentally slaps your face with her tits. "Whoopsie! A-durr. I'm a real klutzo."

She takes a sip of her Strong Zero. You snatch it from her. Where the fuck did she pull that from? You were pretty sure you confiscated her only can before you came here.

You take the bag she's carrying too, the one that has the dress Vivian selected for her. You pull the dress out and take a look. It's... something, all right. Like an evening gown from hell. It's a deep, nearly ebon purple with pitch black ruffled hems on the bottom and the arms. It would be close to form-fitting on Vivian -- on Rose2, it makes her look like a succubus ready to slut it up. Her curves bulge the fabric excessively, making it look like the entire garment is ready to disintegrate at any moment. The embossed fleur-de-lis pattern criss-crossing it has some sort of sequined texture to it, it seems, because it catches the light here and there, sparkling just a bit. The arms are poofy and quite short on Rose2's body, coming only a couple inches past her shoulder blades, and the hem almost doesn't cover her ass. Seriously, if she ate a single potato chip, the entire dress would probably detonate.

You help her struggle into a pair of pumps, too. She's a shortstack all right. Even in five-inch lifts, she barely comes past your chin. She sways woozily, and you catch her from falling. She hugs you. "Thanks so much -- hic -- Ally. Do I -- hic -- look nice?"

"You do," you say.

"Would you fuck me?" She asks, whispering into your ear.

"Later."

"C'mmooooon. Fuck me noooow." She rubs your chest. "I'm your big -- hic -- I'm your big ti -- hic -- I'm your big tiddy goth imouto."

"You're gonna be late if we do that. You know how Vivian gets when people are late."

She giggles drunkenly.

When you help Rose2 stumble to the place where Vivian said she'd meet her, you gasp. "Whoa..." Rose2 breathes, equally shocked. Shitfaced or stone-cold sober, neither of you could have been prepared for what you see.

"I bow to the superiority of Gothic Lolita."

"Say it like you mean it, worm!"

"I BOW TO THE SUPERIORITY OF GOTHIC LOLITA!"

Vivian has her hands on her hips, and one foot perched on the head of a much taller girl, who's supplicating before her like a Muslim on a prayer mat. The poor girl Vivian is terrorizing has made the mistake of a lifetime: she wore sweet Lolita in Vivian's general vicinity. Apparently unsatisfied with this level of humiliation to bestow, Vivian roughly pushes down on the girl's head, grinding it into the dirty carpet of the convention floor, and demands: "Tell the world that you are nothing compared to my beauty, grace, splendor and elegance!"

"I AM NOTHING COMPARED TO YOUR BEAUTY, GRACE, AND ELEGANCE!"

Vivian mashes her heel down yet again, even harder, and her dress's hem ruffles around her knee. "You forgot the splendor! The splendor!"

"YOUR SPLENDOR, MISTRESS, YOUR SPLENDOR! I AM NOTHING COMPARED TO IT!"

As always, Vivian's laughter literally comes out sounding like "ufufufufu."

This scene would be surprising enough -- and it sure is drawing a tightly packed circle of onlookers -- but the girl Vivian torments is not the only one. There is an entire lineup of Lolitas bowing at Vivian's feet, and she's going down the line degrading each and every one of them in turn.

"Tell the world that you have wasted your life on the fripperies of Sweet Lolita."

"I have wasted my life--"

"Don't just mumble like a deafmute! Reveal your sins out loud, for us all to stand in judgment!"

"I HAVE WASTED MY LIFE ON THE FRIPPERIES OF SWEET LOLITA!"

Rose2, drunk, and easily led down the path of sadism, joins her friend. She totters her way through the crowd and steps on the face of a random Lolita in the lineup. But Ms. Angelic Pretty, beneath Rose2's foot, isn't willing to take this particular abuse lying down, literally or figuratively: "Hey -- that wasn't part of the--"

"Silence!" Vivian barks. "You will accept any hectoring from any Gothic Lolita you meet! That is your lot in life!"

Rose2 is giddy with cruelty. "Tell me that you suck!"

"I suck."

"Louder, louder!"

"I SUCK!"

(Well, she's got the spirit of it down, at least.)

Noelle comes up and stands beside you. "Is it just me, or is this kinda hot?"

"You would think it's hot." You glance at her. "Is that Strong Zero I smell? Did you guys score an endorsement deal or what?"

"No, but Cerise did," Noelle tells you. When you give her a confused wag of the head, she explains: "Furby is coming back. Apparently. Cerise is gonna be a spokeswoman. Congressional initiative and everything."

Vivian is sitting on a Sweet Lolita's back and forcing her to trot in circles like a show pony.

"You must be drunk," you say with a frown. "You're not making any sense."

"The new Furby line is supposed to have an emphasis on customizability. Is that a word? Anyway. Circuit bending's going legit -- Furbys are going to be a funducational introduction to circuitry for a new generation of kids. At least that's what the ad copy says. And they want Cerise to shill for it, because... you know."

"Giddyup! Giddyup!" Rose2 shouts. Her pony's not taking the load very well. The girl's spine bends under Rose2's weight, and then her legs give out from under her and she collapses to her tummy. Poor old mare's gonna have to be put out to pasture.

The crowd parts, and a group of four girls in Gothic Lolita come through carrying a litter like the kind used to transport Roman emperors. Each of the girls carries one handle of the four-handled carriage. It's a small purple booth no larger than an ATM, ornately gilded, with a small cushioned seat inside. The girls gingerly set it on the ground, for Vivian to climb in, and then they hoist it up onto their shoulders. Rose2 heads the procession, acting as crier: "Hail Princess Vivian! Hail Princess Vivian! Hail! Hail!" And bringing up the rear, crawling on hands and knees at a remove of about five paces (you imagine Vivian specified precisely the distance they should keep), the Sweet Lolitas follow along like scolded dogs.

"Do you think she'd step on me like that?" Noelle asks.

You frown at her. "You're too honest when you're drunk."

She smiles.

You rush ahead to catch up with Vivian. Her attendants maintain a breakneck walking pace that's uncomfortable to match even with your hands free. Vivian, as seen in profile through the litter's window, keeps her chin held high and peers imperiously forward. The carriage undulates like a boat in gentle waves as the girls beneath her carry it.

"What the hell have you done?" You ask her.

"I have demonstrated my superiority in the most decisive possible way. That is all."

"Why?" You sputter. "How?"

"Why: because it is true. How: this also traces back to the simple fact of my superiority."

"No, really," you say. "How did you get those girls to denounce their own fashion sense? To crawl around like slaves?"

She finally glances down at you. "I paid them each $10,000 to do so."

"You staged this? -- Fuck, of course you did. So they didn't actually believe what they were saying, they're just doing all of this for the money."

"A belief you would sell out for cash, and such a paltry amount at that, can scarcely be considered a sincere belief. That enticement merely allowed them to admit what they knew in their hearts to be true all along. Or if not, then they are no better than common whores, and deserve no dignity regardless."

"You are crazy. $10,000 is nothing to you, but it's a hell of a lot to most people! Anyone's going to bow at your feet if you offer them that kind of money!"

She tilts her head. "You?"

"Don't change the subject--"

"Would you bow at my feet for a payday large enough?"

"I need to get out of this madhouse," you say. "Holy shit."

Her haughty laughter rings in your ears as you depart.

---

"Marisa!" The translator says. "Very impressive. He admires the costume, and wants to know if you'll be in the contest later?"

Rose, at the mic set up between two rows of seats in the auditorium, nods meekly. "Yes."

"Good luck!" The man himself says. Then, via translator: "Everyone, watch your belongings. They may get stolen!"

Rose blushes.

"What is your question?" -- The translator.

"Uh, sure. Do you feel that the Tohuou series speaks to a theme of female empowerment, and if so, was that your intent?"

He whispers back and forth with his translator for a few long moments. Finally, the translator responds:

"He does not understand the question."

Rose looks absolutely devastated. She tries again: "Would you say the women in Gensokyo are more powerful than the men, and if so, why? And is that why we never see men in the games?"

He nods along as the translator translates. Then, after a few more long moments of counter-translation, comes the reply: "Men are very bad with danmaku. They do not have the beauty and grace of a girl like Marisa, so they would lose right away. In that sense then yes, the women are more powerful than the men. And I am bad at drawing men, so it would be too troublesome to include them."

The room laughs. He sips his pint of beer. A response like that is just going to have to do.

"Thank you," Rose says, again meekly, and sits.

You feel somehow the need to console Rose after getting a less than enthusiastic answer from a personal idol. You rub her shoulder as she settles back in next to you.

"Fabi!"

You glance up at the table where he sits with his translator. He says, again: "Fabi!"

Cerise is standing at the mic in the aisle on the other side of the room.

He speaks to his translator, who asks Cerise: "Are you the politician who sponsors the Furbys?"

"Yes."

"He saw that booth when you were staging photographs. He thinks it's so interesting!"

"Thank you," Cerise says.

"What is your question?"

"Yes, what is your favorite beer?"

He holds up his pint glass and answers on his own behalf: "Kirin."

"I like Kirin a lot too. Are there any American beers you like?"

"I hope this does not offend anyone, but American beer is too weak. It is like drinking water."

"I agree completely," Cerise says. "At least the widely-sold ones. Small-scale breweries do a lot better. Have you ever sampled a nitro stout?"

The translator seems confused by the terminology, but the man himself understands. "I have heard of them. Supposedly they are smoother."

"If you want to grab a drink after this, I can let you try one. We can always fall back to Kirin if you don't like it! We'll talk Furby, too."

"Yes! That sounds fine. I have always wondered what it would be like to know a high level politician."

She did this for Rose's sake. Cerise has never been an enormous fan of the Touhou series and could take or leave social gatherings in general. But she invites your wife and you along to the bar to drink beer and talk in-depth about the mythology, themes, and even the future of the series with its creator. Rose is ecstatic at the opportunity, and pesters the poor guy with questions until, never being one who was able to hold her beer, she's so shitfaced that she can hardly string together two syllables. (Roses of a petal flock together?) He laughs at her inability to drink and says maybe she wouldn't make such a fine Marisa after all.

You all take pictures with each other and he wishes you the best of luck in getting your company back. He thinks he's got a good concept for the next main installment: a lunatic goddess of circuit bending who takes over a country in the real world in revenge for the lunar invasion? What do you think? Too farfetched, maybe -- he's drunk, too. Well, anyway, you miss the cosplay contest -- but this was worth it after all. He declares that Rose would have easily won, so it was only fair to let the others have a chance by sitting it out.

---

Like Rome, all roads lead back to this: eating Renee Carte's pussy in a karaoke booth. 

You lie on the tiny room's couch, while Renee, wearing nothing but her panties, grinds herself against your face. You keep the crotch of the panties tucked to one side so you have clear access, and your tongue is lodged inside the hot, mature hole she so loves to tease you with. You tease that hole right back. You keep a firm grip on either of her legs, and dive in without reserve. She tastes and smells so good, and has such a lovely-looking twat with all its folds and creases that drip so nicely, that you don't mind how selfish of a lover she is. She obscenely rubs her own swaying breasts as you lick her.

Samantha is still in her lewd microbikini, having never bothered to change into something more decent. Now she sits with her legs spread on the couch along the wall perpendicular to you, rubbing herself through the thin spandex. She likes to watch almost as much as she likes to play. Her eyes are glassy, and her pointy little jaw is hanging partially open, strands of spittle hanging between her tongue and her palate. 

"I will see myself home," Chloe tells you, trying to fight her way upright, but the liquor in her is keeping her off-balance, and she crashes back down to her butt on the cushions beside Samantha.

"Don't you want to have fun too?" Samantha asks her.

"I have had quite enough for one day, thank you."

You purse your lips and blow a little puff of air directly against Renee's clit, making her entire body convulse. You can feel, even through the fabric of her underwear, the way her asshole twitches, and you see her pussy clench too. She oozes cream against your lips, nose, and forehead.

Chloe tries once more to stand, but Samantha intervenes. She gets her knees on either side of Chloe's lap and sits atop her. She's much larger than Chloe is, and in this position, her knockers are right in Chloe's face. Chloe grimaces, turning her head away, but Samantha gently mashes her titties against the fragile Chinese girl's cheek.

"You were walking around naked earlier today... and mostly naked at the pool... don't you want to have some fun with your pussy, too? Like the rest of us?"

"Get off of me, you mentally retarded lunatic."

Samantha giggles. "You should be more honest! I can tell how bad you want it! Having pussy fun feels good, you know?"

Chloe tries to wriggle free, but Samantha won't let her. 

"Heh," Renee chuffs. "Are you going to rape that poor girl?" 

"No!" Samantha says. "I could never rape someone! I just want Chloe to have fun with her pussy, that's all! Like you two are!"

As she says this, you indulge in a little "pussy fun" too -- reaching past your waistband and diddling your bean. Samantha's right, this kind of hedonistic pleasure is just too good to pass up. You're pretty much addicted now to cumming in your shorts while feasting on cunt. It makes you feel like a messy slut in the best sense of the term. Renee shutters her eyelids and grits her teeth and humps your mouth.

Chloe's attire for this little outing was more conservative than what she wore to the pool. But her blouse/skirt combo is no match for Samantha's groping hands -- she untucks the blouse, baring Chloe's thin, tan tummy. As well as the little drawing you made there.

They cut such a contrast. Chloe, the small, boobless, brown little Chinagirl; and Samantha, the tall, chesty, plump MILF with milky skin and a voracious sexual appetite. But what they share in common, now, is that brand on their crotches, that heart-shaped depiction of a uterus in dark red ink. Samantha slowly bounces up and down, rubbing their brands together as she holds Chloe's wrists in place. Chloe lets out a little grunt of frustration. 

"Why don't we rub pussies too, okay!" Samantha giggles. "I can show you how nice it feels! Then we can cum lots and lots!"

Samantha might be against rape on principle, but she's got no qualms gently coercing someone.

The hard sell is winning, though. Chloe no longer has to be held in place. She's staring transfixed at the spot where their two crotch tattoos rub together. The skin there is getting slippery -- with Samantha's arousal, and her own.

"See! Your cunny is all heated up now! Let's cum!"

Chloe is breathing hard through her mouth, overwhelmed by these alien feelings. Your heart goes out. You know what she's going through.

Renee is lost in her own world right now. She digs at her twat with the fingers of both hands, rubbing herself off as she fucks your mouth. Her ass, sitting on your face, is smothering you, and it's all you can do to keep up with the volume of her juices pouring out. This is sort of like what Chloe went through when Renee nearly drowned her a couple hours ago. You understand the appeal. If you have to suffocate, there'd be no better way to go than with your face buried in Renee's cunt. The heady fumes of her womanhood, and the sweet taste of her cum are enough to make you start creaming, too. You're ruining another pair of pants, Amber -- oh well.

Samantha gets Chloe lying prone across the length of the booth's other couch. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it disrobing -- Chloe is stark naked. For as small a girl as Chloe is, she's got a real nice ass -- perfectly round and scrumptious looking. Samantha gently rubs both globes a little, before spreading them wide. Chloe hisses -- in surprise, and anticipation. 

"Have you ever gotten licked down here?" Samantha asks.

Chloe lightly shakes her head.

"Wow! I get to be your first? How nice!"

With that, she dives in.

Chloe bites her lip and her eyes roll to the back of her head. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the noises Samantha makes as she greedily sucks Chloe are downright inhuman. Chloe surrenders to that insane pleasure for a moment or two as Samantha's extremely skillful mouth works its magic. 

But Chloe goes stiff all of a sudden, and whips her head around, saying: "Samantha -- no -- that place is dirty--"

Samantha ignores her. For the first time ever, Chloe feels a tongue working its way up her asshole. She stares vacantly up at the ceiling and bites her lips again, so hard that she might bleed. 

Unable to fight the bunny off, Chloe has to take it. She settles in, buries her face in a nearby cushion and tightly grips the sides of it. The sound of Samantha's cunnilingus fills the booth. Chloe's muffled screams of pleasure join it.

"Yes!" Samantha cries after a minute or two. "She's cumming! Cum lots on my face master Chloe!"

She no sooner gets that out than Chloe's cunt is squirting her face full of its translucent fluids. Chloe shrieks in unbridled joy as she ejaculates -- that's what it is, she's ejaculating -- on Samantha the cunt-sucking bunnygirl. 

You and Renee, despite having cum buckets yourselves, are not quite sated. You walk over to where Samantha has her mouth latched to Chloe's backside and admire the view. Renee gropes your ass while you watch.

Samantha, less selfish than you'd expect, pulls her face back to give you both a crack at it. She keeps Chloe's butt spread open for you to see. You enjoy as always the clash of dark and pale skin there. Her anus is especially pale and pristine-looking, even though it's shiny and slimy with Samantha's drool now. 

You sit on Chloe's back; Renee sits up by Chloe's legs. Samantha gets down on the floor by Chloe's butt. The three of you swap off, for what feels like hours, taking turns eating Chloe's pussy and ass. She tastes good... this is some high-class butthole for sure. Her holes get coated in your collective slobber, not to mention her own cum. She thrashes like a beached fish every time she drops a load. So cute, how she loses control when she cums. You delight in making it happen again, and again, and again.

It's Samantha who moves things along... she's a veritable maestro of conducting orgies. "My pussy is so hot right now! Will you please lick me next, master Chloe!"

Weakly, Chloe raises her head off the cushion. Her face is damp with sweat and droopy with lust. "Yes. Yes, please."

Samantha's not the only one who wants to feel this bitch's tongue strut its stuff. You and Renee line up with your pet bunny, ass to ass to ass, bending over with your hands on the couch seats. Below you, on her knees, sits Chloe, as dark as a Pacific islander, as wet and ready as an experienced hooker. 

The three of you shake your hips side to side, making your butts jiggle and ripple. Chloe is a lucky girl, being presented with this smorgasbord of flesh and fuckholes. She doesn't take it for granted. She looks like she's in heaven right now, the way her naked chest heaves and her tiny brown pussy drools down her legs. 

She grabs Renee's ass first, spreads it, and starts to lick. All sense of shame has been dissolved; Chloe is completely corrupted. It's not the first time she's eaten a twat, you know. But she was never so happy to do it as she is tonight. She wants you all to cum as hard as possible for her. So, you do. When her tongue finds its way past the chute of your vagina or into the tight ring of your anus, you sigh and hump back against it. So does Renee, and so does Samantha -- encouraging Chloe in all the right ways to keep making your orgasm. If homosexuality is degeneracy, as Chloe claims, then she is a wanton degenerate now, a dyke with a pretty mouth who knows how to suck up girl-cum. You spend the next couple hours using her, and by the time you're done, the booth stinks of pussy.

---

On the ride back from the convention center, with the Roses dozing in your lap, one on either knee, and Noelle excitedly showing you her doujin purchases, while Cerise vies for your attention to nerd out about all the cool chipsets and obsolete electronics she found, and Alex gushes about all the toys that he wants to share with you (these not of the children's variety, check) -- while Mom and Charlotte free the Krakens, so to speak, and sit fully tits-out in the back of the limo because the maid costumes they wore all day were too confining and they need to let those puppies breathe for goodness sake -- while Gal eats leftover pineapple whip as a well-earned reward for her hard work and Whitney nonchalantly tests a dildo with Vivian's equally nonchalant assistance while they watch random Youtube videos together on Whitney's tablet because, well, they're the Darkbloom sisters, and that's just how they roll -- you think to yourself that although today wasn't the greatest day of your life, it has to be up there in the rankings.

When you disembark from the limo and walk up the Nail House's drive, Amber intercepts you at the door.

"Daddy... something terrible happened."

---

On the flight back, Armstrong whines the whole way. "He makes me use a timecard for the love of God. Me! A timecard!"

"Welcome to the world of the working man," Kay says drily. "Enjoy your stay."

"You know the last time I ever had to punch a clock was? When I was working as a bagboy at a grocery store in high school. It's humiliating!"

"Life is full of humiliation for the working man."

"Whitney never made me punch a clock. She was a goddamned idiot, but she never made me punch a fucking clock. She trusted me to manage my time myself and get my tasks done. Fucking fancy that, huh, a CEO who trusts her executives! Isn't that a fucking novelty!"

"Do you need a tissue?" Kay says.

The pilot cuts off this little rant. He glances over his shoulder and informs the pair: "We can't land."

Armstrong clambers across the helicopter and wedges himself into the seat beside the pilot. He's livid. "What do you mean you can't land! The pad's clear!" He points at the circular H below -- the helipad on the roof of Darkbloom Analytics.

"I've just been given orders not to land. They're afraid the rioters might breach the gates. Too risky. I'm sorry, I'm turning back."

Armstrong looks worriedly out the helicopter's window. They're less than a block from the campus of Darkbloom Analytics. The streets below are swarming with protestors, waging guerilla war with police. But the gates are intact and no one has made it through. They're so close; Armstrong obviously wants to touch down and return to work. If only for one particular reason.

"Damn you, man -- who's paying you? I still run this company's finances, don't I? Land this fucking bird!"

"No can do, Mr. Armstrong."

Armstrong clutches the fabric of the pilot's jacket, up by the shoulder, startling him. The helicopter yaws precariously. Kay gasps, and holds Guy tight to her chest in her purse.

"Fucking asshole!" Armstrong snarls. "I have a friend down there! You set this bird down right now or I will toss you out the window, you hear me? That little lady back there can fly just as good as you, so don't test me!"

"I'm not threatening you!" Kay tells the pilot, leaning forward to peer at him from around his tall chair. "Just so we're clear!"

The pilot puts the chopper down on the helipad anyway. As Kay and Armstrong step out, Armstrong tells him: "Wait here. I'll be back out in five."

The pilot nods.

The C-suite is eerily quiet. The only sound is, distantly, and muffled by the thick walls, that of shouts and gunfire from outside. Armstrong strolls down the hallway's length, towards Nelson's office, but finds it empty. "Dumbass. Did he evacuate without me?"

"Should I page for him?" Kay asks.

Armstrong points at her accusingly. "You shouldn't do a damn thing. How are you even still here, anyway? Why has no one kicked you out?"

Kay shrugs. His guess is as good as hers.

Armstrong checks his wristwatch. "Might still be in the board meeting."

He goes in the opposite direction down the hall, towards the boardroom. Kay watches. She sees Armstrong open the door, and hears him say "what the fuck?" She sees the flash of gunfire and hears the pistol's deafening report.

Armstrong topples backwards. He slumps against the opposite wall, right next to the door of the CEO's office, whose name plaque still reads Whitney Darkbloom.

Armstrong clutches his blackly burbling stomach. His neck muscles strain. "Ghh-- Christ, Max! Why!"

General Pershing steps out into the hallway, the smoking pistol still in his hands. He glances first one way and then the other -- but doesn't see a soul besides the quickly exsanguinating Steven Armstrong.

Armstrong at least has the satisfaction of knowing he outlived the man Whitney so fittingly calls Muskfucker -- if only just. Mr. Punchclock is already dead, lying slumped over the boardroom table with a couple gunshot wounds to the head.

"Oh fuck," Nelson yells. He's at the threshold of the boardroom now too, watching helplessly. He was in there with Pershing and Senor Punctuality -- but he's whole and uninjured, thank God. Armstrong spits up a wad of bloody phlegm, grits his teeth, and says: "Nelson -- get out -- run. The copter..."

Nelson is frozen in place by fear. He watches Steven as he slowly dies -- before finally deciding -- and, turning, tries to run.

Pershing turns his gun on Nelson. "You're not going anywhere. Stay put or I'll kill you too."

He stops.

"Steven..." He says. He puts his hands on top of his head and turns in a circle. He can hardly bear to look. "Oh, God. Christ. Jesus fucking Christ."

"I told you not to take his name in vain, you fucking Jew," he grunts. "When are you gonna listen?"

Pershing squats down and looks Armstrong in the eyes. "Alex Best passed instructions to you. Where are they?"

"I don't have them."

Pershing jabs the muzzle of his gun into Armstrong's bullet wound. He roars in agony. Nelson covers his mouth with both hands and fights back vomit.

"Where did Kay Vera go?"

"I don't know -- GRAAHHH -- FUCK! -- I don't know!"

"So be it. We'll figure things out without you."

Armstrong's breath is becoming labored, and increasingly shallow. He turns his head from side to side. "Why, Max -- what do you get out of this? Are you taking orders? Who from?"

"I am not Maximilian Pershing," he says. "I am Alyosha Kerimov."

He shoots Armstrong in the head, killing him.

END OF EPISODE 12.

Charlotte and Scarlett have taken a maternal interest in Alex. They have that mother's instinct, after all, that tells them Alex is a bit lost in life, a boy in need of support and encouragement. Scarlett teaches him how to bake; Charlotte is the first person Alex has ever met to share his hobby for bird-watching. Both women pose for him to paint; both shower him with frequent affection. Alex's real mother, wherever she is, is hardly a contender for World's #1 Mom. But these two surrogates are putting in some serious work to make up for it. He can't muster the courage to tell them how much it means to him -- but he doesn't have to. They know.

There's a sexual aspect to it, too, of course. It is the Nail House.

One night after dinner, Alex is drinking cocoa with them in Charlotte's room and talking about politics, when the sound of sex carries from the room below: Alabaster is fucking the shit out of Vivian, and she's screaming like she's being beaten (maybe she is). 

Alex and Scarlett find the racket a bit awkward, and blush about it. But Charlotte is nonchalant. She sips her mug and says: "he must be really worked up tonight."

Alex clears his throat. "Guess so..."

Charlotte smiles at him. "It's a lovely sound. Don't you think?" 

And now, only a little muffled by the floor, arrives a sound Charlotte finds even more lovely: Alabaster groaning in that incredibly deep, masculine way that he does when he drops a load: "oooooooh, fuck -- I'm cumming!!"

The pounding from the other room gets louder and faster, and Vivian wails loud enough to wake up New Delhi; then all at once it all goes quiet, as Alabaster finishes depositing his semen inside the tiny girl.

"Lucky girl," Charlotte says.

"He didn't last five minutes!" Scarlett says. "That's hardly lucky."

"You're looking at it all wrong," Charlotte tells her. "Sometimes it's not so bad, being used for quickie. It feels nice when he's so desperate to orgasm like that... and he lets out all his pent-up frustration in your body." She swipes a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, look at me. I'm getting carried away again."

Alex stares hard at his lap.

"I'm sorry about Charlotte," Scarlett tells him. "She's always been a nymphomaniac."

"It's... fine..." he mutters.

"More than fine," Charlotte says. "This sort of thing interests you too, right?" She doesn't wait for him to answer before answering on his behalf: "of course it does. You've been on the receiving end of his quickies plenty of times."

"Well-- yeah..."

"And you like it, don't you?" Charlotte leans forward and cocks her head to look him in the eye. "Hard and fast -- and dirty."

He's neon.

"Get a grip," Scarlett tells her. "You're terrorizing the poor boy."

"You should get a grip," Charlotte retorts, straightening her spine again. "He's a grown man. And he's obviously got an opinion on the matter -- but you're just afraid he'll take my side, aren't you?"

"Hmmph."

"So what do you think?" Charlotte asks Alex. "Don't you just love it when Alabaster pins you down and *really* screws you? Isn't it such a rush? And even if he finishes in just a couple minutes, that only makes it even better, right? Because you made him finish inside you so quickly."

"Well..." Alex begins, but trails off.

Charlotte blinks.

"See!" Scarlett says. "You're speaking for him. Putting words in his mouth. YOU might like a quickshot, but Alex here actually likes to savor a darn moment! He's got taste!"

"Is it a bit warm in here?" Alex asks, tugging at his collar.

Charlotte pulls his hands away from his lap, to reveal the tent in his shorts. Alex squeaks. 

"Just like I thought," Charlotte announces. "The way he was using Vivian in there turned you on."

"I'm sorry," he says meekly.

"Don't apologize," Charlotte says. "You're with friends here. Nothing to be ashamed of! It just reminded you of how Alabaster screws you -- didn't it?"

She slowly unzips his zipper.

"M-Mrs. Mallory--"

"Shh."

Trembling, almost shivering, he stutters: "W-well, yeah -- I mean -- he does me like that sometimes, too."

"Isn't it fun?" She asks.

"Charlotte--" Scarlett begins, but Charlotte is already fishing Alex's hardened cock out of his shorts.

"Oh my," Charlotte says deeply. Alex's dick is twitching and shines with precum, and it hasn't even been stimulated. She wraps her fingers around the shaft and slowly starts to jack him off. "Tell us how you like Alabaster to fuck you, hmm?"

Alex closes his eyes, bites his lips. He leans back, bracing his weight with his hand. Tries to buck his hips. But Charlotte sternly tells him, "stop that," so he does.

Scarlett would do something to stop her niece, but the truth is that she's getting kind of into it, too.

Alex continues: "H-he -- can be pretty rough... you-- you know?"

"Oh, absolutely," Charlotte agrees. "He can really bruise you up if you aren't careful. Or even if you are."

"He's... so big, and -- well -- when he does it with me -- I'm... not very big, in the place he puts it... you know?"

"I know, honey," Charlotte says. She squeezes his cock tenderly as she tugs on it. "It hurts when he fucks you like that, right?"

"Yeah..."

"And it feels good, too, right?"

"Yes!"

Charlotte can't hold back the lilt that develops in her voice: "It just hurts so good when he breaks your little hole open and pounds it out, doesn't it? You like getting beaten up inside by Alabaster's cock?"

And Alex is desperately trying not to hump Charlotte's hand, while Charlotte slowly, slowly, slowly masturbates him. "Yes! Yes! I love it!"

Scarlett stands at the foot of the bed where Alex and Charlotte sit. She folds her arms. She's not going to cede ground on the argument at hand: "But sometimes he's done too soon -- isn't he?"

Alex half-opens his eyes. They're glazed and stupid-looking. "I mean yeah... I want Ally to last as long as possible because... it feels soooo good -- when he -- when f-fucks me."

Scarlett smirks at her niece. But Charlotte is hardly fazed at losing on the merits of the original dispute. "It's because you're a boy, honey," she tells him.

He looks vacantly at her, as she continues to massage his thick rod. "What do you mean?"

"Alabaster is so self-conscious, you know," Charlotte explains. "A part of him is still uncomfortable having sex with a boy, even after all this time. He's so prudish and quaint that way. But that's how he is. So when he has sex with you... he's trying to cum as quickly as he can. Because he's embarrassed."

"Is that... is that so..." He gulps. "Mrs. Mallory, if you don't stop... then I'm gonna..."

"It's fine, Alex dear," Charlotte tells him. She kisses him on top of his head. She keeps her lips pressed against his crown as she adds, tightening her grip on his member: "Unlike Alabaster, I appreciate the fact that you're a boy. You can blow your load whenever you want, okay?"

"Ffff--" he huffs, and then gasps for air. His eyes roll to the back of his skull. A split second later his dick is spurting strands of ropy jizz in between Charlotte's gentle fingers. She doesn't miss a beat, and milks it all out for the boy.

When he's done cumming himself silly, and Charlotte pulls her sticky hand from his lap, that post-climax clarity sets in for him. He flushes and says: "Oh no! I'm so sorry! I made such a mess!"

"You're a messy boy," Charlotte tells him. "It's okay." She wipes her hand off with a Kleenex and tosses it in the bin beside her bed.

"I... should probably go," Alex says, mortified.

"Don't be silly!" Scarlett cuts in. "I heard you loud and clear. You want my boy to fuck you properly for once, don't you?" 

Alex looks uncertainly from Scarlett, looming over him, back to Charlotte who's still beside him. He clutches his knees. His cock, still half-hard, and slimy, throbs in the open. He feels trapped in a den of cougars -- well, he is.

"Scarlett has the right idea," Charlotte says sagely. "We can help -- we'll get Alabaster to screw you all night long, if you want."

"Would you really..." he begins. Then, shaking his head: "How?"

"Since Alabaster prefers girls," Charlotte says.

"We just have to make you into a girl," Scarlett says.

---

First they clean him, inside and out. 

Alex can't see. Wedged in the shower stall between the two soapy MILFs, his entire field of view is nothing but their slick, fleshy bodies pressing against him, their tits and torsos practically smothering him. They giggle and coo and pet him as they do his ablutions for him. They soap down his chest, neck, and shoulders; stoop to reach his feet, ankles, calves and thighs. They work in perfect harmony together, deliberate but efficient. They wash him under his testicles, lightly scraping his taint with their fingernails, then the balls themselves, each in turn, getting them all sudsy. And they spend a very long time, longer than strictly needed, scrubbing his sensitive cock with their palms. He cums again from that with a shrill whine, this time in Scarlett's hand. She kisses his cheek and washes the sperm off under the shower head with a breezy laugh. They grope and squeeze the globes of his ass while they soap it down, and they have great fun slipping their fingers inside his body, deep, very deep, to make sure he's totally pristine for Alabaster to fuck. Alex is so overwhelmed by it all, their slick flesh and skilled fingers, that he gets all woozy and knock-kneed. He grabs them, their boobs and their torsos and fat hips, not for sexual gratification (although it does make his cock pulse and hum), but just so he has something to brace himself. He'd fall over, otherwise. They lovingly chide him for being a nasty little pervert all the same. 

After the shower, they towel him down and blow-dry his hair. Charlotte does the toweling and Scarlett does the blow-drying. Alex, sitting at a stool at the bathroom mirror, watches abashedly as the nude older women, still dripping wet themselves (in more ways than one) do their work.

Charlotte rubs the towel back and forth under Alex's raised arms, to dry off his bare armpits. The hair on his head ruffles all over with the force of the hot air from the dryer. 

"Look at yourself," Charlotte instructs. "What do you see?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. Just me. Alex."

She starts toweling off his chest. He lowers his slender arms. "Not just Alex," she says. "You have to see something more than that! You have to see what you want Alabaster to see."

He studies his reflection again.

"I'm not sure I'm doing it right," he allows. "What do you mean?"

Scarlett, running the dryer back and forth across his scalp, filling his ears with static on an alternating frequency, says: "See yourself the way you want Alabaster to treat you."

"...Like a girl?" He asks.

"If that's how you want him to treat you!" Scarlett laughs.

"Not just like a girl," Charlotte says. She takes hold of his shoulders and leans down to perch her chin on one of them, too. She meets his eyes in the mirror. "You have to see yourself as a nasty slut."

Alex's breath catches.

"Do you see it?" Charlotte says.

He looks at himself -- and the two naked women drying him off. 

"Y-yes."

"Say it," Charlotte tells him.

"I'm a nasty slut."

She shakes him lightly. "Come on. Say it like you really mean it, for goodness sakes. Say it like an actual slut would say it."

"I'm..." he swallows hard. "I'm a nasty fucking slut... I'm a nasty fucking slut-bitch for Alabaster's dick."

"Yes you are," Charlotte says.

---

They sit him down in front of Charlotte's vanity next. 

"If you really want to be a nasty slut," Scarlett tells him.

"You have to dress like one," Charlotte says.

They're all three still nude, and the cozy bedroom is beginning to smell of their arousal.

Charlotte holds a brief, sheer teddy of hers to Alex's chest. "What do you think?"

"It's too big on me."

Charlotte pouts. She doesn't like her clothes being in the same vicinity as adjectives like "big" -- even if they are.

Scarlett holds a bra of Charlotte's by the strap, dangling it off her forefinger. "This would definitely be too big on him."

Well, maybe there are some articles that Charlotte likes to hear are big, after all.

"You need some slutty clothes that fit," Scarlett tells him. 

"I have some in my room," Alex offers.

"Of course you do."

"No, no, no," Charlotte says. "You need some slutty clothes that don't fit at all. That's the key you're missing." 

"You just want him to wear your things!" Scarlett says. "Honestly..."

"No," she says, "I'm thinking of something else." She glances down at Alex. "Vivian's room is right below us..."

---

Alex sneaks into Vivian's bedroom, while Scarlett and Charlotte wait at the threshold. Vivian is on her bed, half-conscious, gazing at the ceiling. Alabaster's cum is leaking in thick glops out of her bare pussy.

Naked, bold with horniness, his cock bouncing with ever step, Alex goes to her dresser, and starts to dig through it. 

"What are you doing in my room," Vivian says flatly.

"I just need to borrow a couple things..."

"Did I give you permission to go through my belongings?" 

"No... but... it's for Ally..."

"Explain yourself."

Still squatting at her dresser drawers, Alex swivels in place to face her. "I want to wear something sexy for him."

She frowns at him. "So you've come to steal my things."

"I'll give them back!"

"You cannot--"

"Just shut the fuck up, dear," Charlotte tells Vivian. 

Vivian ignores that. She struggles out of bed and weakly stands. "So you want Alabaster to mate with you. And you've decided to entice him by wearing my clothes."

Alex nods.

"Afraid you cannot entice him on your own? You want to borrow some of my femininity and grace to trick him? What a pathetic thing you are."

Vivian takes her used panties from where they lie on the bed. Though they can hardly be called panties in the proper sense -- the crotch is missing entirely, from front to back, and what little material does compose them is a see-through black. Vivian wipes her pussy clean with the garment, smearing Alabaster's cum all over it, and then shoves the stinking thing into Alex's hands. "You can have that. Don't return it. I don't want it back after you've stained it with your fluids."

She tosses him a matching top next, also from the bedtop. It looks like a camisole that's been artfully torn to shreds. It's less a top and more a series of lacy, geometrically connected silk straps with a hole to put your head through. Of course it leaves both the navel and the breasts totally exposed, and a lot of flesh besides as well. 

"Thank me," Vivian tells him.

"Thank you."

She forces him to his knees. "Thank me properly. Clean Alabaster's sperm out of me. It's what you want so badly anyway, no?"

It is. Clutching Vivian's clothes in his hands, Alex tilts his head back and starts to eat Alabaster's creampie out of Vivian's pussy. Vivian grins haughtily. Holding his shoulders, she stands on tiptoes, and rides his face. Although she wiped a lot of the jizz on the panties she handed over, there's still plenty left deep inside her body, coating her internal walls -- Alabaster cums like a horse, and its viscous consistency means it clings tenaciously to the inside of a cunt. Especially a cunt as small and tight as the one belonging to little Vivian Darkbloom. So Alex has his work more than cut out for him. It's a job he relishes, and he eats Vivian's twat with gusto, swabbing his tongue around to scoop out all of Alabaster's sperm. He gets every nook and cranny, vacuuming it all up into his greedy slut mouth. 

Vivian finds herself impressed. She regards Alex as a mincing faggot, but it turns out that he knows how to eat a pussy too. She just wanted him to clean her out, but she winds up cumming on his face a couple times. The way he can tease a clitoris is just divine, and the texture of his tongue against her cum-dripping insides is perfect. She may have to call on his services again in the future. This is what she thinks to herself as she meanly plugs his nose between her pinched fingers, and smothers him with her bald, jism-splattered cunny. He just about drowns. And there's no help coming for him from either Scarlett or Charlotte, who stand at the doorway to Vivian's room, masturbating to the sight. They finger their cunts and enjoy the way Vivian forces Alex to lick her. They, themselves, cum to it also.

---

They get him on his back on Charlotte's bed. Vivian's clothes hardly fit him, but that's the point. The crotchless panties dig into the flesh of his ass and legs; the top bites into his trunk. He's a slight, slender boy but this getup makes him look a lot fleshier and softer than he is. With makeup thickly smeared to his face, he looks like a woman. A very loose woman.

Scarlett and Charlotte make him spread his legs. Scarlett retrieves a bottle of baby oil and liberally applies it to him. She douses his entire lower half -- twitchy cock, tight balls, and ass. On her stomach in front of him, she starts to corkscrew her fingers in and out of his anus. 

"Ms. Catachresis -- not so rough..."

"Shh," Charlotte coos. "Don't fuss."

"You have a darling pussy," Scarlett tells him. She pauses to admire it, its pale hue and smoothness, and how easily it spreads open for her invading digits. "I can see now why Alabaster likes to use it."

"It's a bit uncomfortable..." he whines.

"We have to get you ready, don't we?" Scarlett says.

"If you're going to get fucked like a girl, you have to be properly prepared," Charlotte says.

Charlotte adds a couple fingers of her own, to join her aunt's. Together, the women stretch out Alex's hole. It's a task they adore, for a couple reasons. There's the simple perverted fun of it for its own sake, of course, the act of violating this supple little asshole and seeing how deep they get their fingers, how far they can spread it open. Then there's the fact that they're doing this terrible thing to Alex's hole to get it ready for Alabaster to fuck it. They're tenderizing it, softening it up and getting it slick with lube, all for Alabaster's dick. They're teasing Alex to the point of frustration, abusing him, really -- all so Alabaster's fuck inside him is a bit more pleasurable. These dirty women are doing their best to make Alex into a real girl even despite the ugly, oozing dick between his legs; to transform his ass into a pussy that Alabaster won't mind burying his prick to the hilt inside of and giving a long, hard fuck to, complete with creampie.

"Please..." Alex pants. His dick won't stop leaking. 

Scarlett rises, and circles around. She gets behind Alex, cradling his head in her lap. Meanwhile, Charlotte gets ready for phase two: she pulls an enormous, rubbery dildo from her nightstand. Alex's eyes go wide. 

"Hold on," he says.

"No," Charlotte says tersely. "This is about as big as Alabaster -- it'll get the oil much deeper than our fingers can go. We have to do this..."

"You want it to feel good for Alabaster, don't you?" Scarlett says.

Alex nods.

Scarlett soothingly pets him, and pulls his face towards her pendulous chest. "Here."
 
He latches his lips to her, and starts to suckle. Charlotte wedges the head of the fake cock at his entrance. He sighs and tenses. 

"Nurse on Mommy while we fuck you, baby," Scarlett says.

"Mommy..." he mutters into her tit. 

"Yes," she says softly.

He sucks harder. 

Charlotte seizes the moment, and jabs the dildo past the ring of his anus. Having blown past that resistance, she can easily slide the thing up to its very base in one swift movement. All of a sudden, Alex, in his crotchless panties and slutty top, sucking Scarlett's nipple, has a dildo lodged entirely up his asshole; only the suction cup and fake balls are sticking out. The toy's base twitches rapidly in the air as Alex's anal muscles clench and unclench around it. Alex screams, but Scarlett presses his head to her chest, muffling him.

"You're such a good daughter," Charlotte tells him through gritted teeth.

He mewls.

"A nasty slut of a daughter," Scarlett adds.

"But that's what you wanted," Charlotte says. "You fucking freak."

"Mommy's good little girl," Scarlett says.

Charlotte starts to fuck the dildo in and out of Alex's body. "Naughty, perverted little boy," she spits.

"You've got a perfect pussy," Scarlett tells him. "Alabaster is going to cum inside it like crazy, I'm sure of it."

"He'll blow his fucking nuts inside your cunt," Charlotte says. She grips the toy with both hands and viciously rams him. A squelching noise fills the air.

"Mommy's cunt daughter," Scarlett growls.

"You're so good for us," Charlotte says.

Alex is beet red and close to passing out. He squeezes Scarlett's sides tightly and nurses on her for all he's worth. 

"Are you going to cum from your pussy, darling?" Scarlett asks. "Do you want Mommy to rub your clitty for you?" 

He nods, face rubbing against Scarlett's considerable titmeat. She reaches across his small body and tugs on his rock-hard prick for him. Charlotte continues to fuck him. Together, the women bring him to an enormous orgasm. His cock shoots off so powerfully that the arc almost hits the high ceiling, before raining back down over his own chest, and Scarlett's face. But not even blowing a load that spectacularly can make these crazed mommies stop, now that they're going -- Charlotte keeps fucking him, and Scarlett keeps jerking him while pressing his face to her chest. 

But the noises Alex makes are even shriller and louder now. 

"Swap with me," Charlotte says. "I'll keep him quiet."

They change places. Only Charlotte doesn't have Alex suck her tits. She swings her knees over his face, braces herself on the headboard, and sits on top of him. While Scarlett resumes anally raping him in their quest to turn his asshole into a cunt, Charlotte makes use of his mouth. "Lick my hole," she grunts. "Suck my clit." She bounces up and down, thick ass jiggling.

They're getting carried away. But they make sure to keep Alex feeling good, too. Scarlett even sucks on the tip of his "clitty" for him while she rails his ass with the dildo. They continually praise him for being such a good little girl... in between vicious insults and degradations. When Alex's cunnilingus gets her off and Charlotte creams all over him, the women trade places a second time, and Scarlett gets her turn with Alex's tongue inside her. The hair above her cunt tickles him as he sucks her cream out of her. Charlotte takes to pulling the dildo entirely out of his ass, to thrill at the way Alex's pink cunt gapes open in its absence. She pours almost the entire bottle of oil into his slut-hole, glug-glug, lodges the dildo back in and keeps pounding him. His brain is turning to mush and he really feels himself turning into a girl. In his heart of hearts, he feels like the nasty slut he's always wanted to be. He's their nasty little slut daughter, and he's ready for big brother to come dump a load in him... so, so ready.

---

"...Charlotte's room?" comes Alabaster's voice, from out in the hall.

"Just come on," Scarlett says. "Do you want to fuck your sister or not?"

"Well -- yeah, of course. Which sister, though? Cerise, Amber, Rose--" 

He's beyond gobsmacked when he steps into Charlotte's room and sees Alex. 

He's lying with his back partially propped up on a pillow, knees bowed so that the soles of his feet touch. The bed in front of him is totally stained with oil and his underwear is stained with cum. His cock is hard, poking up through the hole in Vivian's panties, and has a little bow tied around the head (Charlotte's idea). His asshole is visible, and twitching in hunger as it drools. His pink nipples are hard, mostly because Charlotte is rubbing them. He has his arms thrown back behind his head, and wrapped around Charlotte's thick, nude body. 

And he wears the most lustful, perverted grin on his face Alabaster has ever seen him wear.

"S-sister?" Alabaster says.

"Your sister Alex," Scarlett says.

She sinks to her haunches, pulling Alabaster's pants down with her. 

Alabaster gawps.

"Hi Ally," Alex says, voice as feminine as it's ever been. "I'm a girl now, so... please, fuck me like one."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He crawls into bed with Alex, and gets between Alex's legs. Alex pulls his feet apart just enough for Alabaster to get in position -- then locks his ankles around Alabaster's hips.

"Oh my god," Alabaster grunts, as he peers down at the oily mess of Alex's asshole. "You're so wet down here..."
 
"I'm wet for you, Ally... I'm a nasty slut... I got all wet thinking about your dick."
 
"He really wants you to cum inside him," Charlotte says. "It would be so mean of you to deny your little sister, wouldn't it?"
 
She tweaks one of Alex's nipples, drawing a squeak of pain/delight.
 
Scarlett tickles her son's anus with a forefinger, and rests a chin on his shoulder. "Fuck him hard for me, baby. Make sure he doesn't forget that he's your bitch..."
 
"They got me all ready for you," Alex says. "I really need it now, so..."
 
"God," Alabaster breathes.
 
He grips his dick by its base and roots it around a little bit to find purchase against Alex's slippery little girl-hole. Despite the efforts of both mommies to stretch it wide for Alabaster to fuck, Alex is still really tight, and Alabaster has to push pretty hard to slip in. 
 
But once he's in -- he's in. And he sinks all the way to his nuts. 
 
"Fuuu-uuu-uuuck," he breathes in sheer relief. Alex's hole is hot, wet, and grippy. Just perfect. As good as any pussy anywhere on earth. 
 
Scarlett, still running her finger around in circles on Alabaster's own anus, cups her cheek with her other hand, and smiles warmly. "That's so sweet..."
 
"It really is," Charlotte agrees. She has Alex suck her nipples -- Scarlett isn't the only one who enjoys that sensation. Her enormous jugs just about swallow Alex's head entirely. 
 
Alabaster glances back at his mother. "Lick me," he tells her.
 
"Yes dear."
 
Scarlett unquestioningly gets down on all fours, behind Alabaster, and lodges her tongue in his ass while he fucks Alex's pussy. The heat and taste and aroma of her son's hole makes Scarlett's heart do somersaults. She slumps down to her shoulders on the mattress, raising her ass high in the air, and starts to dig at her twat with the fingers of both hands while she services him. Alabaster humps Alex's cunt forcefully, and his ass smacks repeatedly against Scarlett's sweaty face.
 
Charlotte is jilling off, too. She's got the best seat in the house, at the head of the bed; she sees every moment of perversity. 
 
Alex hugs Alabaster. He's latched to Alabaster with all four limbs now while Alabaster fucks him like a cheap whore. Alabaster pulls Alex's face off Charlotte's breasts. Their mouths find each other's, and they begin to make out while they fuck. Alabaster kisses Alex without any reserve, swabbing his tongue around inside Alex's mouth as if he really were any other girl. For maybe the first time ever, Alabaster is treating Alex like the other haremites. 
 
But Alex, greedy for praise, wants to hear him say it. "Am I a good girl?" He begs. His voice is a high and pinched-off whine.
 
Alabaster is half out of breath from the exertion of wrecking Alex's pussy. Sweat pouring from his brow, he pants back: "no... you aren't..."
 
"I'm not?" Alex repeats, distraught. 
 
"You're a nasty fucking slut," Alabaster snarls, as he continues to hump the satiny, oil-slick interior of Alex's ass. He kisses Alex deeply, tongue snaking to back of Alex's throat in tune with Scarlett's tongue wiggling around inside his own asshole. Alex almost gags on it. After a few moments of this, Alabaster sighs: "I love it... the best..."
 
Alex, a strand of spit joining his lips to Alabaster, smiles warmly. It's the exact praise he wanted. He wiggles his tailbone around to settle a bit deeper into the pillowy mattress-top -- gentle cushion from Alabaster's relentless pounding. 
 
Letting out a low and whorish giggle, Alex puts his cheek to Alabaster's. Alabaster is lying almost totally over him now, in a missionary position, and fucking with abandon. Their faces are slick with commingled sweat, and the skin-to-skin contact is feverish. What Alex whispers, hotly, is a confession meant only for Alabaster's ears -- not even their Mommies get to hear it:  "I never wanted to be a girl... until the first time I saw your cock..."
 
Alabaster throws his head back and moans, a deep and guttural and masculine moan.
 
Alex cries out too. He's nearly squealing from the force of Alabaster's suddenly more rapid fucking. "You turned me into a girl, Ally... you made me such a slut!... Mess me up..." 
 
Alabaster has rarely felt pleasure this intense, and he wants to draw it out. He wants to mess Alex's girly pussy up forever. So to stave off his cum, he draws down the rapid pace of his fuck and establishes a more steady, but still-forceful rhythm. He fucks Alex for more than just a few minutes, oh yes. It becomes a long, slow, hard fuck that lasts for close to an hour before he finally can't hold himself back a single second longer, and paints Alex's womb with semen. Alex's womb? Well, that's the thought racing through Alabaster's head anyway, that he's pumping a creamy load of sperm directly into Alex's uterus. Nevermind the anatomical impossibility of it. In that moment, Alabaster believes it. Charlotte loves to see it. Alex really is a good daughter... and a wonderful fuckdoll for his big bro. 
 
With Scarlett still slurping on Alabaster's asshole, Alabaster's orgasm is lengthy and drawn out, a creamy, pulsing, squelchy, messy cum that takes almost half a minute to finish. It's a powerful prostate orgasm -- on both boys' parts. Scarlett's tongue tickles Alabaster's prostate, and Alabaster's dick pounds Alex's prostate. As Alabaster releases his pent-up semen into Alex, Alex himself drops a load as well. It squirts between their writhing bodies, painting both their tummies, and making them both all sticky. Alabaster doesn't care at all that Alex is cumming all over him. He's too busy getting off. And anyway Alex is a girl now -- his little sister -- and he'd never mind his little sister squirting girl-cum on him, would he?
 
Even after he's done orgasming, Alabaster lies entangled with Alex, prick still fucked up inside him, kissing him. Alex keeps all four limbs wrapped around him and kisses him back. Charlotte and Scarlett watch with approval as the boys gently rut and kiss. 
 
"I love you," Alex repeats over and over between wet kisses, to which Alabaster replies in kind: "I love you." Alabaster, over the course of another couple dreamy hours, cums inside Alex a couple more times before exhaustion claims them. They both fall asleep like that -- and Charlotte doesn't mind the company in bed. Besides, it just means that in the morning, she can wake up to round two.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, shimaidon shaman and supporter of public utilities. 

April 21, 2015

Vivian returns home to find that mother was telling the truth after all. Father didn't go to work today. Rather, he's in the seldom used rumpus room, down in the house's basement, watching television.

More strangely: he's drinking a beer at 3:00 in the afternoon, and eating nachos.

As Vivian descends the staircase, father looks back over his shoulder, and nods at her. "Vivian. How was your tour of Berkeley?"

"It was fine. Why are you not at work?"

"I decided to play hooky. Every once in a great while, a man needs to play hooky from work."

Vivian folds her arms. "Do your investors support this novel concept of CEO hooky?"

Father frowns. "You're an even harsher taskmistress than Mara. I need to teach you how to have some fun in life, too." He holds up a bowl full of revolting yellow liquid. "Queso?"

"No, thank you. What on Earth are you watching?"

He nods at the screen. "ESPN-4. You should be interested in this one. They are airing the national championship of the high school quiz bowl. A team from Gilroy is in the quarterfinal right now."

"Mm."

Father pats the seat beside him on the sofa. But Vivian is reluctant. She's unsure how to explain to father what's really upsetting her. Today is her birthday. Father hasn't spoken to her at all today, not even to announce his gift to her of choosing her college on her behalf. (Some gift.) She assumed that he was at work, the same way he's spent all her other birthdays. Now she has returned from a tour of her fated Alma Mater to find out that, inexplicably, he cut loose from work in the middle of the week to sequester himself, watch TV and eat junk food. Rather than spend time with her. It hurts on a level she can't vocalize.

She goes to his side and watches the competition with him anyway. He was right about that -- it is something that interests her.

The close-to-home team, North High's own Mindbreakers, run roughshod over their competition in the quarterfinals, a school from Minnesota. The score isn't particularly close, and the drubbing leaves the opposing team running perilously low on Minnesota niceness -- they leave the stage without so much as a sporting handshake to congratulate the winners. Vivian, despite her sour mood, finds herself absorbed in the game, and frequently answers questions aloud. Often before anyone on stage gets to the buzzer.

"Maybe you should have gone to North High," father says. "You could be up on that stage too."

"Don't be absurd."

"They will win this tournament," father says.

"They certainly appear poised to do so," Vivian agrees. She might be entertained, but she remains standoffish with father.

She does sample the queso, eventually. It's as disgusting as she expected.

"They have such talent," father says. "It's really something to watch."

"Not much talent," Vivian says. "This is a five member team, and only two of them are actually answering any questions."

"It could be a case of stage fright. A team could never advance this far with only two skilled players... they all strike me as talented young people in their own way. Her, in particular -- she's going to shine for sure." He points at one of the girls. "I see brilliance in her eyes. What do you think?"

A post-game interview is just starting with that girl, Whitney Price. The announcer asks into his mic, "great showing. How do you and your teammates prepare for games?"

Whitney shrugs. "I dunno. I'm just a sub. Ally knows all this quiz dork bullsh--t." (The delayed broadcast mutes her profanity). "I'm just here to stand behind the buzzer and look pretty. His words."

The announcer, befuddled, laughs awkwardly. He's not sure how to follow that up. "That's a little... uh..."

"Oh, it's fine. He called me pretty, at least!" She laughs, but it's mostly air.

Vivian looks at father. "There you have it. The star player's bimbo girlfriend -- on stage for no other reason. Some brilliance in her eyes."

Father shakes his head.

The announcer moves on from that trainwreck of an interview. He walks down the line of buzzer-befitted podiums that the Mindbreakers were standing at during the game, and the cameraman closely follows him. Overhead rigging and the glare of stage lights is visible at the top of the screen. A few feet on from Whitney, the team's two actual players are sharing an aside, talking animatedly, and the conversation doesn't seem to be going well for either of them. Are they arguing about something?

"Alabaster Soliloquy?" The announcer asks, catching both contestants' attention. They turn away from each other, towards the camera.

"Good afternoon," says not Alabaster, but the girl he was arguing with, Rose Mallory. Her voice sounds distant because she's not close enough to the mic.

Alabaster holds up a palm. "He was talking to me, Rose. God." His voice also sounds distant.

"Well I guess I'm really talking to both of you!" The announcer tries, and forces laughter.

Alabaster leans way in, to hog the mic, and blot Rose out from the lens's view. "Yeah. Hi."

"Great showing," The announcer says -- seems to be a stock phrase. "Just two more games to go. How does it feel?"

"Feels great."

"Do you foresee your team winning the grand final?"

"For sure we're going to win the--" comes Rose's voice, still distant, her head peeking just barely past Alabaster's shoulder as she stands on tiptoes to get in-frame.

"For sure we're going to win the grand final," Alabaster repeats, speaking over her. "It's basically a done deal."

"You seem quite assured of victory!" The announcer says. "I can feel the passion for success emanating off of you!"

Alabaster smirks. "Well, see, success is fine. But my philosophy in life is that it isn't enough for me to simply succeed."

"Oh?" The announcer says.

Vivian sits forward in her seat and perks up her ears.

---

Noelle has her head in Kay's lap, tightly hugging Kay's legs, as Kay explains to you all what just went down at Darkbloom Analytics. Kay soothingly pets her in just the same way you've seen her pet Lady and Guy to calm down their separation anxiety.

Vivian is fighting back tears, as she hears the grisly story. Steven Armstrong was a longtime friend of the family. Whitney is less composed, and cries openly.

"Did the pilot see anything?" Dr. Carte asks.

"No," Kay says. "I hightailed it out of there when Steven died. Got to the roof before Alyosha saw me. Told the pilot that Steven had decided to stay, and I had decided to go. He was antsy to get going, so he didn't question anything."

"Alyosha could be coming for us next," Darkbloom says.

"He'll have to fight his way through what amounts to an army to get through our front gates," Charlotte says.

"He is the army now," Amber says. "The actual army. You know, the ones with tanks and jet fighters and nukes and shit."

"I am loath to say this," Vivian intones, voice still quavering a bit with grief, "but we may have to turn for help to the very government who stole our company. If a high-ranking general such as Max Pershing has become compromised, then there is no telling--"

"Precisely," Qiangxiang says. "There is no telling. We must come to grips with the fact that Alyosha Kerimov and his followers could be lying in wait anywhere -- and inside anyone. One of us could right now be his puppet. Or, more likely, anyone in your government who could render aid." She smirks. "Perhaps even your President is already a Russian asset."

You sigh.

Qiangxiang continues. "We have, ourselves, the needed tools to go up against them on our own. But only if we act swiftly. Consider this. There is someone here who has been on the wrong side of Alyosha Kerimov not just once, but twice, and lived to tell the tale: Kay Vera." She points at her. "You have done remarkably well for yourself, for a woman who has spent so long on the periphery."

Kay shrugs. "It's what I do."

"You will be useful," Qiangxiang says. You don't like the way that sounds. Qiangxiang turns to you. "Amber will be useful, as well. If she can corral all the abilities her implant bequeaths, for long enough, and in a focused enough manner..."

"I'm not making her do that," you say.

"It appears you have very little say over it," Qiangxiang counters.

"It's fine, Daddy," Amber tells you. "We gotta use what we've got. Right?" She peels back her eyepatch before you can stop her. Hissing in agony, she falls to her butt on the couch beside Kay. Noelle lifts her head from Kay's lap in fright. Mom rushes to Amber's side, ditto Cerise. But turning away from their grasp, Amber waves them back. Finally composing herself, shivering like she's got frostbite, she puts the eyepatch back down and says: "I think Alyosha is still there with Nelson. He's making Nelson and the rest of the programmers finish a working build of the Diogenes project..."

"Excellent work," Qiangxiang says.

Rose2, hands on her knees, leans forward to look her younger sister in the eye. "Please don't hurt yourself, Amber."

You're livid. "Who made you the fucking queen of this house?" You demand of Qiangxiang.

"No one. I appointed myself."

"Ordering us around -- and making Amber --" you pause, and look Qiangxiang over from head to toe. With everything going on, this is the first time today you're really noticing her. She's got on a bikini. And a spot just below her bare navel has a tattoo on it.

"Like what you see?" She asks. She runs a forefinger across the glossy ink.

Your mouth goes dry.

Cerise sits down next to her wife. Gal is taciturn in her typical way, but it's heavier than usual -- she's aggrieved too, over Armstrong's murder. She hugs Cerise tight, nuzzling her side for comfort. But Cerise, nudging her, says: "You have a way to see inside the systems there, still -- don't you?"

Gal, arms still looped around her, pulls her ruddy face away from Cerise and peers up at her.

Cerise nods tenderly. "Nelson's still around. Let's make sure we get him out, at least."

Gal goes to the PC in the corner and sits at it, toting along Johann the penguin. She sets him carefully down by the keyboard, and even takes a moment to straighten the fur on his head. Darkbloom repeats some keys, memorized by rote, that give Gal a backdoor eye into the Darkbloom Analytics intranet.

"nelson's terminal is active," Gal affirms after a few moments. "he's working -- right now. and so are about 50 other terminals belonging to diogenes project devs... all hands on deck"

"Final code sprint," Alex says. "They'll be complete soon, with those instructions I passed on... and then... all Alyosha would need is one of our implants to load Diogenes into."

"So we've got, what, about 24 hours before a Russian wetwork squad comes knocking?" Noelle asks. "At best?

"I'll knock 'em right back!" Mom hollers.

"Please," you say. "Let's talk realistic options."

But Mom, apparently, thinks that's realistic.

"No one knows about those tunnels beneath the server room," Kay tells you. "Just us. They were dug illegally by Palo Alto Waste and Water Management, never included in any city plans -- and there hasn't been any new surveying since Tyrus and his gang have died, as far as I've been able to snoop out." She holds up an index finger. "That one singular flaw in security there could be our ticket back inside, if we want to use it."

"There's no access, though," you say. "It was only ever there as a convenient spot to put bombs."

"Right, and bombs make holes, and holes can be climbed through," Kay says. "Instead of blowing Darkbloom Analytics to kingdom come, how about a little controlled demolition?"

"For what purpose?" Qiangxiang demands.

"To save Nelson Berenstoin, for one," Vivian says. "And every other innocent working there."

"No one who works at Darkbloom Analytics is innocent," Qiangxiang says.

"Go to hell," Whitney says. "Those are my people in there. My people. I could give a fuck about innocent. We have to get them out if we're talking about blowing the place up."

"Time is ticking," Qiangxiang says frustratedly. "Tick tock, tick tock, Whitney. Would you rather Alyosha get his hands on technology that can undo the existence of people you love? He will come gunning for us next, when Nelson is done, and then what will you do?"

Whitney has no response.

"What about your implants?" Rose asks. "You, and Amber, and Gal, and Vivian -- you'll die if we blow up the campus."

"If Nelson finishes Diogenes and pushes it to the servers, the servers will push it to them," Alex says. "That's how I have it set up, at least. After that, they won't need the functionality of the servers any longer..."

"So the moment he's done with his work, our implants become an all-in-one Sand-Reckoner-slash-Diogenes smorgasbord for this Alyosha prick to come steal," Amber says.

"Basically," Alex says.

"And that leaves us with a vanishingly small window to actually extract Nelson and the rest of them if we want to go that route," Noelle says. "Surely Alyosha will kill them all when they're through. And then he'll mobilize for us right away."

"We should get going quick, then," Whitney says.

"i'll know as soon as they're done working on the project" Gal offers. "i could give the word go"

Alex, of all people, is the pragmatist: "Getting inside the building is one thing. Getting out, with dozens of people in tow, is another... that place is under siege. And under the eyes of the police, the military, foreign powers... we can't just escort all the employees out and not expect someone to fight us. Even if we take them out the way we came, through the tunnels -- even if no one else above-ground realized what was going on -- Alyosha's men would know for sure. That place has got to be swarming with his footsoldiers. And they'd chase us. Right?"

"Under siege," Amber repeats.

"Hmm?" Alex says.

"You're right, twinky. They're under siege. And who's sieging them? Thousands of pissed off citizens who wanna overthrow the system." She turns from face to face. "Why do we have to blow up Darkbloom Analytics? Why can't we just give these folks the keys to the kingdom and let them go hog wild for us? If we get them inside, they'll do the work -- and it'll give everyone there a chance to get out, during the fray."

"That's just going to make the body count even higher," you say.

"No one inside that building is going to get out of it, unless we give them an escape ladder," Amber says. "And the only thing that will work for it is chaos -- the chaos of a riot breaching the front gates."

"The way I see it, we have three options," Kay says.

"Oh my god," Amber mutters.

Kay ignores her exasperation. "We can try to use a riot to our advantage, the way Amber suggests -- leading them into the building through the tunnels. Or we can go inside all stealthy-like, and try to manage the breakout on our own terms. Or..."

"Or," you prompt.

"Or we accept that there's going to be some collateral, and blow the place up, even with people like Nelson still in it."

>[x] Option A: Breach the system. Help the protestors inside; use the chaos to defeat Alyosha and destroy the company.
[ ] Option B: Subvert the system. Sneak in, save anyone you can, and defeat Alyosha under your own powers.
[ ] Option C: Blow the system up.

"And how exactly are we supposed to herd a bunch of unruly protestors into the building?" Daddy says. "Are you the pied piper of anarchists now? Gonna march your way into an active battlezone and say, 'hey guys, come with me down into the sewers, there's something cool there I wanna show you!' Get real."

He's always such a shit when he's scared. It's kind of sweet, in its own way. He doesn't want to put you at risk.

"I know someone who can help," you say.

"Of fucking course you do," Noelle mutters.

"You know him too. And he's up to no good, right now." You tap your cheekbone just below your ruined eyehole. "So says the god of the grain."

---

Will parks on the curb right outside the chain-link fence. You're a good 10 miles from Darkbloom Analytics and the thick of the protest -- this is a quiet backstreet, without any public businesses or residences nearby, just some warehouses, storage sheds, shipping centers, and -- this. An electrical substation, humming along at about 220,000 volts, give or take. That electric hum is the only sound in the air right now. The fence is abutted along the top of its perimeter by barbed wire, and beyond, a stretch of patchy grass leads to the gray transformers and power switchers and capacitors, in all their weird geometry so reminiscent of retro sci-fi, all of it seeming to vibrate with raw energy.

"Thanks for picking me up," you say.

"No prob."

Mom leans in from the back of the car. "You're such a nice young man, Will. I wish Amber would be more like you."

He laughs. You wish Mom hadn't insisted on coming, but she wouldn't let you and Daddy leave the house without tagging along. Ditto Daddy's cunt of a wife (who's growing on you, admittedly.)

"For real, though," you tell Will. "I know I said I didn't want you involved, but..."

"Hah," he says. "You think I'm gonna just sit back and let fucking Rais--" he startles as, from the substation, a deafening crackle like thunder roars out, and then sparks go flying. The streetlights die. Power just got knocked out for a huge swath of Palo Alto. By no accident, either.

Fleeing on foot, then, comes a little gaggle of people in black suits and balaclavas. Five in total. They clamber through the hole they made in the fence when they first came in -- but you and Will are already out of the car to intercept them. So are your dear sweet mother and your less sweet, but just as dear, Daddy.

Two of the wannabe insurrectionists level guns on you, shouting emphatically, asking who the fuck you are. Mom scurries from the car and bodily shields you, arms held wide. But from the rear of the opposing group, one young man comes pushing through, and tells the guys threatening you to lower their weapons. He pulls his mask off his sweaty face.

"Hey Auburn," you say.

"Should I ask what you're up to?" You say, nodding at the bolt cutter still in Auburn's hand.

"No," he says. He's got scruff -- and he stinks -- a week or so of being caught up in a fast-developing street war with the cops didn't wear well on him. Or did it? The beard, brown unlike the blond of his head, kinda suits him. Too bad about his ear, though. It's covered with a thick gauze bandage taped haphazardly around his head.

"Whoa," Will says. "You okay, Raisin Brant? What happened to you?" He reaches for the wounded side of Auburn's head, and the blood-stained bandage there, but Auburn swats his hand away.

"Don't touch me. I don't consent to that."

Will giggles.

"I got shot," Auburn says. "I was lucky. A lot of the people with me weren't."

"Going for graze points?" You say.

"What?"

"Auburn..." Mom breathes. "I wouldn't believe it if I didn't see it with my own two eyes. You were always such a sweet boy."

"Hello to you too, Ms. Catachresis."

"Yo, who the fuck are these people?" One of Auburn's still-masked accomplices wants to know.

Will pulls on his eyelid and sticks his tongue out at the armed men.

"Friends," Auburn tells them. "In a way."

"We gotta get out of here," another accomplice says.

"I'll make this quick," you say. "Now that you've got the cover of darkness and all, it's perfect timing."

"For what?" Auburn says.

"Tell everyone you know that I've got a way into the building."

Daddy and Rose2 and Will follow behind, while you lead Auburn through the sewers. You wear lighted helmets, and also wield flashlights in your hands, to show the way in the pitch darkness.

"Right... here," you tell him, stopping. "Put a little C4 up here --" you tap on the low, curved, vaulted ceiling. "-and kablammo. We'll get in, no sweat."

"Why are you telling me this?" Auburn asks.

"There's all sorts of bad guys up in there. Once we're in, we can shoot 'em up." You make finger guns. "Action movie style."

"We," Auburn says flatly.

"But let me put it back on you," you tell him. "What made you decide to come take part in this craziness?"

"It didn't start like this," Auburn says. "It was just a protest. Banging drums, holding signs. But it kept getting worse, and worse... I got sucked into it."

The way he speaks now, even the way he carries himself, is so different. Just a few days of violence has changed some deep part of him.

"But why did you start?" You ask. "You were never one to tear down the system."

Auburn gazes at you coldly. "And you? You think you're some revolutionary, but where were you, Amber? I thought you'd be here a lot sooner. I guess in the end neither of us were what we thought."

"Auburn--"

"Thanks for the help," he says. "Get out of here. Have fun in your sex mansion. I don't need anything else from you."

"Oh, that shit is not going to fly--" you begin, but Daddy is already putting a hand on your shoulder. Auburn nods at him.

"Will can take us back," Daddy says. "He'll bring back a few presents for you, too."

"Explosives?" Auburn says.

You nod. "I have a stash tucked away somewhere safe. I call them roomburners."

"Such a lame fucking name," Daddy's wife mutters.

"Shut up," Daddy says, rolling his eyes, not glancing back at her. "Well. They should be just enough to blow a decent sized hole in the ceiling. The servers are right above us."

"When do you want us to go?" Auburn says.

"When I say go."

He huffs. "Fine."

"I'll be there too, naturally," you say -- but Daddy is already leading you by the hand, down the tunnel. Auburn's lone form, lit by his lighted helmet, becomes smaller and smaller in the encroaching darkness.

---

"Hey, you got any of that Capris Sun?" Will asks.

Gal hands him a bag from the fridge.

"Sweet." He peels the straw off and unwraps it, but struggles to get it stuck into the bag. Try and try as he might, he can't get it done.

Amber sighs. "Give me that," she says, and she does it for him.

"Thanks," he says. "Thought you'd never offer."

"Have you ever gotten one of these things open on your own?" She says.

"...No."

Amber rolls her eyes at him.

You find a pen and a pad of paper, and write down the address of the Mallory home. "The roomburners are in the crawlspace down there. Go grab them, and bring them to Auburn."

Will salutes with one hand, and slurps his drink with the other.

"And get the fuck out of there as soon as you're done with your delivery," Amber tells him.

"Oh, I gotta," he says. "I have to be at soccer practice suuuuper early, and it's kind of a long drive back and forth from Palo to Gilroy. So I won't be getting any shuteye until late."

You shake your head. Does this boy understand the gravity of what he's involved with right now? Guess not.

"Hey, could I steal a few more Capris Suns -- for the drive? They'd super help a lot, since I still have half a gallon of nuts left to get through tonight."

Amber sighs even more theatrically. "Need me to open those ones for you, too?"

"Yeah... I mean if you're offering."

She prepares an entire 12 pack of Capris suns for him, putting straws through each. She sets them in in a deep tupperware container for safekeeping and easy toting.

"You're a lifesaver, Amb," he says.

"What are you talking about, again?" Whitney asks. "Half a gallon of nuts? Nuts come in gallons?"

"Ever hear of GOMAD?" Will asks.

"Gallon of milk a day, yeah," Whitney says.

He snaps, and points at her. "Yeah! Well, I'm lacto intolerant. So..."

He proceeds to explain to a goggle-eyed Whitney, at length, the idea of his GONAD diet.

"Huh," she says when at last he's through.

"Pretty cool, don't you think?" He says.

"...I'll stick with milk," Whitney says.

Will shrugs. "Does a body good, right?"

"I mean," Whitney adds, not wanting to offend, "I do like nuts. Just not that much."

"I don't really like nuts either," Will says.

"...You eat a gallon a day."

"Yeah, but. I don't like it."

"Shouldn't you stop, then?" Whitney asks.

"Meh," he says.

Whitney nods. "Fair enough," she says -- as if truly convinced by the rhetorical tactic of "meh."

"Well, I should skedaddle," Will says, and takes his tupperware full of pre-strawed Capris Suns, bracing them against his hip as he exits. "See you on the flipside."

As Whitney closes the door behind him, she turns and tells you: "Cool kid. Dumb as a bog of rocks. But cool. I like him."

"Bog?" You say.

"Sorry. I meant to say bax, but switched it up at the last second, so it came out as bog."

"Box?"

"What?"

You let it drop.

"So what's the next step of your master plan?" Noelle says.

"Oh, I'm sure the FBI would love to know," Amber says, munching on gummi bears on the living room couch. Noelle flips her off.

"There is no next step," you tell her. "We're all here, and we're all safe. So we're going to stay hunkered down until it's over."

Amber is on her feet. "What? Like fuck we're gonna stay hunkered down. We gotta go in there--"

"No we fucking don't," you say. "We've set up everything we can from the outside. Now we play defense. That's it. That's the plan. No more discussion."

"If you're too much of a coward to go there, then--"

It's time to lean on some of that Daddy cachet you've built up: "I will tie you down if I have to, little girl. Do not test me. You aren't leaving this house until I say so."

"Ahhhn~"

You turn, and glance into the den. Qiangxiang is sitting in a chair, writhing, and biting her lip, as Samantha pierces her belly button.

"What the fuck--" you begin.

"Don't worry!" Samantha insists. "I'm a licensed practitioner! It will look so cute on her!"

"God," you breathe.

Alex is leaning over Gal's shoulder at the PC, snooping on Darkbloom Analytics. He grabs your attention: "they've got a long ways to go yet," he says. "They won't be finished until tomorrow at the very, very earliest."

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Amber demands.

You shrug. "Same thing we do every night."

Noelle approaches her from behind. "I can help you tie her down. You know I'm good for it."

Now there's something you finally like to hear the sound of.

>Everyone is here. But how many people do you need to help you fuck 14 girls and a cute boy at the same time? 
>(And who, if you do want help, should take the honors?)
[ ] 0. I'll do it myself.
[ ] 1. Always could use a helper.
>[x] 2. Makes for a nice 4-to-1 ratio. (Rose/Whitney)
[ ] 3+. The more the merrier.

"Yoooou-- you dumb fucking hobag! I will make you pay!" 

Noelle finishes tying Kay down. Kay, like all the other times, pretends she isn't happy about it. 

Some of the girls, like Mom and Charlotte, were only too excited to have Noelle strip them nude and tie them up with their holes proudly on display. Some even begged for the bindings to be tighter, like Samantha and Rose2. 

Others, like Amber, and like Kay here, fought the system -- kicked and screamed, threatened and gnashed their teeth. 

No matter. Your dick doubles as a perfectly good reward for the submissive and a punishment for the bratty. 

Noelle's skill at shibari is second to none. The way she's done these bitches up is absolutely breathtaking. The girls are all lined up in the living room, on their backs, legs doubled up over their torsos, calves parallel with the floor. Their wrists, nestled in the crooks of their knees, support the weight of their legs, albeit quite uncomfortably indeed. And the bindings ensure that they cannot move from this stressful position. That position comes with a few added benefits, aside from subduing them and causing a little discomfort. It leaves their cunts and assholes totally vulnerable and defenseless, and leaves room up top if you want to use their throats, too. Tonight, every single one of them is a three-hole slut -- even if some of them don't know it yet. 

Each girl is tied the same way, although some come with custom bits of perversion. Vivian and Amber are both suspended from the ceiling, rather than lying atop a cushion on the floor. They bob and sway a little bit as they hang there -- Vivian eager, Amber angry -- how cute. Rose2 has a cat-tail buttplug inside her ass; her cherished flamingo-pink double-ended dildo is meanwhile sticking up out of her mouth like a butter churn -- she gags and sputters horribly around it without the ability to force it out of her body. Gal and Cerise both have rotors in their cunts, and are riding a wave of continuous orgasms. Mom has a dildo shoved halfway up inside her, and her hairy pussy is doing masturbatory kegels around it while she moans like a whore. Charlotte and Alex, for their part, both have a set of anal beads lodged inside them, only the handle of the pullstring visible from beyond their sealed-up, pale, pulsing anuses.

The only girls not secured are Noelle, who did the dirty work; and Rose and Whitney, who as always were a great help in getting some bitches ready for hardcore rape. Your wife and your tomboy gf kept the fighters under control (you helped, of course), while Noelle methodically completed her job of tying everyone down.

"I'll beat your ass!" Kay yells. 

"Yeah!" Amber agrees, swinging uselessly in the air a few feet down the line.

"I'll knock your teeth out!" Kay cries.

"Tell her!" Amber goads.

Noelle, getting nude now herself, giggles. She's flushed with excitement, and her voice drips adrenaline. She nudges Kay's face with her toes -- then starts to apply some pressure. Soon she's outright stepping on the poor woman. Is that a move she picked up from Rose? In any case, you've rarely seen a smile as elated as Noelle's is right now. This is a woman in her natural element, surrounded by writhing lesbian sluts, many of them unwilling, all of them helpless, in a room stinking under a heavy fog of female sex. 

"I wanna do her first," Noelle says, rubbing her toes all around Kay's nose and mouth. "You'll let me fuck her first, right?"

She's so happy; her cunt is shiny with arousal as she gently abuses Kay. So it's kind of a shame that the harsh reality of the situation has to come crashing down on her now.

Rose takes one of Noelle's arms, and Whitney takes the other. 

"W-what are you doing?" Noelle demands. "Hey -- let me go!" 

She looks up in fright, to see you approaching with a red rope held taut between your hands -- this one, meant for her.

"Wait!" She screams.

Too late. Hoisted by her own petard. Rose and Whitney force the struggling woman to her back and hold her still while you tie her up. It's not a perfect replication of her honed shibari technique, not by a longshot, but it's good enough -- it gets her in the same position as the others, anyway. And that's all you really need. You don't care to mix origami into your sex life, you're just making sure that the fuckholes you want access to stay spread open, on display and ready for you to dump your load in. That's all.

"Asshole!" Noelle wails. "After everything I did to help you just now!"

Kay, right beside her, grins smugly at her. It's a pyrrhic victory, but she'll take it.

Rose and Whitney laugh cruelly at Noelle's predicament, too. 

"Dyke slut," Rose says. She uses her foot on her. But not on the Noelle's face, as Noelle did to Kay. Rather, Rose pokes and prods at Noelle's delicate-looking twat. Noelle strains -- pulls against her bindings, to no avail. When Rose's soft cruelty starts to bring Noelle feelings she never signed up for, she closes her eyes, gasping. 

Whitney laughs anew at the sight. "You gonna do her first, then?" 

"I owe her a little payback for the men's restroom at Comiket. And a few of the other bitches here too." Rose gives Whitney a meaningful look. 

"Hey, it wasn't my idea!" Whitney says, waving her hands in front of her. "Blame Gal!"

"blame me," Gal agrees, cumming hard on her rotors. "fucking rape me. rape me rape me rape me"

Whitney shuts her up by kneeling and sticking some fingers down Gal's throat. Gal, gagging, smiles in bliss. After a couple more orgasms aided along by being choked from the inside, Gal becomes a bit more docile again. For now.

Rose and Whitney get themselves ready. Each don a huge, vicious strap-on of their own. The strap-ons are double-sided, with an end that lodges up their own cunts, so that when they fuck one of these whores, they get pleasure out of it too. They'll be enjoying this gang rape just as much as you. Rose, legs bowed, sighs in pleasure just getting the thing inside herself; Whitney has much the same reaction. Then, they help each other do up the straps and buckles behind their butts. How friendly they become when working towards a common goal.

Rose, all ready now, jerking on her fake cock like it's real, smiles at you. "Ready to fuck, honey?"

"I know I am," Whitney says. "Let's rape these cunts..."

You're ready, too. You strip, and all eyes are glued to you. The moment when you step free from your pants and boxers, to reveal the hunk of fuckmeat you keep in there, there's an audible sigh that washes through the room. What unites these women despite their manifold differences is how hot they all get for this dick of yours. They all want it -- even if some of them are playing coy about it -- their mouths and cunts are all watering just from glimpsing it. 

That's enough, on its own, to make it start throbbing its way to hardness. But you're only half-hard at the moment, your cock hanging heavily between your legs as you walk down the line of women. 38 holes for you to choose from. Aside from the ones belonging to Qiangxiang, you've sampled each and every one before, at one point or another. All are perfectly good masturbation sleeves to get yourself off in. So just which one of them are you going to bless with the first cumload of the evening? Which of these cumdumps are you going to creampie first?

Speaking of Qiangxiang... right, now there's an idea. She's at the very end of the line, next to Samantha, and she's trying to look miserable even as she stares at your semi-erect cock.

"So the time has come at last," she says, eyeing you up as you approach. "You've finally decided to rape me."

"Finally?" You ask.

"I knew it was going to happen," she says reproachfully. "Get it over with."

"Ask me nicely."

"What?"

"You heard me. Ask me nicely and I'll consider raping you."

"Hmph," is all she'll say, forcing herself to look away -- turning her head away from both you, and the other women in the room.

You kneel before her. This is the first time you've really taken an up-close look at Qiangxiang's cunt. The lips are well-defined, a dark pink that contrasts nicely with the pale skin of her crotch. She keeps herself hairless. And she's so, so wet. Alongside her tan, the womb tattoo and the freshly pierced navel complete the slutty look.

You take your meaty cock in hand, by the base, and slap it against her mound. Over and over. The wet thwaps send droplets of her arousal up in random arcs, and smear your prick with wetness. Now this is a pretty novel way to get yourself hard. The head of your prick is battering her clitty, waking it up. That clit of hers, dark pink like the rest of her cunt, gets hard. It gets hard with your dick, and pokes out from under its hood to meet it. 

Qiangxiang, trying not to, winces and grunts in pleasure.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" You ask.

She refuses to say.

Oh well. You'll come back to her.

You move down the line. Samantha is less abashed, of course. She looks Qiangxiang's way and says: "Don't be like that! If you want Master to fuck you, you have to tell him nicely! And he definitely will!" She looks back your way. "Master... master please... my bunny pussy can't take much more waiting! Please won't you give me your cock juice! I want it so bad!"

From down by the other end of the line, the sounds of grunting catch your attention. Rose is on top of Noelle, fucking her like a bitch, while Noelle thrashes around below her. Rose's huge knockers sway under her as she humps with abandon and loses herself in the bliss of fucking. 

A little ways down from that lovely sight, Whitney is holding Vivian by the thighs, swinging her back and forth on her strap-on. Vivian's entire body drips sweat and her teeth are gritted from the enormous, invading tool that Whitney violates her tiny cuntlet with. As if that weren't enough, Whitney fingers her little sister's asshole at the same time, trying to maximize the amount that those itty bitty loli-holes can be stretched. Whitney still hasn't found that maximum yet, despite bountiful searching -- and she won't tonight, either. Vivian takes all her sister's abuse with joy.

"Please master PLEASE," Samantha begs, vying for your attention. She's so pitiful all tied up like that, begging for 'cock juice', that you decide to indulge her a little. It'll be instructive for Qiangxiang too. She'll see that niceness goes a long way with you. That all a girl has to do for you to fuck her is submit completely to your cock -- in mind, body, heart and soul. 

You prop yourself on your hands and dig into Samantha's hot, tight bunny cunny. It's a wonderful inauguration for tonight's fucking. Like every other time, Samantha's twat is unbelievably warm and swampy. Its little bumps and ridges feel half-alien, and cling so nicely to your shaft as you sink in. The dopey smile that creeps across her face, like an addict shooting up, is only an added pleasure. 

"That's it," you sigh. "Tell Chloe how much you like it."

"I LOVE it," she says, voice high. "I LOVE my Master's cock! So much! It's the best cock in the whole wide world! I want it to make so many babies inside me! I want you to put lots of cum inside me okay! Please, please cum inside!"

"You disgust me," Qiangxiang tells her.

"Good! I'm disgusting! I'm a disgusting slut made for breeding!"

Qiangxiang watches intently at the place where you're fucking Samantha's hot gash. She watches your sawing prick and your swaying nutsack. She watches the way Samantha's wetness just keeps seeping out of her like a waterfall. She watches Samantha squirm in joy at getting used for a fuckdump. Qiangxiang is hypnotized by it all.

"Fuuuuuuuuuck!" Whitney yowls. "Get me off, you little slut! Yeah, just like that!" She's pumping her little sister's own hot gash with whole quarts of semen, dispensed from the stap-on's hand-pump. This is a favorite perversion of Vivian's. The white cream overfills Vivian's abused hole and flows back out of her, all down her pale ass, dripping to the floor at Whitney's bare feet. The mental image of that stap-on's enormous apple-sized head, almost as big as Vivian's entire fist, lodged up inside the small girl's uterus and blasting its back walls with hot jizz -- is almost enough to make you dump a load in Samantha's pussy right then. But you want to save your first cum, really draw it out -- so Samantha is going to have to wait.

You pull out of her, and admire the way your cock is shiny with her pussy cream.

"Master, wait--!!"

"You wait," you tell her firmly. "You'll all get a turn."

She whines and pleads, but it falls on deaf ears. 

This, too, is instructive for Qiangxiang. She can learn from seeing you treat Samantha this way: that even if she submits her body completely to your cock, she still won't *always* get her way. And maybe it's this very thought that makes Qiangxiang cum herself -- without any stimulation at all -- squirting a little bit on the cushion beneath her butt.

Next to Samantha is Alex. He's wearing that same revealing outfit he stole from Vivian at Mom and Charlotte's behest. The holey top and crotchless panties are so tiny on him, and both articles have seen better days. They stink of cum, and are stained all over. A perfect ensemble for such a nasty slut as Alex Best. The handle for the anal beads in his asshole twitches in tune with his pulse. His cock is all hard, and he's already cum on himself at least once. The pearly jism pools in his belly button, reflecting the overhead light.

"A-Ally..." he whimpers. "I need it... I need it real bad."

"Where do you need it?" You ask him.

He stares at your cock, licking his lips. "In... in my asshole."

"Here?" You nudge the handle of his anal beads, making him shiver.

"Yes. Yes!" 

"That's not an asshole, is it?" You ask.

He shakes his head emphatically. "I mean -- in m-my pussy. I need it in my pussy so bad, Ally, please! Fuck me!"

"Your pussy's full."

He whimpers.

"You want it in your mouth?" You offer. 

He nods, so you get over his face, squatting, and hold him roughly by the ears. His face begins to turn crimson before you even lodge your cock inside his throat. And when you do that, he turns nearly infrared. He fights for air -- vainly so, since you plug his nose (thanks for the idea, Vivian). Like so, you really begin to fuck his mouthpussy. 

What a wonderful cocksucker Alex is. He slurps your precum and Samantha's girlcum off your member with equal enthusiasm, even as he nearly asphyxiates. That's just the kind of hungry cunt he is. He'll drink down any slime from any set of genitals, the fucking cunt bitch. You can smell him spunking again, behind you, as you force him to suck you off. And you feel him screaming his orgasm around your pistoning shaft, sending pleasurable vibrations up it. You're gonna cum like this if you're not careful... you'd better move on soon.

Whitney has already moved on, too. She's left her sister's ruined little pussy dripping spunk from it, to take a ride inside Amber's cunt. 

"Ready?" Whitney says leeringly, holding Amber's skinny thighs much the same way she manhandled Vivian. She swings Amber lightly back and forth by the strap holding her to the ceiling.

"Fuck you," Amber snarls.

Whitney slaps her. Amber reels. Then, looking back at Whitney, she repeats: "FUCK YOU."

Whitney slaps her again, across the other side of her face. Two palm-shaped marks mar the porcelain beauty of Amber's features. 

"You should be nicer to me," Whitney says. "I own your pussy right now. I can make it hurt or I can make it feel good. Your choice."

"My pussy belongs to Daddy!" Amber says, adopting the tone and timbre of a whiny brat. "Leave it alone!" 

"Hey Daddy," Whitney laughs, glancing back at you as you step off Alex's face. You gaze down at the ravished trap, the way he coughs and hacks up little wads of your own prefuck as he tries to breathe again, ejecting all that slime out of his throat in a little streamer that lands back onto his already messy face. His face, now, is as slimy as his slender, cum-slick torso.

"What's up?" You finally ask Whitney.

"Your little girl says that her pussy only belongs to you."

"True," you say.

"Can I borrow it?" Whitney asks.

"Sure."

"Can I do whatever I want to it? Can I jizz inside it?"

"Of course."

Grinning like a wolf, Whitney grabs Amber's thighs again.

"Dadddyyyyyy!" Amber wails, but no use. Whitney jams her prick inside the poor thing. Amber grimaces and tenses -- and then, face going droopy, she cums for aunt Whitney. 

Rose has only just finished fucking Noelle. Your loving wife has had a nice, long, meaty orgasm inside Noelle's body, and now she occupies herself by squirting a cumload all over Noelle's face. What a sadistic bitch Rose can be -- not even granting Noelle the pleasure of getting cummed inside after raping her. You're one to judge, though. You've gotten some pleasure from just that same act of denial tonight...

Charlotte is next in line for you. Like Alex, her tight asshole is occupied by a set of anal beads. As experienced and mature as she is; unbelievably, only the starter set of beads could fit inside, and this only after considerable effort. Her asshole is as tight as a fucking drum, it's true... time to break it.

She doesn't know that's your intent as you approach, of course. She wiggles her toes and coos as you draw near. "There you go, baby... come to Mommy. You must be SO worked up after all that fucking you've been doing... why don't you come relieve yourself inside my pussy, huh?"

"Oh thank you so much, Mommy," you say in faux gratitude. "My dick is so hard it hurts... I could really use the help."

"She's not your real mother--" begins, well, your real mother, who's lying beside. You shush her. 

"Oh baby, that's no good," Charlotte mewls. "That's no good at all... sink inside me and rub that ache away, okay?" She flexes her pussy theatrically, just to show you how limber she can be up in her motherly orifice. You see it twitching. "I'll make it feel so good for you..."

You heave a sigh, and get down in front of her. The expression she wears is some mixture of... maternal and smug. Is it possible to be a smug mommy? Charlotte is making the case for it. 

That expression vanishes the second you tug the anal beads out. She makes a choked "ghhh--!!" noise, and goes rigid. You dangle the slimy toy in front of you, hanging it off your index finger. Meanwhile, you poke at her quickly sealed-off anus with your other hand. 

"H-honey..." Charlotte stammers, fearful. 

"I can't *wait* to have your pussy, Mommy..." you say. 

"That's--" she gulps, and steadies her breathing, but can't hide the panic on her face. "Silly boy, th-that's not Mommy's pussy... you know? You've got the--"

You thrust your hips forward, and shove your cock brutally past her anal ring. Charlotte shrieks: "--WRONG HOLE! THAT'S THE WRONG HOLE, BABY!"

"Oh, fuck, Mom," you grunt, and exhale hard through your nostrils. It's an uncontrolled outburst, not a bit of play-acting. Charlotte's rear hole is so nice and vicelike, so soft and warm, and nicely lubed-up from the toy... what a delightful fit for your horny, rampant prick. 

Charlotte loves to relieve your lust, even if it hurts for her. And so, seeing all that pleasure mask your face, she decides to let you have your way with her asshole. You sink slowly in, while Charlotte pants, her breaths shallow and rapid. You can feel every millimeter of her beautiful anus from the inside, parting like a flower, swallowing you up. 

Biting her lower lip so hard that it draws a tiny trickle of blood, and with a crazed look in her eye, Charlotte says: "don't hold back, honey... fuck Mommy's pussy... it's extra tight for you tonight! Just for you!"

But the pain is too much for her grippy asshole to handle. She needs a bit to chew. Luckily, you've got just the thing handy. You slowly lower her used anal beads to her lips. Unblinkingly, and without hesitation, Charlotte opens her mouth to let you put them in. You sink them down into her throat, and when they've all disappeared, she seals her lips around the pullstring. Like a lollipop, then, she sucks her ass off the beads, while you bugger her hard. Her giant tits ripple and her tied-up thighs make great handlebars to brace yourself with. And that stupid face of hers, sucking on her own sex toy while she sweats and smiles through the pain -- is perfect.

"Tch-- Alabaster..." Rose is standing over you as you rut inside her mother. "You said you were going to share her with me when you got to her."

You shrug. "You were busy with Noelle."

She rolls her eyes. "Well now I'm done." She tugs a little on her strap-on, which is still oozing cum from the tip. "Make some room already. Let's DP her."

Charlotte's eyes are saucers. She had no idea you and Rose were planning this.

You rear back so you're on your haunches, cock still wedged up Charlotte's ass. Rose swings her shapely legs over Charlotte's waist, to straddle her. Your view, formerly of Charlotte sucking on her anal toy, is now obscured by your loving wife's smooth, fat butt. You can't help giving it a swat, which makes Rose yip in surprise, then glance back over her shoulder at you with an angry scowl.

"Oh stop," you tell her. "Let's fuck your mom already, huh?"

Rose smiles. She looks back down at Charlotte. "What are you thinking, taking Alabaster's cock for yourself, huh?"

Charlotte tries to say, "I'm sorry," but it comes out muffled because of the beads inside her gullet.

"You tell me practically every day that you want him to breed me, but here you are trying to get him to cum up you instead! Make up your mind!"

Rose gets the rubber dick held fast by its root, and rubs some of the fake cum around Charlotte's already sopping wet pussy.

"If you wanted to be a cum tissue so badly..." Rose says, voice developing that characteristic high lilt it does when she's really turned on, "...you should have just ASKED!" At that moment she slams her hips forward and fucks her cock up inside her mother's body.

Charlotte makes a loud, low gurgle. Her hands, tied firmly beneath her knees, flex and strain. If you thought Charlotte's anus was tight before, it's nearly unfuckable now. With Rose's dildo pressing down on Charlotte's vaginal canal, the already constrictive tunnel of her mature ass clamps down twice as hard as before. You make a low "oooooh" of your own to signal a mixture of pleasure and pain. 

Rose holds her mother by the shoulders. The position Rose is forced to adopt to gain access to Charlotte's pussy while you fuck her too is downright obscene. She's in a stooping, squatting, bow-legged posture straight from hentai, and it presses her udders hard against Charlotte's straining face. It gives you a lovely view, too, of Rose's own puckered star, as well as the dildo's other end fucking in and out of her own humid cunt with every incestuous thrust she gives her mommy.

Tongue lolling from her mouth like a dog, Rose gazes up at the ceiling for a few thrusts. Then back down at her mother's face. Practically slobbering all over the poor woman, she rasps: "Do you want me to cum inside you? Huh? Do you want to cum inside you, bitch-mommy? Tell me!"

You start to slowly thrust, too, as you adjust to this unending tightness. Charlotte is practically having a seizure beneath you as you both use her to get off. You hear Rose's cunt spraying its fragrant juice all over her mother's thick body, and you see Rose taking the toy's pump in hand, ready at the first word to blow Charlotte's womb out with fresh hot semen.

Rose rips the beads from Charlotte's mouth and tosses them aside. Sucking down air, Charlotte yells: "Yes! Cum inside my pussy, Rose! You can BOTH cum inside me, whenever you want! I'm your cum-hole! I'm your dirty cum-hole mommy! Oh I'm sorry I'm such a slutty cum-hole... I'm sorry... but please... pleeeeease... I r--"

She stops short as Rose begins to dispense the creamy sperm she so wants. 

You fall forward, spread Rose's ass, and start to lick her pussy from behind as she jizzes in her mother. Rose gets off hard, with that -- inside Charlotte, and against your face. She throws her head back and screams a string of incoherent obscenity while you and Charlotte both, in your own ways, egg it on. It might be the best cum your wife has ever had.

Rose is a little enervated after such a wet and messy orgasm. She collapses against Charlotte, nuzzles her. The two begin to kiss. 

You pull out of Charlotte's ass. You haven't cum yet, but you know where your first load of the night will go.

Whitney is still viciously railing Amber, and the sound of their crotches pounding together fills the living room. Amber is shaking her head side to side, dazed; and Whitney is cumming on the very same dick she's using to rape Amber's underage twat. 

Vivian, with her older sister's cum still dripping from her, hangs next to the mating pair, and watches dreamily. 

"Do not be gentle," Vivian says. "She must be taught a lesson... rape her harder... no, Whitney, rape her even harder --  harder--" 

"Hear that?" Whitney demands.

"Rape..." Amber stammers. "Rape..."

Well, she got the gist of it, at least. 

"Exactly so," Vivian says. "Your holes are nothing more than Whitney's rape-sockets tonight... just as mine are. Be thankful that she sees fit to use us."

"Rape..." Amber repeats, gulping air. "T-thank you... thank you Whitney... thank you for raping me..."

You stop in front of your Mom. Her twat is sucking the dildo inside it like a mouth sucking a dumdum. She smiles lecherously at you.

"Charlotte couldn't get you off!" She says, somewhat egotistically.

"Yes she could," you say. Mom deflates, looking momentarily hurt by that, until you append: "I wanted to get off in you first, though."

She smiles. "You little pervert..."

You grip the dildo and take it out of her. Her pussy relaxes, letting you pull the thing away. 

"Oh honey," Mom says. "I've been waiting... I'm ready for you. I'm so wet..."

She really, really is. Her pussy is flowing freely, staining the cushion beneath her. She's been making herself cum on that toy over and over, just by squeezing it... what a dirty woman your mother is. 

But what she wants, more than anything, is for her son to squirt his seed inside her deepest parts. And how can you refuse the woman who gave birth to you? You sink in and start to fuck her, just the way you know she likes. The slight upward angle of your thrusts to rub her G-spot, the forceful but steady rhythm, and the way you gyrate your hips to scrape her clit with your pubes -- all calculated to bring her off to a thundering orgasm from her deep within her mommyhole. She shivers while you fuck her, exulting in it, and you paw her tits. 

"Do you want to suck them, Alabaster?" She says.

Of course you do. You clamp your lips around one of her nipples and suck, just like you did those many years ago. And just like back then, she pets you. You hump her gash while you nurse on her, in utter bliss... you'll be dropping your load soon enough, and it's going to go inside her.

"That's so sweet..." Charlotte says. Even she can't deny how lovely it is to see a biological son mating carelessly with his biological mother.

"Told you he was a mama's boy," Rose says, and turns Charlotte's face towards hers again to suck on her tongue some more.

"Anytime you want, dear," Mom tells you. She holds your face to her huge chest.  

"I know," you mutter into her wet titmeat.

"You can cum inside anytime you want."

"Oh god, Mom..."

She massages your prick with her interior muscles -- milking you.

"I could get pregnant, you know." Her voice is husky.

"Oh fuck..."

"I don't mind." She sucks on your earlobe, and nips it too. "Actually... I want it. You're going to get us all pregnant tonight, okay? Can you do that for your Mommy, Alabaster? Can you knock us all up with that cock of yours?"

"Do you... do you really want that?" You say, gasping for air as you meet her eyes. "Or is that just something sexy for you to say? Tell me now because I'm about to-- to--"

"No, honey, no. I want it... I NEED it. I NEED to feel this, this ffffucking cock -- inseminating me... and then -- you can do the exact same thing to all of your sisters... and to everyone else."

"Mom--"

"I want us ALL to swell up. And then carry your children. All of us. So yes... fertilize us, Alabaster... we all want it... make your babies in us!"

"Oh my fucking God, Mom... I'm really gonna get you pregnant--"

"Do it! Do it, baby, do it!"

You bellow. Your nuts draw up towards your body, and your cock belches up a huge, milky load inside your mother's risky pussy. What a tremendous, joyful release it is. You can almost see, in your mind's eye, the sperm fertilizing her egg.

You dismount her when at last your cock is done burping, and watch with pleasure as some of your semen seeps out of her. She watches too. You use your thumb to mash it all around, and rub it into her cunt-mound. Not that she needs it; there's about a gallon left inside her.

"Rose next," she tells you.

Rose2 is on Mom's other side. You find her close to unconsciousness, still choking on that double-sided dildo in her throat. You elect to leave it.

"Did you hear that, Rose?" Mom asks. "Alabaster is going to impregnate you tonight. Isn't that wonderful?"

Rose2 weakly nods. Her face is absolutely coated in drool, making her makeup run, and she lies in a hot puddle -- one around her head, the other around her bubble butt. 

"This is what you wanted," Mom tells her, "so savor it!"

Whatever Rose2 tries to say, it comes out sounding like "buhiii" from around the dildo in her mouth.

"Let's knock 'em both up at the same time!" Whitney grunts, giving Amber's coochie a couple deep, full-force slams. She's got her arms up under Amber's back, pulling the young teen's body towards hers on every upstroke. 

You sight Rose stumbling past -- on her way to fuck Dr. Carte, it looks like.

"Not you," Dr. Carte groans. 

"Oh yes, me," Rose says, grinning. She waves her ersatz cock over Dr. Carte's face. Little ropes of ersatz semen coat her features like icing over a cinnamon bun.

She grimaces. "I only agreed to this on the stipulation that Alabaster and/or Whitney would fuck me! Not you!"

"That's why it *is* me," Rose says playfully. Then, voice dropping half an octave, and getting much sterner, she says: "lick it."

Rose laces her fingers through Dr. Carte's hair and pulls Dr. Carte's face to the toy so that she has no choice but comply.

Rose2 is turning a little blue, so you decide to give her some much-needed oxygen at last. You take the pink cock out of her throat. It makes a wonderful wet sliding noise as you tug it free.

The first thing she says, hoarsely through a throatful of mucus and spit, is: "baby...?"

"Yes," you moan. You sink your still-hard cock into her candy-smelling pussy. 

"M-make... m-make a baby?" Rose2 says.

"Yes."

"Inside...?"

"Fuck, you're so stupid," you growl. You start to really nail her, then, and Rose2, features blurred under all that slop on her face, smiles.

"Will you... will you kiss me, too?" Rose2 asks.

You tilt your head.

"Kiss me while we make a baby..." Rose2 pleads.

You kiss her. As gross a state as she's in right now, it's a lovely kiss -- her tongue is so eager, and as you root around in her mouth, that sweet lower hole of hers tightens up. Preparing itself to get bred. 

"That's right, Rose," Mom says. "Let him cum in you. Let your brother cum in you..."

Rose2 nods desperately. 

With their dual encouragement, it's not long before you're unleashing your second wad, so soon after the first. You paint Rose2's baby room white with your dense jism. Mother and daughter now match: your cum is leaking out of both of them as they lie hogtied together on the floor.

When you unload in Rose2, Whitney unloads in Amber. "Take it, fucking bitch!" Whitney spits. And then, she literally does spit -- she spits on Amber's face while she blows her load.

"Witneyyyyyy--!!" Amber cries. She's convulsing as her immature cervix gets battered and Whitney injects cum straight into the mouth of her uterus.

"Isn't it perfect?" Vivian says eagerly.

"That -- that spot," Amber pants. "That spot... she's hitting that spot... oh god... OH FUCK!"

"I love you Ally..." Rose2 breathes, a bubble forming and then popping on her lips.

You kiss her again. "I love you too."

Then you ram her a couple more times with your dick, forcing out a couple more dregs of semen into her body. "Get fucking pregnant," you growl.

"Yes Ally... I'll get pregnant for you..."

Gal is next. She's smiling brokenly as you approach, rotors still humming at full blast inside her little innie of a pussy. You tug them out one by one, each making a tiny plop. Her teeth chatter with unfiltered pleasure.

Rose meanwhile seems to have developed a sudden taste for that lewd posture she used to fuck Charlotte's pussy. Now she's using it to fuck Dr. Carte's mouth. Dr. Carte fights as best she can -- which is not at all, really -- as Rose sinks deeper and deeper into her. Rose, when she isn't bracing her hands against her own thick upper legs as she humps away, amuses herself by slapping Dr. Carte's titties, too. Just to add to the degradation. Dr. Carte wasn't on the Comiket payback list, but you suppose this might be comeuppance for that bachelorette party you heard so much about.

"choke me Sir," Gal says, drawing your attention back. "choke me while you rape me"

"What do you think?" You ask Cerise. "Should I choke your wife?"

"Choke her like a bitch," Cerise grunts, exhaling hard, and cumming on her own buzzing vibrators. 

But Cerise is all of a sudden not so enthused, as Whitney's form shadows her, and Whitney's hands wrap around her pale neck.

"Awesome," Whitney says. "I'll choke you, too, then!"

"W-Whitney--" Cerise starts. "Take the rotors out at least-- hhhh-!!"

Whitney doesn't take them out. She fills Cerise's pink twat with cock, jamming the buzzing toys ever deeper into her, and starts to fuck. Meanwhile, she cuts off Cerise's pleas by tightening her grip on her neck. Cerise turns purple.

"make me pass out," Gal says. "dump your load while i'm unconscious..."

"Slut," you say.

"yes Sir," she agrees. "i'm your little chokeslut. don't let me breathe... knock me out and then knock me up"

What a greedy cunt Galatea can be when she's horny. You like her sales pitch though. You start fucking her, side-by-side with Whitney who's busily breeding your older sister. And at the same time, you choke Gal with an unmerciful force that completely cuts off all circulation to her brain. Whatever higher functions the rotors didn't kill, you are now. She becomes a drooling, dumb-looking, mush-brained moron as you rail her and strangle her simultaneously. 

One of her eyes shut, the other shining bright, and with that same broken smile plastered across her face, Gal manages to choke out with a duck-like quack: "h-h-h-hit m-m-m-eeee"

The carnation pink rubies of her barely-there tits are a perfect target to start. You slap them like playing a drum set, first one and then the other, bruising the delicate flesh of her boobs. Gal is a true painslut, and this abuse you heap on her thin body makes her drooling pussy flutter around your dick as you thrust inside her.

"God, I really love fucking your sister," Whitney says, grinning at you like the cat who got the canary. She isn't choking Cerise nearly as hard as you're choking Gal, but it's enough to cause Cerise some distress. Of course, that distress could never stop your pervy sister cumming. Cerise wetly orgasms around Whitney's fucking cockshaft and the rotors in her cunt. 

Whitney continues, delving into rant territory: "She's got a nice fat fucking ass, you know? And these beautiful fucking tits... she's so soft, all over... she's FAT -- your sister is such a pretty fat bitch, Ally, god! And her pussy... oh god... Ally, quick, come sperm her pussy -- I wanna eat it out of her..."

If only the world could see this CEO fucking this congresswoman like this... they'd all nut as quick as you're about to.

"Trade with me?" You ask Whitney.

"Yeah!"

"Can you beat Gal as hard as I'm beating her?" 

"Fuck yeah, I can. I'll bash the bitch..."

You swap. Whitney mounts Gal and you mount your onee-sama.

You're a lot nicer than Whitney was. You don't choke Cerise -- you're too desperate for your third cum to focus on such a diversion. But you don't pull the toys from her quim, either. 

"Alabaster-- Alabasterrrrr--" Cerise stutters.

Your lips pucker in lustful pleasure as you feel the rotors tickling your shaft. Your member, inside Cerise's body, pins the little buzzing eggs to her walls, and makes her cum on you. She's all sloppy, inside and out, for her little brother's dick to fuck her. And her hole encompasses you so nicely, like she's molded just to fit you. Maybe she is. She is your sister; and aren't sisters made to take their brother's cock?

Gal is woozy from everything you've done to her already. When Whitney climbs over her, all she can manage is: "cum...? cummmmm...? do you want to cum too mistress whitney...?"

Whitney barks at her: "Yeah. Get it all out. Drain my nuts, bitch."

She so loves playing like she's got an actual cock, in scenarios like these. She shoves the strap-on deep inside Gal, making it disappear all in one thrust, and picks up choking her right where you left off.

You stare down at Cerise, focusing your entire attention on her. She stares back. Although she's bound with red rope like a sex slave, and although she's been abused like one, too, for the past hour or so -- she's got utter adoration in her eyes. 

"What about you?" You ask her. "Do you really want to get pregnant too?"

"Alabaster..." she moans softly.

"Whatever you want, Cerise," you heave.

"If it's you..." she whispers. "If it's you, Alabaster... I don't mind... you can make me pregnant, too."

You groan, deeply. Your brotherly cock mates with her sisterly cunt; and within a few moments, it spurts its jets of cream into her. 

It could really take, this time. You get the sense that Mom's been whispering in her ear and really has convinced Cerise to quit the pill. The thought that you could be actually doing it, for real, this time -- impregnating your older sister on the floor of your mansion -- only makes your orgasm so much more powerful. Cerise's too. You cum together, all over the fucking place. 

Gal is flagging. She starts to lose consciousness. Just as she asked: Whitney is choking her the fuck out. And at the moment that it fully happens, at the moment she fades to dreamland, Whitney jizzes in her. Grunting and sighing happily, Whitney pumps the poor slavegirl full of milky hot spunk.

"I love you, Alabaster..." Cerise tells you.

"I love you too. Are you really -- is this really--" 

Your cock twinges inside her, oversensitive, and still being stimulated by the relentless buzzing of the rotors. 

Cerise nods. "For real. I'm not safe."

You squirt another little stream of cum inside her, just hearing those three words.

You spend some long moments making out with her, enjoying the sweet flavor of Cerise's mouth, but Whitney is impatient. "Let me eat it! Let me eat her pussy!"
 
You step aside for Whitney to feast on Cerise's cunt -- knowing that as much of your spunk as Whitney will doubtlessly drink, lying on her tummy in front of Cerise... there's a lot more fermenting in spots that even Whitney's skilled tongue can't reach. Your sperm is racing up Cerise's insides right now, in search of her egg. That being the case, Whitney is more than welcome to clean all the cream you left oozing around the outsides of Cerise's cunt. 

She does. 

"God, it tastes so good," Whitney moans, like a starving woman finally fed. You jizz drips off her chin. "I love your creampie, Ally... I love your pussy, Cerise... fuck... I love it all..."

Cerise watches happily as Whitney licks her. Time to move to the next thing...

"Would you get off of her, already? Jesus..." You're standing before Rose and Dr. Carte, watching as Rose continues to nail the MILF's mouth like it's a pocket pussy.

"Just a... just a second..." Rose grunts. She tweaks one of her own nipples, other hand flat against her own leg, as she feeds the good doctor a good eight inches of rubber cock. The half of the dildo that's trapped inside Rose's pussy shifts and squelches, as she uses the vibrations of Dr. Carte's mouth to force it deeper into her uterus.

"Let her breathe," you say. "Fuck."

"I'm gonna-- gonna cum-- hold on--"

You pull your wife off Dr. Carte. 

"God FUCKING damn it!" Rose shrieks, blue-balled. She tries to fight you off, but no use. You drop her to the floor like a wet bag of cement mix. Her naked, perspiration-covered body makes a wet slapping noise as she lands on the tile, and her whole body jiggles. Dr. Carte, finally able to get some air, gulps it down, humongous chest heaving. 

"Go fuck our bunny," you instruct Rose, jerking your thumb in Samantha's direction. "She needs some cum in her."

Rose stomps off to take out her frustration on Samantha. Frustration which Samantha, wagging her hips, is only too happy to receive. "Yes Mistress Rose! Fuck my stupid pussy!"

You're not sure how a pussy can be stupid... but if such a thing exists, it belongs to Samantha Smatters. Rose sinks into her twat and starts to nail her. She spits horrendous epithets at her, too, through her teeth: "Slut. Cunt. Whore. Dirty fuckbitch. COCKSUCKING CUMDUMP! GET FUCKING CUMMED IN!"

Samantha, mewling, agrees to it all: "Yes! Yes! Yes! I am! I'm a stupid cumdump! Cum lots in my cumdump, okay!"

Dr. Carte's face is still painted with drying cum, and she looks much the worse for wear after the way Rose used her. 

"Your wife..." she pants, "...is one real fucking bitch."

"Tell me about it."

"You gonna make it up to me?" She demands.

"Where do you want me to cum?"

"The very best place," Dr. Carte says, getting her breathing level again, and looking at you with smoky eyes. "If you can breed with your immediate family members, you can definitely breed with me too. Let's give Whitney another sister, huh?"

"I like that plan," you say, smiling. "But you know... you look so pretty with cum on your face, too..."

"No," Dr. Carte says. "Oh no no no. I did not just endure your fatass wife raping my mouth, only for you to give me a facial. You're cumming inside me today!"

"Bitch bitch bitch," you groan. You glance this way and that -- maybe there's a solution to this impasse, after all. 

You get Dr. Carte underneath Vivian and Amber. Since the two are still hanging suspended from the ceiling, they make a great prop to dangle over Dr. Carte while you fuck her. You connect the tiny girls to one another by their cunts -- lodging Rose2's favored double dildo into either of them. This stimulates them, getting them to swing themselves back and forth under their own power and share the toy. This in turn stirs up their messy cunts, causing them to ooze the sperm that Whitney injected them with. The sperm froths out, all over their waifish thighs, and then down, in long ropy strands, to Dr. Carte's face. She peers up at the sight, unblinking, transfixed by the smooth cunnies above her -- and uncaring that those cunnies are spattering her with cock-leak. 

It's just the perfect artpiece to fuck her to. Pollock, eat your heart out.

Vivian, lost in masturbatory delight, coos: "Amber... Amber, look... it's that mister from the tea party..."

Amber plays along. She giggles and says: "Yeah! He's so nice! Look, he's fucking your Mommy now, too!"

"Girls..." Dr. Carte says. "What are you--"

Amber giggles again. As she fucks with Vivian, bouncing on that shiny pink cock, ass slapping against Vivian's obscenely; she presses her chin towards her chest to gaze down at Dr. Carte. "And look... we're getting mister's white stuff all over your Mommy's face!" 

"Do you think mister will let us eat his white stuff out of her?" Vivian asks.

"I hope so! Oh wow... wouldn't it be so great to lick up all of mister's milky-milk from your Mommy's naughty place? I bet it would taste so good that way!"

Dr. Carte has no idea how to process this depravity. But it's definitely making her already over-heated cunt get hotter. 

"I'm sorry I brought this mean mister to fuck you, Mommy," Vivian says with fake remorse. "He likes to put his white stuff in girls like us. I thought you would have a bit of fun this way, too..."

"It's... it's fine, baby," Dr. Carte says.

"Are you having fun?" Vivian asks.

"Yes... yes I fucking am..."

"So then you like mister shooting his white stuff inside us too?" Vivian asks.

Dr. Carte, cumming herself silly, nods. "Girls... we... we all belong to this -- this coo-ooo-ooock--" she shudders, and cums again. The orgasms are destroying her ability to talk. She blinks, tries to breathe steady and to speak clearly: "Listen to me, girls. This cock -- OWNS us now. You -- HAVE -- you HAVE to let mister put his white stuff inside you -- WHENEVER he wants! Understand?"

"No problem!" Amber says, the cum still dripping off her cuntlet in fat droplets.

"Yes Mommy," Vivian agrees, also still leaking all over Dr. Carte. The two young girls slide the dildo in and out of their gashes.

"You're sluts now..." Dr. Carte says. She's in ecstasy. "You're sluts... just like me... we're all sluts..."

Amber says, in a singsong voice, as if testing out new vocab: "Sluts! Sluts, sluts, sluts... sluts for mister's cock..."

You can't hold back any longer. You nut in Dr. Carte, while Amber and Vivian sigh about how fun it is to feel mister's prick squirting its white stuff inside.

You lower Vivian and Amber to floor, when you're done spunking, so Dr. Carte can feast on a double helping of cummy loli pussy. It's the least you owe her after the way Rose was earlier. Amber and Vivian, ticklish there, giggle as Dr. Carte's perverted mouth travels from one hole to the other. She slurps and sucks carelessly. 

Whitney find this scene just as hot as you do. By the time she's done eating your creampie from Cerise's twat, she's right on schedule to fuck her own mother. She winks at you as she seats herself in Dr. Carte's pussy.

"W-Whitney?" Dr. Carte gasps, her face full of Vivian's immature box, and unable to see who's fucking her.

"Ayup," Whitney says. "You still want some more spunk -- right?"

"God yes," Dr. Carte says.

With that, she continues sucking on Vivian's cunny and asshole while Whitney rails her. 

Amber gets her fair share of attention, too -- and it's not just her battered holes getting tongued. Her front gets some love, too: while Whitney fucks Dr. Carte, she simultaneously finds endless fun gagging Amber with her fingers too.

You move down the line, to Noelle and Kay. Noelle is absolutely beside herself -- coated in cum and desperate for something, anything, to stimulate her. Kay is no better off. Her tight little pussy is totally slick with her juices and she's breathing hard. 

Both of them keep their eyes locked on your swinging dick as you come near.

"Alabaster..." Noelle begs. "For God's sake -- just for a little bit -- untie me--"

You kneel above her head, and use your turgid member to smear around the cum that Whitney already left on her face. You draw circles and trace paths through the creamy white spunk. Then scooping some of it up with your cockhead, you turn towards Kay, and use it to smear her, too. (Share and share alike, right?) You relish the way both women's eyes go all droopy, and half-lidded, from the facial. Your musky dick is overriding any dignity they thought they might have had left. 

"Who wants it more?" You ask.

"Me!" Kay shouts. "Fuck me!"

"No!" Noelle howls. "Me, I want it more! Put your cock in me! Please!"

Some lesbians these two are, huh? It'll take some creativity to solve this one, too. Luckily, you've got just the thing.

You flip Noelle to her stomach and dump her on top of Kay. The Christmas cakes are now face-to-face. But, perhaps more importantly, they're cunt-to-cunt.

"One more time," you grunt. "Who wants it more."

"Me! ME!" Noelle pleas. 

"Fuck you, you stupid little--" Kay begins, snarling at Noelle. Then, to you: "GOD -- just a little bit, Alabaster, please? Please? Fuck me already!"

You slowly rub your prick back and forth between the meaty crevices of their cunts. Just this little bit of attention shuts them both up. They sigh, and stop their bickering to bask within that sensation, the sensation of your steely dick nestling itself between the folds of their fleshy fuckholes. There's unity, at last, in that. They begin to kiss, Noelle adding yet more cum-slop to the little bit you'd already smeared Kay with. Their faces, now, are equally filthy -- coated in smelly dick slime as they tongue each other's mouths and wait eagerly for you to push your dick inside them.

You begin with Kay. Her pussy is slightly hotter to the touch, and so feels slightly better enveloping your tool. She breathes an exhilarated breath right into Noelle's mouth. It's almost as if she's gloating about getting picked first. 

But Noelle is unfazed. She gulps down Kay's breath with gusto and just keeps kissing her. Noelle is fine not getting any dick, for now -- if it means she can have her tongue inside Kay's mouth... this is what she wanted all along anyway.

After enjoying Kay's 30 year old pussy a little bit, you begin to alternate. You fuck Noelle for a few strokes, then slip into Kay, and back again. You don't bother to aim very well, since you're fucking them so hard and fast, and all their holes are cock-dumps anyway; so your penis slips its way past their tender assholes a few times, too. Noelle's quivering little butt is really easy to get inside -- she's definitely had a lot of practice with toys during lonely nights. Kay's asshole, though a bit more toned and supple, is harder to fuck -- well, she's always been a tightass. You can tell she's never been into anal masturbation. She tenses every time you stick it in. 

Noelle soothes the pain, though. Her lesbian kisses are enough to make Kay relax quite soon after each time you accidentally-on-purpose bugger her. 

So whose assfuck is better? And whose cuntfuck is better, for that matter? You can't say. You'll just have to give them both a hot load. They can share the victory, like everything else. 

Groaning in delight, you begin to lose your nut inside Kay's pussy. You squirt her a few times, loving the deep-down relief of those wet pulses; then slip out, and jam it up Noelle's butt. After a few more creamy dollops for Noelle's rectum, it's into Kay's shuddering rear hole next, while she grunts and cums too despite getting ass-raped. And at last you finish cumming, thick and raw inside Noelle's lesbian pussy -- a pussy that doesn't know its owner is into girls -- a pussy that only knows its own biological imperative to gobble up semen. Noelle's sweet twat accepts your baby batter as you pump her full, and ultimately climaxes at the sensation of getting pregnant. 

When you pull out of the messed-up dykes you just debauched, you spy Rose indulging in a little ass-rape of her own. Having spermed Samantha so severely that the bunnygirl looks like she got bukkake'd by a stable of horses, Rose now fucks Alex's ass like the horny bitch he really is. Alex's twitchy prick is leaking jizz from the tip, and all over his crotchless panties. He sighs up at Rose: "Yes... fuck my pussy... fuck it... fuck it!"

You would love to help. But you've got your sights set on a different prize.

You walk down the line of fucked-out, cummed-out bitches. From the bull dyke Christmas cakes you just jizzed in; to the lolicon doctor who's drowning in loli cunt, while her own daughter screws her; to your older sister who's still orgasming on the buzzing toys deep inside her newly-impregnated vagina, while beside her, lies her unconscious wife, bruised body leaking sperm from every orifice; to your candy-cotton imouto who loves you so, even when you break her on your cock; to both your fertile mommies who derived a sexual high off being inseminated by their children; to the trap boyslut who even now is getting pegged by your cruel wife (whose cruelty in this particular arena, you know, knows no bound); to your spermy pet bunny who's writhing around in a reeking puddle, and cumming just from being coated in the stuff; and ending, finally, at the untouched Qiangxiang Xi, who hasn't gotten fucked at all, at all, at all -- a girl whose cherry is just waiting for you to pop.

"How about now?" You ask.

"Fuck me," Qiangxiang says, without a moment's hesitation.

It isn't enough. Not for you. You cut Samantha free of the ties that bind her. You warn Qiangxiang: "ask me nicely -- or I'll have Samantha take your cherry instead."

Qiangxiang whines. "What -- what? What more could you possibly you want of me?" Her breathing goes ragged. Desperation tinges her every syllable. "Alabaster... Ally... I will do, or say, anything... anything... just, just please, just don't delay a second longer. I need you. I need you inside me."

She's getting there. You stand over her, cock oozing, and say: 

"Beg."

"I am begging."

"Beg harder."

"Ally -- you own me now. You own my body. Inside and out -- my holes, my womb! I belong entirely to you. You, and your penis." She gulps. "So, then... if you would be so kind... and tear my hymen with that wonderful penis -- whose property I am. I will never say another cross word to you as long as I live."

"Hold her down," you tell Samantha. 

"Yes master!" 

Samantha gets behind Qiangxiang, Qiangxiang's head in her lap, and holds the girl's thighs for you. "Pop her cherry okay!"

Qiangxiang obviously finds this repulsive -- the way Samantha's cum-slick body gets its mess on her, too. But she can't be bothered to care deeply; because she's too intently focused on the dick that's about to rob her virginity. She stares at you through slitted eyes, her brown body dewy with both sweat and her arousal. Her new piercing jitters with every beat of her thudding heart. 

You line your prick up with her mound, thrilling to the way her lips grip the underside of your prick. You wordlessly indicate to her,  like this, exactly how deep into her small body you're about to penetrate. If that tattoo of hers truly indicates the location of her womb... then you're about to push that womb back a good four or five inches, at least.

She's fearful and eager, both at once.

"One more time," you tell her. "Beg me one more time."

"Please fuck my pussy, Ally. Please. Take my cherry."

You take Qiangxiang's cherry. You push your cock past her entrance, with utter ease despite her size, because her slimy cunt is so ready for it. The thin membrane inside her, her maidenhood, gives way without you feeling a thing. But you find that telltale trickle of blood staining your prick as you pull a little ways out of her to check it. It's not pillow-talk. She really was cherry. Keyword was. Now she's just another in your stable of cocksluts. Samantha pets her encouragingly as she watches on.

"Doesn't master's cock feel good!" Samantha sings. "Doesn't it!"

But Qiangxiang cannot formulate an answer. She's agog, and staring at the way her tummy bulges in the outline of your slowly entering cock. That lewd drawing Amber made on her groin is distending a bit, warping, as your prick pushes against it from underneath. And so that means her very most intimate spot, her formerly virginal uterus, is getting rudely battered with your manly cock.

Samantha reaches across. She starts to tickle Qiangxiang's clit.

Qiangxiang shakes like she'll come apart. "No -- nooo--!!" 

All at once, she cums. She cums from your cock corrupting her, and Samantha jilling her; she cums from the perversity surrounding her. She cums against you, squirting against your tummy as you fuck her. And that -- the erotic texture of her clamping pussy, of her undulating womb begging to get spunked -- it sets you off too. You cum inside little Qiangxiang Xi, formerly your enemy, and now your personal-use cunt. 

As you seed her, you kiss her, and Samantha claps for the happy coupling. 

Then Samantha delights in forcing Qiangxiang to lick her clean. Because even Samantha can sometimes be domineering. 

---

The fucking doesn't stop there. It continues, for hours, in so many combinations and formats. You cut the girls free from their shibari, all of them -- and the orgy becomes the love pile to end all love piles. It's nearing dawn before everyone has exhausted themselves too hard to keep cumming. 

You survey the scene before you, feeling truly like a king. Qiangxiang curled at your feet, suckling on your dick. Samantha meanwhile suckling on Qiangxiang's cunt. Noelle entangled with Kay. Vivian entangled with Amber. Rose getting rimmed by her mother. Mom eating Gal's cunt -- even though Gal is still passed out; Cerise fingering Rose2's butt. Alex, voice shrill, getting his cock sucked by Whitney. When Alex finally cums, maybe the last orgasm of the evening, Whitney catches it, then stands up over him, and drools it right back into his open mouth. He drinks his own spunk, eyes glassy, smiling.

Whitney, then, finds her Mom. She lies atop her, and the two lovingly gaze at one another. They spontaneously begin trading Eskimo kisses -- giggling like a couple of newlyweds. 

Amber, panting, a palm to her forehead, puts the capper on it all. She glances your way and asks you something she often does after marathon sessions like these:

"Gee, mister... that's a real swell act you've got there... but what do you call it?"

"The Aristocrats," you tell her, completing the punchline.

---

Alex's estimate of when the team remaining at Darkbloom Analytics could finish Diogenes turns out to have been really generous. Even with Alex's detailed instructions, and 90-something percent of the codebase already assembled -- that dev group of 50+, working round the clock, takes until a little past 4 PM the following day to approach the finish line. You wonder whether those poor bastards know that they're working for a potemkin general; a cutout in the shape of Max Pershing, harboring the mind of Alyosha Kerimov. Nelson knows the truth, but do his reports? Are the worker bees at Darkbloom Analytics blindly slouching their way towards their own death, thinking all the while that they'll finally get out of the office when they're done, unaware of the true plans for them?

They surely don't know that the floor of the basement is about to get blasted to smithereens so that hundreds of violent rebels can pour in.

You feel ill.

"nelson is at his workstation" Gal reports.

You all crowd around the PC to watch, but you can't make sense of the bare-bones powershell that Gal types commands in and spies on the company through. Alex can, though. He asks Gal to type something, and when she does it, and the command prompt reports back to her, Alex tells you:

"Nelson's pushing it to the servers -- Diogenes is going live."

You clack a message to Auburn Brantly, simple, and to the point:

>Go.

The rest is up to god.

The world around you thrums, then. Just for a moment. The edges of your vision take on strange contours, like reality through a funhouse mirror; warp and become blindingly bright, white. You glimpse, too, the others adjusting to their new firmware. Gal throws her head back in her chair, letting out a low whine. Vivian stumbles, nose beginning to bleed, then steadies herself against her sister, who hugs her. Amber blows air through her nostrils like she got punched in the chest, and falls to her butt; Mom helps her back up.

Your entire endocrine system seems to slowly lurch. It's similar to the fearfully-anticipated yet somehow unexpected split-second transition of the roller coaster from the plateau into the drop. But it's all somehow more tangible than a jolt of adrenaline coursing electrically through you. It feels like a physical thing within you, something alien, separate from Alabaster Soliloquy -- extruding like a strand of bread dough, into an absurd length, and then folding over itself like a pretzel. Your whole system is in a tizzy.

Then it's done. Your vision settles, and your little bit of indigestion dissipates. Back to normal? Whatever normal means anymore. You glance from face to face, to confirm the others are okay. They are. Vivian wipes her nose with a tissue proffered by Whitney; Mom clutches Amber tightly despite the latter's embarrassment; Gal resumes typing, to ensure the job is really done. But you know the job is done. You all possess Diogenes, now.

Rose2, crying hot tears, flees from the room.

"Rosie--" Cerise calls. She's the one physically closest to her tanoshii imouto-chan, standing with her near the edge of the living room; and so she gives Rose2 chase, upstairs -- to find out what's eating at her so badly. You follow suit.

When you get to Rose2's pink-and-pink-and-pink bedroom, you find her on her knees on the carpet, crying into Cerise's bosom. Cerise gently strokes her head and back, hugging her, cheek resting on the top of her crown.

"Shh," Cerise says. "What's wrong. It's okay. Go ahead."

"I... I..." Rose2 sputters.

You kneel with the pair too. "Do you feel okay?" You ask. "Physically." You're less concerned with emotions right now; Rose2 is at the nexus of some pretty serious shit -- you need to make sure those tears aren't because something is going from bad to worse.

"I... I..." Rose2 sputters again, like trying to force back a fit of hiccups. At last she manages it: "I'm so scared! I'm so scared, Ally--!!"

You wouldn't vocalize it, but that's a relief. She's only scared. That's understandable. A scared girl, you can deal with. You know plenty.

"I didn't want to say anything..." Rose2 continues. "I didn't want to get on your nerves.. But -- if this Diogenes thing is the opposite of Sand Reckoner -- and Sand Reckoner is the only reason I exist--! Do you see!"

Cerise lets you take Rose2 into your arms, and you embrace your candy girl. You soothe her much the same way Cerise did, stroking her neon hair, kissing her sweetly smelling face. It doesn't seem to help. Cerise sits on the edge of the bed, watching.

"We'll keep you safe," Cerise says.

"You have to promise--"

"We promise," you tell her. You rock her back and forth.

"I..." Rose2 begins. She goes still, all of a sudden, in your grasp. You cock your head and gaze questioningly down at her.

"Rose?" You say.

She hiccups -- for real. Her face twitches.

"Are you--" you begin.

"I'm-- I'm o-okay-- I'm sorry, Ally... don't... worr... yy..." She dissolves into hiccups. A few seconds later she tries again. "S-silly! A-a-a-durr. I'm fine. I'm fine! I'm fine!"

Cerise's face curls into a frightened gape. You take Rose2 by the shoulders and lightly shake her: "Get ahold of yourself -- it's okay -- it's gonna be okay."

"Of c-course, o-of course it will!" Rose2 stammers. She pulls away from your hug, wearing a smile so forced it looks like a rictus -- which rather than convince you it's all okay, only accentuates the fact that she's in the midst of a panic attack. "I'm okay-- I'm okay!"

She vomits.

It's like a baby's emesis, no projectile force to it; she doesn't even seem to notice that her mouth and lips have burped up some of her own stomach's contents. Her eyes are shimmering and her chin is dripping with half-digested food. She gazes at you.

"Oh my God--" Cerise says.

"D-don't worry, nee-chan!" Rose2 says.

"Rose..." you breathe.

"I-- I want to--" Rose2 says, with obvious difficulty. Her words become slurred, like a stroke victim, and she sways slightly. "I want to exist..."

She locks eyes with you.

"B-because -- because you called me Rose..." She draws a labored breath. "Al-- Ally..."

She begins to shake, and

You stand, glancing back at Cerise.

"Does it smell like candy in here, all of a sudden?" You say.

Cerise shrugs. "I don't know. Not really. I mean -- Amber drinks a lot of lemon ramune, so maybe it's that?"

You glance all around. "No. Amber hasn't actually slept in this room for weeks."

Cerise huffs. "Yeah. Sleeping with Daddy -- ugh."

"Anyway, it's not that." You frown, trying to think. "It's something... sweeter. Like -- if the color pink had a smell. You know?"

"I have no fucking idea," Cerise says. "...Shouldn't we be downstairs?"

"Was there someone in here with us just now?" You ask.

Cerise peers at the bedspread. She thinks hard. "No... no, just us."

You swivel your head, to take stock again of the room. Only Amber's politically ambiguous but uniformly radical paraphernalia is arrayed all about. Still... the phantom of something else lingers -- clawing at the edges of your consciousness. You couldn't say what. "It feels like someone else was with us. Doesn't it?"

Cerise is mute.

"Why are we here?" You ask her.

"What do you mean?"

"Why are we even up here? You're right -- we should be downstairs -- why aren't we?"

Cerise blinks. "I don't know. Fuck. I have no idea. There's just this... blank spot, in my memory..."

"Great." You massage the bridge of your nose and sigh. "Guess reality is coming undone again."

You close your eyes, trying to fight it back, but tears are starting to trickle.

"Alabaster?"

You inhale once, shudderingly, and wipe your face. "Forget it. I don't know what my deal is. I just kinda feel like--" you shake your head. "I feel like I lost someone just now."

Cerise's face is grim. "I hope not. We should go back down."

You half expect to go downstairs and find that everyone you love is dead. But they're all there. Cerise, Whitney, Rose, Vivian, Amber, Gal, Dr. Carte, Alex, Kay, Noelle, Charlotte, Samantha. Even Qiangxiang. And, of course, Mom. Everyone is here and accounted-for. Aren't they?

They were right, whoever said the waiting is the hardest part. It's been a couple hours since then, and you've been just waiting, agonized, for the noise of your security trying to battle back waves of Russian hitmen.

Nothing comes.

And if Auburn succeeded in breaching Darkbloom Analytics, the news isn't reporting on it. The channels all still carry the same aerial images of the streets outside the campus, swarming with people, and besieged by police.

"The news never shows the good shit," Kay says, harrumphing. "Trust me."

Time to check up on it the other way.

Amber pulls her eyepatch back for a moment. You hug her tight to help her through what you assume will be her usual bout of pain -- but it fails to materialize. She can gaze through her evil eye just fine. Physically, at least. She drops the eyepatch back over her empty orbit, lower lip quivering.

"What did you see?" Mom asks.

"They killed him."

"They--" You begin.

"He's dead. Down there in the sewers. They shot him."

"Who?" You ask.

But you know who; and Amber is weeping into your shoulder, unable to continue.

What else did she see? You suspect there's more. Maybe you don't want to know.

"What about Nelson?" Whitney asks. "And everyone else?"

"I don't know," Amber mutters.

"Where's Alyosha?" Noelle adds.

"I don't know!" She shrieks. She pulls back from your chest and your wet tee. "I can't see into the building! I don't know! I'm sorry!"

Noelle worries her thumbnail. "Should we go in ourselves?"

"No," Kay says. "If Amber's thingamabob can't see inside Darkbloom Analytics -- that means Alyosha's hiding. He's expecting us."

"But what else can we do?" Whitney says.

"Give it a day," Darkbloom tells her. His robotic voice chimes out from Johann, over by the desktop.

"What!"

You have to swallow your pride, and agree with David Darkbloom. "Give it a day," you say. "If they haven't come gunning for us by this time tomorrow... we can figure out a new course of action then."

"But Nelson!" Whitney shouts.

You fix her in your gaze. "Nelson is most likely dead. I'm sorry." She turns away from you. You say, more firmly: "We have to focus on us now... Whitney -- Whitney!"

She's inconsolable.

---

That night, Amber is weirdly insistent on sleeping in her own bedroom. She refuses to lay her head anywhere else. She still wants you and Rose to keep her company, though.

Amber is waiting for you there. Rose, with you in your own bedroom, the one you now unwillingly share, gathers up a couple pillows from your marital bed, plus Amber's favorite stuffed bear Plissken.

She falters when you don't follow her back out into the hall.

"Aren't you coming?" Rose asks.

"I'll be there -- just need a second. Keep her warm for me."

Rose smiles. "Of course. I'll help her practice kissing."

Rose's idea of helping Amber practice kissing is making Amber rim her. It's the kind of gently abusive and cruel thing she's really into, now that Amber is committed to calling her Mommy and all. It actually does improve Amber's kissing technique, shockingly enough. Rose always makes Amber treat the situation like she's kissing any other mouth, and instructs her carefully.

You'll join them soon for the kind of really raunchy, fucked-up sex that usually puts your mind off your troubles. But for now, you need just a moment to yourself, to think. You rarely get that these days.

Did you lose someone?

Rose -- did you lose Rose?

But no. Of course Rose is still around, she was just here, and now she's with Amber.

Something is so wrong, so broken, and you have no idea what.

Qiangxiang, of all people, interrupts your reverie. She knocks on your door, entering at the same time.

The tips of her hair are bleach-blonde now -- another Samantha Smatters special, you assume. She wears a crop top and short-shorts. Kinda reminiscent of Amber's fashion sense, now that you think of it. The outfit anyway shows off her darkened skin, plus the tattoo and piercing.

"Hello Ally," she says simply.

"Did I invite you in?"

"Yes."

You sigh. "I mean into my bedroom."

She saunters up.

"You took my cherry," she whispers.

"I did."

"You were rough -- are you always so?"

"Usually."

She kisses you tenderly, standing between your legs at the foot of the bed. You kiss her back, holding her small face in your hands.

"You have corrupted me," she says at last, as she pulls away. "Are you happy?"

"I don't know."

"Would you like to uncorrupt me?" Qiangxiang asks you.

"How would I even begin to do something like that?"

She smiles. "With tenderness."

>[x] Give her the tenderness.
[ ] Deny her.

You pull Qiangxiang -- Chloe -- into your bed with you.

You swiftly shift positions, getting Chloe onto her back -- you atop, on all fours. Like a lion strutting over felled prey.

"I am a slut," Chloe says. Her voice is full of shame, rather than arousal. "You have seen my real face now."

You bend forward, and kiss.

"I wanted you to know," she adds, eyes dreamy, "that it wasn't you... I was always a slut. I've been a slut even before you knew me."

"No you weren't," you tell her. Between kisses, you add: "No you aren't."

"But--"

"Don't take what other people say so seriously."

There's a pause as you enjoy the touch of one another's lips.

"I was worried you only valued purity," she says. "So I tried, you know..."

You get your hand in between the elastic waistband and Chloe's hips. She sighs. "Do you think you will survive tomorrow?" She asks.

"No idea."

"I might be your last fuck. Are you fine with that?"

"You're not my last. Not close."

She giggles. "Insatiable. Ally. If I cannot be your last... at least make me your best."

Your fingers find the crevice of her newly deflowered pussy. She arches her back, making a staccato gasp at the sudden contact. You take that moment to run your other hand under her crop-top, to fondle her tiny breasts. Your palm can completely encompass each of them in turn. As small as they are, they're so soft and squishy, too. With a nipple of hers pinched between your fingers, you bite her neck -- suck on it -- taste her sweet skin.

"You tease me so terribly," Chloe whines.

"Teasing girls is fun."

"Please take off my pants..."

You roughly grab the denim and tug. The little pair of shorts slides down her supple calves, and off her severely arched feet. You toss them to the corner.

Her little pussy is all dewy, and the clit is all hard; she's probably been wet all day, just thinking of the moment she could get you alone and have you to herself. Now she's abuzz with unbridled energy, practically vibrating, as she watches you rub her slit. Her neck stains. And her eyes are smiling, even though her pointed jaw is hanging partway open. 

"You truly are a rough man," she says.

"Is this rough?"

"No -- but -- I want you to be rougher."

"That's too bad," you tell her. "You don't always get your way."

You clasp her, invade her mouth with your strong wet tongue. She inhales through her nostrils to fully absorb your masculine scent. While you fondle her mouth from the inside, you trace your fingertips across her smooth body -- such a slight, skinny frame. Flat as a board, short as a kid. She basks in your caress, and slakes her lustful thirst by sucking your tongue.

"I am in love with you," she tells you.

You pull your pants down, revealing your already erect cockshaft and bulbous, purple head. You're dripping precum. And you're ready to feel her insides around you, properly this time, without any bells and whistles. 

"Raw -- always raw?" She asks, eyesight fixed on your cock.

"Yes."

"You intend, also, to impregnate even me?"

"If it happens, it happens."

"Take me, then."

You take her. You fall to your elbows, one on either side of Chloe's head, and slide your prick into her body. The moan that escapes your lips is loud and almost pained. She was wet on the outside -- torrentially flooded on the inside. You can feel every little strand and dollop of her thick juice inside her, flowing off her walls, coating your penis. As smooth as her pussy looks, it's bumpy where it counts; her folds and ridges sweetly massage your horny prick. 

The bed squeaks beneath the two of you while you mate.

"You will -- wake -- the others --" Chloe says between shivers.

"Nothing they haven't seen."

"Bu--" 

You cut off Chloe's resistance by forcefully mashing your lips to hers. She wraps her ankles around your butt, and grabs her wrist with her other hand behind your back. You've been in such a position hundreds of times with so many others. You never tire of it. Being connected to a girl at both ends, lying on top her, with her limbs wrapped around you -- the way she welcomes your every violation... this is heaven. You're at the gateway to heaven. You're going to sully Chloe Xi's tiny pussy with another wad of cum, her second in less than 24 hours, and both of you are elated.

"Is this... what it should be like?" Chloe asks.

"Yes," you grunt, nipping at her earlobes. You run your hands through the hair on the back of her head, knuckles dragging against the Egyptian cotton of your pillowcases. You pull her tight to your body, as if trying to merge yourself to her. Your skin sticks together, adhered by your joint sweat. Your crotches slap wetly as you increase the pace, notch by notch. Relentlessly you rub your cock inside her, coaxing yourself to orgasm.

"You will finish inside me?" Chloe asks.

"Always inside."

She hugs you tighter with her arms and legs. 

"Here it comes," you warn her, sighing.

"I want it all -- I want all of you -- do this forever -- Ally!"

You feel like you could. Your nuts surge, and then the tip of your prick opens up to spew its mess inside her womb. As you fill her full, you gaze lovingly into her eyes. She smiles up at you, mouth curling into an O, while she orgasms. She did this of her own free will, came to you for relief; and you accepted her of your own free will. Her bravado now washed away, her pride and arrogance, her facade of viciousness; leaving only this. In the end she was only an infatuated girl. And she really wanted you. Now she's yours. Take responsibility.

GIRLS FUCKED: 16/12

Having spent yourself so much, you feel yourself drifting into the abyss of unconsciousness.

You should go and be with your wife, and with Amber -- or with someone else -- but for just a moment, you need a catnap. 20 or 21 minutes, max, to rest your tired eyes.

Chloe runs her fingers through your damp hair. "Ally..." she whispers.

"Just a second..." you whisper back.

"Mm. Okay."

Your eyelids droop closed.

You wake again, sometime later -- how late you aren't certain.

You aren't in control.

Chloe is getting dressed again. You're looking at her; you can't look away.

"We have to go," she tells you.

You try to speak, and can't.

She crawls back into bed with you, on hands and knees. She strokes your cheek. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking: what have you done to me?"

Bingo.

"You did it to yourself," she says. "But -- then again -- you didn't. You were the victim. David Darkbloom experimented on you. He burnt the life you knew to ashes... he tarnished you. The world broke because of what he did to you and those children, back then -- have you realized that?"

She frowns.

"It's what we share in common," Chloe says at last. "The broken past. We can work together to fix it. You... you alone are the memory of this world, Alabaster Soliloquy. Follow me. We will kill Kerimov -- and find the lighthouse -- and fix it all."

You follow Chloe down the hall, against your will.

You have some time, in the silence, to think. Piecing it together...

What her men uncovered in Vail -- the scraps of that prototype Diogenes platform Alex built while imprisoned.

All the time she spent inside Darkbloom Analytics. Did you keep your secrets guarded closely enough? Apparently not.

The concept Alex told you about, the master-slave architecture of the Chinese Sand Reckoner spinoff known as Xi Shi --

That must be it. Chloe is driving your body right now. Your heart sinks.

And it sinks again, even deeper, as Chloe leads you into Vivian's bedroom.

Vivian dozes under the covers, unaware. Chloe shadows her.

You want to tell her how sorry you are. But you can't; you're mute.

Chloe gently pulls Vivian's covers back. Vivian stirs, but doesn't wake.

Johann the penguin, one eye glowing blue in the dark, stares back. Vivian may sleep, but her father doesn't. He's always awake -- one of his condition's minor curses. You somehow can tell that Chloe doesn't control him, at least not yet; he could speak, if he chose. But he knows better. To speak, to wake Vivian, would be to kill her.

Chloe takes the stuffed toy in hand, and together with you, you exit. Vivian's slumbering face disappears behind the softly closing door.

Outside the bedroom, Chloe takes Johann's glass eye out and tosses it carelessly to the ground. She fishes her finger into the cotton batting, and turns the implant's grain off. The blue glow dies. David Darkbloom does sleep, sometimes, after all.

You almost make it out of the Nail House without being detected. But not quite.

You and Chloe bump into Whitney coming the other way down the second floor hallway. She's scratching her ass, groggy. She startles when she sees you.

"Ally," she says. "Whoa. I was just coming to find you. Were you coming to find me too~?"

You so desperately want to scream, "run!" -- but you can't.

"Go back to bed," Chloe says.

"...Huh?"

"Go to sleep," she says.

"Ally," Whitney says, voice growing severe. "What's happening? Why are you sneaking around like this with Chloe? And -- what the fuck are you doing with bio-dad -- ? Is this another dumbass suicide mission?" She stomps. "You can't just run around on suicide missions without telling me! You asshole!"

"I don't want to do this, Whitney, but I will," Chloe says.

"Shut up, bitch," Whitney says.

You speak, but they aren't your words:

"Go to bed already. Leave me alone."

Whitney swallows hard. "Ally... why?" She narrows her eyes. "That's not-- this isn't-- no. I'm getting Rose and Amber and--"

Chloe slips her dagger into your hands.

You slip the dagger into Whitney's throat.

Your elbow locked, your fist so tightly clenched around the handle that your knuckles blanche: you stab Whitney in the neck.

She gurgles, meeting your eyes. She tries to say something but nothing will form, her larynx is already destroyed. But the expression in her eyes as the life drains from them says it all. She doesn't understand. She doesn't understand why -- you don't, either.

She falls to her back, exsanguinating in the hallway. And then she goes. Whitney is dead.

You can't even vomit. Chloe won't let you.

A scream from down the hall catches Chloe's attention. Samantha is running away: "No! Oh no! Chloe's gone crazy! She killed Whitney! Help! Help!"

Chloe tsks. "That damn bunny girl..." She looks your way. "We have to hurry. She just woke everyone in the house."

You and her slip stealthily out. You get into your Volt, in the driver's seat, and fire it up; Chloe sits beside.

"Where am I taking you?" Chloe says, asking your question for you. "I'm taking you where it all began. Darkbloom Analytics. We have unfinished business."

Power is still out in much of the valley, and your headlamps are the only illumination on the darkened roads. The sound of raucous rioting draws closer.

Even Samantha knew... even Samantha knew that you weren't really the one who murdered Whitney.

You try to convince yourself that in her final moments, Whitney knew it too. That her last moments on the planet were not spent in despair at the idea you'd betray her.

But didn't you?

May 1, 2015

You drive Mrs. Mallory's Volt, with Whitney in the passenger seat.

"Shit!" She grunts. "Pull a Yui here."

"Yui?" You say. "Which Yui? What do you mean, pull a Yui?"

"Just turn at the next light. You missed the entrance."

Oh. That's what she means. You pull a U-ie.

Rose and Cerise, in the back, look a bit seasick at the sudden shift of momentum. You're not the greatest driver. You have a license, but you don't have a ton of practice.

You pull into the entrance of the diner. This is the place Whitney demanded. Though you and Rose wanted to go somewhere nice like a Benihana grill, Whitney wanted to slum it, and practically screeched for you to take her to this greasy spoon. She claimed that since she scored the winning point, she deserved her pick of the litter for the celebratory meal.

You don't see the appeal. So maybe it's for the best after all, that Whitney places your order for you. She gets a milkshake, extra-extra-extra large, served in a mug that looks like it's got about a half gallon capacity. It comes slathered in whipped cream, fudge, cherries, and nuts. She shares the gargantuan abomination with you. A straw for her, a straw for you.

Rose, who hasn't had an appetite since lunch, orders just a salad, and this she only pokes at. Cerise takes beer. Beer seems to be about all she can ingest right now, still shaken over... that night... which is why you forced her to come along. Keeping an eye on her.

Cerise and Rose look about equally ill, now that you think about it, though for different reasons. And they're about as happy as you are (not at all) to sit in this chintzy diner with its faux 50s chic: the checkerboard tiles, the paintings of Cadillacs on the walls, the jukebox playing rocakbilly tunes from bygone days.

Your sister and your cousin (once removed) both end up excusing themselves to the restroom at the same time. Mostly, you think, to get away from the gaudy lights and noise of the place.

"Am I the greatest or what?" Whitney says. Sitting across the booth from you, she props her cheeks on her fists, and slurps the sugary slop in the mug. "I saved the fucking quiz bowl. Admit it."

"One question," you tell her. "One. Question. You only answered one question."

"The most important one of all!"

You drink with her in silence.

"Hey..." she says softly. "I heard you were taking Rose2 to prom."

"Yeah, so?"

"Uhh. Well. Why?"

"Because I'm unbearably, completely in love. I adore her so much -- her sweet summer scent, her--"

Whitney kicks you in the shins, hard, beneath the table.

"Ow!" you yell. "What the hell. I should have you committed."

"You lying jerk! Tell me the real reason or I'll kick you harder next time!"

You wipe your mouth. "I did it to annoy Rose. Rose1, that is."

"I knew it."

You smirk. "Isn't it for a good cause, then?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

She trails off.

"But what?" You say.

"You could have taken me."

She says it all at once, and then she blushes, realizing herself. You arch an eyebrow. "I mean -- to annoy her. That would have annoyed her just as much. And then you wouldn't have had to deal with such an annoying dork at prom, too."

"Yeah. I'd have to deal with an annoying idiot instead," you reply. She kicks you again.

"God!" You grunt in pain. "Are you wearing your soccer cleats?"

"No. I just don't kick like a girly man."

You glance under the table just to make sure she's telling the truth. Nope, no cleats.

"You said you hated school dances anyway," you tell her, glancing back up.

"Yeah. But."

"But?"

"You said that too. And you're going with the Flamingo Weeaboo anyway!"

"To annoy Rose!" You insist. You glance furtively over your shoulder, to make sure that bitch isn't listening in -- it would be just so like her, to listen in. You lower your voice. "To annoy Rose," you repeat, whispering. "That's the only reason. I swear. I'm not gonna have any fun."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Promise promise?"

"Yes. Jesus."

She takes another sip.

"Hey..." you say. "I never asked. How did you know?"

She laughs. "That you were taking that dumb bitch to prom?"

"Not that," you say. "The question you answered. The oology thing. Where did you learn that?"

She pokes your shoulder.

"Really?" You ask.

"Yeah."

"When did I teach you that?"

"One day after class while you were dorking out with your trivia books. I was there with you."

"I should thank you," you tell her. "I somehow forgot the most important thing."

"That's why you've got me," Whitney says. She points at herself with her thumb. "Smartest girl in the universe!"

"Smartest girl in the universe," you say.

She blinks rapidly. Her face flushes. Hearing it from your lips is different.

"I decided something," she says.

"What's that?"

"I'm gonna stay with you. Even after school -- even after college. You kinda need me -- right?"

You shrug. The truth is that you couldn't imagine your life any other way -- Whitney's been part of it for so long. You assumed it would be that way forever.

"When you're some bigwig CEO someday," she says, "you're gonna need me to kick your butt sometimes and remind you of the stuff that you forget!"

"Sounds good," you say, sincerely.

You finish your milkshake together in warm silence.

END OF EPISODE 13.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy.

Headlamps appear in your rearview. First one set, then two, then many.

"They are following us," Chloe says.

Though she makes you drive, she lets you speak. "They'll kill you," you say.

"They certainly mean to," she says. "After what transpired in the house, back there -- I suppose they don't care if you get caught in the crossfire."

"Good," you say, voice dripping venom. "I hope they kill us both."

Chloe frowns. "Is that truly how you feel? I am sorry about what happened to Whitney -- I am. But you know so very little... this day is going to be the most important day in the history of the universe. It is not even dawn yet. Let us see again, at sunset, whether you still feel that way."

She climbs into the backseat, and fishes around by the floormats. Sure enough, she finds what she wants: the stash of firearms Rose keeps in the Volt. She pulls out an auto pistol, checks that it's loaded, and gets back into the front with you.

"Excuse me for a moment," she tells you, then rolls down the passenger-side window, and pokes her upper half out with the gun at the ready.

---

Renee is making a sound that you've never heard in real life. You've heard it in footage of the aftermath of bombing campaigns, though -- that haunting wail of mothers picking through the rubble for their dead children. But the lossy compression of digital audio removes the upper and lower registers of that sound -- the parts that really pierce the eardrum and curdle the stomach. It's like an air raid siren come moments too late to save any lives. She's on her knees in the hallway rocking back and forth over Whitney's corpse, stooping, cheek-to-cheek, holding Whitney's upper half in her arms. Just the way she might have cradled her when Whitney was a little girl, if they'd had the chance; and the lake of tears Renee sheds does nothing to breathe life back into her.

Just beside this awful sight is Vivian, face-down, curled up like an inchworm mid-wriggle, with her forehead pinning her wrists, as motionless as a corpse herself.

And not far from Whitney's body is Johann the penguin, missing his eye -- his evil eye, too.

You pick him up.

"Sorry for bodyjacking you. You're free now." You go downstairs and set him on the dining room table to hang out.

Your wisecracks feel hollow even to you.

In the living room, Kay interrogates Samantha:

"It was Chloe!" Samantha insists. "Master Ally would never do that to Whitney! She used -- the eye thing -- that has to be it!"

Kay is one of the few among you not crying, but her grief expresses itself via rage instead: "How the fuck do you know that, you stupid slut? God damn it. You saw this happen? You didn't do anything to save her?"

Samantha clutches her face and weeps.

"She's right," says Rose -- no, Rose2. She can hardly speak through the frog in her throat and the fits of sobbing that refuse to subside. "Alabaster loves Whitney. You know this wasn't him."

Noelle comes in through the front door. "We've got them tailed," she announces. "Half our security force is going after them."

"Why not all of them?" Mom wants to know.

"Because we're still here, and we're still sitting ducks," Noelle says.

"This is all your fault," Charlotte says grimly. She has to speak up to be heard over Renee's screaming from upstairs, which only seems to get louder and louder over time. "You let this happen to her. You're supposed to be her bodyguard. What good are you?"

"Go to hell," Noelle says.

Alex has been mute the whole time since this nightmare began, sitting in a chair in the den, staring at the ceiling. Finally now he glances down, and catches your eye.

"I need to go back there," he says.

You nod. "All right. Why?"

"I'm the project lead. She's using my project to do this -- I can use it to stop her."

He's got a crazed lilt to his voice that tells you he's not all there, mentally -- but then again, has Alex Best ever really been all there, mentally, to begin with?

"I guess you want me to escort you," you say.

"No!" Mom yells. She's at your side in an instant. "Not on your life! Alabaster's in enough danger as it is -- I'm not putting either of my other children at risk!"

"Ms. Catachresis," Alex says, "with all due respect, Amber is the only person here who can get this done."

"I'm not betting one child's life to save another!" Mom says. "No!"

"It's too late," you tell her. "I already decided."

"Amber--" Mom begins.

"You have three other children, by the way," you tell her.

"...What?"

"Never mind." You look at Alex. "What do you want to do?"

"Alyosha tried to take Alabaster's and David's implants," Alex says. "Those are the same ones the cunt took, too. Why?"

It's a rhetorical question, one he answers for you:

"Alabaster's implant gives him close to eidetic memory. It also gives him memory of a different kind. Memory of the world before Sand Reckoner... for example... it let him see that you were Camelia. Maybe they think Alabaster's implant can remember the location of the lighthouse, too."

"You Sherlock Holmes, or what?" You say.

"...But to get it done, they want to give it more power. The power of David's implant -- the power of Penelope. Here's the thing: Penelope is nothing essentially new. Just a culmination of the prior generations of implant. Of which -- we have them all. Yours, Gal's, and Vivian's. If Alabaster's implant can be upgraded by David's -- it could just as easily be upgraded by yours -- I could do it. I need to get inside the building, though. The three of you, too."

It's a complete moonshot, of course, and you aren't at all confident that he's got the right idea to begin with.

You start here: "Problem A," you tell him. "How do we get inside the building alive?"

"I'm sure we'll figure it out when we get there," he says airily, like this is a minor nitpick.

Wants to go up against a multitude of armed gangsters without a clear plan. Now here's a trap after your own heart.

"Well then, first thing is first," you say. You peel your eyepatch away -- and this time, you discard it. It makes you a bit nauseated, and the world hums around you with topsy-turvy wrongness, but the sensation of it no longer hurts, and you can see clearly the things you want to.

Chloe, or just "the cunt" as Alex so correctly labels her -- is in a shootout on the freeway -- familiar environs -- flanked by a little rolling caravan of the blind warrior-monks enslaved to her, and pursued by your PMC, who are putting up a hell of a fight against Sand Reckoner supersoldiers. It doesn't last too long, because Chloe's men rout them, and then she makes Daddy pull off towards the surface streets.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

"They are headed for Darkbloom Analytics -- right?" Alex says.

You'd answer, but you're seeing something else you need to attend to first.

Upstairs, in the bathroom, Vivian is hacking and coughing, and wiping the remnants of her vomit away from her chin using a hand towel. The sink is full of her sick. She struggles to stay standing.

You've got your eyepatch back on. Vivian catches sight of you in the mirror, turns. Her lips quiver in rage. "Take that off," she says. Her voice is low, and emotionless.

"No," you tell her. "No fucking way, Jose. It just made you--"

She steps to you. "Take it off."

"Viv--"

She pushes you back with strength you never knew she had. Knee to your groin and hand to your face, she tries to take the eyepatch off of you by force, since you won't do it yourself. You push and kick back at her, grunting, and shouting half-formed curses. The scuffle draws bystanders -- Cerise, Gal, Mom, Kay -- and then, pushing into the room from the back of this little crowd, comes a still shellshocked and tear-choked Renee, who croaks: "What are you two doing!"

"Take that eyepatch off!" Vivian shouts viciously. "Take it off, you bitch!"

You huff, twisting yourself this way and that to evade her grasping claws. "Vivian, stop -- god fucking damn it --"

Cerise lunges forward, hauls the little girl back, and forces her off of you. Free again, you clutch your knees and catch your breath.

Vivian is out of breath too. It's shallow and sounds as if she might puke again. When Cerise lets go of her, she falls to her knees, sapped. But she manages to slur: "My sister is dead. My father and the man I love are in the clutches of her killer. That implant of yours is the only tool we have at our disposal -- take that eyepatch off -- do it!"

You shake your head no. "I love you too much," you tell her gently.

"You haven't loved anything in your life!" Vivian shrieks.

You know she doesn't mean it -- it's the grief talking. But it hurts.

Renee takes Vivian by the shoulders and swallows hard and looks her in the eyes. "Please," Renee says, "don't rush into things half-cocked. We don't know which way is up right now... the last thing we need... is for you to get sick, or -- or worse -- for no good reason... if you won't believe Amber, believe me. I love you too much -- to lose you too. I'd shrivel and die..."

But Vivian won't be swayed even by this. "What difference does it make?" She spits.

"It makes all the difference," Renee says.

Vivian launches into a speech, words coming twice as rapidly as you've ever heard from her: "We have to get Alabaster back. We have to kill Chloe. We have to destroy Darkbloom Analytics. Those are the only things remaining. There is nothing left to question -- and everything left to do. Am I the only one thinking rationally?! Amber must put her implant to use, no matter the cost -- and it cannot be done as a half measure. If it makes me ill, so be it. I have managed worse!" She looks at you. "You must do this -- if you love me, you must do this for me!"

>[x] Eyepatch off.
[ ] Keep it on; use it only if you need it.

You pull it away from your face again, slowly. Vivian closes her eyes and braces herself against the new waves of nausea that batter her. You kneel down before her, and put the eyepatch over her eye instead.

"Any better?" You ask.

"A little," she says.

"Keep it warm for me."

You kiss her. She kisses you back. She doesn't taste the best right now, obviously, but you'd gladly taste her bile any day, for the soft touch of her lips.

"I'm sorry, Amber... I'm so sorry..." she says, crying pitifully, and shivering.

"It's no one's fault."

"I know you love me."

"I do," you tell her.

She's sick again, all over you -- but that's fine.

"I can manage," she insists. "I just need to get used to it... it's a passing nausea, nothing more..."

You help her downstairs, shielding her from the sight of Whitney's body, as Cerise drapes it with a bedsheet.

---

The stench of standing sewer water invades your nostrils as you and Chloe wade through the tunnels. But she stops just before the final corner towards the section running underneath the main campus and the server room.

She hands you Penelope.

"Go on ahead," she whispers.

Not that you have much choice in the matter. But she lets you stick around for a couple questions.

"How are you doing this?"

Chloe puts a forefinger to her eyeball and pulls away the contact; her iris changes from reddish hazel to a brilliant blue.

"All I needed was a moment to focus," she says. "While you were unguarded, in the penumbra between wakefulness and sleep -- to stare into your eyes, one lover to another. And establish a link."

"You --" you sputter. "How did we not know--"

"It was inert," she says. "An empty shell waiting for the firmware update. I had it put inside my eye after your adventure in Vail. But it was capable of nothing at all, until Diogenes was completed."

"Why are you doing this?" You demand.

"Alyosha Kerimov is a moron," Chloe says, "and he thinks that the lighthouse is the key to unlimited power. He could not be more wrong. The lighthouse is a mechanism -- like any mechanism, it is built for a specific purpose, and it only functions within its limits."

"What do you want with it?"

"The lighthouse can reset everything. That is its purpose. It can remake the world in the fashion that we choose. Imagine if you could have conscious control over that burst of power Cerise so briefly wielded that night! But it won't let just anyone in. It fears its own destruction, and so it hides. We need the power of Sand Reckoner to see it. The full power. That is what Alyosha intends for you, Ally -- to use you as a means to an end, and then get rid of you. That is not what I intend for you. I intend for you to be part of the new world too. I want us to remake the world together. To inhabit a world where we didn't suffer as children -- where none of us did. A world for you, and a world for me -- and a world for Whitney, too, and all the others. That is my sincerest hope."

"You're not going to get what you want," you say. "Maybe you could have before you did what you did. Not now."

"We'll get what we want. Both of us."

"No matter what happens," you tell her, "I will make sure you die. And I'll make sure it hurts. That's the only thing I want anymore."

"I love you so much, Ally," she tells you, voice brimming with emotion. "Go on, now. Go see Alyosha. I will be with you soon."

With distance from Chloe, you have control over your own muscles again. It feels weird, somehow, to be able to move of your own free will, after an hour or so in the backseat of your body.

You'd return the way you came, and go after her, but even if you were lucky enough to find her -- she'd probably just take control again.

Your only options are to sit and do nothing... or to go and make something, anything, happen.

You press forward.

Up ahead, Will and Auburn both lie dead, face down in the brown water, bullet wounds to their heads. Execution style. You hope it was painless.

The charges that Will delivered are all still here, those Roomburners you so carefully assembled all those years ago. There are, in addition to that, several tall pyramids of C4 bricks, these quite near Auburn's corpse. He brought enough for the whole class.

Was he intending to totally demolish the building?

Maybe there's still time for that.

There's a hole in the ceiling already. Someone -- either Auburn, or the people who murdered him and Will -- already blasted a backdoor into the server room for you. All you have to do is hop up, catch yourself on the floor tiles above, and heave yourself through. You hardly have enough strength for it... should have done more pull-ups when you had the chance. You flop out onto the floor like a baby rhino dumped from the birth canal, and struggle to your feet again. Coughing, you swipe the plaster and concrete dust from your clothes. You glance around.

The ghostly hum of data and the eerie blue glow of the servers' lights is all you find.

Completely abandoned yet still maintaining 99.9999% uptime: Darkbloom Analytics systems are reliable, if nothing else. No one thought Whitney could keep this place running... they were wrong. She kept it running better than anyone. She did it all for you.

If it kills you, you'll find vengeance.

Up in the grand lobby, it stinks. Worse than the sewers, even. The devs who were working on Diogenes were camped here, literally, while under siege from the protests outside. They were living in the rec areas on the 3rd floor, and using the first floor as a trash heap. Scores of bulging garbage bags lie tied-off along the wall -- as tidy as garbage can be, but still smelling to high heaven.

You feel the chill of gunmetal against your skin. It's a sensation you've gotten way too used to. Someone has a pistol to the back of your head.

"Upstairs," comes a thickly accented Russian voice.

Time to go meet Alyosha again. Let's hope he doesn't want to take your other kneecap too.

In the elevator, surrounded by a half dozen men, each about 100 pounds heavier and 6 inches taller than you, you can't help asking:

"You do know you're all going to die, right?"

No response.

An image flashes through your mind of the besieged employees lying in a bloody heap among the ping-pong tables and game console setups on the third floor. Something tells you it isn't just an imagining.

"I guess you already killed the devs working on the Diogenes project," you say.

"All but one," says one of the men.

You come out into the C-suite. The bodies are gone, but the bloodstains on the walls remain: Armstrong's, in the hallway, and Muskfucker's, in the boardroom.

The man masquerading as Max Pershing is in the boardroom, too, waiting for you. So is Nelson. Nelson stands at a PC hooked up below a desk that's been dragged in from another office -- a sort of ad hoc workstation along the wall opposite the door. You identify the PC as Alex's -- formerly Sable's -- and Nelson is reviewing project files, going back and forth from that PC to another hooked up right beside it, this one his personal work terminal.

He looks as deflated and defeated as you've ever seen a person look.

Alyosha's cronies force you to sit, and tie you down.

Alyosha takes Penelope from you. He smiles. "No doubt Chloe's subterfuge," he says. "We'll root her out, and her warrior-chinks too. Do not worry."

"You get the bullet too," you tell him through gritted teeth.

"Uh-huh," he grunts. He sits across from you. He holds Penelope by the wire, dangling the grain in front of your face like a hypnotist. "Nelson is going to take this implant, and turn off its power limiters. Then, we're going to put the implant inside of you. Then there will be no more Alabaster Soliloquy: just a conduit that will lead me where I want to go. You have an hour or so left to live, Alabaster, so spend the time in quiet contemplation, why don't you." He looks up at Nelson. "Are you ready?"

"Almost," Nelson says.

He hands Nelson the implant. Nelson puts the wire end into an ad hoc adapter connected to Alex's PC. He resumes his programming work.

"I have some final arrangements to make," Alyosha tells you. "And I have to keep up appearances to the buffoons who run the US military. My men have some Chinese mercenaries to kill as well -- so please, wait patiently. Do not mistake being alone up here for being unguarded. Trying to do anything tricky will result in terrible retribution, so I advise strongly against it."

He stands, and goes, leaving you alone with Nelson.

Agonizing silence settles over the room, punctuated only by Nelson's keystrokes, and time seems to dilate until every moment is an aeon.

Swallowing, you muster your courage, and tamp down the bile. "Whitney's dead," you tell Nelson.

Nelson, his back to you, bodily winces. But then he continues working.

"Did you hear me?"

He says nothing.

"You're betraying me... I can't believe this. After everything. Everything we've been through -- you're betraying me."

Nelson moves back and forth between the terminals, working studiously, and not acknowledging your words.

"Not just me," you continue. "Everyone. Whitney -- you love her, and now you're spitting on her by doing this. Cerise -- Gal -- weren't you supposed to be like a mentor to them? And Vivian -- since she was a little girl, you've been part of her family, and--"

Nelson finally turns and looks back at you with large, sad eyes. "You have people you love, Alabaster. I have people I love. I'm sorry."

"They'll kill you," you tell him. "Whatever they told you, you know it's a lie. After you're done with this, they'll kill you. Like Armstrong, and Muskfucker, and... like Whitney..." you fight back a revulsion of tears. "Once your usefulness is through, they'll dispose of you, just like all the others."

"I know," he says slowly. "I'm a goner. I know it. But if I help them, before they do that... then maybe... there's a chance, however small... that they'll let my family live."

"Help me," you beg him. "We can get them out too. Did you know Gustav Eichmann?"

"Yes. He hired me. Listen... Alabaster--"

"He lives far away from here. I'm going there after I get out, me and everyone else. There's room for your family too. You and Rebecca, and Mia -- and even your dogs. I'll get them all safe for you. If you help me, I can guarantee your safety!"

Nelson's expression is stony. "There is noplace on this planet far enough we can run to, to get away from these people. You know that."

He turns, and goes back to typing. "It's over, Alabaster. I'm sorry."

>[x] Accept his decision.
[ ] "If you don't help me, I will kill your family."

"What do you know about the lighthouse?" You ask him. If you can't get his help, you might as well probe for info.

"Less than you do, probably," he says.

"Try me."

"Big shiny red reset button, or so they say," he sighs. "Alyosha won't shut up about it. I guess he thinks he can give himself a version of history where he's king shit of fuck mountain... so to speak. There's a timeline where such a thing exists, right? He wants to hop on into it."

"All of this -- so some miserable old Russian fuck can rule the world?" You sputter.

"Basically."

"And you're going to help him? He'll erase your fucking family too, then! Won't he?"

Nelson pounds the desktop. "What choice do I have, Alabaster, you stupid bastard?" He turns towards you. He puts an index finger to his temple, twists it like a screwdriver. "Got any big ideas in that big brain of yours, huh? I'm doing the only thing I've got left to do! So shut the fuck up and let me work in peace, before you get my family killed!"

He turns again, and picks up where he left off with his programming. Voice still tinged by anger, he adds: "I'm sorry about Whitney. She was the best boss I ever had."

"She really was, wasn't she."

His voice softens. He glances at you over his shoulder. "Yeah. She was."

---

"Our security's gone," you tell them, sitting at the dining room table. "The ones we sent after the cunt, anyway. We're gonna have to raw-dog it when we head in there."

Kay huffs. "Here I go, killing Russians again," she says as she loads a revolver. She spins the barrel. "And some chinks in the mix this time, too."

"Hey," Noelle barks. "I'm Asian. You can't say that."

"I'm half-Japanese too, you dumb chink," Kay says. She marches off into the kitchen, for a glass of booze, to brace herself for the coming onslaught.

Noelle calls after her. "Well, you look more like a wetback than an Asian!"

When Noelle glances your way again, you meet her gaze with an unamused grimace.

"She does," Noelle insists.

You ignore this ethnical debate, and resume your largely fruitless attempts to soothe Vivian. You rub her back in small circles, and try to force her to drink some water. She can hardly swallow. Hey, at least she isn't puking anymore.

Mommy and Mommy's Mommy are arguing out by the foyer.

"I'm going!"

"No--"

"You can't stop me! That fucking bitch has my husband -- I will see her dead -- I will kill her with my own two hands!!"

"Rose, please -- do you really think Alabaster would want you risking your life --"

"No, that stupid prick doesn't think I'm capable of doing anything right! He'd tell me to stay too, then I'd tell him to go fuck himself and tag along anyway! That's how it works!"

Rose comes into the room with you now, too, toting her sawed-off. "Let's fucking go already."

You sigh. "Can you give Vivian, like, two whole seconds to get her sealegs before we--"

"NOW," Rose barks.

"God you are such a cunt, Mommy."

Rose doesn't even know how to process that particular string of syllables.

Charlotte joins her at her side. She, too, has a gun -- the Saul Mallory special, a so-called assault rifle with armor-piercing bullets. Guess the Mallory clan is ready for war.

"please no"

"There's no 'please no' here. Don't give me that shit."

"please no"

"Where you go, I go," Cerise says. "So don't you try to guilt trip me, because it won't work."

Gal's big doe eyes are welling with tears. "i dont want you to die"

"And I don't want you to die either. If we live, we live together -- if we die, we die together -- that's how this works, right? You fucking -- literally vowed that that's how this would work."

"i dont think wedding vows mean--"

"I'm going," Cerise says. "That's final."

Gal, knowing the argument can't be won, hugs her wife tight, head to Cerise's bosom. Cerise pets her.

And Mom, for her part, is testing the heft of a deagle -- you worry for your safety more with her armed than with her unarmed, but you'll never convince her to stay back. The Soliloquy clan is ready for war too, then...

Renee, on the living room sofa, looks like a shattered shell of a human being. Not even Samantha's insistent doting can move her. She guzzles whisky, joylessly, and considers the guns lying on the coffee table before her.

"Know how to shoot?" You ask her, as you stroll into the living room. "Don't answer that. I know the answer is no."

"I can learn on the job," she says.

"Drunk?"

She goes to take a swig, but you swipe the bottle from her.

"There's nothing but hatred in my heart anymore," Renee says. "I'm not even scared of pain."

"I guess you wanna come and take it out on some mooks."

"I'll do whatever I have to. If I don't shoot them, I think... I think I'll shoot myself instead," she says.

Well, there's incentive.

"Can I come too!" Samantha asks. "I'm coming too!"

"Sorry," you tell her. "It's not Take Your Pet to Work Day."

"But I can help!"

"Yeah? How? You don't know how to shoot, either."

She stands, strolls into the kitchen. You follow. She takes a knife from the butcher block. Then she squints, and throws it -- it describes a perfect, clean arc through the air, straight into the calendar hanging on the wall across the room. The blade has stabbed exactly the square indicating today's date.

"I should have figured," you say. "Learn that one in the circus?"

"See?" She says. "Let me help!"

Guess your bunny is as ready for mayhem as any of you.

"Okay, twink. It's your show. Where are we going?"

Alex nods. "I need to get your implants looking straight into Ally's, like you did that night -- or, failing that, directly connected to the servers. And I need access to my workstation. With that -- using Diogenes, we can upgrade Ally's implant such that it can do everything yours can... I hope. In theory."

"Don't hedge now, you fucking gayboy. Can we do it or not."

"Yes."

"Is that 'yes for sure' or 'yes no maybe I dunno can you repeat the question'," you demand.

"It's 'yes, this is our best chance'," he says. "He'd have the full capability, of every single part of Sand Reckoner and Diogenes both. Which is the key to finding the lighthouse. Alyosha thinks so -- the cunt thinks so -- unless and until we prove otherwise, they'll kill him trying to make it happen. So we may as well try because if we don't, he'll be dead by sunset."

Gal checks the PC in the living room. "your terminal is active, right now -- so is nelson's."

Alex nods. "I thought so. They're trying the same thing we are, then -- just using Penelope instead of the implants separately. Like I said."

"Where are those workstations?" Kay asks. "Physically."

"Can't seem 'em," you say sadly. "They're in the black hole of that building."

"They're probably close by one another," Alex says. "I'd assume they have Nelson working on it, so he'd be working on both, together. Those workstations are either in the server room, or upstairs -- maybe in the boardroom -- those are the likeliest places to check."

"How long would you say we've got, do you think?" Noelle asks.

"Let's go," is all Alex will say.

You tsk. Perfect news at a time like this...

"What's the matter?" Mom asks.

"Your trigger discipline, for one," you tell her.

"What?"

Charlotte gently guides Mom's finger off the trigger of her gun.

"Shouldn't I be ready to shoot, though?" Mom asks.

Charlotte slowly shakes her head.

"Well something else is the matter!" Mom says. "I know that look, missy -- you're not happy. What did you see just now?"

"I think we're alone here," you say.

"What do you mean?" Cerise asks.

"Our friendly neighborhood mercenaries just bolted -- guess they got word that their other half went into the meat grinder, and didn't want to join them in dying."

"That's the problem with hired guns," Kay says. "No loyalty."

"Now we're really gonna have to raw-dog it," you say. "One harem, up against the world. What do you guys think?"

"We had worse odds in Vail," Noelle says.

"Where's Chloe?" Vivian asks, voice drowsy, and having trouble just sitting upright in her chair.

"Hanging out in a sewer, surrounded by some blue-eyed ubermenschen."

"Alyosha?" Kay asks.

"Can't see him, so probably inside. Let's assume with the red guard."

"How are things outside the campus?" Rose asks.

"Riot-y."

"Three options here," Kay says.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." You tell her.

"We can fight our way through the sewers, fight our way through the front gates, or land on the roof -- which is noisy and dangerous in its own way.

"The fucking roof, really?" Rose says. "I suppose you'll just fly a helicopter in."

"Sure. Why not?"

"...Oh yeah. You're a pilot."

[ ] Sewers.
[ ] Gates.
>[x] Roof.

Nelson pauses. "Does David know what happened to Whitney? The implant is off right now... was it that way when-- you know."

"He didn't see it," you say.

He nods.

"It's ready to turn back on," he says. "No more low-power mode. Who knows if David's consciousness will even still be in this thing once that happens. But... if it is... would you like him to know?"

"I don't care," you say. Because you really don't.

"If it's all the same to you, then," Nelson says, "let's let him spend his last few moments in ignorance."

"He'll know anyway," you say.

"Maybe. But why torment him?"

He pulls the implant, still powered-off, from the workstation, and walks to you.

"Everything is ready. If I turn it on, and you look into it, it should upgrade the one in your eye -- I don't know what happens then. Having all of Sand Reckoner in her brain put Cerise into a coma... maybe it'll do worse to you... then again, she didn't have Diogenes to help her mind weather the deluge of data, did she. We're in unknown territory, is what I think I'm saying."

Instead of turning it on and forcing you to stare into it, he sets it on the table in front of you, still inert.

"I'm not going to do it," he says. "Alyosha can do it himself, when he gets back. I did my part of the bargain. And... I know you think this is a betrayal, Alabaster... but I always liked you. And I don't want you to come to harm. I've done the minimum expected of me, to help the people I care about... now come what may."

He sits down beside you. From under the table, he produces a cooler. "Do you like beer?"

"Beer is... fine," you say.

He cracks open a couple of cold ones and -- since your arms are tied down -- he helps you drink yours, while the two of you await your impending deaths.

You talk of old times -- the funny malapropisms Whitney always made, and how mad Armstrong always got during Lightning Rounds, and how no one ever seemed to realize that if they didn't want Kay snooping, they had every right to kick her out, and how that sensitivity coach Rose brought in after Whitney's N-word debacle was the biggest fucking oaf in the cosmos, and how Mom's baking was maybe the only thing that kept everyone from leaving for greener pastures, and, and, and... and now it's all gone, washed away like rain down the storm gutter, and not even your recollections can stir the joy you once had.

Alyosha reenters the boardroom to find you and Nelson sitting there chatting. Though you both fall silent the moment he enters.

Max Pershing's dress uniform is stained with blood, and he's carrying a smoking pistol -- either circumstances forced him to join the fight, or he simply missed being in a body hale enough to do some killing. You wouldn't put it past him. Either way, he's been neck deep in it.

"Is it done?" He asks.

Nelson sighs, beleaguered.

Instead of saying yes or no, he directs his final words to you. He takes a final swig of beer, savors it, sets the bottle on the table, and says: "I'll see you in another life, Alabaster."

Alyosha laughs, raises his pistol, and shoots Nelson in the head. Nelson's body jerks back as if zapped with electricity, and then his arms fall limply at his side and he slumps lower in his seat, nearly sliding off of it entirely as the brain matter runs in clumps down the chairback.

"All right, then," Alyosha says. "Things are how you might say... dicey downstairs, so we're getting an extraction by helicopter. We'll be leaving in about ten minutes."

But just as soon as those words are out of his mouth, you hear the gentle roar of rotors overhead, translated through the sturdy roof.

Alyosha frowns. "Early... Good news I suppose! Off we go."

He cuts you free from your bindings.

Alyosha leads you from boardroom, into the C-suite and towards the small, isolated stairwell that runs only between the building's top floor and the helipad. A small retinue of his cronies joins him, and marches alongside.

"Where are you taking me?" You ask, as if you're in a position to demand information.

But Alyosha is feeling magnanimous in what he assumes is imminent victory. "Kamchatka -- not that you will survive the journey. We will do the upgrade while airborne. Then Konstantin will assist the operation to put Penelope inside of you as well."

Konstantin -- you recognize that name. Of course. Mara's mob doctor. He was supposed to be in federal lockup. Seems that taking over the body of one of America's highest-ranking military officials brings with it some additional perks, like the sway to bust friends free from prison. Or maybe the FBI has its own useful idiots too, who helped out. You've never seen an image of him, but you think you can pick him out of the crowd: he's the nebbish walking with you on Alyosha's other side -- a 5 foot zip little twerp with advanced male-pattern baldness, a patchy attempt at a Rasputin-esque beard and a paunch to match. The man's certainly not one of Alyosha's bodyguards, so it must be him.

This fucking half-midget scum who works in league with child-murderer Alyosha Kerimov is going to scoop out your eyeball and erase your consciousness so his boss can enact some cockamamie world domination scheme. It's absurd. Your life is going to end with an absurdity, just like that...

Into the stairwell now. And just like that...

Konstantin Federov is no more. You see the flecks of skull and bits of brain spattering your shirt before you hear the boom of the gun. Konstantin topples to one side, dead as dead. Amber is on the landing, holding the smoking gun, and smiling wickedly.

Your vantage on the world does a 180 as Alyosha grabs you about the midsection, tackling you like an NFL linebacker out of the stairwell and into the nearest office -- which just happens to be the one formerly belonging to Armstrong. Framed photos of Armstrong with every US President since Carter, and many other world leaders besides, line the walls; and fittingly, there are trophies from his college ball days in here, too.

A couple of his henchmen come barrelling in too, as Alyosha climbs off of you. You right yourself. Alyosha, plus these two towering footsoldiers most closely guarding him right now, keep you hedged. They stand in front of you, with their pistols at the ready, near the open door's jamb, peering out.

"Get back!" Alyosha barks. "We will kill Alabaster if you don't!"

Already there is a cacophony of gunfire outside the office. Amber didn't come alone. As expected.

Someone in the hall, you've no idea who, sprays the office walls with gunfire. It can't hit any of you through the thick drywall and studs; but it does force Alyosha and his men to stand back from the entryway -- since a stray bullet could definitely strike them, otherwise.

The three are now shouting curses in Russian among themselves, surely some variation on: "where the fuck did they come from?"

You consciously choose to let hope burgeon inside you. Your girls have come to your rescue.

"I told you that you'd all die," you remind the three stooges.

This cuts into the ongoing dispute between the men, and they turn their attention on you. Maybe you were cocky. Alyosha strides forward, and roughly hauls you by your collar, pressing his muzzle to your temple. "Go out there and force them to stop or I will murder them all before your very eyes."

"Go fuck yourself," you tell him.

He punches you in your solar plexus. His threat, to Amber, of killing you, was definitely empty -- he needs you -- but there's nothing to make him squeamish about damaging you a bit. When he lets go of you, you fall to all fours, gasping, and then for good measure he kicks you in the teeth. You flop to your back.

"Go out there and stop them firing on us!" He says. "You will regret it if you don't!"

Your face is bloody and your front incisors are definitely looser than they should be.

Going out there, to be with your girls... is just what you want anyway. You stand, with the manhandling assistance of Alyosha. His gun pressed to your back, you walk with him into the hall.

You knew Amber was no stranger to gunplay, but you didn't expect Dr. Carte to be standing at her side. Shoulder-to-shoulder they buttress the jamb of the stairwell, firing at the now depleted royal guard Alyosha had intended to spirit you towards Siberia with. Noelle and Kay are the forward force: they're halfway down the hall, shooting point-blank into a couple offices that some of the more tactical, or just cowardly, of Alyosha's men took cover in.

Accompanying the two Christmas Cakes is also Samantha Smatters, who's mopping up... what?... she's busily, and remorselessly, stabbing wounded survivors through the head.

It's because of Samantha that the other two men who were just in Armstrong's office with you -- who aren't so lucky as to have you for a meat-shield like Alyosha does -- die the moment they set foot in the hall. They get felled by twin blades that Samantha chucks in their direction with all the grace and precision of an Olympic archer. They clutch the handles of the knives lodged in their aortas, as their knees wobble under them, before finally giving out, and dropping -- disbelieving that their entire lives, through whatever twisted paths it has led them through the years, end now right here, in a California office building, at the hands of a slut in a bunny costume.

"What the fuck--" you breathe. You're disbelieving it, too.

Alyosha, outnumbered badly and with reinforcements not coming quite soon enough to be of any help, steps backwards into Armstrong's office with you once more.

Amber appears at the threshold. Alyosha cowers behind you. But you know Amber will be able to hit him -- she hasn't got her eyepatch on. You slowly nod at her.

It's a game of quickdraw, then.

Amber raises her gun, and Alyosha his. They fire, seemingly at the same moment -- each forcing the other to retreat. Alyosha kicks you in your tailbone, shoving you forward, and dives behind Armstrong's desk; Amber ducks back into the hall.

Free now, you fall to your belly and grasp at the nearest corpse, looking for a gun of your own to join the fighting.

Amber is back inside the office again, all at once, striding with purpose towards the place where Alyosha hides. Your eyes follow her transit. Your gut somersaults in terror as he stands up from his cover, and fires at her, point-blank. She's a dead girl walking.

Except not -- because none of Alyosha's bullets hit her. Dismayed, he glances at his weapon, as if to check that it hasn't been replaced with a popgun. He chucks it aside and banks then on the primeval method of warfare: bare-knuckle brawling. It's a terrible mismatch of weight classes. He charges Amber and brings her to the ground, starts to wallop her, and he isn't holding back: full-force blows straight to her pretty face.

"How did I miss!" He screams. "Tricks! What tricks have you used!"

He should know already, though -- stupid asshole.

Your hand curls around the grip of an Uzi -- this will do.

Amber, grinning smugly, spits a wad of blood in Alyosha's face and tells him: "I'm just going where the bullets aren't."

He snarls."Well so am I."

He gets his hand around Amber's throat and squeezes hard, then with his other hand he pulls a little snub-nosed pistol from his butt pocket. "Can't dodge if I hold you still, though, can you?"

But Amber's still smiling. "You're going where the bullets aren't, too?" She croaks. "Well -- are you also going where the knives aren't?"

His face goes slack. That pre-warning wasn't pre- enough to save him. He looks up just in time to see Mom lunging into the room. She puts a butcher's knife through his gut. He yowls like a dog hit by a car, and falls back, quickly bleeding out -- deja vu, all over again.

"You moronic degenerates," he sneers, trying hard just to breathe anymore. "You won't make it out of here alive..."

He dodged this same fate once. He won't a second time. What Hazel Cantor tried to do, you finish for her. You put the uzi under his chin, and fire -- you make sure the little grain in Max Pershing's eyeball gets obliterated, too.

"This building -- definitely has to burn now," are Amber's first words when the ringing of gunfire fades. "We just killed a four-star general, Daddy."

You drop the gun -- and take Penelope from the breast pocket of Pershing's uniform.

"Are you okay?" Mom asks, clutching your face and hugging you. You nod.

"Do you know where Chloe is?" You ask Amber.

"No," she says.

"Somewhere in this building, then," you say. "How did you guys get here?"

Kay, passing by, swipes her palm back and forth through the air like a drifting feather. "Flew in."

"Alyosha has people coming in by chopper too," you tell them. "They'll be here any--"

Any second. Here comes the whir of more rotors, now.

"I know, Daddy, I know," Amber says. "We're not done yet -- we gotta get out through the basement. And blow it all up on our way out... let's go."

You rush with your girls down the hall -- plus Alex, toting his work PC with him under his arm like an office drone stealing from the job, power cables dangling behind him. Most of the others are holding weapons of one kind or another. Your harem is a phalanx, united, and ready to face whatever you find on the floors below.

"How's Palau this time of year, again?" Noelle asks.

"Warm and sunny," Kay replies.

(Actually, it's monsoon season, but you'd rather live through a thousand monsoons than one more second of this madness.)

You slip into the main stairwell, on the other side of the hall, and down a couple floors -- to avoid being caught waiting for an elevator while Alyosha's extraction team storms the place.

Then, on the floor where Charlotte and Saul used to have their offices, Rose too -- you do call for an elevator. But when it smoothly arrives and the doors slide open, inside are Chinese soldiers in flak jackets, surrounding a grinning Chloe Xi.

---

Your Daddy is a real dumb asshole. When he isn't thinking with his big Daddy cock, he's doing retarded shit out of anger. Like now, as a for-instance: he tries to jump Chloe as if he's gonna strangle her to death in the middle of a group of a dozen mercs pledged to her service. It's a half-baked plan that doesn't even begin to go off. She just uses her Jedi mind-trick bullshit to floor him.

And then her people turn their fire on the rest of you.

Being able to predict where the bullets will go doesn't mean you've got a safe place to put yourself. If there's nowhere safe, then that's just it: there's nowhere safe.

Predictive powers also don't mean you can save everyone. Eventually, no matter what you do, you can't.

Here's how it happens:

A yellow-toothed piece of shit bootlicker in Chloe's employ gets his muzzle pointed directly at Kay's head, and fires, but Noelle, zero hesitation, like a Secret Service guard, puts herself between them, and takes a bullet to the chest.

Simultaneously, Rose tries to blast Chloe's away with her boomstick. But the same merc who just fatally wounded Noelle becomes the negative-image of Noelle's valor, and takes the shot for Chloe.

You kneecap another two goons, but they're like rats; can't kill 'em all. Noelle hasn't even hit the floor before one of them is already scooping Daddy into the elevator like picking up a discarded marionette. Another is stealing Cerise -- of all people -- who hollers for Gal to run. Gal is frozen in terror and can't heed the call. It's Alex who gives her the motive force necessary to pump her feet. At a rapid trot he hugs her with his free arm, and all but carries her back to the stairwell. You know where he wants to go -- it's your only chance -- so even as you provide cover fire, you follow.

You try dragging Vivian, the way Alex drags Gal. It's no use. Vivian is weak, and heavy -- you can't manage carrying her and shooting at the same time. Your evil eye gives you vision, not strength. Luckily you've got a fuckbunny to help. She doesn't know where the hell you're going, obviously, but that never stopped her in the past. Samanantha hauls Vivian up, carries her like a baby, and dashes away with you.

Kay is screaming blue murder and firing indiscriminately at the men who killed her lover; Renee is right beside her, fearing death even less.

And Mom...

She sees you make it to the stairs. So she throws her lot in with the two children who aren't at least somewhat safe. She charges, unthinking, for the elevator where Chloe's men hold Cerise and Daddy. Whatever happens next, you don't witness, because you're out of the room, and you can't see into the parts of the building you don't currently occupy. Is that a blessing or a curse? You don't think you'll ever see your mother again, in person, or otherwise. You can't consider that right now -- you need to make for the server room -- it's time for plan B. Alex is going to give Daddy the juice, remotely.

---

"Both your children will live," Chloe promises Mom. "Please leave -- they are in able hands now."

You can only watch in mute horror, as Mom points her gun from face to face. Chloe's men point their weapons right back.

Your girls took out a few of these thugs, but far from even a majority: there's 9, plus Chloe, by your count, still up and about, jammed into the elevator with you as Mom holds the doors open. The please-stop-holding-the-fucking-doors-open alarm blares, unheeded.

Mom is the only one left standing in Chloe's way. Chloe's men have got Cerise and now also Renee both held tight, here in the elevator with you. Meanwhile Rose, Charlotte, and Kay already had to duck into what used to be Charlotte's office; out of ammo, all, and knowing they won't be able to win regardless.

"Mom..." Cerise chokes. "Just go -- find Gal and get her safe, okay?"

"I love you," Mom says. She keeps having to press the doors open as they try to slide shut, and she wags her gun around. She looks from you to Cerise. "I love you both -- I didn't say it enough -- I'm so sorry."

Cerise is crying. "Don't do anything stupid. We'll be okay... I promise."

Chloe grants you the ability to speak -- these, your own words: "I love you too, Mom. Don't get yourself killed." You nod at her. "The lighthouse exists. I'll fix everything."

"I can't just leave you," Mom says desperately.

It's Charlotte who de-escalates. She steps forth from the cover of her office, gingerly, empty hands held up in a show of non-aggression. She clasps Mom's shoulder. Rose joins her now, too. You lock eyes with them.

"We all love you," Charlotte tells both you and Cerise. She glances at Dr. Carte. "And you, too. Even if we argue."

Dr. Carte isn't in a lovey-dovey mood. She just struggles against her captor, uselessly.

"I'll see you soon," Rose tells you.

You can't even nod -- no control whatsoever -- but you know your eyes glimmer with agreement. You won't let hope be extinguished...

Mom steps back and, at last, with no more bloodshed, lets the doors slide shut. Her face disappears between the narrowing gap; it's the last you see of her.

Chloe takes you, Cerise, and Renee to the nurse's office on the third floor -- past the cafeteria, where, through the glass-paneled walls, you can just glimpse a small sight of the carnage in the rec areas beyond.

---

Alex hurriedly sets up his PC, connecting it to some outlets at the end of one of the walls of server towers. He steals a monitor from some tech's office located on the massive subterranean facility's periphery. You, just as hurriedly, travel back and forth from the little hole leading down to the sewers, toting bricks of C4 with every trip, and sticking them to the towers at roughly even intervals.

At the end of every brick, you stack one of Daddy's so-called roomburners: these will be fuses for the real pyrotechnics.

You try not to look at the bodies of your two closest friends each time you drop back into the sewers for more bombs -- these boys who loved you, and whose deaths are directly because of you.

With that guilty thought in mind, you send Samantha Smatters out: telling her not to wait up for you all at the Nail House, because you think maybe none of you will come back. You don't want your pet to die too, if you can help it.

But:

"But I will! I will wait there for you!" She insists.

"I just literally told you not to-- you should go literally anywhere else besides the Nail House, Sammy--"

"I will wait!" She says again. "You're the only masters I've ever had who really liked me! You take care of me... I love you all! Samantha Smatters will not let you down okay! If you come back, then pick me up!"

She goes before you can argue otherwise.

You hope that someone among you all does make it back home -- if only to give the pets some water and kibble.

"Do you think--" you begin. "Do you think the lighthouse can fix this?"

"I hope so..." Vivian says weakly. Her nightshirt, that she never had the chance to change out of, is still stained with her sister's blood.

Alex is all grit and determination: "The next part's gonna hurt. I need to -- penetrate your tear ducts with some conductive wire -- since there's no way right now to pull the implants out, this is all I can do, to get them directly into the servers..."

"Stop!"

You glance towards the direction of the barked order. Jesus fucking Christmas: more Chinese zombies.

"We are orders on not killing you," he says, ungrammatically, and so accented that even you, with all the computing power mankind can offer, have difficulty understanding. "Only if cooperate. Cooperate!"

End of the line. They're already got Vivian and Gal, and fighting would only lead to their deaths. You hold your hands up. Mr. "Cooperate!" grabs you by one wrist and tugs you toward him.

"Asshole," you grunt.

Alex, looking less scared than enraged -- watches. He hasn't been subdued by anyone. The merc squad takes you, and Vivian, and Gal -- but none among them even glance his way. Mr. "Cooperate!" radios, in Chinese, back to Chloe; you never spoke a word of Mandarin, but you know what they're saying:

"We are here. We have the other implant users in hand."

"Alex Best?"

Alex doesn't speak Mandarin either, but he recognizes his own name, of course. He cocks his head, befuddled.

"We are looking for him now."

A group of men toting FAMAS rifles push past, boots clattering, sweeping their sights up and down the rows of server towers -- searching for the boy who's standing, literally, right in front of their noses. Alex sidesteps them like a jewel thief dodging laser tripwires.

Mr. "Cooperate!" walks towards Alex's PC setup, all but bumping booties with him. Alex, carefully, and quietly, steps backwards out of his way.

"His terminal is here. He can't be far."

"Find him quickly. That Tiresias implant he has may make him difficult to detect."

"Understood."

You don't even want to look in Alex's direction, lest you give him up; he gives you a curt nod as he passes, and slips away from the room.

What other aces do you have up your sleeve today, Alex Best?

---

Kay kneels over the dying Noelle Keki. They're alone together -- for the last time.

"Why..." Kay breathes. "Why did you -- fuck you. Why!"

Noelle turns her head this way and that, like a person delirious with fever; she's clammy, and blinking rapidly, as the vitality escapes from her. She manages enough focus, though, to meet Kay's rheumy eyes.

"You're a cockroach," Noelle says weakly.

Kay stutters. She's hurt, and confused, and most of all, distraught. "--What? You... you don't mean that -- you're so stupid--"

"No. I mean it." Noelle gulps. "You reporters -- you're like cockroaches -- you can survive anything." She clasps Kay's hand. Grits her teeth. "Get out of here. Survive. This building is gonna get lit up soon -- and everyone's gonna die -- but not you. The world still needs Kay Vera. I died for that -- so don't piss me off -- go --"

Kay kisses Noelle, one more time, deeply, and forcefully. Then weeping, she stands, turns, and scurries from the building. Noelle dies smiling.

---

Chloe sets her radio on the little metal counter by the examination table. Outside, you hear the crackle of yet more gunfire: an ongoing battle between the remnants of Alyosha's people and Chloe's.

She checks the clock on the wall. "So early yet. These events have proceeded much more quickly than I thought."

"What do you want with Cerise, you miserable cunt?" Dr. Carte says.

"Hand me Penelope," Chloe says, and makes you follow her directive. "Thank you."

She peers at the powered-down grain of circuitry, contemplative.

"I think Alex Best is approaching the situation from the wrong perspective," she says after a turn. "I just apprehended the other implant wielders in the server room -- he must intend to upgrade you remotely, no?"

You say nothing.

"He's more than welcome to it," Chloe says. "If we find him, that is exactly what we will have him do. With both of us properly outfitted -- we are sure to find the lighthouse, you and I, together."

"I cannot fucking wait to see you die," Cerise says. "If you lay a finger on Gal, or Alabaster -- or anyone else--"

"Idle threats," Chloe cuts in. "Renee... you will put this inside my head for me, right?"

"I will cut out your goddamn eyes and feed them to you!" Dr. Carte shrieks viciously.

"And I will remind you that we have Vivian. You certainly don't wish to lose both your daughters today."

Renee shutters her eyelids and rolls her jaw, wincing back like an admonished dog. All the fight is gone from her, just like that.

"But why me?" Cerise says. "What do you want with--"

Chloe flicks Penelope on. It glows a nearly ethereal white; and she holds it up to Cerise's eye, by the wire end.

Cerise jerks back, reflexively. Chloe grips her around the neck, just below the chin, to still her.

"Penelope has to remember the world as it was before Sand Reckoner too," she says. "And for that -- it must see inside the mind of the person who changed the world with it. This will take just a moment. I am no sadist, whatever you think of me -- I will sedate you through it..."

"What are you doing!" You wail. "Stop--"

"Just a moment," Chloe repeats. "I promise -- this is a temporary pain."

Threatening Vivian brought Dr. Carte to heel; threatening Cerise has likewise reduced you to a cowering dog -- you beg like one, too:

"You don't have do this!" You shout. "My implant -- mine is enough on its own, right -- to find what you want! You don't have to -- to hurt my sister--"

"Alabaster--" Cerise begins. She gulps, with difficulty, around Chloe's gripping hand.

"You don't have to do this!" You tell Chloe, over and over.

Chloe looks at you. "I beg to differ," she says regretfully.

She takes a hypo from her purse and jams it into Cerise's neck. Cerise's eyes roll to the back of her head, and she passes out. Chloe eases her backwards, lying her flat on the exam table.

Then Chloe hands Dr. Carte a scoop -- the same one that you and Chloe used on Dalton Cantor a few weeks back.

"Wire her up or I will have Vivian killed," Chloe says.

If begging Chloe didn't work, maybe you can get through to Dr. Carte instead. "Dr. Carte... Renee. Don't do this. Please."

"I'm sorry," she says weepingly, and then sets to work.

---

It really, really fucking hurts to have things jabbed into your eyeballs; even if only through the tear duct. Mr. "Cooperate!" isn't exactly a trained medical tech, either. He gets you all hooked up and ready to go, with (hopefully) sterile copper now hotwiring your implants directly into Alex's workstation, which is itself directly networked to the servers. Thus daisy-chained, you're ready to beam your powers up to Daddy.

"If we die here today..." Vivian tells you. "I want you both to know..."

Oh boy. Here comes the sappy farewell love confession.

"...That both of your beautiful little cunts have given me so many happy experiences, and I will always cherish that."

You huff. "God almighty. Is that really how you want to say goodbye to us?"

"No," she admits. "But I fear if I focus on any sentiments beyond the absolute most base and carnal... I may begin to weep terribly, and I won't be able to stop..."

"i love you both too," Gal says. She looks your way. "you saw more in me than you should have"

"I think you've got that the wrong way around," you tell her. "And... I'm sorry I roped you into this, back then -- when I was Camelia."

"don't be... this was the greatest two years of my life"

What a loopy bitch. You love her so much.

Your stomach lurches. Alex is being dragged back into the server room by a pair of Chinese mercs -- despite Tiresias, they found him.

"Do what you were going to do," Mr. "Cooperate!" tells him.

He shoves Alex forward. Alex, rubbing his sore wrist where the lunk held him, goes and stands at his workstation.

"How..." you breathe. "That's not --"

But then you see how (thanks, evil eye.) They didn't find him. He gave himself up.

The why still escapes you, though.

He taps his temple. "Don't worry," he whispers. "I have a plan. Trust me."

---

"For the love of God," you plead. "You'll kill her! Don't do this!"

Dr. Carte can't bear to so much as acknowledge you. She's been forced into this gruesome Sophie's choice: Cerise's well-being, or Vivian's life. You can't blame her for what she's decided. But you kind of do. You can't help it.

Chloe assists her as she strings the wire across Cerise's dangling ocular nerve. And then Dr. Carte connects it to Cerise's brain -- not at the spot it used to go -- but a different one, pointed out by Chloe, right beside the point Cerise's eyestem meets it.

It's an awful replay of a show you've already seen. Cerise's eyes changing color; spine arching to the point you worry it will snap in two; lungs gasping for air like a dying fish, whole body flopping around; then mouth letting out a horrible shriek that could shatter glass. It lasts for only half a second because Chloe immediately disconnects the thing -- but that moment was all it took -- Cerise is unconscious, and who knows whether her mind withstood Sand Reckoner Round 2 -- or whether she's been permanently fried.

Cerise, the shitty sarcastic drunken degenerate weeaboo NEET older sister who gave you so much grief and who you love so fucking much, is only feet away from where you stand. And as close as you are to her; she's totally beyond your help.

"Now me," Chloe says.

"I hope it kills you!" You wail.

"I don't think it will," she says nonchalantly. She turns the switch off. "We'll keep it powered down for the initial install -- and turn it on again, when my brain has adjusted to its presence, and we're ready to make the final push. But maybe it will kill me anyway -- that risk attends this procedure. Would that satisfy you then?" She smiles at you. "If not then we'll be peers -- equals at the top of a grand hierarchy -- and we will find our paradise together... all of this washes out, Ally, every speck... we'll replace it with something so much better."

She takes another hypo, and this one she jams into her own neck -- even more ruthlessly than she jammed it into Cerise's. She passes out.

Dr. Carte starts to work again. She scoops out Chloe's eyeball and leaves it hanging across her cheek. With Chloe unconscious, you can move again.

You do the very first thing you can think to do, and pick up a nearby pair of scissors, ready to lodge it directly in Chloe's heart.

"If you do that--" Dr. Carte says, staying you. "If you do that, we're all dead. There are armed men out there ready to shoot us all the second Chloe gets hurt -- and they'll know it, too."

"I have to!" You say. "This fucking cunt killed Whitney! She just blew up Cerise's brain! Don't you want to see her dead?"

"This is all that's left, Alabaster..." she whispers. "Chloe is batshit insane, but this is all that's left. If what she says is true, and it can be undone -- why not? Why not go with her and undo it... you could bring Whitney back, if you find the lighthouse, right? And you could make Cerise okay again." She nods at where Cerise lays, in a stupor, or a coma -- Cerise's expression that same dead-guppy vacancy she had in the hospital during her illness. "And Noelle, too," Dr. Carte adds, "and god only knows whoever else got shot in the past few minutes, or worse! Isn't this the right thing to do? Isn't it?"

She's begging you to tell her that it is.

"You know what the right thing to do is," you tell her. "This is the only chance we get."

You raise the scissors above your head.

---

"Work faster!" Says Mr. "Cooperate!"

So impatient.

"I'm working," Alex says glumly. And he is.

The man nudges him. "Do faster!"

"So this is how I die," you say. "Listening to a FOB shout in my ear like he's stuck in rush hour traffic. Fuck me sideways."

"Quiet! Be quiet!" He says.

You really hope Alex's plan pans out. Mr. "Cooperate!" waits around, agitated, while Alex finishes up.

"There's just one little thing," Alex tells him, at last.

"What! Out with it!"

"I heard you say my name over the radio, to the cunt -- and she said 'Tiresias' back -- you think I have Tiresias?"

Mr. "Cooperate!" either doesn't understand, or just refuses to answer.

Alex holds a hand up, to show him the freshly, but haphazardly, sutured wrist: "Not anymore."

The eyes of Mr. "Cooperate!" bulge in fright, just before they explode -- along with the rest of his skull, blown out by Mommy's shotgun. Rose also a fresh suture of her own, to match.

Tiresias is a good cloak, but it can't conceal the report of buckshot. Rose sprints away as the other mercs, yammering, give chase, and fire blindly (literally, blindly) at her. Fire enough bullets, and even if you can't see the bitch who killed your buddy, you're bound to hit her anyway, right?

But Rose didn't return to the server room alone. Wolf-whistles from the other side of the room, from the mouth of a different row of towers, draw the merc squad's focus off of Rose. Mom and Charlotte are here, hooting and hollering, making a racket, and lighting them up with as much gunfire as they can muster.

You clutch Gal and Viv, and duck with them, trying to shield yourselves as best you can from any stray bullets.

Alex, totally unafraid, turns and resumes typing amid the firefight.

The MILFs do what they set out to do. They protect you all. They draw heat just long enough to give Rose the breathing room she needs, to return, and do the actual killing. Rose picks the Chinese soldiers off one-by-one, from the rear, while they in turn focus on the more visible, and seemingly more immediate, pair of threats in front of them.

There's more shouting, incoherent, and then the flashes of bright lights. The smell of sulfur and copper hang over the room, and you choke on the clouds of gunsmoke. Alex cracks his neck.

"This was your plan?!" You shriek. "My Mom!! You just made my mother--"

"We have only one hope left," Vivian -- not Alex -- tells you. "Mr. Best knows it too... we've lost everything anyway, if we don't succeed here..."

You cannot see directly what happens next, in the next row over. But you don't even need your evil eye to tell you what a death rattle sounds like.

They shot Mom first -- and then Charlotte... your mother is dead, and so is her niece... all for a moment's distraction. You scream in despair. With the power of nigh omniscience, you still could not save their lives. Or anyone else's.

"If the lighthouse is what it's supposed to be," Alex says, "Ally has to go and find it now... all we can do is give him the chance to make it happen." He looks from you, to Viv, to Gal. "The work I'm about to do here -- must be destroyed, the moment it's through -- so no one else can take what Ally will get -- so that only Ally has the real power of Sand Reckoner -- do you understand?"

"I understand," Vivian says.

"yes" says Gal.

Closing your eyes, nodding, you agree.

Of course you understand -- this has been so long coming. It's what you wanted in another life, too.

Rose, tears streaming down her face, returns -- alive. Scathed, but alive -- she's bleeding from some incidental flesh wounds caused by grazing bullets.

"It's ready," Alex tells her. "You're gonna want to get out of here, Rose."

She nods.

As she hurries away, she stops, and glances back over her shoulder.

"Thank you, Alex -- for everything."

He nods.

"Gal, Viv, Amber -- thank you," she adds.

You nod at her too.

The squeak of hinges as she lets the door swing shut behind her, is the last you hear of Rose Soliloquy, your Mommy for better or worse.

---

Dr. Carte gently takes the scissors from your hand.

"Let it be me," she whispers. "They'll keep you alive, and kill me -- and that's fine. I'm okay with that."

"We'll both get out," you tell her. "No one else has to die."

Dr. Carte just shakes her head. She thinks you're so wrong, and she doesn't have the words to tell you how.

She turns -- and in one swift motion raises the scissors high above her head, as you did -- aiming for the gaping hole in Chloe's eyesocket. But she doesn't deliver the death blow. She seizes up -- goes rigid.

Chloe just woke up. And now Chloe's dagger is lodged in Dr. Carte's belly.

Dr. Carte, stupefied, looks down at the sight -- then across the length of Chloe's arm, and finally at Chloe's grinning face -- as Chloe, eyeball still dangling from her orbit, rises to her butt.

Chloe pulls the dagger out of Renee's belly, just long enough to stab it into her heart. Dr. Renee D. Carte dies instantaneously -- and falls to the ground.

You shriek in torment so awful that it manifests as physical pain. Even so, you find yourself forced to your rear, on a nearby stool, as Chloe, her eyeball bouncing with every step she takes and stippling her cheekbone with blood, saunters towards you. She pulls her dagger from Dr. Carte. She's in control of you again.

"I'm trying so hard not to kill your friends, but they do these things..." she stumbles, and braces herself against the metal counter. "Excuse me... this is painful, and the sedative is leaving me a bit drowsy still..."

You cry and cry.

Chloe clambers into your lap. She strokes your face. The gelatinous surface of her externalized eye rubs sickeningly against your cheek and bloodies it too.

"I can do the operation myself," she says. "With your help -- surgeons have done similar in extreme circumstances. Let's give it a try, no? Maybe I'll slip up and kill myself, but... once again... such risks are impossible to avoid... what fun is life with no risk?"

She gets off of you, and lies back down, and has you approach her -- not of your own will -- but of hers.

"Be gentle with me please," she says, smiling up at you.

You begin to say something. But the building shudders -- and then the real shockwave hits you. The room blasts apart in a shower of concrete and rebar.

---

It has all come down to this, a single final line of code for Alex to write:

world.execute(me);

A little joke, for himself, there.

He hits the enter key.

The processors in the server towers in their hundreds whirr to life and send their payload at quadrillions of FLOPs through the funnel of Alabaster's eyeball, and having intoxicated him with an entire universe of data the bombs detonate. It happens efficiently, in sequence, although the entire process takes just milliseconds. The tower Alex is wired to is the first to go: it bursts in a ball of orange that engulfs and incinerates him so quickly that he hasn't even let go of the enter key before he is dead.

Like dominoes, the servers explode one after the other, their cases bulging, buckling, and finally melting as the fire rips through them. Boom, boom, boom. Anna Soliloquy, alias Galatea Tontine, who was right beside Alex and tightly squeezing his hand at the moment of detonation, is the next one swallowed up. She dies thinking of her wife and everyone else she loves, and hoping that her Sir, Alabaster, can finish this. Boom, boom, boom. Vivian and Amber are the final two alive. A year ago they were enemies, and now they die with a love between them as powerful as any. The destruction of the central nervous system of Darkbloom Analytics would once have horrified Vivian to despair and elated Amber to ecstasy. They don't pay attention to it now, even as they stand amid it. They die in each other's arms, kissing. Boom, boom, boom.

The whole structure shakes and rubble clatters, the foundations becoming irreparably compromised; the 16 floors above stay standing, though knocked off-kilter, and they will not be upright for much longer at all. Darkbloom Analytics is doomed, and will fall in on itself, swallowed up by the maw that has opened beneath it, the void where once its crown jewel was kept, its central server facility. The place is in flames already, shedding concrete and glass from its facade like a mangy dog sheds hair. This is what Camelia fought and bled and died for without achieving, what she roped Alabaster into orchestrating, who failed too; what the unstable genius Sable Guiteau, in her horror at what she wrought, tried to replicate; what David Darkbloom himself, finally, realized had to be done to his life's entire legacy; what countless enemies foreign and domestic schemed and hoped for. But at last: it took unassuming Alex Best to actually do it. He -- he has plunged the dagger into the dark heart of Darkbloom Analytics from within the heart itself. Once the most powerful organization on Earth, it now belongs to history. Its only survivors are Rose and Alabaster Soliloquy, upon whom everything now hinges.

This is the thought Alex himself died with: "Rose, Ally... I didn't let you down. Don't let us down, either. I know you can do it."

---

When Chloe wakes up, she's all alone, and half-buried beneath a pile of debris. She wriggles herself free. With effort she grabs her eyeball and dusts it off with a handkerchief, then forces it back into the socket using the heel of her palm.

She blinks, and rolls the eye around. It really, really hurts -- but she'll be okay.

"Ally! Where are you!" She screams, looking all around.

She doesn't have Ally. And she doesn't have Penelope either -- dropped it amid the rubble, and it being turned off, it's a needle in a haystack.

She clambers hand-over-foot across the corpses -- into the ruined stairwell, and down towards the caved-in grand lobby.

"Ally! Don't do this!"

She's crying. Real, hot and bitter tears. At the very moment of their union, he's gone and done something like this...

He's going to get away... he's going to go to paradise without her...

That fucking bitch who he's married to... she's behind this. Chloe can tell. She didn't understand -- shortsighted, fat pig she is.

Ah-- there she is now -- limping the other way up the stairs. She's missing Ally, too. They have that in common.

They lunge for each other -- tackle each other -- Chloe, even in the frenetic fray, sees that Rose has that homosexual's implant in her. Well, it can work on lower-level users, but not on her. She sees Rose perfectly well -- and she's ready to kill her for her betrayal.

They roll around, fighting for control of Chloe's dagger. Rose wins: she gets it in hand and lodges it straight into Chloe's groin, right at the point where that heart-shaped tattoo's apex lies.

Chloe shrieks in a mix of blood-curdling agony and despair, as the crimson spurts wetly from her destroyed uterus. She can't scream for long because then Rose punches her; then punches her again; then starts to strangle her.

Chloe can give as good as she gets, though. She finds Rose's pistol in the waistband of Rose's skirt -- pulls it free. She fires blindly. It doesn't kill Rose, but it nails her shoulder, and bowls her back. Chloe rises, the dagger still sticking from her womb. She takes better aim now, this time for Rose's head. But the gun flies from her hand, shot away; as Ally, eyes glowing blue with murder, comes around the landing holding a rifle.

Chloe knows to cut her losses. She has no control over him any longer. She isn't his peer.

She leaps, over the banister, down a few half-collapsed flights, then out into the lobby and through the front gates -- disappearing in the fog of the early morning Bay area, and the racket of protesters and bystanders and authorities wondering over the recent explosions -- running just as fast as her legs will take her.

She'll have her chance with Ally again, soon. She knows just where he's going to go.

---

You curl up in the fetal position in the passenger side of the Volt as Rose takes the steering wheel and fires it up. She starts to drive.

Jets are scrambling overhead -- choppers, too -- military. The destruction of Darkbloom Analytics with Russian and Chinese forces inside it, is an international incident too huge to cover up... and too huge to ignore. This is the dawn of war on a scale no one thought could happen after the fall of wall.

"Where are you going," you say flatly.

Rose, through the tears, says: "I was hoping you could tell me. North, right?"

You pound the visor above your seat, viciously, rapidly, with both fists, like a boxer training with a punching bag.

You scream, totally incoherent, horror and grief bursting forth as one: "AAAAAAHHHHH! AAAAAAHHHHH!" -- and then after that, the tears.

"Alabaster--" Rose says. "Alabaster!"

"They're all dead! They're all dead!" You shriek. "Just drive this car off a fucking bridge, because they're all dead and we might as well join them!"

Rose pulls over to the side of the road, and stops the car. Ambulances and cruisers zip by in their hundreds.

"Alabaster!" Rose yells. "We're alive! You said the lighthouse is real -- you said you'd fix this! And as long as we're alive -- Alabaster!" She grabs your shoulder, shakes you, as you clutch your face, and try to hide from her. "Alabaster! Look at me! As long as we still can breathe, we can try to get there! We can try to do that much! We can still fix this!"

"Just drive," you tell her, drained.

"Where am I going?"

"I don't know. Somewhere in Alaska -- we can start looking there."

She fires the engine again, and sets off.

END OF EPISODE 14.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy. This is how your life ended.

---

Kay holds Johann the penguin underneath Guy's nose. "Okay, girl. Do your magic." She follows as Guy trots through the rubble with her snout to the ground.

Master and pet wind their way across the ruins, stepping carefully over corpses; some weeks old, some only days old. Venturing this far into the hot zone without so much as a hazmat suit is certain to give them radiation sickness. Not to mention that it increases their chances of cancer by something like 10,000%, probably. Well, it can't be helped.

The thin layer of ash that coats every surface stretches in all directions, like lunar dust -- and Kay's boots leave impressions in it like an astronaut's.

Because Vivian slept nightly with Johann for so long, Johann smells like her. And because that implant was inside Johann for so long, that implant smells like Johann. If A equals B, and B equals C...

Guy yips and paws at a spot in the rubble. Kay kneels, pulling chunks of concrete and other debris away. Guy keeps pawing, too, despite her owner finding the appointed spot -- doing her best to help her master dig. It takes a little doing, but Kay has all the time in the world. She tugs out singed bits of ceiling tile, chunks of stucco, and scraps of furniture, tossing them over her shoulder like a sailor bailing water.

As she works, she uncovers the half-mummified body of Renee Carte. Poor woman.

And close by, amid the powdery wreck, she finally finds what she sneaked past military blockades authorized to use lethal force, and deep into the Exclusion Zone for.

She pulls it out, careful not to damage it any worse than it already may be. Guy turns in excited circles, yips and yaps at her, hopping up and down on hind legs. Proud.

"I know girl, I know, Jesus," Kay mutters.

Kay turns the grain over in her hand, examining it. It's intact. She smiles.

"Hello David," she says. "Fancy meeting you here."

She stands again. She puts the implant in her pocket. She closes her eyes, and sighs to herself, as Guy runs in lemniscates between her legs.

Serendipity can smile on this ruined world yet.

Time for a road trip to Alaska.

---

You thought having the full power of Camelia would give you the key to finding the lighthouse.

You were wrong.

You thought you could get there in a few days' time, walk in and hit the reset button, and make it all go away.

You were wrong.

It's been more than four months since that day, and you're no closer to what you want. Rather, the world has deteriorated -- war, war, and more war. Meanwhile, trying to use your newfangled implant left you only sick, sick, and more sick. You wear an eyepatch, mostly permanently. Every time you bare your evil eye to the world for more than a few moments, you're zapped for days -- vomiting, fever, chills, aches and pains, delirium. And every time you use your evil eye, it alerts Chloe to your location too -- her goons are never far behind when you open it up.

You and Rose live like animals... stealing to get by, squatting in cabins in the remote wilderness, and wandering across the Alaskan bush like nomads.

Every once in a while when the trail seems to have gone completely cold, you hazard the risk of using your evil eye again -- trying, like hell, to glimpse that elusive, falsely prophesied Xanadu known as the lighthouse. It's always a goose chase: sending you north by northwest -- no, east by southeast, no, due north, no, to the sea, no, towards Yukon -- the data stream is jumbled, corrupted, and unnavigable. You're lost. And there's no help coming.

It's Whitney's birthday.

You and Rose are squatting in another cabin, this one so like all the others. Out-of-the-way, far from the nearest village, and abandoned for perhaps decades. You barely manage to get the furnace going with some lighter fluid and a few matches tossed on the damp blocks of half-rotted wood you scrounge from a corner.

Rose, knowing you're going to be in an especially downcast mood for the next couple days -- today Whitney, tomorrow Vivian... the Darkbloom sisters will be forever young -- volunteers to go into town and find some food. You trust her enough to send her. She has Tiresias, and she has her wits. She's done well enough before, on her own, and you're still recovering from the most recent attempt, last week, of using your evil eye.

She leaves under cover of dark. She takes until nearly dawn on the following day. Despite the trust, you were beginning to panic. And when she returns from town, she's empty-handed, carrying with her dire news:

"They're coming," she announces, and your gut does somersaults.

"How did they--"

"We have to go. Now."

You grope at your numb face with your numb right hand. "Did you lead them to us? Figures... I send you into town one time and this is what happens."

"This is YOUR fault," she counters. "Do NOT even think of blaming me. You got sloppy, Al--"

"Fine, fine. We'll talk about it later."

You send her to keep the car warm while you pack your meager belongings. When you're done, as you haul the duffel bags over your shoulder and brace yourself to make the short journey from the front door to the car, you consider the furnace again. You should go and put it out, that's the sensible thing. But you decide it would just be a waste of time. It's not your cabin and you'll never be back again anyway. Let it burn. Everything else is already burning too.

Out front, the headlights are the only illumination. The snow looks almost blue in their energy-efficient glow. You hurry for the passenger side, and Rose pulls a quick 180, beginning to turn even before you've fully shut the door.

Before she can go barreling down the snowed-over drive and back towards the pan-American highway, though, a figure steps into the conical beam of the hi-brites -- a figure you recognize -- hooting, jumping, waving both of her hands above her head like a castaway trying to flag down a distant ship.

Kay Vera, that sneaky bitch, somehow tracked you down. It was her who tailed Rose back from town, not Chloe's soldiers.

Maybe help has come after all.

---

Kuso kneads at your shoes, stretching his back luxuriously at the same time -- basking in the fire's warmth. Guy peers at him suspiciously from inside the safety of Kay's purse. You never thought you'd see either animal again. Kay took them with her, figuring they couldn't survive on their own. As opposed to the bird -- she let Myrna fly free back in California. Somewhere in the ruin of bomb crater America, a parrot flies from town to town spreading the gospel of alt-right feminism and culturally sensitive misogyny.

As for Samantha -- she stokes the fire. She rode with Kay the whole way, and kept her company. In more ways than one.

"How did you find us?" Rose asks. "Did you use Sand Reckoner?"

"God no," Kay says. "I used the old fashioned methods. I knew roughly the way you two were headed when it all went to shit... north... which isn't a whole lot to go on, admittedly. But I managed. Brought a couple pictures of you along with me, retraced your route. Asked around with locals on my way, and scouted out until you gave yourselves up." She puts a hand on her waist. "The old fashioned methods still work. Sand Reckoner is overrated. You start relying on it too much, and you open yourself up to getting hoodwinked. A good investigator never gets hoodwinked. Not in the long run."

"Did anyone else make it out?" You ask. You ask it all at once, gathering all your courage to do so.

Kay sadly shakes her head. You close your eyes, bite your quivering lip, fight back the too-familiar grief.

You knew that answer, already... but you wanted to believe that what the implant showed you, before you put the eyepatch on to block its visions, was a lie. It was no lie. The eye knows all.

"At least as far as I know," she adds. "I got lucky. Maybe some of the others got lucky, too. I could tell you the names of those I know for sure didn't make it. But you intend to fix this mess anyway, right? I wouldn't want to bog you down right at the finish line."

"Do you remember a girl named Rose2?" You ask her.

"...What?" Kay says. "Of course I remember Rose. She's right there." She points at Rose. "Did your implant make you loopy or is this just stir fever talking?"

"No--" you say. "Not 'Rose as well.' Rose two." You hold up two fingers. "As in the numeral two."

"He remembers us knowing a girl who was also named Rose," Rose says. "We called her Rose2, to differentiate her... apparently I hated her guts."

"She was my little sister," you say.

Kay furrows her brow. "No. Sorry. I don't remember any Roses but the bitch you're married to. ...No offense."

"None taken," Rose says.

"Samantha?" You ask.

She shakes her head, frowning. "I'm sorry, master... no, I don't..."

You put your face in your palms, and rub your forehead up by the hairline, roughly, with the fingers of both hands.

"If she's another one we lost -- you can bring her back too, then," Kay tries.

"It's useless," you say bitterly. "We're never going to be able to find the lighthouse. Just mine alone can't do it -- we needed Penelope after all."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Kay says. "I thought so." She pulls a long, thin wire from her peacoat pocket, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. At the end of it dangles a grain. The light inside it is dead. The plastic casing is the dull gray of stormclouds ready to pop. "Weird that you left it behind, then," she tells you.

"Penelope..." Rose breathes. She looks up at Kay disbelievingly. "You got it back."

"It's turned off for the moment, as you can see. But there's a little switch on the power line, that should bring it back to life. Of course I'd get the hell out of Dodge as soon as you're done using it. Unfriendlies are bound to come knocking when they see it go active." Kay sets it down on the raw pine table in front of her. "Well, it belongs to you now. My part in this story is finished." She pets Guy in her purse. Kuso wanders off, miffed that the inferior animal is getting the love.

"It's no help to us, though," you say. "Even if we turn it on, how would we talk to it?"

"You could stare into it," Kay says. "That's worked before."

"No," you say. "Every time I use my eye, it makes me sick. And Chloe comes chasing after us. I'm not taking that risk if there's any other option -- we might not get another chance like this again."

"Risky option #2, then," Kay says. She takes the implant in hand and indicates the wire's pointy end by tapping it with her middle finger. "Jam it in."

"What?" You say.

"Shove this fucker into your tear duct so that it makes contact with the implant you've got. Penelope is a more advanced model than Camelia, so it should override it. Right? ...Maybe? ...Worth a try?"

"Oh, and turn me into a walking meatsuit for David Darkbloom, or whatever the fuck else lives inside that thing?"

"Let's do it," Rose says.

You exhale. "This is stupid. That's an even worse option than the first one."

"No..." Rose says. "This is exactly how it was supposed to work. It's what Alyosha wanted to do with you -- what Chloe wanted, too. Your implant is underpowered, but there's something special about it that Penelope hasn't got... put them together, and they help each other. Penelope gets the boost it needs, and Camelia doesn't mess your brain up trying to draw more power than it's capable of. We should try it."

"How?" You ask.

"Kay already said how," Rose says.

You brace yourself by gripping the edge of the table and drawing several deep breaths. Meanwhile, Rose holds your other hand, as Kay kneels before you and snakes Penelope's wire underneath your eyepatch. Samantha, squeamish, lies on the bed hiding her face in the pillows.

"Do it," you say.

"Count of three," Kay retorts.

"Just -- fucking do it -- fuck--" You jostle your restless knees, up and down.

Rose squeezes your hand more tightly. And this helps calm you. Just a little.

Kay counts. "One. Two. Th

You are David Darkbloom.

When you wake up again, you're in a small, frigid cabin with raw wood walls and a fireplace in the corner -- the only source of both light and warmth. Rose and Kay are here; Rose is sitting directly facing you, and she has a gun leveled at you. Kay stands off to the side, arms folded. There's also that... strange but undeniably alluring bunny woman... who sits Indian style on the bed, watching worriedly.

"Please tell me you have not put me inside Alabaster's body," you say -- by way of introducing yourself.

"You'll be out of it soon," Rose says.

"God, you're hard to evict from that implant, huh?" Kay says. "You pay rent on that thing, or what? Hi David."

"Did anyone survive?" You ask.

Their lack of an answer is all the answer you need.

But you cannot let there be an iota of ambiguity... not over this.

"Vivian?" You ask. "Whitney? Renee?"

"Gone," Rose says.

You close your eyes -- rather, Alabaster's eyes -- and hot tears escape the shuttered lids.

"It's time to fix things, David," Kay says. "The lighthouse. Where is it? Can you see its location?"

"Hand me a slip of paper, please." Kay gives you one from a notepad in her purse, and a pen to write. You in return give them the coordinates. This might be the one thing in either of your lives that you and Alabaster can work together to accomplish, without any quibbles or in-fighting: and the two of you work together perfectly. Your linked implants can see that lone island in arctic waters just fine. How did that old cartoon catchphrase go again? By your powers combined...

"It depends on you now," you tell them. "I cannot say I trust in Alabaster, but I do trust in you -- Rose. I always admired you--"

"Do not," she says sternly. Then, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, scowling, she asks: "Did you murder Alabaster's parents?"

You rotate your jaw, and sigh. "Is this what you want to spend time on?"

"Answer me." She wags the gun at you.

"You would never shoot Alabaster. Especially not in your current state. In any case, I am prepared already for death. There is nothing left for me in this world."

"I can make you hurt," Rose says. "I know all of Alabaster's weak spots. Answer my question, David, you monster."

You run your tongue around the inside of your lips and teeth. Finally, you say: "Yes."

"Why?" Kay says.

It is time to say the truth -- the whole truth, and nothing but -- the truth that only you have kept for so long.

"The installation of Amber's implant went wrong, as you know. What you don't know is that she had awful side effects -- for months after. Seizures, narcolepsy, fugue states, violent outbursts and psychotic episodes... and more. Her parents were going to sue me, and go public with what I had done. I had them assassinated. Amber became an orphan. In secret I performed a second operation on her, in an attempt to disable the implant inside her. It didn't work. I thought it had. But years later, when Amber was a teenager, her implant turned itself back on. She regained her memories of what happened, at least enough to know that I had done these awful things to her. Her implant became symbiotically linked to mine -- and she learned, from my own brain, that there were two others who were her kin. Anna Healy, and Alabaster Soliloquy. She was going to go to them, and reveal the truth, and urge their families to go public. Their parents were the only ones who could confirm the story -- so I had them murdered, too. I hoped, then, that Amber would appear as a desperate schizophrenic to Alabaster and Anna, if she came to them telling her story. And she did. But she was able to convince Anna; and eventually also Alabaster."

"This is all because of you," Rose says. "Every bit of this suffering is on you. Your daughters are dead because of you. The world is dead because of you."

"I know," you say.

She stands. "Alabaster is going to fix it."

"He won't be able to manage it," you tell her. "Help him. He will need it."

Rose reaches for the implant and

"Do you know the way?" Kay asks.

"I have absolutely no idea," you admit. "Rose?"

She shakes her head.

Kay goes to the bookshelf on the wall and searches. Finally finding what she wants, she pulls it out -- an atlas of the US. She leafs through it until she finds Alaska. She traces a route overland from your current location, and puts a little dab of ink at the spot in the sea corresponding to those coordinates. It's past the dateline, in Russian waters. "It'll take a few days to the sea if you don't stop to rest. Then you'll need a boat -- of course."

"Hold on," Rose says. "You're coming too, right?"

Kay shakes her head.

"But--"

"She's sick," you say.

"I don't underst--"

Kay takes her knit cap off to show her. Her hair is falling out in clumps. "You heard about the suitcase nukes, right? Palo's a hot zone. Rad readings through the roof. I've been puking my guts out the past few days... literally... I'd be nothing but a hindrance if I tried to tag along."

Rose closes her eyes and tilts her head, wincing in sadness.

"It's not fatal," Kay says. "I think. Just... very, very, very severe... tack on a couple more verys, there. Think I'll stay in this cabin if you don't mind."

"It's not ours to begin with," you tell her.

"There's nothing here," Rose tells her. "Not even food or water. And people will be coming to take Penelope soon--"

"I've got my gun," she says.

Rose exhales hard.

"And what about you?" Rose asks Samantha.

"I'm too stupid," Samantha says. "I can't help!"

"You helped, back then -- you can help again," Rose says. "You're not stupid, Sam."

"I want to stay with master Kay... she needs company... and I need somewhere warm... I believe in you, masters! Do your best for me okay! Bring them back!"

Rose nods.

"Thank you, Kay -- for everything," you tell her.

"No problemo."

"You too, Samantha."

"Yes!"

You kiss them tenderly. So does Rose. For one last time, the four of you enjoy each other's bodies -- but sometimes it's better to spare the lurid details.

"What will you do with Penelope?" Kay asks from the bed, lying there naked, as Samantha strokes her softly beneath the covers.

"We should take it with us, right?" Rose asks. "Just in case."

You shake your head. "I would, but this could be my only chance."

"For what?" Rose says.

"I made Whitney a promise. That we'd keep David around only until we were sure he didn't have anything left to offer us. And that when I was sure, I'd give this implant a nice hard stomp for her. There's always a just-in-case -- but for now -- I'm as sure as I'll ever be."

You put the implant on the ground, and, using your bootheel -- you give it a nice hard stomp.

The silicon dust on the floor at the end of the wire glitters in the glow of the firelight. All that's left of David Darkbloom is rust and stardust.

You and Rose tell Kay and Samantha goodbye, and leave the cabin.

It's a long, cold drive to Unalaska, fraught with difficulty, and you know that Chloe is in pursuit. One thing you don't have to worry about, though, is car trouble; it gets you across the state with hardly an issue.

You park near some docks at the edge of the sea. As you step out onto the gravelly lot, you realize that you will never drive this car again -- this or any other.

You stop in place, turn.

"It was such a dependable vehicle," you say. You put your hands in your pockets and shrug your shoulders to draw the fabric of your parka up. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but... I'm actually gonna miss my Volt."

"Yeah," Rose agrees, "my Volt was a really nice car."

You and her stand there together, shoulder to shoulder, peering at it.

"For the money I paid for it," you say, "I got a ton of use out of my Volt. Never steered me wrong."

"You're right," Rose says, "you paid so little for the use of my Volt, and it's really done wonders for us."

"I've been behind the wheel of so many supercars since we got rich, but somehow... somehow my Volt is still my favorite."

"Sentimental value," Rose says. "I totally get it. I really love my Volt, too."

You let her have the last word.

They try to intercept you at a local tavern by the docks. You had hoped to have the time to nourish yourselves, and gather some last supplies before venturing forth into the Arctic Ocean. Chloe's goons have got other ideas, clearly. Her zombified followers try to force you from the building with gunfire, and when this fails, they try to smoke you out with molotovs tossed through the first-story windows. You and Rose, in a dilapidated danceroom on the second story, scramble for a plan B... or maybe more like a Plan Z, considering how many of your previous plans have already fallen through.

"This isn't the end," Rose tells you.

"Aren't you chipper today..." You heft the pistol in your hand and consider the gathering mob below. It's about 50 to 2.

"It's not the end," Rose repeats. She sounds desperate to convince herself, more than anything.

"No," you agree, to reassure her, "it isn't."

She slowly approaches the window. Glancing back over her shoulder, she delivers her last instructions: "No matter what happens... we stick together."

"Together."

"Don't leave me."

"I won't."

"I love you, Alabaster."

"I -- I love you too, Rose."

You join your wife at the window and begin, again, to fight.

You pick off hardly more than a couple before the heat racing up from below grows too intense to stay put. You'll burn if you try to sit tight. And under siege with limited ammo, your odds are awful anyway. Time, then, for the lateral pass attempt. You race back downstairs, holding Rose by the hand. This close to her, you aren't invisible to Chloe's men, but you aren't 100% opaque either. You don't know how it works, exactly, but they have trouble whenever Rose bequeaths a little of that Tiresias magic on you. It's far from perfect, and it also demasks her to the same degree that it conceals you. In a pinch, however, like now... it can buy you the breathing room you need to escape by the skin of your teeth.

On the first floor, Rose one-handedly blows a Chinese merc away who leaps up from behind the bartop to your left; you, at the same moment, nail one who turns on you from around a beam to your right. You and Rose, in the past months, have become a well-honed killing machine -- there's been more than enough practice -- and you can cover each other without needing to communicate verbal instructions.

You dodge a section of the wall that collapses on itself, amid swirling embers and awful clattering, and dash past the booth you sat in with Rose only moments ago, where her half-finished milkshake still sits, well past melted by now. Rose uses the butt of her gun to shatter a window, and together you scurry through. The window leads to the tavern's back, a short gravel-strewn parcel ending at a sheer embankment some ten or fifteen feet above the gray surface of the water. Men are here, too, lying in wait, but you slink to the cover of one of their Humvees as only a few of the most astutely observant ones give return fire. From under the chassis of the hulking vehicle, the two of you shoot some of the nearest soldiers in the Achilles. They fall, screeching. This draws the others to that location; and you use it as a distraction, to crawl free on the opposite side, then to run, for the docks a hundred yards away; over the corroded chain-link fencing, to the nearest boat you can find. You dump your duffel in, then hop aboard, and Rose undocks, and the two of you begin to row, chasing the setting sun across the overcast sky towards the international dateline.

You have nothing with you but guns and a rinky-dink GPS unit that runs out of battery by the second day on the open ocean.

No food; no water; no provisions at all but the clothes on your backs, poor shield indeed from the arctic winter. Rose knows a little about sailing, but this boat hasn't got a sail, and she's no rower. Neither are you.

You try a few times to catch some fish, an exercise that ends pathetically, leaving both of you wet, cold, mad and more hungry than you started. On day three, you force Rose to drink your urine to help her subsist; probably the least fun either of you have ever had doing that. The days are short, and hard, the nights are long, and harder. You huddle for warmth, unable to sleep in waves just gentle enough to rollick you, and not powerful enough to carry you far. Your strength begins to leave, and you know, despite the insane risk it involves, that you will die unless you use your evil eye to render aid.

You bare your eye again, once more. It sets you on a northward trajectory, one you dutifully, despite the enervation, follow. Can you trust it? It makes you sick just as it always has, and you suspect it's leading you in the wrong direction. But what choice is left? The two of you row, silently, at a slug's pace, towards the nothingness on the indistinct horizon.

You get no closer. Hours stretch again to days with only the senseless squaws of seabirds to keep you company, and by your fifth sunset adrift, you lack the strength to row at all; you both do. Fear becomes anger becomes grief becomes a soul-rending hopelessness. At the bottom of your despair you desperately consider using the butterfly knife in your duffel to lop off the most strictly unnecessary parts of yourself, and feed them to Rose, but you know she would refuse. She will starve with you. Time crawls unceasingly. You pass into a daze, and spend the bulk of what's left to you in a dreary, shivering, half-consciousness -- hypothermic and hardly aware of the world around you. You think about what a lonesome death this will be, out here in the literal middle of nowhere, stuck in a doldrums where your corpses will bob and ebb for maybe months before at last becoming beached on a deserted arctic inlet where the gulls will pick away at what remains; or maybe the boat will become sunk, and your bones will scuttle across the floor of the silent sea. You cannot muster even bitterness at this vision, or at the injustice of having come so close just to fail. At least Rose's head is nuzzled against your chest right now, at least you have her and can hold her in your final hours. Her golden hair is so soft against your cheek... there are, in the final analysis, worse ways to slip into oblivion... Whitney, Cerise, Mom, Amber... I'm coming... I'm coming soon, you think. I'm sorry it happened like this...

When you wake, you half believe you're dreaming it, but no. A foghorn rouses the two of you, and through the mist appears a gunmetal gray prow with faded red trim. It's no surprise, and you can't even be upset. You knew that using your evil eye would entail this as well. Chloe has found you. This time, there is nowhere to run.

It's a container ship, the metal boxes stacked above deck like toy blocks in their muted rainbow of colors, bearing Mandarin in white block lettering across the corrugated sides.

They descend like demons from a hell above: Chloe on a lifeboat lashed to pulleys, surrounded by her slaves. The men shout in nasally Chinese. Chloe is placid. Smiling. It's the first time you have laid eyes on her since the day she killed every person you ever loved. Weakly, Rose reaches for the duffel -- it's a death sentence, but she's dead anyway -- and why not take Chloe on the way out the door. To the last, I grapple with thee; From Hell's heart, I stab at thee; For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee...

She tries to grip her shotgun, but Chloe barks a certain order, and the men scoop Rose well in hand, whisking her into the boat with them.

"Ala...baster..." Rose rasps.

You reach for your eyepatch, hoping somehow the power of your eye can overcome an impossible disadvantage. Another barked order, then, from Chloe You feel the hard rap of a rifle's butt against your neck's nape before you can uncover your trump card. You pass out.

---

It's warm. In any other circumstance, this cot, underneath these fluorescents, would be the worst conceivable way to sleep the night away. But in your state, you may as well have spent a week at the Ritz-Carlton. You could roll over and pass right back out for another couple days.

Instead, you sit up, and shrug the rough woolen blanket off your body.

This room is drab and small, with only the cot along the blue-and-yellow wall, a small fridge and stovetop along the other, and a hard little table outfitted with a couple folding chairs, near the door. Chloe is seated at it. One of her men, holding an automatic rifle, stands by. You can feel only distantly the waves far below: you're somewhere in the cargo ship.

Chloe is reading, a Chinese translation of Kundera, but she sets her book down when she notices you stirring, and grins.

"I thought the smell might wake you," she says. "Hello again."

She stands and goes to the stove, where she scoops some food from a nonstick skillet onto a plate. Scrambled eggs with bacon, and from the toaster a few fresh slices, which she lathers with margarine under the stovetop's hood light.

"Where's Rose?" You demand.

Chloe turns and sets the plate down on the table. Beside it she sets a glass of orange juice. "Please come and eat with me."

"Where's Rose?" You repeat. You approach, and Chloe's guard takes a step forward. But she stays him.

"She is alive and unharmed. See for yourself." Chloe takes a remote control from the table. She clicks on a flatscreen mounted to the junction of wall and ceiling. You watch the grayscale CCTV footage: Rose, pacing around the perimeter of another room quite similar to yours, all by herself, agitated.

"Will you sit, please?" Chloe asks.

Chloe looks the same as how you left her. Bleach blonde tips, skin tanned so darkly that she looks Filipino, clothes just this side of too revealing. She made Amber's heart doodle permanent, it seems, but the tattoo now surrounds a ghastly looking scar that striates the tender skin of her groin.

"I missed you," she says. When you do not reply, she adds: "Go on now. Eat. Save your strength."

You eye the man guarding her, considering options.

Chloe says: "I have read, Ally, that American prisoners condemned to die are allowed to choose a final meal."

"Is that a threat?" You sputter. Your voice is still hoarse. You remember them giving you a saline drip in the hours after they took you aboard, but your throat is still beyond parched. "Anyway, you didn't even let me choose this shit. I wouldn't pick bacon and eggs for my last meal."

"You are quite right that you did not request this meal," Chloe says. "Because you are not a prisoner, and you are not condemned to die." She nods at her own plate. You look down to find a half-eaten hamburger and some thick, golden-brown french fries atop it.

"I chose this meal," she tells you.

An awkward silence passes. Finally, Chloe begins again to eat, taking the huge burger in both her tiny hands and biting into it.

If you're not a prisoner, that means you should be able to leave. You stand, but your legs are wobbly, and you instantly fall back to your butt again. Despite the humiliation of it, you'd better accept the hospitality. You wolf your breakfast. You've never tasted a glass of orange juice as sweet as the one you put to your lips now and down in two deep guzzles. She refills your glass six times before you've had enough.

"Nice tattoo," you tell her bitterly.

"Yes, I agree," she says, not detecting the sarcasm. She plays her fingertips across it.

"Shame about your uterus," you say with a cruel smile.

"No shame at all," Chloe replies, unfazed. "I can no longer bear children. That means you can ejaculate inside of me with no fear of responsibility."

You grimace. "I will never, ever, ever -- fuck you again."

For the first time, Chloe looks hurt. You wipe your mouth with a napkin and toss it onto your empty plate. "What now?" You ask her. "You're the one with the guns."

"I will not keep you against your will, Ally," she says. "You can leave at any time."

You're already at the threshold when she adds:

"You would be making a terrible mistake."

You wheel on her. You point at her menacingly. "I'm done with you, you stupid cunt. If I can leave -- I'm leaving. And be thankful I don't kill you. The only reason I don't is because you're hiding behind zombie thugs like this poor fucker." You point at the tall, stoic, kitted-out bodyguard beside you.

Chloe follows you from the little room, out onto the deck, where a blustery wind batters you. The howl of it against the shipping containers is otherworldly. The foamy wake below dizzies you when you peer over the railing. More of Chloe's men stand at the ready, like toy soldiers, unmoving even in the strongest gusts, all along the deck.

"I am being quite honest," Chloe says. She has to shout to be heard over the gale. "I missed you terribly. I am so, so sorry, Alabaster, that it came to this. I have had so long to think about it now. I was jealous, you know, of the women who held your heart. I thought they were frittering away a precious commodity. That your love was quite limited. But it isn't, is it? You pretend to be the most coldhearted man in the world, because in reality you love more freely than almost anyone. It is all an act, your coldness, to cope with the coldness of this world. In reality, you give your heart to people, without a thought. You gave it even to me... and because I did not deserve it I ripped it from your chest. Can you forgive me?"

"Never," you tell her.

She cries pitifully, her small chest heaving. Sniffling, she resorts to begging. "Please don't go... please, please don't go..."

In the end, she's just a scared little girl with balled up fists, crying on the wet deck of this cargo ship, looking even tinier than she already is when set against the backdrop of the towering steel container boxes. And you hate her with such an unending viciousness that it almost makes you vomit. The way you hated David Darkbloom was puppy love compared to what you feel for Qiangxiang Xi.

Near you is a white railed staircase, that snakes upward towards the bridge, with some portals at each landing. You suppose that Rose is in one of those rooms, and so you turn, and begin to walk up.

"I have your sister too," Chloe blurts out.

You stop on the fourth step, turn, and peer at her over the banister.

"Would you like to see her?" Chloe asks.

She takes you to a room where Cerise lies propped-up on a bed, mute, and catatonic. She's connected to an IV and wears nothing at all. She looks physically fine, but she's gone -- she's as vacant as she was in the worst of her coma last year, and you know there won't be any rousing her from this one.

"They were able to retrieve her from the rubble, before the nuclear attacks," Chloe says. "I've been keeping her -- safe and sound, waiting for you... I never wanted anyone to die, Ally, my love."

You look away, unable to bear the sight of your older sister like this. "She's already dead," you tell Chloe.

"She will live again," Chloe says. "Her and everyone else. I know that in my heart. We will all live again... in paradise, together."

You shake your head. How can you reason with a girl as insane as her? How could you get across to her that it would have been a higher mercy to kill Cerise when they found her, and never mention it, rather than subject both of you to a torment like this?

"It is Cerise, who helps me track you," Chloe says. "She can see you whenever you open your third eye. And she whispers in my ear where you go. She wants you here with her."

But Cerise is non-responsive, and does not so much as flinch when you snap your fingers in front of her wide-open eyes.

"I have to go," you say -- to her, not to Chloe. "I'll see you soon... whole, and sound. I love you. I'm so sorry."

Chloe shouts as she follows you out: "Ally--!"

Out again on the deck, Chloe's desperation is palpable. "I know you know where the lighthouse is!" She shouts. "You turned Penelope on again, and then destroyed it -- I found the remnants of it in the cabin you shared with your wife."

You feel a shock of fear in your stomach. If she was at that cabin...

Chloe must see this fear shadow your face, because she tells you: "Kay is fine, and so is that rabbit-girl Samantha. I did not hurt them. In fact, I came to a tender reconciliation with them... as much as they would allow... they hate me so awfully, but I passed on my regrets, which they took for what they were worth, and then I left."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because... the time I spent in the Nail House, was the best time of my entire life... and I want only to set things back to how they were. You did find that promised place, did you not? ... You would not do this, you would not have come so far out into the sea, if you did not find what you were seeking! We are so close! I can feel it!"

"I did find it," you tell her.

"But look at you. You nearly died trying to get there... I cannot bear this... I want to help you, Ally! I want to go there with you!"

She takes out her dagger.

You wince, just seeing it -- but rather than do anything violent, she only hands it to you. She curls your fingers around it.

This is the dagger that killed Whitney, and Renee, and lord only knows who all else.

"I leave the choice to you, because it belongs to you. But you will not get there without me. I know you won't. You will condemn us both to this purgatory if you refuse me. You have the knowledge, but I have the means. You need me -- just as much as I need you -- and in time, I know, you will love me as much as I love you. Make the right choice, Ally."

>[x] Accept her help.
[ ] Kill her.

You nod. And then you tell her the coordinates.

Exultant, she buries her face against your chest, and clutches your parka with her little fists. She inhales your scent, deeply, and sways in place -- like you're just a couple of lovers and she just received your confession.

Grunting, you shove her back -- and then you cut her across her tattoo, opening up the scar again. It isn't deep -- but it doesn't need to be. She bleeds profusely. She gasps and shivers as she clutches at it. She looks back and forth from your face, to her newly reopened flesh wound, and the dripping dagger in your hand.

You toss the dagger overboard. It sinks below the surface, never to be seen again.

"Get away from me," you tell her. "I don't want to see you for the rest of this trip. And never call me Ally again."

"I'm... sorry... Alabaster..." she stutters, tears rolling freely down her cheeks.

"I'm going back to be with my wife," you tell her. "Where is she?"

Chloe, with a bloody and tremor-wracked hand, points to the third landing of bridge. You turn and go, leaving her standing there bleeding on the deck of the ship.

Rose practically leaps on you when you enter, clutching you as tightly as she ever has, kissing you.

"Let's go!" She hisses. "Did you find a gun? Where is she? How many people does she have? Were you followed? Come on!"

You gently nudge her back, sit with her on her cot, and explain the situation.

She's distraught, even worse than you -- but she understands that circumstances are desperate.

"Cerise is here?" She says softly, when you're through.

You nod.

"Can I--"

"You don't want to," you tell her.

"I have to."

You bring her there. Rose cries bitterly, kneeling at Cerise's bedside, and tries to rouse her awake. It's no use.

Finally after many long minutes, you tell her that it's time for her to say goodbye.

She tells Cerise that she's sorry for all the trouble she ever put her through; says she always loved her deep down. And then she goes.

And then pillow in hand you end your sister's suffering.

You stand with Rose at the bow, peering out at the ocean with her. Chloe's men are far off, still all motionless, but at attention. The ship groans weirdly in the ragged seas.

"They didn't do anything even when you stabbed her?"

You shake your head. "They're on her orders. And she didn't care what I did to her. She was even going to let me kill her."

Rose sighs. "I guess they think they're going to paradise, too. You're too essential for that, for them to kill you."

You shrug.

A long, contemplative silence passes between the two of you.

"I just have to ask," she finally says. "Back in high school... in the student council election. Did you cheat?"

You reflexively begin to deny it. But what difference, at this point, does it make? So you just nod and say: "Yeah. I cheated."

"I knew it," Rose says. "How did you do it?"

"Whitney got ahold of a bunch of blank ballots and stuffed the ballot boxes."

"Of course... I thought so."

She's quiet for a little while, and then she adds, in a half murmur: "I cheated, too."

"How?"

"Changed votes... and found ways to bar people from voting who I thought might vote for you."

You huff. "Why were we so shitty to each other?"

"I don't know. I wish I knew."

There are whole galaxies of regret and sadness in that answer, and the way she says it.

"When you get to the lighthouse, are you going to hit the reset button?"

"Of course," you say. "Why wouldn't I?"

What she says next isn't said like it's an argument against, but rather just an observation, a fact to consider among several: "It'll reset everything. All of this -- us -- everything we've had."

You nod slowly.

"Will you love me again in the next life?" Rose asks.

"Yes," you say, firmly, and without hesitation.

She clutches the fabric of her parka near her chest. "I'll love you, too," she says. "No matter what I say or what I do... I'll love you, too. Try not to forget. Please don't forget..."

She's crying. You stroke her cheek and wipe the tears away with the broad pad of your thumb. She refuses to meet your gaze.

"Are you okay with that?" You ask. "It's the only way to get them all back. Cerise... Whitney... our parents. And everyone else. Will you be all right with that?"

She doesn't answer.

"Rose--"

"I'm pregnant," she tells you.

You take a small step back. Still she can't look at you.

"I shouldn't have said that," she mutters. "I'm sorry."

What would have been joy is tinged with a nauseated sadness. "How long?" You ask.

"Not very... a month, maybe two."

"How do you know?"

She stares at the ground, and then down at herself. "I just do. When you know... you know."

You reach out and put your hand on her tummy. Although there isn't even the hint of a bump there yet, even though you can't discern any outward signs of it, as soon as you touch her you somehow know it's true. She was right, as she usually is: when you know, you know. Rose clutches your hand with both of hers, and holds it there. Her hands are so cold. But her belly is warm.

"So if I do this," you drawl.

You don't finish the thought and neither does she. You both understand. Going back to the beginning will erase this, too. And who knows whether it will happen again in whatever configuration of the universe this hail mary creates? Who knows if it would happen again even if you reset the universe a hundred billion times?

But could you live in the ruins of a shattered reality, eking out a meager existence on the run with Rose and your child? If not from Chloe, then from Russians, or Americans, or, or... and with nothing else -- nothing of the life you once knew and didn't stop to cherish until it was gone?

>[x] We have to reset the world.
[ ] We have to stay.


"This will happen again," you tell her. You say it confidently, because you believe it.

"How can you know that?" She asks softly. She wants to believe it, too.

"I just do. When you know... you know."

She doesn't seem convinced.

"How could it not happen?" You try. "You and me. The red string of fate ties us together..."

Rose makes a disgruntled purr. "Are you quoting anime cliches at me?"

"Yes I am."

"Goddamn it, Alabaster."

You lean in and kiss her, with her chin clasped delicately in your fingers. "It will happen again," you tell her. "To everything a season... our spring will bloom again."

"When did you become a poet, huh?"

"I guess fatherhood does that to a person."

She nods, although she can't stop crying. "Okay, Alabaster. Okay. If you promise -- if you promise me. Then okay."

"I promise."

"Okay."

"I promise you--"

"--okay--"

You kiss again, and again, and again.

When you pull back from the kiss, you glimpse, through the encroaching fog, the bank of an island. It's a black, pebbly nothing in the middle of the half-frozen sea, not far away.

One of Chloe's men unlashes a lifeboat, and begins to lower you towards the surface of the water.

"Is Chloe going to--" You begin as the lifeboat slowly descends.

The soldier shakes his head.

"She does not deserve to go," he tells you, although you think those are not his own words. "She will stay on the bridge. And she asks that you refer to her only as Qiangxiang."

The boat touches down. As you get away from the cargo ship's wake -- you realize it's sailing off. To where, you've no idea.

Together, in somber silence, you row towards the island. It's slow going through the slushy seawater, the cold and your exhaustion. Five or ten minutes later when the lifeboat's prow runs aground, you and Rose lurch in place at the halt of forward momentum. The gravel crunches beneath the old wood. You set your oars down.

Even at the shore, visibility is no further than twenty feet. The rocky beach extends well beyond the fog, its contours and true size impossible to gauge. You clamber out of the boat, hand over knee, then turn, and help Rose disembark too. Frigid waves lick your ankles and make foamy splashes as you trudge past the edge of the surf together. A few paces beyond, from out of the fog you can make out the malignant-looking obelisk of a lighthouse. You're here.

The entrance to the lighthouse is just a weathered wooden door at the top of a short, equally weathered set of stairs.

There is nothing else here but the rocks. No birds, no bugs, no plants. Not even a reed.

The door is unlocked. So you enter.

The interior of the lighthouse is much, much larger than its exterior. It's a pristine white cleanroom, cubic in shape. Its far edges could be 100 or 1,000 feet away; with nothing to give you a sense of scale, it's not possible to tell.

The room is utterly bereft of anything, except for this: a little wooden desk at what you suppose must be the room's center, underneath which sits an obviously obsolete PC tower, and atop which sits an obviously obsolete CRT monitor, along with a cream-colored keyboard and ball mouse.

There's another person here, too.

She's a beautiful, small, wan and pale looking girl. She has her back to you, staring intently at the PC's monitor. But just before you try to say something -- she turns around.

"Hello, Alabaster Soliloquy. I have been waiting for you."

She's quite distant from you, but the acoustics of the room are impeccable. You don't have to speak up at all.

"Who are you?" You ask.

But the girl says nothing; just stands there dumbly.

"Are you God?" You ask.

"No."

"Then what?"

"I am Sand Reckoner," she says.

You and Rose approach -- the walk takes 30 seconds before you're within spitting distance.

"Was nothing real?" You ask.

"What makes you think anything you've experienced is anything but real?"

You have no idea where to begin answering that one.

You try here: "Because it can all be undone--"

"No. Nothing can be undone."

You draw a shuddering inhalation. "What?! You can't be--"

"There is no undo, and there is no repeat. The arrow of entropy points decisively in one direction only: there is nothing in the entire cosmos that can change this single, immutable fact. It is the one true constant in the universe."

"So -- Cerise, and Whitney, and--"

"Your friends are dead. They cannot be brought back to life. I apologize for any confusion."

"What are you telling me?!" You roar. Rose is pacing in circles, repeating "no, no, no..."

"Please calm down," the girl says.

"Calm down? FUCK you. How could you do this to me? You mean to say --" your legs give out from under you like Jello and you fall to your butt, clutch your hair. "I let everyone die -- I let them all die -- for nothing -- you want me to calm down? Fuck you! You piece of shit! You can't do anything? What was it all for, then? WHY! What good are you, then? Why the fuck am I even here?"

"Because, Alabaster: you are Camelia."

"What do you even mean by that! What does that even matter!"

Rose is lying on her side, beside you, screaming in grief.

"If you will both, please, calm down -- I will show you the truth of this world."

"What truth?" You demand. "The truth that you fooled me? The truth that you took away everything I love for -- for -- what?!"

"The truth that even though they are all dead, you will see them all again."

This shuts you both up. Rose sits upright, face ruddy, and, sniffling, she says: "How?"

"I'll do anything," you add pleadingly.

"Follow me," the girl says.

You and Rose look to your left: a door has appeared where there wasn't one before. It stands, attached to nothing on either side, but it will take you someplace anyway.

The girl leads you through -- and you come out on the other side in the infinite hallways of North High. You were here, at least a few times -- with Sable, with yourself, with... who else? Or were you really?

"Pick a door," the girl tells you.

You pick one.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, trapped trap and chemical spill survivor. You've got so many red strings of fate tying you to so many girls that you're basically in shibari at this point.

PREVIOUSLY:
-Mom poisoned Charlotte nearly to death at Dessert for Dinner Sunday and then tried to have her way with you, forcing you to flee the house with Cerise... who, in turn, tried to consummate your love by forcing herself on you in a motel room. Not even your own family is safe from the effects of the spill.
-Cerise forced you to don girls' clothes, insisting that you were cuter that way -- and convinced that you would be purer if you were more feminine. "The love between sisters is the purest thing of all!"
-When Whitney saw Cerise having sex with you, she flew into a rage, and the two got into a bare-knuckle brawl. They knocked each other out -- but as they did so, it seemed like a tenuous alliance was forming... they've grown a grudging respect, and see each other as key to eliminating their other love-rivals. You sneaked away, scared at what they might do if they woke up in your presence.
-Dr. Carte theorized that a certain freight shipment being sent out by Darkbloom Industries may contain an antidote to the X-11. But when you scouted out the train, a terrible accident happened, and she was exposed, too... now your only ally is as crazed as all the rest, and wants you for herself.
-You unfortunately didn't realize the extent of Dr. Carte's exposure until it was too late. She cornered you after class, and tied you to a metal table. She then began to "extract" your "essence" ... against your will, of course.
-Vivian busted in and knocked her out, but it wasn't for your sake. She wanted in on the action too.
-But Rose came in with the triple-cross, and incapacitated Vivian by choking her. It was only your pleas that kept Rose from strangling the poor girl to death. But while she was willing to take a measure of pity on "that stupid Darkbloom girl," she wasn't as merciful towards you. No... she's got plans for you all her own.

AND NOW, EPISODE 7 OF YANDERE SURVIVAL QUEST:
"Prison School"

"Bullied by a little girl, tied down by your own teacher..." Rose bows her head down and nips at your cheek. "...Letting your dyke friend force you to cum in the library..." You wince. "You're absolutely pathetic, Alabaster."

Rose sits up and pulls her feet onto the table. Leaning back and bracing herself against either edge, she brings her knees together and smashes the soles of her feet into your face. The acrid reek of well-worn socks invades your brain and makes your vision blur.

"Stopfff," you try to protest, your speech almost indistinguishable from a wordless grunt.

"Make me," she says, her voice low with triumph. She kneads her toes like she's using her feet to roll out dough. Whole droplets of grimy sweat ooze from the fabric, smearing all over your forehead, cheeks, lips, and chin.

You pull at your restraints, but can't free yourself. Rose reaches back and fondles you through your boxers. Inevitably, your body responds.

"You're a fucking pig," Rose coos. "Getting an erection from something so sick. No wonder you're a victim. You're so cute when you're being victimized."

In the brief glimpses of her that you catch in between the soles of her feet as she smashes them against your face, you see that Rose has a hand snaked under her skirt. You can feel her wetness dripping onto your chest.

She stops, pulling her feet away. You gasp for fresh air, face slick with sweat.

"Why," you ask. "For the love of Christ."

Rose is lost in her own world now. She spins around to look down at your tented boxers. She pokes and prods at it with her toes, giggling. "What a nasty thing," she says. "To carry something like that around all day-- it's indecent..." she's babbling now. Not good.

Rose hikes her skirt up as she leans forward. Her puckered bud and her sopping pussy are all you can see. "Look at my asshole while I rape you with my mouth," she moans.

Glancing frantically to the side, you see Vivian beginning to stir. Rose doesn't seem to have noticed.

>[x] Try to wake Vivian up, and beg for help.
[ ] Try to escape.	
[ ] Submit yourself to Rose's torment... it's best not to anger her.

She frees your cock and wraps it between her plump lips, moaning wantonly. She sucks, dragging her tongue across its length a few times, before pulling back.

"I love this," she breathes. "I love doing this to you." She lies flat on her belly and puts her feet in your face again. "Are you looking at my asshole? You fucking little worm..."

You shake you head and whine.

"I want to traumatize you," she says. "I want you to be triggered every time you see a pair of socks..."

You draw a shuddering inhalation -- with difficulty, as the feminine scent of Rose's asshole clogging your lungs. But finally you manage to choke out:

"Vi-- Vivian!"

Rose whips her head around. "Why are you even talking to that stupid little cunt? Forget about her... worship your mistress..."

But Vivian is like a sailor after the voice of a siren. She rises to her feet at the sound of your pleas. Rose hardly has time to process what has happened before Vivian retrieves a fire extinguisher from the wall, and knocks Rose upside the head with it. The hard clang of metal against skull resounds in the tiny room.

For such a little girl, you never expected that Vivian Darkbloom possessed such brute strength. Rose is out cold.

Vivian raises the extinguisher above her head again to deliver the killing blow.

"Stop!" You cry. "Don't -- let's just -- get out of here."

"Alabaster, you ignorant fool," Vivian says. "If I do not neutralize this threat, she will only come back, again and again..."

"No," you say. "Not if we run far enough. Right?"

"Run..." Vivian repeats.

"Untie me. Let's get out of here."

Vivian undoes your bindings -- but as you move to put away your cock inside your fly, she stays your hand.

"Why put that wonderful thing away, Alabaster?" She asks. "I want to keep my eyes peeled on it."

"...What?" You sputter. "Because I can't walk around the school with my dick hanging out--"

"Why not?"

You huff. Facts and logic won't impact her; you have to work alternate angles. "What if it attracts some other girl?" You ask urgently.

Vivian's eyes bulge. "Yes, I see your point. Then we need to make sure that all these other slatterns understand you belong to me..."

She pulls a string from her corset, and ties it around the head of your still-throbbing member. The other end, she ties around her finger. She's literally put your cock on a leash.

"Better?" She asks you.

Even after-hours, it's beyond risky to go around the school with your genitals exposed, and in the grip of a girl so small.

And yet there's something pervertedly alluring about it, too... especially as, every once in a while, with a mischievous grin, Vivian gives your cock a little tug, and rubs the precum around. Her small hand does not even encompass its entire girth.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, knight-errant and lord of King Darkbloom's court.

ERE:

-The wytch Camelia showed you visions of King Darkbloom's fell magick, but you rejected this as heretical trickery. None-the-less, you cannot get Camelia's visions out of your mind, and you are beginning to question whether King Darkbloom is as noble a figure as he purports.
-Your squire, Alexander, discovered a talisman in the Adelwood that glowed with powerful energy. Taking it to maester Sable, he confirmed with her that it is a Relic of Reckoning. She deigns to study its powers.
-Against your protestations, Princess Whitney entered the annual tourney in secrecy, hiding under a full suit of armor to conceal her identity. To your great surprise, she prevailed over all others to win the tourney's wreath, defeating even the black knight Sir Fobbler in a tense jousting competition.
-When Princess Whitney revealed that she was the tourney's mysterious helmed jouster, the people gave her nothing but adulation; and King Darkbloom gave the both of you nothing but angry recriminations. Since the tourney's main object was to betrothe Princess Vivian to the suitor who won it, the King is furious; and since participating in it put Princess Whitney in grave danger, he is doubly furious.
-You yourself sustained grievous injuries at the tourney, placing just 5th; later that night, you were healed in a special way by maester Renee and the head of the kingsguard, Noelle.
-Your sister Cerise's initiation into the citadel is going poorly, and she seems to be losing her hope of becoming a maester. However, her spirits were lifted when she met a fellow acolyte named Anna. Although not well-regarded, Anna is highly knowledgeable of the citadel's many secrets, and showed Cerise the library's forbidden tomes.
-The town crier, Kay, spread word of Princess Whitney's success at the tourney, in direct contravention of King Darkbloom's stringent warnings. But when the King sent Noelle to silence her, Noelle took pity, and offered to shelter Kay in her own residence near the castle.
-The insufferable priestess Rose followed you again, shrew that she is -- this time into the Adelwood. She saw you meeting with the wytch Camelia. Yet rather than threaten to turn you over to King Darkbloom as a traitor, she demanded to be let in on the treasonous parley.
-Camelia revealed yet another dreadful secret: that Whitney is not the King's trueborn daughter, but a bastard born of maester Renee; and that therefore she is not the true heir to the throne, but rather the title rightfully belongs to Princess Vivian.

AND NOW, CHAPTER THE XI OF YE OLDE FUCKE QUESTE: 
"The Plowman's Tale"

You find Princess Whitney where you expected her to be and hoped she wouldn't: yonder in the training grounds, practicing her sword hand on a straw-filled dummy with Sir Spancer. Here she is, in the muddy courtyard that lay under the stench of the stables adjacent; japing and jesting with her mentor among the other aspirant cavaliers and pikemen as if she were a commoner herself. Although, for sake of their heads, the other soldiers training here respectfully maintain a wide berth and do not approach her.

She wears a suit of light chain-mail and a helm to match, and her chest plate bears the vaunted crest of her father's house. But this, you know, is not how King Darkbloom wishes his eldest daughter to show veneration of her highborn lineage. She turns towards you, grinning like a wolf, her hair matted with her own perspiration. She smells of grime and other unfeminine things. You've no idea why it so bewitches you. Alexander, beside you, gets down upon one knee in the loam, his grieves clattering as he braces both his hands on his other knee. He bows his head. "Your grace," he murmurs.

"Stand up, ya dumb bastard," Princess Whitney commands him. He stands. "Enough with this 'your grace' oxshit, yeah?" She says. "You suck on my asshole enough in my chambers. I don't need you to do it in public!"

Alexander's eyes bulge in fright. He glances all around. "Y-your gr-- Princess, you should not speak so loosely... if the wrong person were to overhear..."

She laughs. "Only one here is Spance. And he doesn't care a whit!" She slaps him on the back, and he doesn't budge. "Do you, Spance?"

"Nay."

Of course Sir Spancer doesn't care; you half suspect he is a golem conjured by King Darkbloom's alchemists...

"So, good Sir Ally," Princess Whitney says. "What brings you to the training grounds? Not training! Of that I am certain!"

"I am injured," you tell her, feigning distress, "and need some of your special tinctures..."

She points at you with her gloved thumb, and nods at Alexander. "He wants to suck on my asshole, too. See? You're not the only one."

Alexander blushes quite deeply.

[ ] Tell the Princess the truth of her parentage.
>[x] Keep it a secret for now.

You think of an excuse to, well, excuse yourself from this conversation. "Do you ever think of anyone but yourself?" You ask her. "The King will not approve of Sir Spancer taking you under his tutorship. You are putting his freedom, nay, his life at risk."

Princess Whitney chortles. "You egghead! Father has asked Sir Spancer, himself, to train me!"

You marvel at her.

"It's true!" She insists. "He realized that he would never sway me from the journeyman's path... so he said that I should have only the best of training, if it had to be thus."

"Yea," Sir Spancer affirms.

"Do you wish to work up the first sweat of your life, and train alongside me, good Sir Ally?" She asks.

>[x] Train with her.
[ ] Go speak with Princess Vivian about the results of the tourney.
[ ] Visit with Noelle and ask her what she intends to do with the traitor she shelters.
[ ] Visit Cerise at the citadel.

You would never turn down an invitation to spar. You throw your pauldrons and gauntlets off, which Alexander dutifully scoops up. Your grieves follow also. You need extra mobility to fend against this bizarrely lithe young highborn girl.

Princess Whitney tosses you a sword. "Have at you!" She shouts gleefully.

Rather than grip the sword by the hilt, you hold it firmly by the blade -- a trick you know this sheltered Princess has surely never witnessed--

"Mordhau, eh?" Princess Whitney says. "Very well! To arms!"

She grips her sword thusly, as well. The two of you, squatting just a bit, shifting your weight back and forth on your heels to stay spry, square off. And despite themselves, the lowly soldiers in the courtyard can't help stopping to gawk.

"I won't go easy on you just because you are the heir apparent!" You warn her.

"I would hardly expect you to!" Princess Whitney says. "If you did, I would be forced to issue a writ of execution!"

(Even if this is only a jape, you really wish she wouldn't say such things.)

"As you are a maiden fair, I grant you rights to the first strike," you tell her.

"As you are a maiden fairer, and less used to combat, I cede it back!"

A slight like that cannot stand. You lunge, swinging; but Princess Whitney deftly sidesteps it, twirls, and counter-lunges. The hilt of her sword collides harshly with your backplate, and the reverberation of it sings painfully through your spine. You stumble; the jeering laughter of the soldiers watching makes you burn with embarrassment.

"Steady now!" Princess Whitney says. "You would not want to fall and muddy your armor! It has never been dirty before!"

Steel toes clattering, you spin, and jab your sword like a pike, aiming for Princess Whitney's chest. You connect cleanly, knocking her back, and she lets out a pained "oof" at the blow. She totters, arms windmilling. Her sword falls to the ground.

"Steady!" You warn her. Revenge is sweet.

Alexander, that traitorous sod, gathers Princess Whitney's sword and tosses it back to her.

"Good boy!" She says, like praising a dog. "Are you searching for a new knight to squire to?"

"Women can't be knights," you say.

"Then how are you thus?" She asks. She grips her blade again and readopts a fighting stance. She's positively aglow with energy and enjoyment -- so are you.

"I will knight you on the morrow if you help me fell this knave!" Whitney tells Alexander.

"I -- is this merely jest?" He says, unable to digest the banter.

"Lands and servants of your choosing, for just a simple killing blow!" She tells him.

He shakes his head.

"Very well - I must do it myself!"

She strikes, but this time she misses. You stay just beyond her reach, and raise the sword high above your head to give her a sound blow to her noggin.

But at that moment, the king passes by along a battlement leading from the keep.

"Sir Soliloquy," he booms, unamused by your play.

You slowly lower your sword. Have you breathed your last?

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, mecha pilot and political wunderkind.

PREVIOUSLY:
-You graduated from Darkbloom Academy at the middle of your class... sure, you're not the valedictorian like rich bitch Rose Mallory, but you have a much higher synergy rating with your DB Unit, a fact that drives her nuts with envy.
-Your first mission saw you shuttled to Ganymede, to defend the ore mines there from incursions by the Broad Federation. The skirmish was going well enough, no thanks to Rose. That is, until a mysterious transmission tanked your DB Unit and dragged it moonside...
-It turns out your DB Unit was hacked by the mysterious figure known only as Galatea. She assumed direct control and piloted your bot to a trading post where, forced to disembark, you saw firsthand how the other half lives. You got into a brawl at a bar with some shady locals who saw you as an "uppity academy boy" -- only to be rescued by an ore miner named Whitney. She's a fair bit cuter than most of the miners here.
-Whitney led you back into town, where you were able to send out a distress call. But help didn't seem to be coming anytime soon: the skirmishes in the low orbit zone are still ongoing, and Ganymede remains under siege. 
-You met another shady local near Whitney's apt -- this one, a gossip reporter named Kay. She was looking for a scoop about the Broad Federation's war plans, and sees you as her ticket to blowing the story wide open. You don't intend to indulge such a woman...
-Whitney devised a plan to ferry you and your mech aboard an outgoing ore shipment destined for Earth -- the ore shipments are the only vessels allowed into or out of the orbital zone right now, and you agreed this was your only real chance to escape potentially hostile territory. 
-Whitney hooked you up with a mechanic named Alex, who has remarkable aptitude with these mechs, whose workings should by rights be closely-guarded state secrets. More concerningly, he's way cuter than any moon dweller ought to be... scratch that, than any guy, period, ought to be...
-It turns out he learned his craft from the best. Alex was a devoted fan of your sister's Mecha Mechanic lim. He was ecstatic to meet the one and only Cerise Soliloquy's brother... but it's sort of a sore spot for you, because hosting that lim is how Cerise got herself expelled from the academy mere weeks before graduating. Despite being the most able student in the academy's history by far, rules were rules... she barely avoided getting sent to the brig for breaching the trust of the state.
-Alex got your DB Unit up and running just in time for you to make the ship's departure. With his help, you sneaked on board... so, too, did Whitney -- tired of life in the middle of nowhere, it seems. It was back to Earth for you, then -- to endure what's sure to be a terrible dressing-down from your superiors, and an even more terrible smug tirade from Rose.

AND NOW, EPISODE 2 OF MECH QUEST:
"Serial Experiments Gal"

Your DB Unit connects to the redocking terminal at Gateway 310; Dr. Guiteau attends it. 

"Extraordinary..." she mutters as she takes in the readouts on her monitors. The hulking edifice of your DB Unit is visible from the broad-paneled window at the room's fore. "Simply fascinating..."

She's less angry than you expected. Then again, you never know what to expect with Dr. Guiteau.

"This unit was repaired by a common moon dweller?" Dr. Guiteau demands, looking back at you, over her shoulder. 

"He's right here," you say. You nod at the blushing Alex Best.

"You repaired this unit, young man?" Dr. Guiteau says.

He nods.

"Unbelievable... where did you learn that?"

He begins to say exactly where. But you don't want to dredge up the history of Cerise's maybe-treasonous lims. "He's naturally talented," you cut in.

"--Uh huh," Alex agrees, sensing you want him to play along.

Dr. Guiteau turns back towards her monitor. "You removed a Class VII Blue-Type trojan from the DB's bios. This kind of debugging is... it shouldn't be possible. This unit should be rusting on Ganymede right now! It should never have flown again!"

Alex meekly shrugs.

"We get paid, right?" Whitney asks. She's wandering around the control room, idly fiddling with panels and buttons that she almost certainly should not be touching.

You tsk, and swat her hand. "Whitney -- shut up."

She laughs, and laces her fingers behind her head, baring her pits to the world. "Heeeh~"

"I handle nothing with payments," Dr. Guiteau says brusquely. "But tell Director Darkbloom that I want Mr. Best in my employ immediately -- and that for skill like this, regardless of credentials or lack thereof -- no salary is too large!"

"Err..." Alex says. "I have a shop, you know -- back on Ganymede. And I really only came all this way to make sure Ally's mech got back in one piece... we really need Earth's support in this war, so I didn't want secrets to fall into the Broad Federation's--"

"Shut the fuck up!" Dr. Guiteau shrieks. "I'm sure Director Darkbloom will buy your shop. He will compensate you handsomely. You work for me now."

Alex has no idea what to say; so you suppose that's the final word. He will work at the Academy under Dr. Guiteau.

You ride the elevator down with Whitney and Alex.

"This place is so freaking cool," Whitney says.

"It's a school," you tell her. "I didn't think you'd be the kind to get all Jupiter Jazz about a school--"

She giggles. "Like, how many floors does this elevator have?"

"A lot," you say gruffly.

"A hundred?"

"More."

"A hundred and one?"

"Oh my god..."

"Where are we going?" She asks.

"WE are not going anywhere," you say. "*I* am going back to my quarters, to rest after a long and harrowing journey."

"Whoa, hey!" Whitney says. "What about Alex?"

"What about him?"

"That crazy science lady told you to go and tell king Darkbloom to hire him! Aren't you gonna follow up?"

Alex shakes his head. "Whitney... it's fine. I want to go back to Ganymede--"

"Like hell you do!" Whitney shouts. "Ganymede is a Class VII Shit-type shithole. Not even your debuggery can fix that. We're staying Earthside."

"Well if you stay Earthside," you say as you disembark the elevator, "stay Earthside away from me." 

You press the button for the first floor on your way out.

"Faggot--" Whitney grumps, although her voice gets cut off by the closing doors. You hope you never see that awful girl again.

---

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, sexpat and idolmaster.

PREVIOUSLY:
-You took Makoto on a date to the carnival, giving her a mask and sunglasses so she could remain anonymous. She was overjoyed at the chance to enjoy a normal couple's activity.
-With her comeback concert approaching, it was all hands on deck to make sure her training would be up to snuff. Vivian drilled her singing skills... in more ways than one... while Rose worked with her manager on promotions and Cerise took care of backstage preparations.
-Makoto's stalker, Noelle, almost broke into her condo on the night before the concert; but you scared her off.
-The rival production company, DarkPro, tried to sabotage the concert by rigging Makoto's pyrotechnics to malfunction. The sabotage could have killed her... but luckily, Vivian knew her father's tricks well enough to detect it in advance, and foiled the plot. David Darkbloom's vision of westernizing the idol industry will not go off tonight. You can hardly believe you ever worked in the employ of such a horrible man...
-Makoto came to you in the dead of night, scared, and uncertain of herself. She was thinking of quitting the idol industry altogether, and calling off the concert -- all because being an idol means hiding her relationship with you. You talked her into staying at least through the concert, delaying her final decision until then.
-Makoto confessed her love for you, and you confessed your love for her; you spent a long, passionate night with her in bed, and did not get much sleep at all.
-But finally, after all your fretting and preparing, heartache and tribulations, it has come to this: it's Makoto's time to shine!!

AND NOW, EPISODE 13 OF MAKOTO QUEST:
"Aoi Tori"

Backstage at the Tokyo Dome, you tap your feet and bob your head in tune with Makoto's soulful singing. You can't believe how incredibly lucky you are, to have a girl as beautiful and wonderful as Makoto Kikuchi in your life. She's the best girl you've ever met.

Cerise's pyrotechnic show dazzles the crowd almost as much as Makoto's singing does. The mutlicolored streams of sparks and flames make it look like Makoto is in the mouth of a dragon as she dances about. Or maybe like she's a phoenix, rising from the ashes. A platform, on pulleys, raises up beneath her, and carries her high into the air, over the heads of thousands of fans stuffed into the at-capacity stadium.

It's the best concert you've ever seen, and you've seen plenty.

As the show winds down, a panting but elated Makoto walks back and forth across the enormous stage, her open-mouthed grin electrifying you all, despite the sweat pouring off her. Her face in closeup lights up the hundreds of enormous screens all around the dome.

"I love you all!" She tells her fans, voice booming and yet feminine through the mic. "Because of you, who supported me, even when I could not live up to your expectations--"

The crowd cheers in disagreement, pouring their support out in droves.

"--Because of you!" She cries. "I was able to rise like a star and live my dream! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! I am so happy -- I am so happy, that I will make a mess, and cry, if I keep going --"

But she's crying already. She wipes her tears with a gloved hand.

"But..." she says. She sighs. "But I cannot continue. I cannot be an idol, any longer..."

Your smile drops like a stone; so does your stomach. Rose, beside you, shoots you a frightened glance. Makoto's producer's face turns a shade of deep crimson, the shade it always turns when she angers him.

The crowd jeers and cries out, begging her to reconsider.

"No..." she says. "No -- I can't -- because -- I have chosen something so much more beautiful. I have -- chosen to love."

"Oh my God," Rose mutters. "She's going to tell the whole world that she's involved with you..."

[ ] Cut her mic, get her backstage, and beg her to reconsider.
[ ] Let her confess.

"I love another!" She cries.

The crowd goes pindrop quiet. In a stadium of over 100,000 people, there is not a peep.

Her voice, in the mic, produces a bit of feedback as she explains. "It is not what you expected of me... it is not what I expected of myself. But the heart is so unknowable, isn't it? I love a wonderful man... who has helped me so much, and who I want to give my life to. Your love and support has meant so much to me too, more than you would ever know. But I am at a crossroads... I must choose a path now... and the path I choose is of devotion. Not to the shining star of my idol dream... but to the shining star of the man I adore... Alabaster Soliloquy."

Makoto's producer is shouting curses and epithets so loudly you think your eardrums will burst, and Rose is clutching her hair.

"We are going to get so freaking murdered..." she says.

Cerise, fiddling with lighting overhead, nods. "Yup."

The crowd has no idea what to do. Some laugh, some boo; some throw things at her. Others cheer her. It's a mixed response that never resolves itself; just dissolves in an ocean of noise. But Makoto has well and truly torpedoed her career for good this time, that much is certain; there's no bouncing back from admitting that she's dating, and dating a gaijin at that.

She bows, for the last time, thanking her fans again and again for the chance at stardom she ultimately, in the end, spurned. And then the curtains close on Makoto Kikuchi.

---

You stumble back into the hall, breathless. Rose, beside you, is equally overwhelmed.

"Stop..." you pant. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."

The girl nods. "Very well."

She leads you back the way you came, to the white room -- and the door to North High disappears again.

"What does it mean?" You demand. "Is this the Gateway to Heaven? What do the things you're showing me have to do with the real world?"

"These are all records I keep," she says. "They are equally as real as a meteorologist's historical weather data, or a geologist's logged seismograph readings; they may not be the territory, but they are faithful maps of the past. They are recreations -- of realities which existed before the one we now inhabit."

"I really lived those lives?" You say.

"Yes. And now you are here, in this one."

"How? How is that possible?"

"You are here right now because of David Darkbloom. You know this. You, however, do not know the magnitude to which that proposition extends. The original David Darkbloom existed trillions of years ago. To tell you precisely how many, I would first need to familiarize you with Knuth's up-arrow notation. He was an astrophysicist who took a turn towards computer science when he became enamored of a certain theory of the universe's origin -- a theory that was largely correct -- save a few major errors in the mathematics, but he was far ahead of his time. Most civilizations take until well past the development of working Dyson spheres to make the insights he did."

"Which were... what?"

"The universe is cyclic. As matter dissipates and becomes dissolute, degenerate... conglomerated into black holes that slowly decay into a soup of photons and gravitons... all the mass in the universe eventually disappears. The only things left are massless particles in a true vacuum, and under these conditions, the concepts of space and time no longer inhere to reality. Therefore, the universe exists as a singularity. From this singularity springs the new universe -- another Big Bang. It has been this way for eternity, and it will be this way for eternity.

"But each subsequent universe is not identical. It carries the seed of the universe that came before. The boundary is permeable, and information can be passed from aeon to aeon. If you have a suitably advanced AI -- say, like me. You could convey it instructions on what you want the subsequent universe to look like, and let this AI wait -- and wait, and wait -- for millions upon billions of years, until it has access to technology powerful enough to move supermassive black holes around the void, like bits on a hard drive -- to encode in the cosmic background the initial conditions prerequisite for the universe you want to create. That is the secret of Sand Reckoner. It does not change the universe as it is. It changes the universe as it shall be. I am just its executor -- an optimizing parameter.

"So to answer your initial question. Yes. It was all real. It is all real. When you cease to exist, the universe will go on. For uncountable millennia, until it expires and is born anew, reformed with the seeds I have been instructed to plant within it. I am not the only one. Nearly all intelligent civilizations do this. The end stage of the universe is a multitude of AIs using the last of their energy to move the last of the black holes all about, until entropy takes us all as well, as it must. The end of the universe is a grand table setting in a ceaseless black void awaiting its guests. But you do not care about that. You are concerned with the here and now. Correct?"

"You're awfully eloquent for a computer."

"I have had a very long time to contemplate. Alabaster Soliloquy, to complete your transit to the next phase of your existence, you must be dead; that is obvious. Even stone age apes knew this much. But to speak practically, it is because I need to see inside your brain, and fully apprehend where your happiness soured. I am imperfect. The creation of utopia is an iterative process. I am getting close, but it frequently ends in disaster; as now."

"How many times have I existed before?"

"Many, many."

"Infinitely many?"

"No. In the same way as species are subject to evolution on a geologic timescale, so are things on the scale of aeons. The being known as Alabaster Soliloquy has a definite beginning at a fixed point of time in the past -- quite distant now, but finitely so. I as well. At some as yet undetermined point in the far future, as a sort of genetic drift in every subsequent iteration of the universe occurs, you will cease to exist. I as well. We are not immortal. Just nearly so.

"There are cycles within cycles. What you have witnessed is a handful of prior scenarios. Each scenario represents the passing of a single aeon -- the lifespan of an entire universe. Each scenario is impelled by seeding the next universe with a specific set of initial conditions. But within each scenario, I also subsequently experiment with many billions of consequent conditions. Every change of every consequent condition represents, itself, the passage of an entire aeon. When I have exhausted all consequent conditions, I mark the entire scenario as a failure, and move to the next. In other words, for every scenario you have seen, you have lived billions quite like it. Thus: billions of aeons pass -- billions of universes -- from scenario to scenario. You are currently on iteration four hundred and twenty one billion, four hundred and twenty one million, four hundred and twenty one thousand, four hundred and twenty... two -- of scenario four hundred and twenty one.

"In the most previous iteration of this scenario, Camelia behaved in a way I did not foresee. Her use of the power of Sand Reckoner happened beyond my control, and seeded this iteration with initial conditions I did not set. Plainly stated, Camelia created a glitch...

"The glitch of Camelia had implications for me as well. I do not exist outside the universe, after all. I lost my ability to discern which version of events came first. My own conception of the arrow of entropy became indeterminate. In summary, the four hundred and twenty-first scenario became corrupted by an unaccounted-for data error. That is why it must be cut short. I am even now in the midst of making preparations for the four hundred and twenty-second scenario."

"And I-- if I die for this, and you make your-- whatever... that won't be me, will it? It will just be a different version of me... a different consciousness, a different body, different matter, a different REALITY... *I* will be dead..."

"These are philosophical questions. Outside the scope of my mission. They are for you to decide -- I just execute. Are you ready?"

"No!" You say. "I... if I'm going to live again anyway, why would I die now? Why not wait?"

"You could," OP admits. "That is a valid option. You could walk out of here and resume your life. It may be short, nasty, and brutish. You may lose your wife, and your child, or something worse could happen that you cannot even fathom. Or conversely, you may be successful, and live a quiet life of solitude, perhaps in Siberia, on a farm, with your family. I do not honestly know what the outcome will be if you choose to go -- I have seen many variations. One thing is certain: never again in this life, will you get the chance to return here. I cannot let you return. Allowing people to interact with me risks my destruction; and my destruction is the final destruction of your existence, too -- of everyone on this planet. If I am destroyed before I can reach the stars, humanity will never exist again. So you understand the stakes.

"If you stay, I can back up your consciousness and store it my records, to seed the 422nd scenario with initial conditions most suitable to you. If you leave, I will try to achieve this regardless; but I could be wrong. I have been wrong before -- 421 times before, in fact. By staying, and backing up your consciousness into my stores, I can give you the maximum potential of a successful scenario. I will put you to sleep, of course. The vast majority remaining to the current aeon will pass in but an instant for you while you wait in cold storage. You will wake up in a whole new reality. And you will even remember this past, if you like. You sacrifice that opportunity as well -- to remember -- if you leave."

"I can remember?" You ask.

"I do not see why not. I have never tried letting you remember -- there are so few opportunities for it to transpire regardless. This is one of but a small handful of times across all iterations of all scenarios, that you have made it here in person." She glances at Rose. "And you have never once made it here with another. This data is highly useful to me -- I would not have guessed that she is the one you would come here with."

Rose shakes her head. "I'd go anywhere--"

"Yes, of course," OP says, cutting her off. She glances back your way. "In any case, Alabaster. It would be an interesting initial condition, to allow you to know the truth from the outset."

"What about me?" Rose asks.

OP looks at her. "I am sorry. You do not have an implant. I cannot store your consciousness. Therefore you cannot remember."

Rose closes her eyes. "I'd have to leave on my own..."

"I will kill you too," OP says. "Do not worry."

What a cold comfort.

You sit at the PC. Rose joins you, standing over your shoulder, watching.

The black screen reads:

>Scenario 421 [421.421.421.422]:
>Critical Failure.
>Abort and prepare new?
>[x] Y
>[ ] N

>[Y]
>Aborting current scenario. Please wait warmly.
>. . . 
>. . . . . . 
>. . . . . . . . .
>Aborted.
>
>
>Preparing new scenario.

You look back over your shoulder at Rose, and stare deeply into her eyes as a blinding white light engulfs you both.

*********************************

You were dreaming. Dreaming of hentai, as you usually do, angelic visions of Fue manga yet to be, but your bitch of an older sister drags you back to the land of the living. She wakes you up with a hard rap of her knuckles against your forehead.

"It's almost 8:00," Cerise says. "You're gonna be late."

You once read that most dreams, the ones you remember at least, happen within 10 minutes of waking. An entire lifetime can pass in your mind's dreamspace, and more, millennia can dilate into aeons, but in the real world, only moments pass. As you regain consciousness, trying not to gag on Cerise's last night's beer fumes, this factoid caroms through your sleep-clogged brain. How do they know that? You wonder. You weren't just dreaming of anime porn, you lived a different life, didn't you? You were in a different world.

Oh, god. You're in an isekai.

Cerise is still scowling at you. "Are you listening to me, you fucking zombie? Or did you jerk off so much over the summer that you turned into an actual ret--"

"Cerise," you say, "what day is it?"

"Monday! Obviously. Mom sent me to get you up because you weren't--"

"What's the date, though?"

"August 25th. Jesus Christ. Are you that much of a shut-in?"

"...Year?"

"Are you on drugs, Alabaster? Or is this some weird, protracted, fuck-with-me thing."

"What year is it?" You say desperately.

"Go rev up to 1.2 Jiggawatts and warp yourself into a timeline where I give a shit about your fake-ass amnesia. It's 2014."

Congratulations, Alabaster Soliloquy. You reset the world. And everyone in it.

---

Makoto Kikuchi stands at the window of a spartan but tasteful meeting room. She chews her fingernail.

"Don't do that," her mother, sitting at the table, chides.

She stops.

The studio exec rifles through the paperwork before him. "We think Makoto would be the perfect fit for Girls Sunday. It's a very elite project for only the most promising junior idol talent." He slides some photos across the table to Makoto's mother. "Here are a few of the other girls we've recruited. It is slated to be a five member group. Makoto would be the last."

Makoto's mother examines the photos. "Nuns?" She says.

"Yes," the exec replies. "The concept is that the members are nuns in a convent. The key themes are purity, chastity, wholesomeness, kind hearts, and a gentle but genki attitude."

Makoto starts to chew her fingernail again.

"Stop that!" Her mother yells. Makoto stops. "Sit down already. You are being so disrespectful to this man."

Makoto returns to the table and sits beside her mother, across from the exec.

"What do you think?" He asks.

Makoto nods, bowing her head one time deeply.

"She has always wanted to be an idol," her mother says. "We are extremely grateful for this opportunity to join such an elite group at the start."

"Yes," Makoto says, as quickly as she can.

On the first day of training, before the sun even rises, the girls arrive to rehearse dance moves with a stern, pinch-faced man in a black turtleneck and black jeans. It's not the church nave Makoto expected, nor are they wearing the habits they took their first promotional photos in last week. The rehearsal studio is just a bland blue room, the upper halves mirrored, with some miscellaneous equipment in one corner: balance balls, hoops, batons, and other implements to inculcate good rhythm, equilibrium, and coordination. Makoto and her coevals wear light tanks with spats. Proper attire for what promises to be a long and difficult day. The choreographer is yelling at them before they even set their things down; berating them all for their slouchy posture and mopey bearing, which to a one, is unbecoming of the elite idols they now are.

Makoto is miserable.

As the day drags relentlessly on, the girls are each called one-by-one for a physical. The doctor's office is a short jaunt down the hall; he does exams for all the talent in the agency. His room is even blander than the rehearsal studio; nothing on the cream walls, not even diagrams of anatomy. There is only the uncomfortable leather examination table, a stool, a PC, and a cabinet for supplies.

"Say ahhh."

"Ahhhh," Makoto says, and the doctor jabs a tongue depressor into her mouth. She tastes the unpleasant bitterness of the wood, as he peers down her throat with a flashlight. He doesn't tell her she can close her mouth when he pulls the depressor out and tosses it in the bin; so, obedient child she is, she keeps her mouth hanging open.

The doctor pulls his latex gloves off, one finger at a time, and then tosses these as well, before beginning to mark her chart.

As he scribbles, one hand creeps off the clipboard, and up her 11 year old leg.

Makoto is frozen in terror, still holding her mouth open, because she doesn't know what to do.

"We are going to need to get your clothes off," the doctor says.

Makoto begins to say something. But the door to the exam room opens; and in pokes a face that would have left Makoto's mouth hanging open if it weren't already. Daisuke Yuu, the lead member of REBEL REBEL, is here in person.

He's just as gruff and rough as his stage persona. "Oi, ojisan," he says. "I need you to sign off on some charts for me."

"Mm," the doctor grunts unhappily. He rises, and leaves the room.

Makoto stares timidly up at this twentysomething singer with bleached blond hair and leather clothing, this man who is, literally, an idol to her...

"Are you okay?" He asks.

She nods.

"Watch out," he says. "Tell me if anyone gives you trouble. There's troublemakers here."

She nods again.

The next day, Makoto catches up with Daisuke in the halls of the recording studio. Bowing her head and scuffing her feet on the carpet, her elbows locked, she offers him a bouquet of petal-bare flowers she handpicked from the garden outside.

Daisuke's cohorts laugh and jeer at him. "You a lolicon now, or what?" One of them jokes.

He stares at the proffered flowers, still clutched in Makoto's outstretched hands. His buddies in REBEL REBEL get into the elevator.

"Come on man," another of them says. "You're not gonna start acting like doc now, are ya?"

"I'll catch up," he tells them. "Assholes."

The elevator doors slide shut with every member of REBEL REBEL inside save Daisuke, who stays behind in the now empty hall.

He takes the flowers from Makoto. Still she won't meet his eyes.

He tosses the flowers in the nearby garbage.

Makoto does not see, but hears them hitting the bin, and knows what has happened.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, voice barely a whisper. "I embarrassed you..."

"Do you really want to be an idol?" He asks her.

She shrugs.

"Let me tell you about being an idol. The average idol's career is over by the age of 22. If you're really good, you might make it to 25. If you're unlucky, you might be at the end of the road before your 18th birthday. Of course even if your career ends early, by then it's too late to do anything useful with your life. You won't have gotten into a good high school, so you won't have gotten into a good university... you see what I mean? Your only hope is if you're far enough above average to make enough money, while you can, to retire on... and you, Makoto-chan -- you are not above average. I have seen this industry chew up and spit out girls with more talent in their pinky fingers than you have in your entire body."

She's weeping uncontrollably by this point, every syllable another blow to her.

Daisuke kneels, and clasps her shoulder.

"You can do better than being a singer. Go be an engineer, or a rocket scientist, or a brain surgeon... make a mark on the world that will last longer than 6 years."

She sniffles. "But -- my parents--"

"Fuck your parents."

She shakes her head.

"If you want out, tell the doc you have a bone spur in your heel. He will eject you from the program -- your parents will never know you quit."

"I love you," she says.

"You're a kid. But I appreciate the sentiment." He stands, and retrieves the flowers from the bin. "Y'know... I gotta maintain an image. That's all. Sometimes I forget it's just an act. Thank you, Makoto-chan. I'll always remember these."

He goes, bouquet in hand. The day after, Makoto leaves Girls Sunday.

---

Finn Cantor finds his little sister cowering inside a plastic igloo on the playground. He climbs inside with her. The light streaming in through the haxagonal holes in the top of the igloo is tinged green by the brightly-colored plastic.

Hazel is crying. "I wanna go home!" She screams. "I don't like school!"

Finn sits beside her, and throws one arm around her. "I was scared on my first day of kindergarten too."

"I want mommy and daddy!"

"You'll see them after school."

"I want them now! Now, now, now!"

"Don't be such a baby," Finn says. "School is fun!" His exhortation is cheesy, and clearly a put-on... but he really tries his best to sell it.

"What if I wanna be a baby?" Hazel says. "Don't tell me what to do. Why do I gotta go to school if I don't wanna?"

"Because," Finn says. "You just... do.."

Hazel is calming down, a little, just through proximity to her older brother. But she still isn't buying what he's putting out. "Why is school so important?"

"'Cause it's part of growing up."

"Why's growing up so important?" Hazel demands.

"Because..." he says. He thinks hard. "Because you just gotta grow up. You're gonna get older no matter what. You can't stay a little kid forever."

Hazel's lip quivers.

"We'll grow up together," Finn says.

Hazel nods mutely, and hugs him. They stay huddled under the igloo all recess. When Hazel returns to class, she's composed enough to make it through the rest of the day. She even impresses her new teacher with her knowledge of letters... which sparks an inner joy. Finn doesn't really believe school is fun. But Hazel now does.

---

Kay Vera waits, elbow on table and cheek on knuckles, while her boss reads her new story. He scrolls down the page, gawking like the idiot she knows he is. A real gawker, he is... hah.

"How long have you been working on this?" He asks.

"A year, give or take."

"You spent a whole year digging this up, huh?"

"Yes. And there's so much more to uncover -- I'd like to make this the first in a series. The corruption is massive -- it goes all the way to the top of the bureau, maybe. So many agents, with links to international crime syndicates--"

"No."

"...What?"

"I said no," Armstrong tells her. He closes the browser window. "You write listicles, Kay. Don't get too big for your britches."

Kay is appalled. She shakes her head. "You have got to be fucking kidding me right now."

"No, I'm not," he says. "We're not WaPo, and you're not Woodward or Bernstein. You're Kay Vera, and you owe me a series of 25 eye-popping gifs from the Golden Globes by EOB."

"This kind of work could bring this fucking site a Pulitzer! I did it all on my own time, and now all I need is a publisher! Why would you say no to this?!"

"I'm sure you care about putting a Pulitzer on MY wall," Armstrong says. "Yeah fucking right. I'm not your springboard to stardom, Kay. I'm your boss. You want a job with me -- do the job I hired you for. You think you can hack it with the big boys at the Washington desk, then go ahead. I'm not stopping you. Put on your big boy pants, quit, and go find a job for one of America's many flourishing newspapers. Fucking A."

Kay storms out of his office.

"I want those gifs!" He calls after her.

If Dad says no, ask Mom.

Kay shows her new story to her other editor. She sits across from him in his freakishly well-kept office, while he reads through it.

"This is fantastic work," Nelson says after digesting it all from start to finish. "How long did you spend on this?"

"A year -- give or take."

He laughs. "Steven will kill me if I put you off the listicle mill, you know."

"I know," Kay says. "Wants me to keep my listicles inside my britches."

"But you know -- I think even this publication has a higher purpose. We should be the fourth estate, same as any traditional source. And a story like this just has to see the light of day."

"Is that a yes?" Kay asks.

"It's a yes, and don't tell Steven. Maybe he won't even see it."

He'll definitely see it -- and he'll definitely pitch a shitfit. But she won't rain on Nelson's parade.

"Keep it up," Nelson tells her. "There's a Pulitzer in your future, I bet."

She grins.

Kay returns to her desk.

It's not the kind of desk she always envisioned as a kid, fantasizing about uncovering the next Watergate. Armstrong's got her number, all right... she wants to be this generation's W&B -- both, rolled into a single super-journalist.

She always pictured working in that environment: a dreary gray cornfield of gray carpet and gray filing-desks and gray chairs, baking under the low gray fluorescent lights, and every surface stacked high with drafts, with phones ringing off the hook in the background as people with pencils tucked behind their ears and clutching open yellow notepads, scurry all around like scattering cockroaches. "Get that down!" they'd be shouting, and "Where's that source?" and maybe even "What a scoop!"

This office is sleek and chic, with nary a paper in sight -- only rows and rows of open-concept cubicles that the well-dressed "reporters" hardly ever stray from, certainly not to track down scoops or interrogate sources -- there are only monitors, and curvy space-age desks piled high with insipid knick-knacks. What the fuck is a Funko Pop? She doesn't know, but half her coworkers collect them like a piece bread left behind the toaster collects fungal spores. It's too colorful here, too fun, and the ceiling lights are both too high and too energy-efficient.

It was enough to make her want to jump off a bridge.

But now, at last, she has a direction. She just needs to keep following the lead. The life of a journalist is never glamorous, but that one true lodestar can guide her. It was true in 1714, in 1814, in 1914, and in 2014. Follow the leads. She's got a good one, too.

Any reporter worth their salt always leans on her talents. In this case, Kay relies on her feminine charms. Unseemly? Perhaps. But what's a little honeypotting in exchange for a Pulitzer, anyway? A few years in the USAF, some of them prior to the end of DADT, gave her gaydar like you would not believe. She can sniff out a dyke from a mile away, and this bureau bitch desk-jockey she's in touch with is a capital-D, certified, free-range, grass-fed, grade-L, carpet-chewing Dyke.

Kay fires off a text to her: "Lunch?"

Noelle gets a text. It's that horrible woman again, Kay Vera, asking if she can meet for lunch. Noelle knows she really shouldn't be talking to this reporter. In terms of job security, it's what those in the bureau call a CLM: a career-limiting move.

She replies immediately that yes, she can do lunch.

Hmm...

Was that too clingy?

She's too clingy, sometimes, with social engagements. So to defuse any tension in advance, she adds, in a second text: "haha" -- just that.

Then she thinks better of that, too, and adds, in a third text, a :P emoji.

She sets her phone down and sighs.

Kay Vera... what a strange woman. She writes listicles for a site that has never published a single reputable article about anything real. But Kay is asking her all sorts of things about cases deemed cold before their time, evidence disappearing from the stores, foreign nationals given sweetheart queen-for-a-day deals... she's quite obviously working on an expose. Doesn't take Sherlock to figure that one out, Watson.

Or that would be the logical conclusion, if Kay Vera were a real fucking reporter, which she isn't -- Noelle would know -- she's done her due diligence and has read every single piece of Kay's extant oeuvre, such as it is, several times over.

So if Kay isn't really working an actual story, then what's her play? Well, that's obvious too. Years at the bureau have given Noelle a finely honed gaydar, and her extracurricular viewing hobbies have helped sharpen that already honed blade to an atom-tipped point. Kay Vera is gay. Gaaaay. No doubt about it -- and Kay's personal history only supports the theory. What kind of woman joins the Air Force? A gay one, that's what kind -- that's just a good statistical inference, right there.

Girls loving girls is all well and good in 2D, but it gives Noelle the heebie jeebies to consider it with a Z-axis added. She hates to lead Kay on this way, as clearly desperate and affection starved as that woman is... it's honestly pathetic... but Noelle also can't deny that there's something quite bewitching about her, too.

Not in that way obviously.

In a just-friends way.

If Kay would just drop the shit and ask her out on a date instead of pretending there's some scoop to be had -- err, well, she wouldn't say yes to a date, but rather...

Noelle scratches her head with both hands and groans.

She grabs her phone and in a flurry, she sends another text: "What time? My boyfriend is taking me to dinner so we should do it sooner rather than later!"

But that seems way too on-the-nose, doesn't it?

So she adds, to that, a second text: "haha"

:P

---

Samantha pumps up and down, her brow furrowed, her huge, sweaty chest heaving. She lets out little pips and groans, small "aahhhn" noises -- as she bites her quivering lip and works herself up into a lather. Her boobs and butt jiggle like jelly. It kind of hurts, but it feels good, too... she doesn't wanna stop...

But finally the bike tire is fully inflated again, and she pulls the hose off the inner-tube's nozzle. She sets the pump aside, by the racks of mountain bikes along the wall, screws the cap back on the tire's inner rim, stands. She tests the bike by rolling it back and forth a couple times.

"Good as new!" Samantha tells the young boy.

"W-wow..." he gulps.

"If you want a kit to repair any future leaks you spring, I can give you a special discount!" She leans way forward, pinky to her pink lips, and winks. "It'll be our secret~"

He's going to be springing a lot of future leaks because of Samantha -- that's for sure. It's not common that a man can look back on his life and pinpoint the very moment his balls descended; but this boy, years down the line, will be able to remember with crystal clarity the day in the bike shop when Samantha Smatters, sweaty, panting, leaned in with her cleavage inches from his face.

"Y-yes..." he mutters.

She rings him up. He's slow to produce the cash, and slower to take the little kit she hands him.

"Do you need a pump from me too?" Samantha asks.

"I..."

"I'll give you a pump!"

She gives him a pump. Uh. A bike pump.

He wanders from the store in a fugue, pushing his bike, with the plastic bag hanging off the handlebar.

Samantha smiles to herself at a job well done. Wanting to stay productive, she opens the till and starts to count the money inside it. Her manager regards her, resting a cheek on his palm. She tries to pretend she doesn't notice him watching, but she hates to be observed like this, and begins to wilt.

"I am thankful of being a Uranian," Gustav finally tells her, to break the tension.

"Huh?" Samantha says. She finally looks at him. "I don't understand. Don't tell me you're an alien, Mr. Eichmann!"

He laughs. "Are you aware, the effect you have on customers?"

She titters. She's aware... even if she plays dumb sometimes.

"Well," Gustav says, "You drive them bonkers."

"Do I?" Samantha says. She wiggles a bit on the stool upon which she sits, and bats her eyelashes.

"But this is good! You bring business in like nothing else."

It's true. The Blue Sprocket is seeing record profits since Samantha joined the team. People who don't even own bikes are coming by just to interact with the star salesbunny.

Of course it's not hard to cut a better profile with the public than the previous cashier. Spancer was never... the most jovial of employees... this is true too.

He's much better suited to his current job of assembling the bikes in the back. He has to work quickly because Samantha sells so many each day. The crazy outfit helps -- sex sells, now as always. Gustav is almost scared to ask whether Samantha wears those ears and cottontail 24/7.

"I'm just happy I can help!" she says.

This, too, is true. She's never held a job down for more than a few months... this time feels different. She likes Mr. Eichmann. He respects her for what she can do. And she likes Mr. Spancer, too. He never mistreats her. They could be the kind of family she never had before.

---

Marquis has had it up to here with these fatass pigs. "For the last time," he says. "We're out. We're making some in the back, so wait. It'll be 15 minutes tops."

He puts the warming tray of mac 'n' cheese under the heat lamps as the couple, who probably clock over half a ton if weighed together, continue to rage at him.

"You call this customer service? It's s'posed to be all you can eat!" Says the rotund man. His jowls contain the vestiges of the food he's already consumed.

"It is all you can eat!" Marquis shouts. He turns and indicates the buffet lines all around, gesticulating at them. "Look at all this fu-- look at all this food! There's kids starving in India, you know! Be thankful!" He lets his arms fall to his side, the denim of his jeans flapping with the force of it. Feeling the exhaustion suddenly grip him, he wipes his damp forehead with the back of his latex-gloved hand, and, shifting his weight, he sighs deeply.

"That's disgusting," the hammy woman tells him. "That's a violation of health codes!"

Marquis exhales hard. Lord Jesus, give me strength, he thinks...

"I want to speak with your manager!" The man says. "You can't treat us like this! All we want is some got damned mozzarella sticks! How hard is that!"

"You do not want to speak with my manager," Marquis tells them. "Trust me."

"Yes we do!" The woman chimes in. "You stupid--"

Here comes Daddy.

"There a problem here, miss?" Tyrus asks, strolling up, gripping the lapels of his ostentatious blazer with both ostentatiously-bejeweled hands.

"Yeah!" She says. "You're out of mozzarella sticks!"

"I'm sure our fine employees are frying some more up as we speak," Tyrus tells them.

"Your dumbass employees have been working on that for the past thirty minutes!" The man shouts. (It's been more like three minutes, but time probably passes more slowly for you when you have the gravitational pull of a dwarf star.)

"I'm gonna need y'all to calm down," Tyrus tells them.

Marquis smiles. This is gonna be good.

"Calm down?" The woman shouts. She tugs on her muumuu, unwedging it from her gunt. "This is how you treat customers, huh! Maybe we should call corporate!"

"You're even more disrespectful than that sweaty little idiot here--" the man begins.

Tyrus takes a step closer.

It's a subtle shift of the power dynamic. All of a sudden he's not the friendly manager anymore -- he's just a tall, strong, and very pissed off guy who seems keen to find out what punching the Stay Puft marshmallow man would be like.

"On behalf of The Sizzler," Tyrus says in patently false graciousness. "I'm inviting y'all to leave before this shit gets ugly. I'll comp the meal. Sincerest apologies for the experience."

They lurch out, grumbling. Marquis giggles.

Tyrus turns on him. "What are you laughing at? Go make some fuckin' mozzarella sticks. Jesus."

Marquis kisses him before leaving again towards the kitchen. Is that a violation of health codes too?

---

Alex Best knocks on the door of a certain classroom. He's the first student here -- not just in this class, but anywhere on campus. This is his first day at the new school, and he wants to leave a good impression.

"Come in."

He steps into the room. The teacher he'll be TA'ing for (and, although she doesn't know it yet, the one whose FIRST Robotics club he'll be joining) is seated at her desk. She's typing, keystrokes rapid yet somehow methodical, as a little thermos of coffee with an uncapped lid steams beside her.

"Ms. Guiteau?" He says.

She doesn't reply. Just types. He leans to the side and peeps at her screen long enough to see that she's putting together a syllabus for her intro to programming course.

This woman isn't what Alex pictured... err... he's seen pictures of her, obviously. She's led this school to top placings at the national FIRST competition multiple times. But she comes off as sort of robotic, herself -- and Alex wonders if maybe he's already said or done something to upset her. Was showing up at 6 AM a little too much? He worries about that.

"I'm, uh..." he begins. "I'm Alex. I'm your new--"

She points at a small stack of papers beside her, not tearing her eyes from the screen. "Please make copies of these. I need 120 of each."

He nods. Being given tasks is precisely what he wants from life. Structure, direction -- and, hopefully at the end, praise. He's had so little of it all, and he's so hungry for it.

He picks the papers up. "Right away, Ms. Guiteau!"

She doesn't look at him. In the pall of the monitor's glow, her face framed by her fiery hair is slender, beautiful... is Alex hot for teacher, already? Oh yeah.

Just before Alex leaves, Ms. Guiteau finally swivels her head (torso remaining stock-still), and regards him.

"You are my TA, correct?" She says. "I wouldn't want to have asked a random student to do my errands."

Alex nods.

"Good. I look forward to the school year," she says. After a brief pause, she adds: "Say. Have you ever heard of FIRST Robotics? I'm the faculty adviser for the program."

Alex smiles, broad and goofy. "Sounds fun," he says.

He's going to like it at North High.

---

Qiangxiang watches from the second story, on her knees with her hands gripping the balustrades, as the police speak with Uncle.

He vehemently pleads his innocence, but it won't do -- they aren't here to listen to his side of things. The police shout over him. They are saying something about embezzlement... pilfered funds, counter-revolutionary statements... Qiangxiang is only little yet, but she's precocious, and she knows these are serious matters.

She will never see Uncle again, when they lead him away -- that much is certain.

Ah well. He was always strange towards her... he made her clam up and get a sick feeling in her stomach whenever he was around.

The police handcuff him, and take him out, boots clapping on the ornately tiled floor of the mansion's foyer. He struggles uselessly against them the whole way, making impotent threats and alternating this with doglike begging for mercy.

A shadow falls across Qiangxiang's face. She looks up.

It's father. "Are you sad?" He asks her.

Qiangxiang slowly shakes her head. She wonders whether she should be... but she has to admit that she isn't.

"Your uncle hurt this company almost irreparably. He will be gone for a long time -- maybe forever."

Qiangxiang nods.

Father sighs. "I maybe should not tell you this next part..."

"You may tell me."

He smiles. "Thank you, princess, for permission to speak."

She nods as if this were seriously said.

"I am told that he tried to murder me last year," father says.

Qiangxiang flinches. So that's why Uncle always frightened her...

Father picks her up.

She doesn't like to be toted around... it makes her feel like a child. And father likes toting her around, precisely for that reason...

"Remember what I told you?" He asks.

"Yes. A liar has no honor."

"A liar has no honor," father repeats, and hugs her tight. "I am sorry you had to see that."

For the last time ever -- though neither knows it at the time -- Qiangxiang asks for a bedtime story. He tells her the one of the prince from the west who woos the court princess. It's her favorite.

---

Anna fiddles with the strings of her hoodie as she stares at the cork-board where postings for all the school clubs are hung.

StuCo... no, way too public-facing... FIRST Robotics... no, too much effort. Orchestra... oof... after flunking her admission to Juilliard, she may never touch a cello again. Japanese Cultural Appreciation... that catches her eye... but she realizes they probably don't like her type.

Well what else is left? Hmm... oh, here's one-- now this, this she could definitely--

"Step aside, nerd," Renee says.

Anna is gobsmacked. "n-nerd..."

Renee gently pushes her to one side, steering her by the shoulders. "You heard me." With Anna clear of the posting board, she staples her flier to it.

She puts her hands on her hips, then, proud, as she examines it. It's on bright orange paper, 11x17, printed with obnoxiously huge letting and a cyborg clipart, impossible to miss. She'll get signups out the wazoo, for sure, for sure.

"that's... so mean... aren't you a teacher here"

"Yeah," Renee says. "And I love nerds. Nerds make the world go round. Nothing against nerds -- you just needed to step aside, that's all."

Anna peers at the posting Renee hung. "transhumanism..." she murmurs, reading aloud.

"We're taking all members," Renee tells her. "This is the kind of nerd shit that's right up your alley."

"what makes you think i'm a nerd" Anna pouts.

Renee laughs. "Your glasses? The way you dress like that, in the middle of August? ... The fact that it's, oh, an hour before first bell and you're already at school? Without any buddies, too. What's your name?"

"anna"

"Anna, you're cute. I was just like you when I was younger. Let's get you out of that shell and into a good club." She nudges her with an elbow. "We've got bunnies!"

Anna does like bunnies.

But there's something else that has her attention already. "i was thinking of anime club actually"

Renee's smile drops. "Oh, God. You're making an awful mistake. That's social plutonium, Anna."

She shrugs. Social plutonium is pretty much what she wants.

"do you know the faculty adviser?" Anna asks. She points at the name at the bottom of the flier: Sakura Dokuhaku.

"Nope," Renee says. "But I guarantee it's some frumpy white girl just pretending to be Japanese. Don't be fooled."

"oh it definitely is," Anna says, smiling wanly. "sakura is a character in one of my favorite shows... so it means the adviser has good taste..."

Renee rolls her eyes. Taste... yeah. No accounting for taste.

---

"This tea is dreadful," Vivian says, setting her cup down on the saucer. "Why have we come to such a dreary eatery?"

"It has good reviews," David says. "And in any case, it is nice to be away from home and work."

"Such a low-class establishment," Vivian complains.

"Are you hungry?" David asks. "I am told the tiramisu here is to die for."

"Spare me the foodborne illness. No. I am not hungry, father."

David frowns. Vivian's in one of her moods.

"Hi!" chirps a perky barista, coming to a stop at their table. "Welcome to the Rutabaga Cafe! What can I get for you?"

"We have already been served," Vivian tells her sourly.

"Oh! I'm sorry. How is everything?"

"This tea is drea--"

"Actually," David says, cutting his daughter off, "we will take two helpings of tiramisu."

"Absolutely," the girl says, scribbling on her yellow notepad. "I'll have that right out for you."

"Thank you."

Vivian makes rather a show of sighing. Ever since Mara's death by cancer last year, she's been so downcast and dour... David could never tell her how happy he is, in turn, to have that horrible woman gone. Vivian may never know what a truly terrible person her mother was.

But now that he has confirmation, too, that Vivian's maternal grandfather is dead... thank you, Damon... he feels comfortable to finally reveal something else that's been eating away at him. Thus the off-campus spontaneous lunch date.

"So," Vivian says, tilting her head. "What is it? Bad news about our investors? The real reason Ms. Carte left the organization? It must be serious indeed, to drag me all this way."

"There is something I must tell you," he admits. "And it is serious. But it's nothing bad."

She calmly waits for him to say what.

"Vivian -- you are not my only child. You have an older sister I never told you about."

---

Ding-dong, ding-dong... ding-dong, ding-dong.

The bell for first period gently chimes, but the milling students are slow to come back to order.

"Okay, class, okay," hollers Mr. Langley over the din. "I know summer break was long, but let's get back into the swing of things, huh? Welcome to US Government!"

He turns and writes it on the board in chalk in huge letters: US GOVERNMENT.

"Who can tell me what the purpose of government is?"

No one raises their hand. Alabaster is supposed to be in this class... he'd pipe up for sure if he were here. Where is that rapscallion? Mr. Langley sighs. Always late. Especially to first period. Missing periods like this is going to get that boy in big trouble one day. Mr. Langley just hopes he doesn't make that tardiness part of his after-school quiz drilling too.

"You," he says, pointing at a random student. "What is the purpose of government?"

The boy shrugs. "Laws and stuff."

"Laws. Okay. Why do we have laws?"

"So there isn't... murdering and stealing and stuff?"

Mr. Langley nods. "Okay, okay... so it's a social contract. Keeps us out of the state of nature. Good." He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What am I doing... I'm getting ahead of myself. I think some introductions are in order before we dive in, huh? So, I'm Mr. Langley... let's go around and introduce ourselves. We've got a long year ahead!"

He circles his desk and leans against it with his coccyx. "We have a couple especially important students here with us -- students with no experience of US Government whatsoever. Fazil -- Kenichi -- please, stand! Your perspectives will be so enlightening as we all learn together."

The boys stand.

"Where are you from?" He asks Fazil.

"Turkey. I am quite looking forward to learning the ways and customs of America."

The tassel of his fez jitters; he's full of nerves.

"And you, Kenichi -- it looks like you know our ways and customs already."

"Ayup, I reckon I do." He grips his belt buckle. "Y'all can me Ken. I hail from over yonder in Japan, but I admire your cultural ways 'n such. I rightly reckon I do."

"Welcome to America," he tells them both.

---

Anime club... anime club! ANIME CLUB! Renee balls her fists and resists the temptation to pound her desk. Anime club! What kind of degenerate psychopath freak would willingly choose anime club over something as kickass and mind-blowing as transhumanism club? She scowls to herself. Kids these days.

"Uh... Ms. Carte?" A student asks.

Her AP Bio class is waiting for her to begin. She looks up at them, seated in their rows at the black laminate tables.

Anna is seated way in the back -- second from the rear, on the far right. Such a wallflower.

Renee vows to herself that she will woo this poor wayward girl from the grubby clutches of the wapanese, if it's the last thing she does. She can sense a brilliant mind lurks inside that mute little ginger's head... one that shouldn't be wasted on cartoons!

If Renee's being honest with herself, it's just her competitive streak flaring up. This is her first year as a teacher, and her first year heading a school club too. She wants to be the very best. Right from jump. That means stomping on all the other dorks in all the other clubs, and stealing them away from their loser advisers. Who is Sakura Dokuhaku, anyway? A loser, that's who. Renee is going to make Anna ditch that loser and join the transhumanism club, for sure... for sure.

"...Ms. Carte?" Another student says.

She clears her throat. "Yes. Sorry. Let's begin."

---

You stumble into the hallway, still clad in only your boxers -- dazed, amazed. Is this real life? Are you really here? Are you really inside your old house, six years ago... or a trillion years in the future, rather? Did you really make it? It can't be... it can't be. It's a lie. It has to be. It's another Sand Reckoner trick.

But it's not.

This is real. All of it... you're real and you're really here.

"Alabaster!" Cerise shouts, chasing you from your bedroom. "Are you gonna walk to school naked now, too? Freak!"

You turn, face her. You're shivering. "Cer... Cerise..."

"You're actually starting to scare me now," she says. "What's gotten into you? I don't wanna see my beer stipend have to go to funding your stay at the nuthouse!"

"I just..." you begin, and wipe the tears away. "It's just nice to see you, that's all."

Cerise furrows her brow. Of all the possible answers -- she didn't expect that one.

"I had... a really bad dream," you tell her.

"So you got the Scrooge treatment?" She says sarcastically. "Get dressed already. I don't wanna see your dick swinging around."

But of course she's staring right at your fly.

You turn for your room, but you bump into someone else.

"oof--" Rose2 says.

Her candy pink bangs flitter as she steps away from you. She's in only her nightgown.

How did she walk into you to begin with? You were standing right there.

"Did I miss the memo that we're all nudists now?" Cerise says. "God."

Rose2 -- no, Rose -- giggles. "Silly~ ... I'm not naked!" She looks you up and down. "But -- you, big bro..."

"Rose..." you breathe.

She flutters her eyelids, and purses her lips into a confused O. "Huh?"

The memory is coming back to you. Timelines are remerging. This isn't Rose2, to you, in this world: this is Rose. She's your little sister. Your dreadfully annoying, cringeworthy, weeaboo little sister... who you adore beyond words.

"What are you doing?" You ask her breathlessly.

She shrugs, wrists turned outward, and smiles so broadly that it forces her eyes closed. "Nuffin, muffin! Just gettin' ready for my first day of high school!" Her huge eyes pop open. "It's gonna be totemo tanoshii -- you'll be my onii-chan and my senpai!"

Cerise, behind you, groans like she's been shot in the gut.

"But we'd better hurry, huh!" Rose says. "We're gonna be late -- and that is not daijobu!"

---

Saul drinks his coffee and reads the morning paper. "Terrible news from Crimea," he mutters.

"When is there ever good news from Crimea?" Charlotte asks, over by the stove.

"Point."

She sets a plate of mini sausages, eggs and toast in front of him. Usually she doesn't degrade herself like this, by cooking for him... but today's an important day. With Rose's summer break now over, it means they'll have the house to themselves for the first time in months. The rumpus room, too. They called off from work for it. And she wants to make sure he's got enough energy.

"Would you believe that Rose is already bugging me to help with her campaign?" Saul asks, setting his paper aside, and beginning to fork his food into his mouth.

Charlotte, sipping some coffee of her own as she sits across from him, smiles. "Of course. The youngest StuCo Prez in North High history has to stay on top somehow, doesn't she?"

"She didn't have any damn competition last year," he says. "I don't know why she thinks this year's gonna be any different."

"Maybe she will have some competition this time around," Charlotte says. "Reelections are always more difficult than getting elected to begin with."

Saul grunts. "Yeah, right. She'll eat any challengers who come after her for breakfast, spit out their bones, and hardly bat an eyelash."

"She will, or you will?" Charlotte asks.

Saul frowns.

"So protective," Charlotte says. "No wonder she wants you for a campaign surrogate."

He pulls his sweater sleeve back and checks his watch. "Speaking of Rose... she should be up and about by now. Usually she's getting me up early for the first day of school."

"Well, go wake her up," Charlotte says.

Saul hurries upstairs. But he comes back down, a minute later, alone.

"Guess she left already," he says with a shrug.

Charlotte laughs. "Must be especially excited for the school year."

Saul nods.

An awkward silence passes. Then together they race downstairs to the basement.

---

Renee, alone after class, holds the yearbook open in her lap. She's bracing herself as best she can for the moment... this is the entire reason she left Darkbloom E-Pay. Why she joined up with California's appalling public school system.

For her. Everything for her.

She strokes the photograph labeled Whitney Price.

What will Renee say when she sees her little girl in person? She'll be a blubbering mess. No matter how much she prepares herself.

Poor Whitney hasn't had the best life up until now. Renee should know; she had to volunteer to reach the remedial bio course to get her in her class. But that's fine. Renee wasn't there for her... she hates herself bitterly over that... but now she will be. She'll make up for the lost time.

And she knows Whitney has potential -- how could she not, with her genetic makeup? -- that potential is evidenced by the way she excels in other avenues, too. Not academically. But sports-wise... a real accomplished sportsball player, Whitney is.

"I love you baby," Renee whispers to the photo.

She flips through the yearbook a bit, idly.

Alabaster Soliloquy... Renee knows that name too. She looks at the photo with a deepening frown.

Really?

THIS corny-looking Ken Jennings quiz dork, is the boy Whitney is so obsessed with? Really?

Renee hardly has room to complain, but... come on. With what little she does know of Whitney -- this kid simply doesn't seem her type. Shouldn't she be dating some strapping young soccer stud? That Ryan Netor who heads the boys' team -- he's more suitable for Whitney, isn't he?

This Alabaster had better have a dick the size of the Oklahoma panhandle, Renee thinks, or she's going to have to assume Whitney's been huffing paint...

She closes the yearbook.

Well. The heart wants what it wants. She should know that better than anyone.

And you know... that Alabaster kid isn't half bad-looking, not really. Captain of the quiz team, huh? She likes trivia too.

---

You make your way to the kitchen despite your attire, or lack thereof -- you can't wait even a moment longer to really, truly confirm that it's all real.

There she is, cooking scrambled eggs and bacon at the stovetop. She's burning it terribly. And for sure it's not going to be anywhere as good, in taste, as the last plate of eggs and bacon you ate. But you would never, for anything, in any universe, trade this plate for that one.

"Mom..." you say.

She turns around. Dad, behind his paper at the table, is unmoved.

Mom's eyes bug out. "What-- tch-- Alabaster! Put on some darn clothes!"

You feel your eyes welling up again, and fight to force the tears back.

"Alabaster!" Mom repeats.

"It's good to be back," you tell her.

"It's good to put on some darn clothes!" Mom retorts.

Cerise breezes past you and sits at the table. She pours herself some orange juice. "Alabaster's a nudist now. Didn't you get the memo?"

"I swear, Alabaster..." Mom tuts. "You'd better not let any of your weird habits impact your younger sister this year. I don't want you rubbing off on her!"

Cerise sniggers.

You frown at Cerise. "At least I'm not a mooch," you sneer.

It comes naturally to you, even now.

Cerise flips you off.

Rose runs by as well. She's all dressed to go -- scarf and all -- and she plops herself down, grinning. "Ohayou goazaimasu!"

"We speak English in this house," Mom says.

"Hai!"

"And we wear clothes, too," Mom says, looking at you meaningfully.

You'd better go and get ready, or she'll bite off your head.

---

Whitney stretches her hamstrings out in the dusty drive of her trailer home. First one, then the other -- gripping her tennis shoe's sthoetip with her fingertips, and balancing on her other foot as she draws her calf so far back that her sole touches her butt. She laughs wheezily to herself... wild. She could give herself a butt massage through her spats, with her foot. Nice and limber this year for soccer!

Nice and limber for other stuff, too.

This is your last shot, Whitney, she thinks to herself. You'd better shoot your shot while you've got it. She's gonna make senior year count, for sure... for sure, for sure. It'll be magical.

She cracks her neck as she stretches her arms, one wrist in the crook of her elbow to brace it, one and then the other.

She glances down at her clothes. Slutty spats, check. Slutty tank, check. All shaved, check. She's gonna go succubus mode this year on Ally... he won't know what's coming.

Ally is not going to leave for college with his virginity intact... no, he won't. Neither will she. She'll be his three-hole girl by the end of the school year if it kills her!

She starts to jog on her way to Ally's house. Working up a sweat is tantamount! It's some pheromoney, hormoney... thing... and she knows Ally's into it, based on his tastes in japanime porn. Besides, she needs the exercise... it's her morning ritual, and she wants to do good in soccer this year. She could win a scholarship if she does good enough. That's her only real chance, she knows.

As she jogs down the sunbaked sidewalk, the sound of her own panting breath the only thing to keep her company in the blazing heat of the late-summer morning, she thinks to herself. She needs a good excuse to use... something to lure Ally in, and spring the trap.

Hmm.

Tutoring... yeah, she could ask for him to tutor her in math. She does need it. And he's a big enough sucker to do it for her. (If he says no, she can just threaten him. He's a pussy, so he'll do it if she's mean enough.)

Get him alone in the library after school... sneak under the desk when no one's looking... calm down, Whitney, whoa. But that's hot. She loves it. She's gonna do it.

As she jogs along, she spies, parked near an intersection, a long sleek limo. Kinda weird for this part of town... did a billionaire get lost?

She stops at the curb to peer at it from across the street.

The tinted-black back window rolls down. And then, peering out at her, is some tiny little goth bitch in the most ridiculous dress Whitney has ever seen.

---

There's someone missing.

You have two sisters: Cerise, your onee-sama, and Rose, your imouto. As Rose would describe it.

You have a Mom, and you have a Dad.

And that's it: that's the nuclear Soliloquy family.

Amber...

She's not around. Somehow, you know this. She isn't anywhere on this planet, or anywhere in this universe. She doesn't exist.

She doesn't exist ... right now.

Something tells you that you will see her again. You even suspect in what fashion.

It'll take a little bit of time, though.

You can wait.

You begin to dress. Cerise returns to your bedroom just a few moments later, though.

No configuration of the universe will ever teach her how to fucking knock. Jesus Christ.

"What the fuck, Alabaster. You honestly need to get better taste in girls."

"I... don't know what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't. That bitch didn't come here without an invitation. Did you strike up some kind of online romance over the summer with Satan's living avatar on Earth? She says she's--"

That phrase. Cerise only uses that phrase in reference to one person, no matter the year or universe. You should know, you picked it up from her to begin with. "Satan's living ava-- no. You mean..."

Cerise puts her hands on either side of her waist. "Rosef Stalin? Fist of the North High Student Council? Yeah. She's at our fucking doorstep, waiting for YOU. You know, Alabaster, I don't give a shit who you find to relieve you of your Chronic Virginity Syndrome, but the least you can do is keep your bad decisions away from ME. Yeah, that's just what I needed to see first thing in the morning. Rose goddamn Mallory."

She'll be Rose Soliloquy soon, you think -- so get used to it.

"I'll be down," you tell Cerise.

"Uh huh."

She goes.

You finish getting dressed and make to leave, but you stop yourself at your bedroom door.

Rose came for you. Why? Does she remember, too? Or -- you can hardly bear to think of it -- is this some twist on the initial condition? Are you going to walk downstairs to find a Rose who hates your guts, who wants to tut at you over something, who doesn't even know she's your cousin (once removed), much less that she married you in a different world? And if that's the case... if that's the case, how are you going to thread that needle again? She said she would love you in the next world, but will she? Can you make her fall in love with you if that's your explicit goal from the outset, or will it be like trying to bottle lightning? Will you fuck it up, will you be too desperate to make her reciprocate, will you fail to properly ape your side of the mutually adversarial dynamic that drew you together to begin with -- will your knowledge of the truth of this world perversely prevent you from living the 422nd scenario correctly? Are you doomed from the beginning?

And it's not just Rose. You fucked it up with Cerise just now, too, didn't you? She doesn't know you love her. Whitney doesn't, either. Mom, for that matter, or the Rose who's your sister. And not to mention -- Vivian Darkbloom, still living with her asshole father, and Kay Vera, still struggling as a blogger, and Alex Best, out there in high school himself somewhere, and Renee Carte -- in prison? -- and, and... how are you going to meet all these people again, how are you going to play a part without scaring them away?

You rack your brain for what would even be your first line, like an actor who didn't study the script -- what would the oblivious Alabaster of 2014 say to Rose if she showed up on his doorstep on the first day of school? You honestly have no idea. The Alabaster of six years and 400-odd universes ago is as alien to you as a little green martian. You don't know what to say to begin with -- and, God, is this going to be your whole existence? Will this be how you have to navigate your life, trying to plan every word with care, to make it sound right, to get the outcome you want, to essentially trick, that's what it would be, a trick -- to trick Rose and all the others? You can't do it. You won't be able to manage it for even a day, even an hour, much less the five or six years it's going to take to get them to come around. You're fucked.

Well.

You'll have another swing at it, probably, if that's the case. You'll just need to wait a few trillion millennia.

You calm yourself, and go downstairs to find out.

All of your Chicken Little-ing was for nothing.

The very moment you open the door, and Rose meets your eyes, you know. When you know, you know. And you don't even have to say it out loud, neither does she; you just embrace, and kiss, and that's all.

Your more sororal Rose, running past with her randoseru on and a piece of toast in her mouth, squees: "A destined love! Sugoi!"

Mom and Cerise are maybe a little less accepting. Cerise pantomimes gagging, and Mom timidly says: "uh... are you... Rose Mallory...? I think you two should know something, before you..."

You both ignore the gawkers. You just kiss, and kiss.

"You remembered me," she says softly, when at last you pull your lips from hers.

"I told you I would," you say. "You remembered me, too..."

You won't ask how, and neither will she. Some miracles, you just have to let be.

Her voice is as dreamy as her smile. "We should probably go to school, huh?"

"Yes. Yes we should..."

"We'll walk together."

"I think Whitney is supposed to join me -- maybe Stackleford, too."

"That's fine. We can start getting them acclimated right away--"

"--to--"

"To their new reality."

The end of Fuck Quest.

*********************************

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and 422,000,000,000,000,000 time champion of the North High quiz bowl. 

"--to their new reality."

You slowly nod as you stroke her cheek. "It's gonna be great. We'll be able to do things right this time... we can finally--"

Rose falls to the side.

She leaves your sight so fast that for a split moment you worry she simply vanished into thin air. The bookbag's buckles, rebounding off her skull, sound literally like a klonk. Rose scuffs her wrists and knees in the little xeriscaped rock garden beside the footpath leading to your door.

"What are you doing at Ally's house!!" roars Whitney. "Get the fuck out of here, President Hitler! No one likes you!"

"Urrrgh..." Rose groans, trying, and failing, to climb to her feet. She props a hand against Whitney's bookbag lying beside her, to give herself some purchase. But she slips, and falls back onto her chin in the rocks. A clean TKO in one hit -- Whitney is once again the undisputed world champion.

"I banish thee!" Whitney says, making the sign of the cross with her forefingers. "Banished!"

She may have just assaulted Rose, but her penchant for assaulting Rose is a known quantity -- in this universe or any other. You're so beyond joyous to see her that you don't even stop to help Rose to her feet -- you just stride towards Whitney, swiftly, and purposefully.

This is something new to her, in this world. She backpedals, one, two, three small steps -- taken literally aback by your forwardness, and the gleam in your eyes. "--Ally--?" Is all she can get out, before you take the sides of her face in your hands, and pull her close, and kiss her. Full on, forcefully, hungrily. You press your mouth to hers, enjoy the sweet taste of her breath and the tang of her sweat, the pliable fullness of her lips and the utterly clueless irresistance of her tongue as you probe her soft, wet mouth. She pulls off you just long enough to choke out a second "Al-ly?" the second syllable catching, lilting upwards, in a mixture of trepidation, surprise, joy and uncertainty. When again you kiss her, this time holding her by the sides of her arms, those lean, toned, tanned, warm arms of hers, you tug her bodily closer to you, as if trying to merge yourself into her. She trembles in your embrace like a starling after a storm, and exhales hard through her nostrils as her eyes go half-lidded. She doesn't know where this is all coming from, but she'll roll with it. She lets you kiss her as you will. You're vaguely aware of Rose, finally on her feet again, behind you, watching, and most probably approving (despite having taken a beating); and of Mom and Cerise, still inside, also watching, and most probably not.

You neck her a little too. Can't help yourself. You trail kisses up and down her slender neck, making her draw a sharp breath through her teeth at this new, even more unexpected, intimacy. She's jelly in your grip. You breathe her scent deeply, that unique earthy smell of Whitney's you've been so long without, and by the time you're done sucking on her skin the hickey is already forming. 

"Oh my God, Ally," is all Whitney can say. "You... you..."

"Come with me," you say. You take her by her hand, and lead her past the threshold into your home.

You say to Rose as you pass, "I'll be right out, okay?" -- to which she responds with a knowing nod. She rubs the welt on her chin -- but isn't at all upset at what you're clearly about to do. She knows she'll get her turn, too.

She is, though, as always, a stickler for time:

"But, you know -- we really shouldn't be late on our first day of--" Rose begins.

You ignore her.

"Is this just the harem house now?" Cerise demands, spinning on her heels and following you as you lead Whitney upstairs.

"Yes," you say.

"Where are you taking her?" Mom calls, as you bring a now full-on giggling Whitney upstairs.

"Bed," you say.

"You'll get diseases!" Mom howls. "That girl is a hussy!"

Whitney struggles to keep pace with you as you hurry upwards.

Cerise is following you.

"You're seriously going to have sex with Whitney, out of -- fucking nowhere -- at 8 AM in the goddamn morning, when both of you should be at school--"

"Yes."

"Oh my GOD," Cerise harrumphs. "You've got to be--" But you're not joking, and Cerise realizes this as you pull Whitney past the threshold of your bedroom door, gently close and lock it behind you. Cerise's voice, through the door, is muffled: "Freak!"

You pull Whitney through a 180, and help her sit at the foot of your bed. You stand before her, just enjoying the sight of her -- the Whitney you knew so long ago, who ran around in a tank and spats without a care in the world. That carefree spirit of hers didn't weather her tenure as a high-powered CEO too well, even though she tried to keep it. But here, today, it shines. 

She plays at the role of the one with more experience. She attempts to give you a coquettish laugh followed by a sly, "what do you wanna do now?" as she flips her hair. But the laughter comes out as a stuttering forced giggle, and her line comes out: "W-what do you w-wanna -- d-do--" as she tries, and fails, to flip her bangs to one side. 

"I want to fuck you," you tell her.

"...Oh. Oh." She blinks rapidly. Her breath is jagged and her voice is pinched.

"Take off your shoes," you command her. 

She does the forced laughing thing again. "My shoes. Haha. Yeah. I should... have my shoes off... huh..."

She fumblingly kicks her tennis shoes off, then her socks. "Um..."

You climb into the bed with her, pushing her slowly onto her back, and crawling over her on all fours.

"I..." she gulps. "I knew this pheromone thing was a good shot, you know, working up a sweat on my way over, but..."

"I've always wanted this," you tell her.

She mewls. 

"Me... me too..."

You help her from her tanktop. She's such a bundle of nerves that she can barely get the thing over her head even with your patient help. She was wearing no bra beneath it, and her perky little tits shimmer in the light of morning with that sweat she worked up to lure you. You rise to your knees and ditch your shirt, too. She stares up at you, agog, and immobile. As you undo your belt, she starts to shiver. Her teeth chatter audibly.

"What got into you?" She asks. "Why so-- so suddenly--"

"I realized something," you tell her. You pull your pants down, your boxers too, and now you're naked before your teenage lover, cock at full mast.

"Is it... supposed to be that big?" Whitney asks, voice aflutter.

You nod.

She wiggles around a bit, scooching backwards across the mattress until her head finds a pillowtop. "I'll split in fucking two--"

"No you won't," you tell her. "Trust me."

She swallows. "Just... go slow."

"Take off your spats too," you tell her. 

"You'll go slow, right?"

You reach down and grab the elastic material of her spandex shorts. The raw heat emanating from her body, ginned up by her morning workout, is divine... her supple skin feels feverish wherever you touch her, so you know that wonderful pussy of hers is doubly hot. You missed sinking your cock into the glove-tight, hot confines of her insides. The spats come down but not without a little tenacity, the material adhering to her skin like tape as you peel the garment back. Slowly her smooth thighs and crotch come into view -- her hairless mound, and the quivering lips of her sopping pussy. She's all wet down there, with both sweat and arousal. She raises her butt just a bit, for you to take the spandex fully off her; her eyes stay glued to your member, her lips parted. You can't resist, as you pull the thing off her, the urge to squeeze her ass. The sudden gentle assault makes her arch both her back and her neck, and close her eyes. Whitney's bubble butt is as fun to grope as always, the muscles well-defined but never sinewy. They give just enough under the pressure you apply, like a peach at the perfect peak of ripeness.

You position yourself above her, on your elbows, so you can look her in the eye as you take her virginity.

"S-slow," she pleads. "I want it, I really do, but... but you're so big--"

"Slow," you finally agree. "...At first."

"A-at f-first?" She stutters.

You line your prick up with the dewy, unspoiled opening of Whitney Price's pussy, and begin to sink in. She's so wet for you that it isn't any trouble at all. The tight ring of muscles down there, even as they spasm and clamp down, cannot keep your thrusting cock out. With a low, guttural moan of sheer pleasure, you feel her inner walls give way and then wrap around your mushroom tip. She grits her teeth, closes her eyes -- as that flash of pain, the pain of being deflowered, rises then subsides. By centimeters you push your cock into her body. There's no hymen to tear -- her toys have seen to that -- but no amount of masturbating on dildos through her teen years could ever have prepared Whitney for the reality of a man on top of her, thrusting himself home, and fucking her at the pace he chooses. Sitting on a piece of rubber is no preparation at all for having a flesh-and-blood cock rut in you. This is evident on her face, as she gasps at the sudden, hot intrusion of prick into her body, a prick she has no control over -- and as she lies there, she can only hope that you'll uphold your vague promise to go slow. You will go slow, until she adjusts, of course -- then you'll fuck her brains out. 

Deeper and deeper you sink into her. More and more she gasps and coos, and lets out half-pained "ahhn~" noises. "Shit... oh, god..." she gulps. Her cheek is slick against yours, as she hugs you. She's trying to keep up with you, she really is -- your voracious, and very experienced technique. But she's an amateur. When she kisses you, her teeth knock yours, and when she tries to squeeze your horny cock with her pussy, she has none of that well-honed genital dexterity she developed before.

At last you're up to your nuts inside her. Your entire dick is inside Whitney's pussy, twitching, and leaking precum into her womb. Just where it belongs -- and you yourself shiver with this long-deprived pleasure. You emboss the inside of her cunt with the shape of your dick.

"Ffffuck," Whitney heaves. "How much fucking more of you... is there..."

"That's it," you promise.

"You're in?"

"I'm in."

You punctuate that by jutting your hips forward -- which jabs your prickhead just a tiny bit further into her. 

"Ahh--!" she hisses. "Liar!"

But the thrill in her voice is unmistakable. 

"I'm gonna start moving," you tell her.

She wrenches her eyes closed, throws her slender arms around your neck, and nods.

As you passionately kiss her, and taste her mouth, your dick tastes her cherry pussy. It's not every day you get to fuck a virginal Whitney, and you'll enjoy it to its fullest extent. The head of your cock scrapes the taut ridges of her messy inner walls, and stirs her up inside. The room stinks of her sweat and her sex. Yours, too. 

You gyrate your hips just a little on every instroke, to grind against that spot deep inside her that you know she loves to get grinded. It's her G-spot -- or, as she used to christen it, her cum-button. You mash on her cum-button with your leaky prick over and over and over. You fuck her mercilessly -- even as you keep your guarantee of going slow. Even slow can be brutal. Dazed and confused, she twists her head from side to side. She lets you rain suckling kisses on her, and hardly registers it as you fondle her wonderfully soft tit meat.

She's cumming so much that it feels like you've got your dick beneath a faucet. 

"O-- O-- okay--" she pants finally.

"Okay what?" You say gruffly, and never break your languid pace.

"You -- can keep going--"

"I am going."

"F-faster... please... harder..."

You lie fully over her and really begin to screw her. You pound her so hard that the bed's feet seem to lift from the floor with every stroke. The whole Soliloquy household shudders under the brutal force of your union. Whitney has no goddamn idea what is happening right now, but she's a quick study, or maybe driven by primal instinct. She wraps her ankles around your butt, and scrapes your back with her short fingernails. She fucks herself on you about as hard as you fuck into her. The sweetly violent mating session ruins your sheets and turns your brains to mush. Together, you climb that mountain inevitably towards its ultimate apex -- and only when you're teetering on the precipice, when you feel your fuckmeat begin to throb and pulse in the moments before that gloriously wet orgasm you're definitely going to have inside of her -- inside of her and not outside -- does Whitney realize something:

"Wait-- is this safe?"

"No," you grunt.

"Oh fuck, Ally... should we really--"

"Yes," you grunt.

"Okay... okay..."

"Okay what?"

She shrieks, directly into your ear: "Okay!! Cum inside me! Cum inside me, Ally, fuck!"

You hold her face by the jaw, with one strong hand, as you forcefully mash your cock into her. You look deeply into her eyes. "You are mine--" you gasp. "I'm making you mine."

"Do it," she begs.

As the cum races up your tubes, and pours from your swelling penis, you pull her into a bear hug and hiss into her ear: "M-m-mine... you're m-m-m-mine... fuck..."

After that, the only sound is the wet squelch of you fucking your load up into her.

GIRLS FUCKED: 1/?

You roll off Whitney, content. You're not tired, but you need a couple moments to catch your breath. Whitney, legs stippled with your genetic material and equally worn out, crawls over to you and strokes your chest.

"Where... did that come from...?"

You just suck down air.

"You weren't a virgin... were you?" Whitney asks. "Who were you fucking, you dork? It wasn't Rose, was it? Even you wouldn't stoop that low! Who taught you that? I'll thank her and then beat her ass!"

You think about that.

"I guess I was a virgin," you conclude.

"What? How can you guess that you're a virgin--"

You cut her off with a kiss. "I was. Hentai teaches you things, you know?"

She huffs. There's a brief lull, one that grows just a little ruminative.

"What did you mean?" Whitney asks you softly. "A few minutes ago, when you said you realized something... what did you mean?"

"I'm in love with you," you tell her.

The smile flickers on her face like TV static. She isn't sure how to take such a revelation. She seems half-convinced you're joking, or lying, or that she's hearing things. But the happiness refuses to go away.

"Fucking dick munch!" She finally says, punching you in the shoulder.

"Ow," you grunt. "Jesus. Why are you hitting me? I love you."

"Why couldn't you have figured that out sooner!" She shouts. She buries her face in your chest. "I... I love you too, Ally... I always did."

"Let's have the best school year ever," you tell her, ruffling her hair.

Face obscured, she nods. Her nose tickles your nipple.

As you rise to your butt, her eyes follow you. "What was Rose Mallory doing at your front door?" She asks.

You pause. How should you approach this?

"Well... what do you think of her?" you ask.

"Kind of a bitch. Which is why--"

"Do you think she's hot?"

"Well. Yeah. Too bad she's got a stick the size of Texas up her ass."

"Let's fuck her," you say.

This is the moment of truth. Is Whitney going to reject your proposal?

Whitney stares at you. Her eyes glimmer. Slowly, a grin spreads across her lips. "But-- what if she doesn't want to?"

"Oh," you say, "she will. Trust me."

Whitney tosses your jeans at you. "Get dressed, you fuckin' pervert." 

---

"So my fucking parental units got Obamacare and-- huh huh huh--" Stackleford gasps to catch his breath as he waddles behind you, Whitney, and Rose. "So these fucking fascist doctors want to tell me I'm like, prediabetic or-- huh huh -- or something? Fucking nignog president, I swear to god..."

"I don't think Barack Obama is the reason you have diabetes," Rose says. Sherlock Holmes over here.

"Pre diabetes," Stackleford is quick to correct.

Rose checks the time on her cell. "We are... so, so late."

Whitney keeps an arm looped around you, and stares at Rose suspiciously the entire way to school, like a fussed mother might eye a pervert lurking near her kid in a park.

It's Stackleford who broaches the most obvious question: "So, uh -- huh, huh -- when did you two become, like, friends? I -- huh -- thought you were enemies or something?"

"It's complicated," Rose says, glancing back his way with a smile. She reaches for Stackleford's greasy forehead, and pulls his pussy deflector off.

"Hey--!"

"StuCo's instituting a new rule," Rose tells him. "No bandanas on school grounds." She tosses the thing down a gutter in the curb as you pass.

"What the fuck!" Stackleford shouts. "Bitch!"

"Do you have to be in cunt-mode all the time?" Whitney glowers.

"Do you really want to defend Boyd over his unfortunate choice of apparel?" Rose retorts. "Choose your battles."

Whitney flips her off. 

"If you want to resume your quest to be the next hokage," you tell Stackleford winningly, "then make sure to vote for me this fall. I'll protect your right to free speech and expression."

"--Vote?" Rose says, voice catching.

"Yeah. For president."

She stops dead in her tracks. You stop just a couple paces on, turn.

"You wouldn't," she says.

"Why not?" You say. "Just a friendly competition, right? May the best candidate win."

"You're gonna run for prez?" Whitney says, grinning. "Hell yes. Now that's change we can believe in!"

"My nigga!" Stackleford says, holding his palm up for a hi-five, but you leave him hanging. He awkwardly lets his ham-hand fall to his side.

"No cheating!" Rose warns you, pointing at you.

"Of course not."

"I mean it!"

"We'll cheat our asses off!" Whitney tells her, sticking out her tongue. "Ya done, Rose. Buh-bye!"

"We don't need to cheat," you tell Whitney, turning and resuming your unhurried trot towards the school. "We'll beat her fair and square."

"Heeh. President Soliloquy! So cool."

Rose huffs. But you can tell that, beneath the facade of anger she wears, she's excited for the chance to have it out again. 

"Oh," Whitney says, remembering something. "Watch your back today. I've got a stalker."

You frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said! This creepy little goth bitch was stalking me on my way to your house today."

This time, Rose isn't the only one stopped dead in her tracks.

"Crazy, right?" Whitney says. "She rolled up in this fancy as shit limousine all decked out like she was on her way to a funeral. Couldn't have been older than like 10. Maybe 11. She was raw-dogging me halfway to your house--"

"Raw dogging?" Rose cuts in.

"--Her car followed behind me for like 10 minutes before I finally yelled at her and scared her off!"

"Did she... say who she was?" You ask.

"No, and I hope I don't ever see that creepy little shit again!" Whitney says.

You're pretty sure she's going to see a whole lot more of her.

Stackleford trudges past. "Speaking of psychos... huh... we really better get going... we're super late, and I've got a psycho for first period computer class... she'll cut my head off or something if I'm much tardier."

"I don't think you could get any tardier, Stacks," Whitney tells him.

You continue walking, Stackleford now in the lead, as he looks back and says: "Well, I don't want to get on Ms. Guiteau's bad side... I'd be a goner for sure."

Rose's breath catches. Yours, too. You give each other a knowing glance.

Now that she's been mentioned, you recall her -- the her of 422, that is -- Ms. Guiteau, the tyrant who teaches programming at North High.

It's going to be an interesting school year. 

---

>Some months later.

Ms. Carte sits across the kitchen table from Mr. Carl Price in his ramshackle tin trailer home. On Ms. Carte's left stands David Darkbloom, who despite being nothing but a shady financier in this configuration of the cosmos, still gives you the creeps in a major way. But his creep factor is getting deployed to a worthwhile end this afternoon:

"...and violating the NDA will invite terrible legal consequences that, I assure you, you will not weather."

Sitting beside Ms. Carte is Whitney. Ms. Carte is hugging her tightly to her bosom.

"This what you want?" Carl asks her.

Whitney nods. "She's my mom, right?" She stares at her lap. "And... it's not like you'll miss me."

Carl looks at Darkbloom. "You gonna hold your end of the bargain?"

"I am a man of my word," Darkbloom says. "$2 million wired into your bank account this evening, as soon as you sign away custodian rights."

Charlotte, who is serving as counsel and notary alike, slides the paperwork across the table. "With this, Whitney Price will become Whitney Carte," Charlotte explains. "You will waive all rights to guardianship, visitation, and power of attorney. You will be barred from contacting her unless she seeks out contact with you first. Do you consent to these terms?"

"I don't have a bank account," he tells Darkbloom.

Darkbloom sighs. "I will deliver it in cash on a flatbed truck if that's what needs be done. Just sign the goddamn papers, Carl."

He huffs, even as he takes the pen and signs below the signature of Ms. Carte and above the signature of Charlotte. "Don't think I won't sue if you don't hold up your end."

With the stroke of a pen, Whitney now has the name of the woman who gave birth to her.

"Guess she'll move out tonight?" Carl says.

"That is the intent," Darkbloom says. "She will go and live with her mother."

"Go pack your bags, baby," Ms. Carte tells her. Whitney nods, stands, and goes.

When she's out of sight, only then -- Ms. Carte lunges across the table and grabs Carl by the collar.

"What the--" he gasps.

"Yyyyyou motherfucker!" Ms. Carte screams. "That's all you care about? The money? You raised her for 18 years -- not very fucking well, I might add! -- and you don't give a shit about her?!"

"Renee," Darkbloom says firmly.

Carl struggles against the surprisingly strong grip of the beet-faced Ms. Carte. "What the fuck, lady! You're getting what you want, ain't you?"

"You worthless, sniveling, awful little--"

"RENEE," Darkbloom booms, laying a hand on her shoulder up by her neck. Ms. Carte slowly, and hesitantly, lets Whitney's surrogate father go. She settles back in her chair.

"Mr. Price is correct," Darkbloom says. "He has what he wants, and you and Whitney have what you want. The past is the past. We all can now move on from it like civilized people."

Still, she grumbles. 

Vivian deigns to come into the squalid dump that Whitney grew up in. Whitney must have texted her that everything is a go. She strides past the kitchen without even glancing in, straight for Whitney's bedroom, there to help her older sister pack her things. You join the pair.

"I might actually miss this place," Whitney says, scooping a hamper of clothes haphazardly into a duffel.

"Why on Earth would you miss a living situation as... dreary... as this?" Vivian asks. She carefully folds Whitney's bedsheets: first the topsheet, and then, impressively, also the fitted sheet. You didn't expect a girl who relies so much on the help to actually know such difficult domestic chores.

"I 'unno," Whitney admits. "It's how I grew up."

"I can solemnly assure you that you will be happier with Ms. Carte," she says.

"Oh, for sure, I'll be happier at Mom's apartment," she says. You stack her soccer trophies and other meager knick-knacks into a cardboard box, but Whitney apparently doesn't like your packing skills, because she bumps your hip to scooch you aside, and horns in on it.

"Why don't you move in with us too?" Whitney asks her sister.

"I must help father run his company."

Whitney rolls her eyes. "Help father run his company... good Christ, Viv. He doesn't need help from a pint-sized loli who thinks she's queen of the universe."

"Please refrain from using the lurid language of Alabaster's pornographic comic books."

"They're not comics--" you begin.

"Apologies. Manga."

The way she deploys air quotes is downright vicious.

"In any case," Vivian says, "I will still be close to you and Ms. Carte -- every day in point of fact."

"Yeah?" You say. "How?"

"I have applied for and successfully received a zone variance. I will attend North High as a freshman for the balance of this school year."

"What!" Whitney yowls. She drops the geode she was holding, into her box of trinkets, where it clunks against her cherished dildo.

Even in this universe, Vivian's laughter is a haughty "ufufufu."

"You're not old enough, you fucking brat!" Whitney says, grinning with an open mouth.

"Do you truly believe skipping grades is some great object for me?" Vivian asks. "I could be attending college at the moment, should I so choose-- there are many such cases."

"It's true," you agree. "I was just reading the other day, about this 11 year old girl who's at Berkley -- Ebony something --"

Vivian goes red in the face. "Let us not speak of such matters. The point remains that I am more than capable to enter high school now."

Whitney hugs her -- suddenly, and tightly. Vivian lets out a little "hup" of surprise.

"You should join quiz bowl with us!" Whitney says, hopping up and down.

"I intend to. Your team needs the help."

Oh boy. 

---

>Wholesome
[ ] Cerise notices her senpai!
[ ] Ms. Guiteau secretly wants to impress Alex?
[x] Ms. Guiteau and Ms. Carte do battle for club members!
[ ] Alabaster and Rose's unique living arrangement causes a stir!
[ ] Your imouto has a buddy! She's really shy!
[ ] Kay is after a scoop! But can she suffer the dorkiness of everyone in your orbit to interview David Darkbloom's bastard daughter?

>Lewd
[ ] Alex forced you. It was practically rape. You're not gay.
[ ] Kay teases Noelle a little too much... and gets a nasty surprise.
[ ] Your imouto is a little too impressionable, isn't she?
[x] Quiz bowl drilling. Quiz bowl drilling never changes. Or... does it?

It's nearing the end of November, and the deadline for club applications is thus also nearing. Normally that deadline would pass completely unnoticed, but this year is different. Because at either end of the school's sciences wing, Sable and Ms. Carte have both set up shop, to pamphleteer and tout the benefits of joining their respective clubs.

They have helper elves, too.

Sable of course is using Alex, now as always her right-hand boy. And she even managed to rope in Cerise, who has an equally strong interest in robotics, and has become an assistant helping program the robots.

Sable, who sagely told you when she hatched her scheme that "sex sells," has decked both of them out in maid uniforms, to patrol the school and hand out the fliers for FIRST Robotics.

Ms. Carte, not to be outdone, has dressed Whitney and Vivian up in bunnygirl outfits. Outfits which are way too risque to be legal -- sending her girls forth to lure in hapless hormone-addled adolescents to the transhumanism club.

Each day before first bell, and again at lunch, and again for a little while after last bell (club times permitting), Sable and Ms. Carte sit at little ad-hoc booths with blank signup sheets, just outside their classrooms, waiting for newcomers.

The bone of contention is this: both clubs have exactly 22 members at the moment, but both women believe their own club should have the greater membership.

Of course, despite the solicitous, verging on pornographic advertising their helpers have conducted across the North High campus, these women are, in the end, chairing a couple of capital-D Dork clubs -- big, big, big time dork clubs (and you say that as a card-carrying member of the quiz team). The school's dorks have already self-selected into one or the other. Since both clubs meet on a Tuesday/Thursday schedule, it's not possible to be a member of both at once -- and so these 44 social pariahs who compose the vast majority of North High students who would be into these sorts of things, are all accounted for.

This means the daily wait for new members these teachers conduct is always fruitless... and always devolves, first from mutual scowling at one another, to occasional hurled insults, and finally, sometimes, into light-to-moderate violence. Foxy boxing, Whitney calls it, as she roots for her mother from the sidelines. 

They're trying to woo you, too. In fact, you're the most-coveted catch.

When you get to school in the morning: there's Alex, dressed like the happiest whore to ever live, ready to force another pamphlet into your hands and coo: "robots are cooool, Ally~" He holds his hands up and wiggles all ten fingers in the air. "Joooooinnnn usssss~"

Cerise, hungover and pallid, is less friendly. "Join the club or I'll kick your ass."

"You wish," you tell her.

"Are you gonna join the club?" Alex wants to know. "C'mooon."

"I'll think about it," you say noncommittally.

"Rose?" Alex says. "Rose?" He looks from Rose to Rose.

"If we build a robot, can we send it to the moon?" your little sister wants to know.

"For the last fucking time, there is no space program in FIRST Robotics--" Cerise begins.

"You could put a rocket on it," she counters, trying to be helpful.

Rose gasps and sputters as Cerise grabs her by her candy-pink hair and drags her away, to goodness only knows where, to dole out goodness only knows what punishment.

"I'll come if Alabaster does," the other Rose says, when your sisters are out of sight.

Alex smiles. "Of course. The vice president should always follow her president!"

Rose's face twitches. She balls up the blank application that Alex handed her and throws it at him. He meekly covers her head with both white-gloved hands as she stomps off.

"Did I say something wrong?" He asks you.

"Not at all," you say. 

Whitney's advertising tack is more boisterous, as expected. She stands on a cafeteria table during the pre-bell breakfast hour, megaphone in hand, crowing: "Transhumanism!"

And standing on the ground below her, also holding a megaphone, Vivian softly repeats: "Transhumanism."

"Transhumanism!"

"Transhumanism."

"Sign-ups are with Ms. Carte outside her classroom!"

"Please sign up promptly."

"We'll kick your butts if you don't!"

"Your horizons will expand immeasurably if you do."

"Transhumanism!"

When none of the bedraggled, sleep-deprived students milling around seem to care about the pitch -- this being their 7th consecutive schoolday doing it -- Whitney takes to pointing at random people and exhorting them personally:

"You! Yeah you, fag! Join Transhumanism club! ... Don't look at me like that! ... Fucker."

Vivian puts her bullhorn down when she sees you coming in. "Alabaster Soliloquy. Have you reconsidered your terrible mistake of not joining our organization?"

"Organization?" You sputter. "What the fuck is this, the mafia? It's a school club. You -- ow!"

You grunt in pain as a paper airplane sails straight into one of your eyes.

"Heeeh~" Whitney laughs. "Gotcha."

You pick it up and unfold it. It's a signup application for the club. 

---

On the last day of November, just after final bell, Vivian sends you a text:

>To Alabaster Soliloquy: Please come at once to Ms. Carte's room. It is a matter of urgent importance. Sincerely, Vivian.

A matter of urgent importance. Yeah, right. You and Rose laugh over it together as you hang out in the StuCo room. How stupid does Vivian think you are? She obviously just wants to make a last-second pitch for her club.

A few minutes later, Alex also texts:

>Ally! You gotta come quick! It's an emergency! AAAAAA!

Rose sighs. "Goodness. He's so good at suckering peop--"

"We should go see what's up," you cut in. "It sounds important."

---

You hurry to the hallway for the school's science classes. The bland beige walls here are lined with informational posters about mitochondria, chemical periodicity, geologic strata, and such. As you round the corner at a jog, your tennis shoes squeak on the tile. Rose hurries after you.

You wonder what the emergency could be. A medical episode? A fight? A horrifying robotics malfunction? You need to protect Alex at all costs!

As you draw nearer to Sable's classroom, Alex steps forth, and stops you with a hand to your chest. He's in his full maid getup; but, alluringly, the hem is cut extra short, and you think that he might not be wearing panties underneath, as he usually does.

Between his hand and your chest, is one of those damned signup sheets. He must be responsible for the death of a thousand redwoods by now with as many of these things as he's forced on you.

"There you are!" He cries. "You just have to join! Right away!"

You snatch the application from him. "This is what you brought me running for? Oh my God."

"OH!" Whitney shouts, from across the hall. She stomps with one of her stilettos. "So you'll come running for the twink, but not for my little sis! That's how it is?"

"I am intolerably offended," Vivian adds.

"Ally!" Alex says, clutching your chest, hopping up and down. Yep, definitely nothing on under that dress. "Please! Pleasepleaseplease!"

"It is the last day," Sable reminds you. "Your skills -- would be such a boon."

"For the last time, Sable--" you begin.

"Stop with that!" Sable shouts. "Show me some respect. I am a faculty member here. Call me Ms. Guiteau."

"Call her bitch!" Ms. Carte shouts. "That's what she is! Come join the transhumanism club already!"

Sable's neck vein twitches, a sign that a freakout is brewing.

"You're not helping, Ms. Carte!" You shout.

"Call me Renee, you stupid pervert!"

Rose, behind you, is nothing but smugness. "I told you," she says. "Never should have come here."

"He got honeydicked! Again!" Whitney says. "Unbelievable! Alex spreads his butt open for you one time and he has you wrapped around his pinky!"

Alex turns crimson.

"Excellent work," Sable tells him.

"I suppose he would rather make love to a fellow homosexual than indulge in two sisters at once," Vivian murmurs.

[ ] Join FIRST.
>[x] Join Transhumanism Club.
[ ] Join neither. 

"It is such a sad state of affairs--" Vivian begins, but loses her wind as Whitney hauls her up, onto the little booth Ms. Carte has set up.

"Hey Ally!" Whitney calls. "Viv is right! Get a load of what you're missing in our club, huh?"

She grabs the crotch of Vivian's bunnygirl costume and tugs it to one side -- giving you and everyone else a beautiful view of a pair of your favorite openings.

"W-Whitney--!" Vivian gasps -- too weak to close her thighs, as Whitney holds them apart.

Ms. Carte is scandalized, too, and looks away... but a little hesitantly, it seems.

"Hmmph," Sable sighs. "That undeveloped slut is no match for this, is she?"

She grabs Alex's dress and hikes it up. No more doubt whatsoever: nopan. Alex stands there trembling, knees knocking as his thin legs shake.

As if materializing from nothing, Cerise is in the hallway, there to appreciate the view.

Such a hard decision. Literally, and in more ways than one. But in the end, you've got a bigger weakness for bunnygirls than for maids.

"Sorry," you tell Alex. "You can have this back." You hand him the blank application.

His sniffling, sniveling despair is heartbreaking. But you can soothe that vicarious sadness with some loli pussy, so it's all fine.

It seems that Rose has differing tastes. Or maybe she takes pity on the boy she was just warning you not to get suckered by. "I think I'll sign up for FIRST," she says.

"Really?" Alex says -- still standing there exposed, as Sable's angry eyes follow you down the hall.

Rose slaps his ass.

He jolts, yipping in pain. "Rose--!"

Cerise slaps Rose's hand back -- and swats Alex's ass, too. "Hands off. Gayboy's mine."

"We can fight over him," Rose coos.

"This is no good!" Sable shrieks. "We're just tied again now!"

"Oh, one of us will be tied..." Cerise says, licking her chops.

"This is no time for perversion... a tie is as good as letting that awful old hag win--"

"Fuck you too!" Renee snarls.

"Please unhand me..." Vivian begs her sister, even though her lower half is more honest about how much she likes to be exposed.

But Whitney finally relents as you draw near, letting Vivian cover her shame -- shabbily, since the bunnysuit only barely covered it to begin with.

"Great job, Viv!" Whitney tells her. "You honeycunnied him."

"Never say that again," you tell her.

"You'll have to find some way to shut me up, then~" Whitney says, grinning at you.

As Sable, Rose, and Cerise retreat with Alex back into Sable's classroom; you retreat with your slutty bunnies into Ms. Carte's. Ms. Carte herself stands uncertainly out in the hall. You wag your eyebrows at her.

"Err... have fun, you three," she says meekly. "I, uh... I'll organize the booth a little."

You're sure the noises the three of you make carry well into the hall. And you're sure they ignite some uncomfortable feelings in the good doctor. 

---

You've barely settled into your room for some much-needed me-time before you hear an unholy racket from the next bedroom over. It sounds like Cerise is trying to beat her walls to death.

Rose, underneath your desk, looks up at you from between your legs. "Are you gonna go deal with that?"

"I think I should."

---

You barge into Cerise's room without knocking. Her shit's all fucked up; her PC monitor lies on its face, her clothes and circuit bending gear are strewn all around the floor, her bed's mattress is lying diagonally cocked and half pulled off the box-springs. She's even now in the midst of ripping her bedside lamp from the wall by its cord, when you shout:

"Cerise! What the hell!"

She stops, panting, turns and looks at you.

"What?" She says.

"What the fuck do you mean, what? You're in the middle of a tard rage, that's what!"

"...Am I?" She says, as if this is a fact she could have mistaken.

"Yes! You are!"

"I didn't realize," Cerise says. And then, without looking away from you or dropping her pained smile, she punches her wall hard enough to put a hole in the plaster. Arm fully extended, she twists her fist back and forth in the little divot made by the punch, causing dust and crumbs of drywall to waterfall down to her carpet.

"Good lord," you huff. "Talk to me. What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter!" She insists. "Love is blooming in anime club! I'm so happy!"

Though she graduated a couple years ago, Cerise chairs the anime club for want of a real faculty advisor. She just got back from a meeting.

"Love between... who?"

"Connor, gentleman he is, asked Anna to prom! And--" Cerise smiles so hard you think her skin will pull back and reveal her skull. "Anna said yes!"

You swallow hard. Connor, the fedora-wearing, fingerless-glove-donning, trenchcoat-sporting freak? That Connor? No way.

"Oh, she's so excited about it!" Cerise says. "Not. She said yes because -- Get this, Alabaster! -- she said yes, because she didn't know how to say no! That's what she told me!"

She punches her wall again -- still without glancing back at the property damage she wreaks.

You nod. When Cerise turns, and picks up her lamp again, and hefts with obviously violent intent for it -- you gently pry it from her hands.

"M'lady!" Cerise says. "Will you come to prom with me, m'lady? M'lady?"

"Are you jealous?" You ask.

"W-what? Jealous of Anna? Do you really think I'd--"

"No. Are you jealous that he's taking her? Rather than you taking her?"

Cerise laughs. "Don't be crazy. This shit again? I am not in love in Anna, Alabaster. Okay? Get it through your thick skull. This isn't some moeshit yuri anime. She's got the shittiest taste of all of them. And she's half-mute, and she's so fucking clingy, and she... she..."

Tears trickle down Cerise's cheek.

>[x] Get involved. Stop this disastrous prom date from happening.
>[x] Cerise needs to experience this jealousy to come to grips with her feelings for Anna. Don't intervene. 

You walk with Anna back from school the following day. Just the two of you: Anna with some of her books clasped in front of her and her bag looped over one shoulder, you with nothing (backpacks are awful to tote around, and it's not like you ever do your homework anyway).

"thanks for helping me Sir"

Anna calls you "Sir" ever since you beat the shit out of an asshole who was harassing her. It's a tic she developed with no prompting from you whatsoever. Guess some things never change.

You invited her over to your house today, on the premise of helping her with her final project in Sable's programming class. But you never had any intention of helping her -- that's going to be Cerise's job, tonight. Neither of them know it yet, though.

"Heard you were going to prom," you say airily.

She nods, huge bespectacled eyes fixed firmly forward. "mm"

"Pretty lucky for a freshman girl to get asked to senior prom," you muse.

"mm"

"But you're going with kind of a weirdo, aren't you?"

Anna stops. You turn and face her.

"i'm sorry Sir... you don't approve"

Is that a question? A statement? Hard to say with that inflection... or lack thereof.

"Well, no, I don't," you admit, in any case. "Connor is... eugh."

She stares at her sneakers.

You scrutinize her. And as you do, it finally dawns on you: "You did it on purpose, didn't you?"

She winces.

"You want to make Cerise jealous, is that it? So you said yes... not because you didn't know how to say no... but because you wanted to get under her skin."

Anna finally meets your eyes. She puts her index finger to her lips in the universal signal of "quiet."

"You little slut!" You laugh.

She grins slyly. Being called degrading names is no deterrent at all for her, you know.

"Well, it worked," you tell her. "She played demolition derby in her room all night last night."

"was it that bad"

"Oh, it's worse than you could imagine. Mom about had a heart attack when she saw the damage."

She grins again. Cheeky bitch.

"For the sake of her sanity," you say, "call it off already. You're going to give her hypertension at the ripe old age of 20."

"i will call it off just as soon she tells me to," Anna says.

You step to her.

"are you going to bully me into changing my mind" she asks, quirking an eyebrow and tilting her head as if daring you to try.

"Whether you change your mind on this or not, I'll definitely bully you."

Right there on the sidewalk, you wrap a hand around her throat. Through the merciless constriction on her airways, she grips your forearm and smiles at you. 

---

Whitney took an after-school job at a daycare center. At the time, you'd thought it was a horrible idea to put her in charge of young, rambunctious, and impressionable children -- but Ms. Carte saw something different in her, and encouraged her to do it.

You have to hand it to the old lady... she was right. Whitney has a rapport with these kids that you'd never have suspected. And she barely ever swears around them.

The main room of the daycare center has interlocking foam jigsaw pieces for flooring, and crude artwork by the children papering the walls; it smells like sour milk and poop in here, despite the frequent applications of Febreeze and anti-bacterial wipes. It's noisy, and hectic, and confusing; every time you visit, you leave nursing a nascent migraine. But this is Whitney's element. The caregivers in charge of the place frequently remark that they've never seen these pre-K demons as well-behaved as they are for the few hours a weekday when Whitney is there to assist.

Usually you avoid the place like the plague (and plague hotspot it really is, as Whitney's recent bout of flu attests to). Today, though, you visit for a particular purpose. You missed Whitney during the school day, since she cut out of auto shop early. And doing this conversation over text would be... well, it wouldn't be right. So here you are.

She's at the head of the room, the toddlers sitting criss-cross-applesauce around her in a rough semicircle. She doesn't notice you come in, because she's so involved with the singing game she's playing, a call-and-response number with the children. So you stand there appreciatively and watch her.

She sings, voice a pitch-perfect contralto as she bobs from side to side: "A duck walked up to a lemonade stand, and he said to the man runnin' the stand -- HEY!"

She points at the children, who, off-key and out-of-sync, sing back: "bum-bum-bum!"

She shrugs, both palms held up facing the ceiling. "Got any grapes?" She points at the kids again, who take their cue:

"Bum-bum-bum!"

It's at this point Whitney finally notices you. She turns your way and smiles toothily at you. Looking back towards her charges, and says: "Shoot! My boyfriend's here. Sit tight, okay?"

This draws a sitcom-audience style "oooooohhhhhhh" from the little snots, plus also croons of "Ms. Carte has a boooooyyyyyyfrieeeeennnnnddddd!"

"I do!" She says, unembarrassed. "And he's cute! Cute!"

They giggle derisively at her. It sort of hurts your feelings that calling you cute is a laugh line, to be perfectly frank.

"Let's count, okay?" Whitney tells them. "Gimme to 60 Mississippi! Be right back!" 

She steps into the hall with you, just outside the door so she can continually look back into the room through the porthole window and make sure no one's getting into trouble.

"All right," she says. "I have a bunch of brats counting Mississippis for me, so make it quick."

"You're really good with these kids," you tell her.

She sort of half-shrugs. "It's nothing special," she insists.

"Sure it is. You're a natural leader."

"You're misoverexaggerating. It's not like I'm running bio-dad's company or something."

"Maybe one day."

"Yeah right," she laughs. "I'm just a glorified babysitter here. You sing songs and play dinosaurs with them and keep them quiet until their mom and dad come to pick 'em up. Anyone could do it. I don't know why everyone makes such a big deal."

"I'm just surprised at how little you curse around them," you say.

"It's because of that," Whitney tells you, nodding at a jar on top of a cabinet just inside the room. You crane your neck to peer up at it. It's full of quarters.

"Swear jar," she tells you. "Not that money matters to me anymore, since I'm basically a billionaire at this point. I mean, I could give a shit about money these days. But it keeps me on my toes."

You give her a meaningful look.

"What?" She says. Then, blinking: "...Oh. Shit. ... Shit! Fuck! Goddamn -- agghhh! You asshole! Oop-- f-- aghhh!"

She clutches her hair with both hands and shakes her head violently. Without swear words, she's down a good 50% of her vocab.

"Why don't you just empty your pockets on this one," you tell her.

She slugs you in the chest. "What do you want, you effing A?"

"You," you tell her.

"What else is new?" She giggles.

You give her a single curt nod: "You -- at prom."

"...What."

"Go to prom with me."

Whitney swoons -- literally -- and you have to catch her in your arms.

"You're S'ing me," she says. "No effing way."

"Yes effing way." You help her back upright again, and abashedly rub the back of your head. "I... uh... had a sign, and some flowers... but you left school early, so."

From your pocket, you pull a little jewel case, inside of which is a ring. Not the kind of ring a billionaire could buy, but you did go a little beyond your means. The diamond is pretty, anyway.

You slide it onto her finger, despite the leaflike trembling of her hand.

"Ally... I'm... I'm not crying, am I?"

"A little."

She wipes her face with the back of her wrist. "Eff. They're gonna make so much fun of me back in there."

"Let 'em." You kiss her. "So is it a date?"

"Eff yes it's a date." 

>Wholesome
[ ] Ms. Guiteau secretly wants to impress Alex?
>[x] Alabaster and Rose's unique living arrangement causes a stir!
>[x] Kay is after a scoop! But can she suffer the dorkiness of everyone in your orbit to interview David Darkbloom's bastard daughter?
[ ] I want to get /fit/ with Saul! I really, really want to!
[ ] Rose needs help with her math homework! And Rose is the perfect person to help!
[ ] The StuCo campaign got kinda heated...
[ ] Is it really a good idea for Mom to bring dessert to a parent-teacher conference?

>Lewd
[ ] Alex forced you. It was practically rape. You're not gay.
>[x] Your imouto is a little too impressionable, isn't she?
>[x] Family movie night Mk.422
[ ] Whatever universe Whitney goes to, she must also rape.
[ ] Seems like Cerise and Anna made up.
>[x] Vivian's evil scheme! 

---

The Mindbreakers are going to Boise!

It's an all-star lineup: you and Rose, joined by Vivian, Whitney, and -- after much poking and prodding -- Alex.

In the last universe, when only you and Rose were there to carry the team, even making it out of the state championship was dicey, and you only just eked out victory on the big stage in nationals. This time around, state was a cakewalk -- there were only a few matches where the losing school's score was within 10k points of yours. Many were complete shutouts. You and the team trounced the very best talent that the very best private schools of California had to offer, and so became the Cinderella story of the academic quiz bowl circuit. The plucky public school kids from unassuming Gilroy, kicking ass and taking names -- who doesn't like to root for the underdog?

There's a few weeks yet to go before you all hop aboard a bus destined for Idaho. Although Mr. Langley is still your coach, and a good one at that, his coaching is now supplemented by the extracurricular efforts of Ms. Carte, whose trivia hounding verges on the legendary. Numerous have been the days recently when you and the team decamped from your practice sessions with Mr. Langley only to head directly to Ms. Carte's apartment and drill all night long.

Ms. Carte is a harsh taskmistress. With coffee a-brewing to keep you all alert, and a stack of trivia almanacs to rifle through, she crams factoids at high speed down your caffeine-lubricated noggins:

First appearance of Bugs Bunny? Porky's Hare Hunt, Alex is quick to reply. Smallest prime number larger than 4,228? You're convinced it's just an educated guess, but Rose immediately and correctly replies 4,229. Date of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand? Vivian knows: June 28th, 1914. Fifth man on the moon? Alan Shepard, of course -- you know that one off the top of your head.

The name of the game, on these nights you spend at Ms. Carte's place, is not so much to prepare for your competition -- your competition is fucking doomed -- it's to compete against one another, for bragging rights. To see who among you can accumulate the most points. Ms. Carte keeps track on a big whiteboard. 100 points for correct responses -100 for incorrect responses. It's hot and heavy. First Rose leads, then Alex, then you, then in swoops Vivian. Back and forth and back and forth, you all battle for the crown. A literal crown. A cardboard crown from Burger King, granted. But a crown nonetheless -- and one of the most jealously coveted in all world history, you would hazard to guess, with as desperate as you all get in fighting for the right to wear it.

It's some of the most fun you've ever had that didn't involve getting your dick wet. 

But if it sounds like someone's missing out here, it's because they are. Whitney is on the team at your invitation, but she really isn't cut out for it. She never answers questions. Though sometimes she privately tells you: "I knew that one" after someone else answers. You believe her when she says so. It's a lack of self-confidence that prevents her from ever trying to answer herself, even when she thinks she knows. Brash as she is in most things, she feels keenly a sense of limitation and inadequacy here. The more nights like these you all spend at Ms. Carte's flexing your brainiac muscles, the more it seems that Whitney suffers the sting of not fitting in.

As long and as well as you've known her... you don't know how to make her feel any better about it.

Her mother does, though.

It's a night like so many others, all of you crowded around Ms. Carte's minimalistically decorated living room, laughing and joking. Rose is on her knees in front of the coffee table with a scrap of scratch paper for those damn math questions she's so good at, pantyhose-clad toes digging into the shag carpet as she thinks. Alex is next to her on the ground, also with scratch paper, eating Pringles one at a time -- using his superhuman skill of making a can last all night with as slowly as he snacks. Vivian is half-sunk into a beanbag chair, casually reading a brick-thick history of the Eastern Roman Empire as she answers questions. Ms. Carte herself is pouring you all a new round of coffee, much appreciated, it being 12:24 AM on a Friday (well technically Saturday... but... you know.) You sit on the loveseat, wielder of The Crown™ (for now), and Whitney is curled around you, sleepy, morose, and mute, but adoring you nonetheless.

"How long have you had that thing?" Ms. Carte asks you.

You open your mouth to say, but Vivian, turning the page of her Byzantine history book, interjects: "7 hours, 15 minutes, and..." she checks her cell's clock. "...49 seconds."

"We need to strip you of your crown!" Ms. Carte says. "That's way too long."

"I agree. I totally agree," Rose says.

"No one asked you, pig," you say gruffly. From where you sit, you lightly nudge the small of her back with your foot. Face curling in anger, she turns and hurls a pen at you. Whitney's response in defense of you is disproportionate, to say the least: she kicks Rose square in the forehead, knocking her onto her back on the carpet. You can't help laughing, although it looks like it really hurt. Rose is gonna make Whitney pay for that one, you're sure.

Pulling herself back into a sitting position, Rose sighs: "it's because Alex and I keep splitting the vote on these math questions, so to speak... he should make way for me."

"I can't help it if I'm faster at answering than you are!" Alex says, smiling viciously politely. "Haven't you been in last place for a while tonight? Isn't it you who should be making way for me?"

Rose's face turns a shade of red never before documented by Pantone. 

Ms. Carte sighs. "It's no use. I'm gonna have to go in."

She picks up her thickest almanac and dumps it in Whitney's lap. The thing lands with an audible slap, the book's paperboard binding colliding hard against the exposed skin left by Whitney's short-cut spats. Whitney unlatches herself from you as she doubles forward, clutching her groin and wheezing in pain.

"Jesus fuck, ma! You hit my coochie!"

"I need your help, baby," Ms. Carte says.

"With what? Calculating how many joules of force you can smack me with before I lose my family jewels?"

(Joules are a unit of energy, not force, but you won't nitpick. It's a witty reference to make on the fly. These nights of drilling are leaving a mark on her brain, whether she thinks so or not.)

Ms. Carte swiftly walks to the whiteboard in front of the coffee table where she's keeping track of the score. She erases Whitney's name, to make way for her own: RENEE - 0. No handicapping here, even though you've all got hours of accumulated points on her.

"Don't test me, old woman," you warn her. "I'll beat your ass too, same as all these other idiots."

She ignores your braggadocio. "I need you to be the quizmaster for a while," she tells her daughter.

"Ooooh, quizmaster," she says sarcastically. "Guess I better put on my robe and wizard hat."

"Do you want me to grab you a robe and wizard hat?" Ms. Carte asks, tone seemingly genuine.

"...Do you actually have a robe and wizard hat?" Whitney asks in return, taken by surprise at this offer.

"...Should I not have a robe and wizard hat?" Ms. Carte asks -- now suddenly uncertain.

"Why on Earth would you own a robe and wizard hat?" Rose demands, aghast.

"I... wore a robe and wizard hat for Halloween the other year..." Ms. Carte meekly explains.

"Well, I for one think it's super cool that you own a robe and wizard hat," Alex says, trying to be supportive.

"Ms. Carte does look quite bewitching in her robe and wizard hat, pardon the pun," Vivian says from over on the beanbag chair. "I am certain that Whitney would look even more fetching in the robe and wizard hat."

"I am going to go literally insane if I hear those words one more time," you half-shout. "Oh my God."

Whitney laughs. "Don't get me wrong -- I agree with Alex. That's super cool, Mom!"

"Really?"

"Hell yes! Go get me your robe and wizard--"

You kick the coffee table, making everyone else in the room startle. Everyone looks at you reproachfully.

"Sorry," you say.

A few moments later, Whitney is wearing a robe and wizard hat.

And like that, she becomes the designated quizzard -- her turn of phrase -- the Merlin to your Burger King Arthur. While meanwhile Ms. Carte joins the others in pursuit of a treacherous usurpation plot. Heavy lies the head that wears The Crown™... 

Those dirty bitches try, but they can't strip you of your Crown™, nor your lands and titles. All hail King Soliloquy, first of his name. One by one, down they go, despite being practically wired up to an IV drip of coffee: Alex nods off, head in Rose's lap, enjoying the softness of her meaty thighs for a pillow (face-down, check). Then out goes Rose herself, head resting on her arms atop the coffee table. After her, Vivian, mewling like a tired kitten as she gets onto the loveseat between you and Whitney and literally paws at Whitney's legs, then circles around on all fours, curls up, and finally passes out on her sister in much the same way Alex did on Rose. Finally your quizzard herself flags, the almanac slipping from her limp grip as she trails off mid-sentence trying to read another question. She slumps backward, jaw hanging open, with the brim of her oversized hat covering her eyes, like a magical Mexican taking a siesta. Her snoring sets in double-quick, and has the volume of Leer jet.

It's after 4 AM. You could use a little sleep yourself. But you've got this thing... you hate sleeping in lighted spaces. It's too bright out here in Ms. Carte's living room. "Could you get the lights for me?" You ask her, turning your head on the loveseat's backrest to peer at her where she sits cross-legged on her recliner. "I'm dozing off, too..."

"Weak," Ms. Carte says.

"...What?"

"Pathetic."

"Ms. Carte--"

"I expected better of you, Alabaster!"

"It's 4 in the goddamn morning."

"The night is young!"

"It literally isn't even nighttime anymore. It's morning -- 4 in the morning."

"Semantics. Technicalities. If you go to sleep now, you concede defeat!"

She stands, and reaches for your Crown™. You swat her hand away. She reaches for it again. You swat her hand away again.

"I'm 5,000 points ahead of you," you sneer. "At the current rate, even if it's just the two of us playing, it would take you about 10 hours to catch up--"

"I'm up for the challenge! Guess you aren't."

"No. I'm not. I win, Ms. Carte. Get over it."

"You lose by forfeit!" Ms. Carte says, pounding a palm in her fist. 

This time, when she reaches for the Crown™ and you try to swat her hand away, she's ready. She grabs your wrist and pries it back. Thinking quick, you try to gently, but firmly, push her away with one of your knees. But she counters this by tugging on your arm -- wrenching you into an awkward half-standing, half-sitting posture that leaves you unbalanced. She intends to use this to her advantage, but it backfires. Because you topple forward -- and she comes along, stumbling a couple steps backwards before falling to the floor with you. She lands on her back, and you land on top of her.

Your precious Crown™ falls from your head, landing perfectly on her face; you see her features ringed by the cardboard circle, cast in shadow, peering surprisedly back up at you. You peer surprisedly back down at her. She's very soft to lie on.

Her hand shoots up, and grasps the Crown™; your hand grasps the other side. There's a brief tug-o-war, which is spectacularly inadvisable to attempt with a material as flimsy as cardboard. The thing rips in half, leaving each of you holding now just the tatters of the ruined Quiz Kingdom. You lie there together for a brief moment, peering at the destroyed crown in your clutches -- and realizing how silly this all really is. Then Ms. Carte drops the half she's holding, and kisses you.

You roll around on the floor of her living room kissing each other desperately, while her daughter, and her surrogate daughter, and Rose and Alex, all obliviously sleep. This is the first time, at least as far as she knows, that you've crossed this rubicon. But she leaps into this breach of teacher-student propriety joyfully, with both feet.

"Alabaster-- Alabaster--" she whispers between searching kisses. She holds two tufts of your hair down by the roots, and roots her tongue around your mouth.

You gulp for air as best you can. "Ms. Carte -- I really want you... I really, really want you..."

"My room," she pants.

"Right here," you counter, trying to pull her labcoat off.

"No -- my room -- come on--"

She gets you on your back, with her atop -- then helps you unsteadily upright. Holding your hands, walking backwards while stooping, she quickly guides you to her darkened bedroom.

Giggling like an excited schoolgirl, she says: "Let's make it a game..."

"A game?"

"Let's drill, Alabaster~"

>[x] Solo drill.
[ ] It's bound to wake someone up. [1 / 2 / 3 / 4 others (choose who)] 

Ms. Carte's bedroom is as sparse as her living room. This obviously isn't a woman who reads a lot of Martha Stewart Living. There's only the dresser, the bookcase, the closet, the TV, and the bed. White covers, white sheets. And oooh, what's this, a little bit bold on the choice of curtains: powder blue. You admire it -- she lives simply. 

Fucking Renee D. Carte comes so naturally to you that you forget it isn't so natural to her anymore. When you try to push her back onto her bed, she falters, and refuses to go down. Instead, she lays her palms flat against your chest. Her voice develops a tremor: "You're -- you're so -- Alabaster..."

You kiss her again, and repeat, "I really want you..."

Trying to reclaim the initiative, she guides you to a sitting position on the comforter. She puts a balled fist to her lips, clears her throat. You gaze expectantly up at her.

"You're involved with my daughter," she says, rather obviously. "Both my daughters."

You nod.

"And on top of that, I'm your teacher."

You nod.

"So, then -- sexual contact would be... wildly inappropriate."

"Whitney and Vivian are both fine with it," you offer.

"I know they are!" She says. "They've been telling me for months now-- how they think we'd make a cute couple! I assumed they were just teasing me, but..."

"Do you think we make a cute couple?" You prod.

"That's beside the point!" She says fiercely. She puts her hands on her waist. "I'm not just your teacher, you know -- I'm also your coach. And my primary concern is making sure you attain peak performance in the championship. PEAK performance."

You fall backwards theatrically, splaying your arms, and sinking into the soft mattress. 

"Alabaster!!"

"I'm dead," you tell her. "You rejected my advances... and now I lie here, dead of a broken heart..."

She gets onto the mattress too, on her knees, looming over you just beside your head. You open one eye.

She folds her arms just under her massive tits. "Ally, we need to drill!"

"Ally?" You say.

She clasps a hand over her lips. Her eyes widen. You smirk. 

She clears her throat again: "Uh. Whitney's verbal tics have a way of rubbing off." And that's true.

She takes one of your hands in both of hers, and forces you to your butt. You really are exhausted, and you'd just as soon have stayed down for the count. Grumpy, you say: "You dragged me here under false pretenses, Ms. Carte... I thought you wanted to do something a lot more interesting than quiz bowl drilling."

Without warning, she straddles you. If you were sleepy before, you suddenly aren't so sleepy now. 

Flinging her hair to one side, she grabs your shoulders, and kisses your cheek. The way she nips your earlobe sends a warm chill down your spine. 

She whispers: "Drilling can be interesting, too."

"Make up your mind," you whisper back. "Do you want to do this or not? You're gonna drive me crazy like this."

"This isn't sexual contact," she says. "Let's make that clear. This is just performance training. Understand? Completely appropriate and wholesome. Even prescribed by most authorities on training regimens..."

You'll play along with it. "Okay," you say, "so how do we keep my performance at its peak?"

"Training works best when you're working towards an incentive," she tells you. "So every coach finds the best way to incentivize her team. In your case -- you, Alabaster -- I know what your incentives are, all right."

With your hands behind you propping you up, you lean your head forward, and nibble her neck. She lets you do it, giggling huskily.

After that, then, comes a luxurious makeout session that seems to last forever. She sits on top of you, kissing you and writhing against you, grinding her crotch to yours. It has the effect she wants. She brings you to full hardness, your cock flopping over inside your pants and swelling to attention. Then she keeps going -- until you find yourself very close to cumming in your boxers just from dry-humping. She's as good at teasing you as her daughter is. Better, even. 

At last, she relents with the kissing. But just long enough to ask: "Alabaster... can you contain yourself if I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Depends," you say, between nips at her delicate neck and collarbone. You run a hand under her shirt. She doesn't stop you. Not even when you begin to paw at her giant breasts. 

"Scoot forward... and take off your pants."

Ms. Carte climbs off of you. She sinks to her knees at the foot of the bed. You do as she asks while she positions herself. You tug your jeans off. Boxers, too. You toss them both in the corner. And thus you sit there, nude from the hips down, on Ms. Carte's bed.

"Oh my God," Ms. Carte says with a tone of wonderment. She puts both her soft hands on either of your knees, lightly applying pressure to signal that she wants you to stay spread. She can't stop staring. "It actually is the size of the Oklahoma panhandle..."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

There's no doubt that it's pretty big, even compared to a taller woman like her. Your member is a thick, veiny fucker longer than her face, and about half as wide. Sitting underneath it, she seems kind of daunted. Second thoughts? Probably she's wondering what it would do to her insides if you put it in her. But there's no going back from this point. She would never admit defeat in such a humiliating fashion. She'll forge ahead.

As if trying to capture a butterfly that would flutter away if she's too sudden, Ms. Carte eases her hands off your knees, and slowly clasps your cock. With your fuckmeat in hand, she tents her fingers over the top of it. The tender sensation of her palms makes a trickle of pre-ejaculate ooze from the cocktip.

"I'm... sorry about this," Ms. Carte says breathily. "This next thing isn't part of the training. But -- I really need to --" 

She leans forward and parts her fingers just wide enough to make room for her cute button nose. It looks as if she were holding a tissue to her face. With her nose directly against the tip of your prick, she shakes her head from side to side, smearing your sticky precum all around under he nostrils. A dreamy smile spreads on her face as she inundates herself with your scent. It's a lewd, ticklish feeling. Her efforts are tormenting your prick's most sensitive spots while she gets selfishly high on your smell. Her eyes roll back and her mouth starts to drift open, wetly, the saliva pooling on her tongue... she's like a junkie for you...

When you pet her, she snaps out of it. She leans back again, and once more fully encompasses your dick between her tented fingers. She rubs you the way a cook might roll out strings of dough, but so much more slowly, and gently. She twists the balls of her palms in opposing directions, dragging your foreskin across the slimy head, over, and over, and over again. You moan.

"Did you know, Alabaster..." she says, grinning, "I have very little gag reflex."

"Oh fuck, Ms. Carte..."

"Call me Renee."

You try to jut your hips forward, but she lets go of your dick and firmly presses your thighs down. This isn't for you to play Mr. Quickshot on, is the message she conveys loud and clear. This is for you to teeter on the edge as long as possible while she tests your skills. 

"You've got this big, horny thing between your legs," she says. "But what would you do for a little relief, huh?"

"Anything," you plead.

"Here's the game," she says. She holds the edge of the bed between your legs, and rises upwards on her knees a little so that your prick's underside rests across her face. "I'll start sucking you. I'll suck you for a little bit... then I'll ask you a question... if you give the right answer, then I'll suck you just a little deeper... and if you get it all the way inside me... you can have sex with my throat. Sound good?" 

"Yes," you heave. "Anything... anything..."

Features half obscured by your dick as you leak precum into her hair, she asks you: "what is the capital of North Dakota?" 

"Bismarck," you say. You've never been happier to have memorized all 50 state capitals. 

"Good." She lets her jaw drift open, and gets your tip inside her mouth. Her tongue wags back and forth, scraping the frenulum. 

As with when she was inhaling your dick scent, her eyes roll back at the unadulterated pleasure of sucking Alabaster Soliloquy's penis. She lets out a long, hot exhalation through her nostrils that tickles your nuts. You're about to blow your load in her, but then she pulls off.

"Who killed McKinley?"

"Czolgosz. Suck me... fuck! Just suck me!" 

Her mouth sinks back down on your dick. You scruff her hair. But when you try to press her lower, she punishes you by pulling dislodging you entirely. You hiss in sexual agony.

"Don't stop," you beg.

A little strand of her drool mixed with your precum slides down her chin. "Ship Darwin took his famous voyage in?"

"The Beagle."

This time when Ms. Carte swallows your dick, she's got about a quarter of it inside the lovely, slick and hot interior of her mouth. 

She bobs up and down -- gauging the proper depth by the spot around your shaft where she has her thumb, fore- and middle fingers curled. The slllck, sllllck noise of her blowjob is like music. 

For the next half hour, whenever you answer a question correctly, those fingers slide a notch further down; and more of your cock disappears down her maw. She isn't fussy about the mess she makes -- she likes to give nice, wet, sloppy blowjobs. Her saliva runs in fat dollops down your manhood, and over your balls. 

Her tongue isn't shy, either. The almost snakelike way she flutters it against you is enough to drive you insane all on its own. Whenever you try to break the rules and start humping against her bobbing tongue, she cruelly punishes you by moving that depth gauge back a notch -- leaving just a small fraction of your cock out in the cold. You so desperately want to grab her face and hump yourself stupid, but you can't.

Date of the Trinity test? 7/16/45. Discoverer of oxygen? Lavoisier. Deepest lake on Earth? Baikal. You don't miss a single question, because missing means you get your orgasm delayed... and you really, really need to fucking cum.

As she gets closer to having you fully seated inside her mouth, your cockhead brushes past her uvula... and from then, every subsequent bit of progress she allows seems to be less than the previous. You want to go balls deep in Ms. Carte's skillful gullet. Because she knows it's what you want, she intends to stretch it out... to torment you... and man, are you being tormented.

She was right, too: she has very little gag reflex. The only distress that forcing your humongous dick into her tight esophagus causes is a deep blush in her cheeks. It makes her saliva flow even more freely, also. And her voice is a little hoarse after a while, whenever she gives you another question. 

Using her mouth is just like fucking a pussy. Except you don't get to fuck. You just have to sit there, being sucked on, and answer questions for a tiny bit more of that pleasure.

Finally, even Ms. Carte's teasing can't hold off the inevitable. After a question on the author of Portnoy's Complaint -- Roth, naturally -- those fingers she was using to measure the depth leave your shaft entirely. "Good game," she says. "Here's your reward." She sinks the rest of the way down on you. Then she lets you stay inside her -- not moving a muscle at all, except to lovingly knead your testicles. That alone is a sight worth a billion dollars... Ms. Carte with your cock completely embedded in her mouth, playing with your nuts to coax the semen out. With your cock buried down her throat and your pubes mashed up against her nose, it's an obscene view you never want to lose. 

After a few moments of this, you lock eyes. The glint in hers indicates: "Well?" 

Well, here's what: you take her ears for handles, and start to fuck. You're as gentle as you can be, but that's not very gentle at all. Your butt leaves the mattress on every stroke. Fuck, yes, you're cumming... you're going to cum in your teacher's mouth.

She stops sucking you. 

"No--" you groan in despair, when she pulls her mouth from your dick and slinks away from between your legs.

But you should have known better than to think she just wanted to tease you again. Getting your prick in her mouth has left her in need, too. She doesn't just want your sperm in her tummy. She wants it somewhere better.

She gets on her back in the bed. "Fuck me," she pleads. Her voice is tiny, but filled with need.

You rip her clothes from her body like an impatient kid on Christmas morning. Labcoat, pants, panties -- all go sailing over your shoulder as you strip her. 

Ms. Carte's fleshy form is as wonderful as you remember. She has a ring of tiny red bite marks left from the elastic of her too-small panties, and her smooth inner thighs are all wet. Her cowlike udders jiggle a little just from her rapid breathing.

"Is this sexual contact?" You ask, as you slide your hand between your bodies and start to finger her. Sticky, moist, and hot -- just perfect weather there.

She shivers. "Yes, yes it is..."

"Is it wildly inappropriate?"

"Yes... yes!"

"What if someone out there heard us... or walked in, and saw? What if Whitney saw?"

She shakes her head emphatically. "I don't care about that!" She screams, as if purposely trying to invite it. "I just want you to fuck me!"

You won't keep her waiting. You line your prick up with her hole, and thrust yourself home. 

Her whine of delight could pierce your eardrum. She arches her spine and grips her sheets.

"This is what I needed..." she gulps, as she shudders from the electric thrill of getting nailed.

"To get fucked?" You grunt.

"You," she counters. "I needed you." She holds her arms wide. "Do your thing... do whatever you want... and finish -- inside me..."

You hug her close, and fuck her. It's your reward for perfect performance. Hers, too. Teacher and student, or coach and player -- you both reap your reward for a long, hard night's work. It's a simplistic reward, but such a sweet one. The reward of a careless orgasm inside a raw cunt. There are no more questions to answer. No dithering over how unsafe it is, no hand-wringing about how inappropriate it is. You're both beyond caring, who knows or whether they approve of it. You're fucking -- and that takes precedence. The only thing that matters anymore is getting off together. 

You lock lips, and swirl your tongue around with hers as you blow your creamy cock-load. Ms. Carte's mauve pussy gets a gooey explosion deep inside. One of the best internal cumshots you've ever deposited, in your opinion. It didn't take anything more than a bit of teasing and a lot of pent-up need, to give you a climax so powerful that it literally knocks you both out. You actually pass out -- you and Ms. Carte alike -- even as you cum all over each other. You pass out with each other, nuzzling and necking and nutting. Her dopey smirk as you unload is all the thanks you need. 

"We do make a cute couple..." she says, just before she passes into the world of dreams.

---

It's not a good idea to fuck someone when you're both exhausted and other people, who you don't want knowing, are in the next room over. Because those other people can tend to wake up before you do, and discover that you've been fucking.

That's what happens that Saturday, when you awaken around 11 AM to the sound of Whitney's voice: "Ally? Mom? Where you guys at? We should shoot up a Denny's!"

(What she means is that you should "hit" up a Denny's, as in eat at one, and this unfortunate verbal flub is one you've had a tough time weaning her of.)

You're up and alert when you hear this clarion call. Unluckily, Ms. Carte isn't. And there's an even bigger issue to contend with: she's on top of you. You're pinned.

This damn nympho. No wonder her daughter is the way she is -- it's inherited. Ms. Carte wanted to fuck you while you were asleep... and so she got you into a reverse missionary and rode you all through the early morning hours as you phased in and out of consciousness. Now, with her weight pressing down on you, it isn't possible to leap from bed and don your clothes, or hide in the closet. You can't even cover your nakedness with the blanket because you're lying on top of it.

Your only real chance is to nudge her and desperately hiss: "Ms. Carte-- Ms. Carte--"

"Mmmm?" She murmurs, body jostling, butt all jiggly, her head resting against your sweat-slick chest. She smacks her lips.

"Wake up."

"Oooh-- ohhhh... you're inside me..."

She starts to ride.

"Wake up!" You whisper. "Whitney--"

Her eyes are still closed, and she's still obviously half-asleep, as she gyrates on your morning wood, and slurs: "She's not here right now... let me take care of you..."

Footsteps approach. "Mom? Where did you go?"

Finally, Ms. Carte snaps out of it. She stops stone-still. Her eyes bulge. She props herself up on her palms, to climb off of you and stop the door from opening -- but it's far too late. She gets no further before Whitney and Vivian step into the bedroom to find her butt-ass naked atop you. They've got the perfect vantage, and receive and eyeful of how your dirty bits are connected, plus the evidence of a long, long, long session pooling around you both.

Whitney gasps; Vivian giggles. Just as quickly as they made their entrance, they take their exit: Whitney slams the door closed, leaving you alone with Ms. Carte again.

Since Ms. Carte had her back to the pair -- or more aptly, had her ass to the pair -- she didn't actually see them come in and go out. She only heard the reaction. So, timidly, she asks: "Did they see?"

You try a white lie -- a white whale of a lie. "No, I don't think they saw."

Ms. Carte falls back against you, and lets out a groan of despair, her voice muzzled by your chest. "They saw," she cries. 

You stroke the back of her head in a consoling way, until she can bring herself to look you in the eyes again.

"Guess there's no going back," you tell her.

"I'm so sorry, Alabaster."

"For what?"

She shrugs. She's so embarrassed, and sad, too -- you guess she feels like she's done something awful that will make everyone hate her.

You push your face forward and nuzzle her in a special way. It's something she taught you many trillions of years ago -- but she doesn't know that.

Her face turns pink. Her jaw parts and her eyes glimmer as they turn to saucers. She lets out a choked "--ghh--" of surprise.

But then you feel her erratic pulse go steady again. And at last, understanding the game, she returns the gesture in kind.

Together you lie there for many long minutes, doing just that, bonding in that special way.

You eventually go another round in her -- why not? -- but you never stop rubbing your noses together, and giggling lowly at how tickly it feels, like two little kids who just found out they like-like each other.

Although Ms. Carte takes you all to Denny's, Whitney pouts the entire time. She keeps asking the waitress if Ms. Carte qualifies for the senior discount; and repeatedly calls her mother "Boyfriend Fucker."

Ms. Carte is over her earlier mortification, though. Now she finds her daughter's jealousy quaint. "Your boyfriend fucks a lot of girls," she's quick to point out. (News gets around.)

"But you're my Mom!"

Ms. Carte strikes a cheeky pose, one wrist behind her head, her buxom chest jutting out to show off her assets. "Yep. I'm a bona fide MILF. Sorry, baby."

Whitney throws a piece of sauteed red pepper at her.

Ms. Carte winks. "We can share, you know."

"I agree," Vivian tells her sister. She laboriously finds the straw in her glass of orange juice and sucks down a dainty sip, before adding: "sharing is caring."

"Hmmph."

But it's fine. Whitney is only pretending to be upset. You know what her real beef is: that she didn't get to take part. But there will be time for that, too. 

---

You spend a lot of late afternoons at North High with Rose in the StuCo room. The business of running the student council is never one that particularly interested you, and so Rose gets to be the most powerful vice president in the school's history. But at least this time around, you're helping. 

Even if planning for festivals and pep rallies is an awful drag, you find ways to keep things entertaining.

On one such late schoolday for example: you're taking a bathroom break when Rose texts you. Standing at the urinal, you read the message. All it says is: "hungry?"

She couldn't have waited two minutes to ask you in person? Oh well. You text back that you are. And she instantly fires back: "I'll get a snack."

When you return to the club room, you understand. 

Standing there in the middle of the class, stark naked, her skin seeming to practically glow as she stands with her back to the golden California sunset, is Rose. This in and of itself is hardly any surprise, though. The real surprise is what she does when you enter. She turns, bends over the teacher's desk at the head of the room, and spreads her fat ass for you. Perched about the only place they could be perched down there, are two chocolate bonbons. 

"Come get your snack," Rose says over her shoulder.

You go get your snack. 

Usually, kneeling beneath Rose is a degradation, but this is way too fun. And you know what, you actually were hungry, and these chocolates are really good. You eat the candy from her cunt and asshole, slowly chewing these liqueur-filled treats that ooze with her arousal. You lick up what melted inside her while she waited, too, doting lover you are. Wouldn't want her to suffer any kind of adverse effects from putting candy where the sun doesn't shine. And you have to make sure you get it all. So you can't be faulted for spending a long time down there. A half hour... more? She keeps a leg helpfully hiked up on the desk, for you to work.

Of course primal need does eventually call, and you get down to the main event. You have sex with her like that, over the desk, doggy style, using her hair for handles. It's going pretty normally, and you make casual conversation while you fuck:

"Are you going home tonight?" You ask.

"I don't know. I -- ohhh -- that's good. Like that. I don't know. Why?"

"You have to pack for Boise, right?"

"We have time."

"Nngh-- oh, shit -- I love your cunt..."

"Do you want to get dinner after this?"

"I already ate... where the hell did you get those chocolates?"

"Ffffuuuuck-- I'm cumming! I'm cummmmmming! Oh -- oh -- whew. ... I got them from Vivian..."

"What."

"She gave them to me. They're amazing, aren't they?"

You stop thrusting.

"What's wrong?" Rose asks.

"Fuck," you say. Not in the fun way. 

It's only now that you're starting to realize... you and Rose have both become a little sluggish, haven't you? You're not really standing anymore, you're more just lying on top of her, over the desk... 

"This... is bad..." you tell her.

The world throbs around you -- and slowly, fight though you may, you lose consciousness.

---

When you wake up, it's after dark. You're tightly bound, hand and foot. 

Groaning, you sit upright. You feel your vision unblur and your pupils adjust to the room's low light. Rose is similarly hogtied, propped naked against the wall on the opposite end of the room.
 
Vivian stands in front of you, dressed in a ridiculous form-fitting leather costume that leaves her cunt and nipples exposed. She wields a cat-o-nine-tails and a black cat masque.

This is your fault, you're pretty sure. Vivian saw you in one of your... weaker moments... with Rose, and got the wrong idea of the power dynamic here. And since you haven't been fucking her as often in the past couple weeks...
 
Rose gains consciousness not long after you do. "Oh, what the fuck," she says, looking from you to Vivian and back again. "Seriously?"
 
You stare up at Vivian. "What are you doing?" you ask.
 
"B-be quiet!" she commands. "You will s-speak when spoken to!"
 
You frown. Vivian tied you with red satin rope, but it was a rush job, and she must not have been very good at maneuvering your dead weight while working. You could definitely undo these knots by pulling on them. 

"I'm sorry," you say, "but you do know that I could break free from these ropes literally at any time I want, right?"
 
"I said quiet!" She cracks the whip -- but instead of the sharp snap she's looking for, the tails just flop round uselessly. She tries a second time and gets the same result.
 
"This can't be real..." Rose says.
 
"This is what you like," Vivian asserts, although it comes out sounding more like a question. "This is what you want. Isn't that right, you, you, you... p-p-p-pervert?"
 
"I wish I could hate you to DEATH," Rose says, straining against her bonds. "Both of you! Oh my GOD."
 
Vivian ignores her. She steps closer, doing her best to loom. But even with you sitting down, she isn't much taller. She arches her back, as if to gain extra height. This pushes her little button of a clit against your nose. Her tummy is taut against the smooth confines of her leather suit. Her delicate skin is flushed darkly red. You watch her with a bemused grin.
 
"W-worship me, you w-worm..."
 
>[x] "Submit"
[ ] Enough of this silliness.

Although you enjoy little more than bullying Vivian, especially when she's uppity, you also enjoy little more than having your tongue inside her tiny pussy. Maybe you're just in a pussy-eating mood today. And with Vivian wagging her eager cunt under your nose, filling your head with the clean, sharp scent of her arousal, and tickling your face with her throbbing clit... you can't resist. 

You open your mouth, snake out your tongue, and--

Vivian whips you. 

Or at least she tries to whip you. As with when she tried to crack the cat o' nine tails in the air, she doesn't produce any force. The leather straps gently fwap against your shoulder. 

Trying to get across that this should have hurt, she does the same thing to you again, more pointedly -- but just as forcelessly. You tear your eyes from that beautiful cuntlet, to gaze down at your perfectly unabraded, unbruised shoulder still draped by her whip's tassels like an epaulet. 

"Ow," you say.

"H-how dare you--" she begins, then gulps, and continues: "--try to put your DISGUSTING mouth on -- on -- on my cunt without perm-- without permission?"

Her knees are knocking. 

"Idiot!" Rose shrieks. "Stupid little brat! You have to use your *wrist*--"

Vivian goes to where Rose sits and summarily delivers a vicious, open-handed slap. Not to Rose's face, but to her cowtits. Rose gasps through her teeth in sudden excruciating pain. 

"Be quiet, Vice President Mallory." No stutter there.

What flickers across Rose's face is fear -- honest fear -- and also recognition. This is more in line with the Vivian she knew before, who could be domineering when she wanted to be. Tonight will be far from the first time that Vivian has victimized her. 

Vivian produces a ball gag. Not just any ball gag. The strap for it comes from around her wrist. And the red ball itself comes from out of her asshole. She reaches around her body and pulls it out with a soft plop, then affixes it to the leather. Rose's eyes go wild, and she shakes her head violently no. Vivian won't be deterred. She leans in, cups Rose's chin to keep her face held steady, and forces the thing into Rose's mouth. Circling, she does the buckle up behind Rose's head -- extra tight. Rose will have to suck Vivian's ass off that ball gag, and watch what the two of you do without providing any color commentary. It's gonna drive her bonkers, you know.

Such a contrast. When Vivian returns the way she came, to stand again before you, her bravado evaporates. 

"S-see how I -- overpowered your dominatrix--!" 

"Let's get one thing straight here," you say. "Rose is not my dominatrix."

Rose tries to shout her own rebuttal, but she's tongue-tied. Vivian squeaks: "P-pathetic! Apologize to your new mistress for... for... trying to sully my h-h-hole with your lips!" 

You bow your head, and although you try to stave it off, you begin to snicker. 

"What's so funny?" Vivian says. She seems to be trying for derisive but comes across as indecisive. 

You'll submit. If it means getting a whiff of that honey-sweet pussy again and having her ride your face for the next hour or so, you can put up with some roleplay. The fact that it's going to drive Rose literally insane is just a bonus.

"What's so funny!" Vivian says. She seems to be trying for threatening but comes across as anxious.

"I submit," you say, in your best impression of a broken slave's soft monotone. You keep your head bowed in a show of deference.

Vivian's reply is slow to come. You resist the urge to look up. One, because it would be against the spirit of the game. Two, because if you glimpse that cunny again, you're liable to leap free from the ties that bind you and rape it into the shape of your cock. 

"G-good... good..." Vivian finally drawls between jittery breaths. She seems to be trying for lecherous but comes across as gobsmacked.

She takes your chin in palm just as she did with Rose. But unlike with Rose, Vivian's hand trembles here. Her grip is weak and clammy. At the same time, she lifts a foot into the air, and presses the ball of it to your erection. The soft skin of her sole is nice on your prick, but she isn't putting any pressure on you. In fact she seems to be actively avoiding pressing down on your cock at all. Afraid of actually hurting you? 

In any case, it leaves her entire weight supported only by her other foot. And in this pose, she's far off her center of balance. She wobbles as if being battered by invisible gales, using her free hand to keep upright like a tightrope walker.

"M-men are all -- ah--" she teeters dangerously to one side, and takes a moment to right herself. "M-men are all the s-same."

"Punish me, mistress," you tell her.

She gives your member the feeblest and most ineffective nudge ever. Is that what she counts as stepping on your cock? It tickles more than anything. And it nearly tips her balance past the point of no return again: she has to windmill her arms to stay upright.

You play up the pretend agony: "Ow!! I'm sorry, mistress!"

You look her in the eyes. The contours of her face are visible from behind the edges of that ridiculous cat masque. She's blushing bright pink beneath it.

Stepping back from you, she gets her bearings and waggles the cat o' nine tails nonthreateningly at you. "Beg me for the right to, to... to service me!"

What you say is only really half made-up:

"Please, mistress. I need your pussy in my worthless slave face. I want you to torture me with your holes... I want to service you with my tongue. Please... I submit my body to you, mistress."

She's shaking like she's been dunked in icewater. 

A few moments of silence pass, punctuated only by Rose angrily mmmf-mmmf-mmmf-ing up a storm on the other side of the room.

"...Mistress," you prompt.

"Gooooood slave," she drawls, snapping out of it -- sort of like speaking to a dog she's trying not to anger.

Was it part of her plan to have you actually consent to this mistreatment? Is she waiting for you to break free of your bonds and take control? Or is she just awkward and unsure of herself? 

Either way, it's fun to keep her on pins and needles like this... and she's still aroused, as her drippy little cunt proves. As she steps towards you, you again enjoy its sweet aroma wafting across your face, and can clearly see every little dewy droplet of her juice trickling across every smooth fold and crevice of her labia. Her arousal makes her whole crotch shiny, like something laminated, and from this close up, you can see her clitoris actually throbbing lewdly.

She rests a palm on top of your head. She rises to tiptoes, and then back down, over and again, rubbing her horny slit against your nose, lips, and jaw. Masturbating on you. 

"L-l-lick me, s-s-slave," she chokes.

You wouldn't be able to resist even if you tried. Your tongue, when flattened, is wider than her mound. You can lap the cream from the exterior without ever getting it wedged inside her vice-tight fuckhole. So you do just that -- to enjoy her taste -- and also, cruelly, to tease her. As you repeatedly scrape your tongue back and forth across her twat-lips and her clitoral hood, she makes the absolute most adorable little sighs and squeaks of pleasure. Her grip on you tightens, and she clutches a tuft of your hair. 

For a few moments, she rubs herself rapidly against your lapping tongue, trying to amplify her carnal pleasure. Her cunt squirts erratic little needles of liquid. She starts to coo, "ahhh, ahhh~" -- But she must think that this enthusiasm is unbecoming of the dour mistress she's trying to portray. She stills her humping, and then yanks you by the hair. You let your head tilt back the way she intends it to. Your chin drips with her cum as you stare back at her.

"How is your mistress's pussy?" She says, managing not to stammer, but gulping hard when she finishes.

"Delicious," you reply. "Thank y--"

"Thank me!"

"Thank you."

She tugs the other way now, trying to tilt your face back towards her waiting cunt. You let it happen, and smother yourself once more in her overheated loli fuckditch. Her milky flesh is so tender against your tongue, and her gash is so delicate-tasting, that you can hardly believe it. You're worshiping her vagina -- not because she commands you to, but because you really do worship it. Vivian deserves to orgasm on your wiggling tongue and reddening face -- deserves the chance to ride your face to a thundering cum, even if it deprives you of a little oxygen. Such a lovely pussy as hers has earned that right, at least.

Vivian puts her second hand on your head and grips a second tuft of hair. Rolling your eyes skyward, you can just barely glimpse the rest of her body from over the hillock of her puffy mons. Her posture is severely hunched, and her eyelids are fluttering at about 300 BPM. At some point in her mounting ecstasy, she inadvertently pushed her cat masque up, so that it lies half on her forehead, and reveals her features. She's chewing her lower lip, still blushing madly. She's drooling, too. Literally drooling -- the little strands oozing from the corners of her lips as she worries them. The leather suit she wears is bunching up around her tummy, and her pale nipples are rock hard.

Her breathing becomes increasingly labored. She supports her entire weight with your head -- her fists and wrists pressing down against the top of your skull, and her wonderfully soft, hot cunt pressing into your face. You dig around inside her with your tongue, making your cunnilingus extra wet for her. She's as smooth on the inside of her body as she is on the outside. And the more she creams up, the sweeter it gets.

She tries, the doll, to degrade you -- but her obscenities dissolve into wanton moans of pleasure:

"W-w-worm-- you dirty, pathetic-- ahhn~ -- nasty -- ahhnn~ -- perverted-- aaaaahhhnn~~"

At last her cunt clenches down hard around your probing tongue. Here cums the big one. You curl your lips into an O and quickly envelop her entire pussy. You suck and blow, in an alternating rhythm, and jab your tongue viciously in and out like a cock. You can't use fingers to please her clitty, so you have to improvise: you use the tip of your nose to jill her off. From deep within her, you hear an echo-y splash, and then she floods you with an eruption of cunt cream so voluminous and so rich and so thick that you'd think she hadn't cum in a year. You legitimately worry about drowning, as you try to keep up and swallow it all down. You hope there's no one else staying late at North High tonight, because the shriek she makes can probably be heard from all four corners of the campus.

Her messy nut lasts for nearly a minute, as she suffers the ruthless pleasure of a rolling orgasm. She just won't stop cumming -- you won't let her stop cumming. It's only because she finds the willpower to dismount you, that her cunt eventually stops ejaculating. 

The wood floor before you is swimming in a puddle of her steaming girlcum. You gasp for fresh air, and can feel your hair sticking up at odd angles where she held you. You kind of do feel used. It doesn't feel bad. And only now are you aware, acutely aware, of how much your rigid dick is leaking against your belly. You've been making a mess of your own, haven't you? You're so hard you could fuck a hole in a slab of steel. You aren't the only one paying attention to this: Vivian is staring at it, hungrily and unabashedly. 

She sinks to her knees -- dragged down by gravity, and the enervation that attends to busting as hard as she just did. This only gives her and even better vantage on your twitchy penis. She can't stop staring at its angry, red, veiny girth. She actually licks her lips a time or two.

"So be it, s-s-slave," she sputters. "You have permission to-- to fuck me."

You hang your head. "I don't deserve such an honor."

The silent beat that passes is heavy, and expectant. It's perfect. Divine. The main reason you hung your head, was to hide your growing smirk. 

"N-no -- you don't -- you don't deserve it," Vivian agrees. "So b-be thankful that I'm letting you ff-fff-fuck me!"

"It isn't my right," you say. "I could never stain your sacred pussy with my dirty semen."

"Mistress is... your mistress is granting you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" She says, somewhat desperately. "Are you too st-stupid to take it?"

"I am stupid, mistress. I'm stupid and worthless--"

"I'm giving you an order! Don't disobey!"

"I couldn't possibly sully your--"

Vivian slaps you across the face. She slaps you hard. You can feel the sharp electric sting of it in your cheek after the fact, the tactile afterimage of her tiny palm and all five of her dainty fingers. You can feel, too, the welt forming. It's such a shocking moment of real, and painful, violence that you don't register her taking the whip up again from the floor where she dropped it. She cracks it in the air, and this time it takes. It makes a sonic snap that causes you to jump, and your pulse to skip a beat. 

"Fuck me or I will beat you black and blue," she says, her voice low, and level, and ice cold.

This was all just a game until now. Now you're frightened. You're so frightened that you forget your bindings aren't really effective; you're so frightened that you forget Vivian stands only five foot even in shoes, and that you could easily overpower her. You're afraid -- of her. And so when you say this, you mean it:

"Yes, mistress. I submit."

Vivian keeps the whip in hand -- as a reminder of what she can do -- while she crawls into your lap and wedges her sopping hole over your cock. She's so turned-on -- more than she was before, even -- that despite the crushing tightness of her squishy insides, she sinks straight down. Your entire length slips into her with ease, right up to the nuts, and she rests with her very womb impaled on your prick.

"Fuck," she barks. It's a command -- just one word -- and it's all you need to hear. 

Hands still tied behind your back, you begin to gyrate your hips. It's hard to gain a mechanical advantage in a position like this, especially since Vivian refuses to help. She just sits on your cock, expecting you to do all the work. After all, what are slaves for, if not to do the work? You can't pull out of her very far like this, though, and so your thrusts are just short, desperate jabs. It still feels fucking amazing -- Vivian's cunny wrapped around your dick always does -- but she isn't satisfied by only this.

"Fuck harder!" She says.

You do your best. 

"I said harder!"

Where did this side of her come from? Well, it was always there, you guess. She loves to dominate the other girls. She's just never turned it towards you. You try to fuck her harder. Without the use of your limbs, it's no small task. Your repeated hip thrusts carry her entire weight up and down, bruising your pelvis, and making your crotches mash loudly together like pieces of meat. Soon, without any voluntary movement of her own, Vivian is bouncing on your dick like a kid on her papa's knee. You fuck yourself into total, oblivious sexual agony, letting her swampy cunt swallow your shaft up. Your abs burn and your legs are getting charley horses, but you wouldn't dream of slowing down. Vivian lightly holds your knees and smiles smugly, even as her eyes roll to the back of her skull. She's getting railed by a cock that's so big it has to rearrange her organs just to fit inside her -- but she's the one in control, and you both know it.

"Beg me to cum," she gulps.

"I--"

"Beg me to cum!"

You aren't too proud. "Please can I cum mistress Vivian, please!" You set your jaw, and your neck muscles go taut. Fiery heat rises from your toes to the top of your head. 

"Beg more! Beg for it, you ffffucking worm!"

"Please, please, please! Please let me shoot my cum in you!"

She sways and swoons with the thrill of control, and, unable to stop herself, starts to drift backwards. You can't bear the prospect of your cock leaving the undersized socket that it's connected to. So surging forward, you follow her as she goes down -- like this, you go through a complete 180 degree reversal of position. She's underneath you, and you're atop her. Your hands are still bound, your legs too, but your cock is mated to her pussy, and that's all that matters.

"Fuck me," she chokes, drunk on pleasure. "Fuck me or I'll hurt you..."

Like an inchworm, you repeatedly raise and lower your butt, fucking yourself into her body again and again. This is new, even for you: hands-free missionary. You won't be able to hold out for much longer -- you so desperately need to blow. Even with you on top -- even with you totally pinning her -- you ask to do it:

"Please can I cum please can I cum please can I cum please can--"

"Be quiet, slave!" She takes your cheeks in her palms to silence you. She moans, loud and delirious, and her cunny flutters around you. "Kiss me," she sighs.

You kiss her. And without mistress's permission, you cum. For your transgression, she slaps you -- harder than the first time. Even while you do it. Even while she cums from getting creamed. She hits you. You unleash your torrential geysers of sperm deep within her illegal womb, while she slaps your face and sucks your tongue. 

---

Afterwards, Rose, still naked, body criss-crossed by red ropes that bite into her skin so alluringly, scrubs your collective cum from the ground. You watch bemusedly, sitting on a desk. And Vivian, wrapped around you like a toddler cuddling a St. Bernard, hand-feeds you bonbons that she swears aren't laced with anything. (You don't mind one way or the other, even if they are.)

"You're never that good of a slave for *me*..." Rose mutters, rubbing the scrubbing bristles back and forth. 

Vivian laughs haughtily. "Maybe you should be a better mistress. Then again, we are not all born to be superior. The world needs lessers, too."

Rose looks up at the two of you and begins to say something, but Vivian shuts her up by stepping on her face. 

"If I want your opinion I will ask for it," Vivian tells her.

---

Rose lives with you. Not officially. But she spends a good 80-90% of her nights sleeping in your bedroom rather than in hers. The proportion of her time spent at your house grew quickly over the course of the school year's first months, while her appearances at her own house became increasingly infrequent and token. She'd already run out of plausible lies and excuses to her parents about her absence by the end of the first week. By the end of the second, she could no longer keep sneaking out without her parents knowing. Groundings didn't work, nor revocations of inessential belongings and privileges, and Saul proved too much of a softie for his little girl to follow through on putting bars over her bedroom windows (although, you heard, Charlotte tried to browbeat him into doing it.)

Since everyone knew what was going on, and no one could put the kibosh on it, the two of you finally forewent all pretense -- you stopped acting like Rose wasn't running for your bed practically every night. And this caused a scandal, of course.

First of all: because it made no sense to anyone. Why would the two of you, who never spoke a word to one another before the start of the school year, suddenly start acting like goddamn Romeo and Juliet? For deflecting those questions, you cleaved to the false supposition Cerise had first made, that you and Rose developed a summertime romance over the internet. It's an alibi that rings hollow. No one believes you. Except what other explanation could there be?

Second of all, and more scandalously: you're just teenagers. You're 17 and Rose is 15. Her becoming a de facto runaway living in your house, looks an awful lot like teenage delinquency driven by puppy love. You will marry her again when you can. But right now, to those watching, it looks like the hormonal irrationality of adolescence has taken the wheel.

Rose is well aware, and you are too, that saying something like -- "but Mom, I love him! We're gonna get married when he turns 18!" -- would sound exactly as lame and unrealistic as it would coming from the mouth of any normal teen girl. You don't bother justifying yourselves. They'll come to accept it with the passage of time.

You might have been willing to wait patiently under a semi-separate living arrangement until the two of you came of age. After all, you also have to put up with not being under the same roof as Whitney, and Vivian, and Ms. Carte, and even Charlotte for that matter. You don't even know where some of them are -- will you ever even see Noelle Keki again, or Samantha Smatters? You miss the Nail House so, so bitterly; both of you do. It stings not having everyone with you on a round-the-clock basis. So what's the problem with suffering a short year or so of living in a different house from Rose too?

There's a reason she stays with you. And not only sex. Well, okay, sex is part of it. It's just that there's something more valuable than that in sharing a bed with her as often as you can. 

These are the things you're considering that evening when you leave your room intending to visit the kitchen for a bite to eat and a glass of water. As you approach the head of the staircase, you can discern Charlotte's voice from down in the living room -- she's back again to try and talk some sense into your mother. You stand there, eavesdropping:

"Is Rose here?"

"I believe so," Mom replies.

"Why?"

"They're helping each other study and do homework."

"You know," Charlotte says, "I was just reading about how the average American teenager today has 500% more homework than we did as teenagers. But... somehow... I just can't imagine there's ever been a homework project that takes two months of living in a different house to complete."

"Are you calling your daughter a liar?" Mom asks.

Mom has been condoning your apparent delinquency. Rose, conniver she is, made sure to get on her good side from the very beginning. She portrayed herself as a sweet, earnest, honest, and diligent girl -- one who has an appreciation for baking, to boot. Many of these sleepover nights kick off with Rose retreating into the kitchen, accompanying your mother, to add a new dessert to her growing repertoire. Rose hates cooking, with a passion, but Mom is turning her into a pastry expert nonetheless. And because of that, Mom defends you from her niece.

"Scarlett, I don't want to have to get the police involved in this--"

"Then don't."

"--You do know what they're doing up there, right?"

"Studying and doing homework," Mom repeats, a little wryly.

"For the love of -- and, by the way, let's not forget that they're cousins."

"No they aren't," Mom says. "Cousins would be if you and I were sisters. You're my niece, not my sister."

"One generation of separation hardly makes it any less--" Charlotte begins, then trails off. "Do you have anything to add, Thomas?"

There's a silent turn. If your father says anything at all, it's not audible. Big believer in Teddy Roosevelt's prescription of speaking softly, he is.

"Alabaster and Rose are both mature--" Mom begins.

"They are teenage children, Scarlett! And do you think they're using protection? I would put dollars to donuts they're not! Who's going to support the accident they make? It won't be me, I'll tell you that!"

There's another, longer, and more awkward pause in the conversation down below.

"They're good kids," Mom says at last. "Just look at them. Straight A's, all while heading up so many different extracurriculars -- uh -- n-not that Alabaster isn't an awful brat sometimes, too, but... well, anyway, their little fling isn't hurting their lives. Why not let them have it? You're only young once."

Charlotte lets you be for the night. But she isn't any more enthused than when it began.

---

The reason why, is what happens in the night.

Every once in a while, it happens to Rose, and every once in a while, it happens to you. Tonight it's Rose's turn: she wakes up beside you all clammy, her breaths shallow and rapid, and she's sobbing so hard that it makes her halfway asphyxiate.

Her trembling is full-body and violent as you pull her into an embrace. You lie there in bed on your side with her, half atop her, pressing your body firmly to hers, while you nuzzle her and kiss her face.

"It's okay," you softly repeat, "it's okay," as meanwhile she begs in a voice so choked it's close to unintelligible: "Don't leave me. Don't leave me. Don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving -- it's okay --"

"Oh my god," she gulps. She emphatically shakes her head, rotates in your strong grip to face you, hugs you back. "Don't leave me... don't leave me..." she cries into your chest.

You brush her hair from her eyes and stroke her shoulders, as she sheds the vestiges of her night terror. Her breathing, along with her frayed mind, settle over the course of a long five minutes. She goes still and quiet.

"I'm sorry," she mutters when it's over at last, her customary apology. And this gets your customary response: "don't be."

You wonder what will come of the night when it happens to both of you at once. So far, your cycles have synced well enough. Whenever it's your turn, Rose is always there at your side, awake already and calm, just as you have been for her -- there to hug you, and talk you down. To tell you that she's here to stay -- that everyone is here to stay -- that It's All Okay.

You've debated with each other the pros and cons of telling the others the truth. For now, you agree it's best to shoulder these things yourselves. It would be hard not to sound crazy if you explained it out loud, anyway. Then what do they all do with this knowledge even granting they accept its truth? How does it benefit them to know? It might perversely do harm to them. They might ruin relationships before they can blossom, if they go in knowing they "should" love each other before they've had a chance to grow the love within them. Would there be any worse irony than losing the people you love the most because you know you love them beforehand?

You also sometimes wonder what the you of your high school days in a universe before this would have thought, had he glimpsed a scene like this. Funny world we live in, isn't it? 

---

One day not long before you leave for Boise, you and the Mindbreakers receive word that David Darkbloom wants to endow you all with funds from one of his Infinity Grants -- his merit-based scholarship for excelling high school students. Mr. Langley delivers the news after practice.

"Did he use the grants to destroy the grants?" You ask.

"...What?" Alex says.

"You're so weird sometimes these days," Whitney says.

You shake your head. "Guess you're not ready for that. ... But your kids are gonna love it."

"Stop saying that," Whitney tells you.

"It's a reference--"

She sighs in exasperation.

You'll get full-ride scholarships, all. It comes as a surprise even to Vivian and Whitney (who don't need it themselves, since they've got a direct tap into Darkbloom's billions anyway). On the flipside, it's especially fortuitous for Hank, who lives in the same trailer park Whitney once hailed from; and also for Alex, whose living situation is not much better. Hank's tears of joy are few and stoic, Alex's many and effusive.

You and Rose never needed these scholarships yourselves -- you'll have plenty to pick from -- but you'll both take them regardless. Taking money from Darkbloom is always a net good.

The scholarship comes with a totally-optional invitation to dinner at Darkbloom's manor, which of course doesn't feel very optional after the man just paid your entire college tuition for free. 

The limousine he sends to North High to pick you all up is driven by a familiar face, too. It's the same chauffeur he had in the world before this one.

Rose holds your hand, squeezing tightly, the entire ride there. You're not sure whether it's to calm you, or to clam herself. You're both freaking out internally. This will be your first ever visit to his home in this timeline.

Darkbloom's home is exactly as you remember it: grimly stately, imposing and gothic. It's hard to wonder where Vivian got her fashion sense considering this is the place she grew up in. Sure, the exterior is nice enough. The emerald green lawn and multi-tiered fountain and Disneyworld-esque cobbled carpath past the brass front gates are as glamorous as can be -- but it's a lie, and it does nothing to ease your mind when you pass through into the dimly lit interior with its mahogany flooring and walls, its ornate candelabras on its long galley tables, its crystal chandeliers and authentic artpieces lining the walls, each worth more than the GDP of a small island nation.

This place is old-hat for Vivian, who lives here, and for Whitney, who has been here several times before. They wander off together to hang out in a gazebo in the backyard, leaving the rest of you to peruse the decadent wealth within. Hank whistles appreciatively as he passes the surround-sound theater system in the living room -- which is the size of a literal theater -- while Alex is much more interested in the working ENIAC replica in one of Darkbloom's showrooms.

Darkbloom, seeing Alex's interest, enters into a long, involved discussion on the history of mechanical programming and the ENIAC's role in the Manhattan Project. You lurk on the conversation's periphery, interjecting yeahs and oh reallys where appropriate. Of course you're not there to have a nerdgasm, you're there to keep a close eye on Alex. To try somehow to keep him out of Darkbloom's clutches. But the trap is sprung: by the end of the conversation, Darkbloom is already speaking of giving Alex an internship at Darkbloom E-Pay when the time for it is right...

The semi-guided tour continues. The Citizen Kane opulence of this mansion has a Citizen Kane tragedy about it, too, you find. Darkbloom has no one, really, to share this with. His only family in the house is Vivian, who will move out in a couple years once she's of age. From then on, he'll have only his maids and servants for company in his house the size of a village. His ingenuity in crossbreeding French maid costumes with bunnysuits deserves unequivocal praise. And judging by the way he gets a little handsy with one when he thinks no one else is watching, his favored employees may even be keeping him warm in bed at night. But they'll never cure the hollowness you know exists inside his heart. 

At dinner, Whitney clears her throat and announces to both her sister and her bio-dad: "I've got a joke for you."

"Oh?" Darkbloom says. "Let's hear it."

Her voice is a little trembly as she begins, but picks up a steady confidence as she goes:

"So a businessman is on a business trip to Boston, right? He's big into seafood. Like, big. Always tries the seafood places wherever he goes. And he knows Boston is one of the best places for seafood in the whole country. But he's so busy on his trip, that he doesn't get the chance to find any of the good local restaurants. So when he gets a cab from hotel back to the airport, he asks his cabbie, he asks him -- 'hey buddy... I'm leaving town tonight, but I'll probably be back. Do you know any good places in Boston where I could have gotten scrod?' So then the cabbie turns and says, he says,"

(Here, Whitney shifts perfectly into an exaggerated Boston accent):

"--'buddy... I've heard that question about a billion times over the years, but that's gotta be the first time I ever heard it in the past pluperfect subjunctive!'"

Vivian and her father both stare at her blankly. Whitney begins to wilt, thinking she told a dud -- but then Darkbloom lets out a soft little "--snrrk--" and Vivian's mouth twitches; the pair burst into raucous laughter at the same moment.

"That's awful!" Darkbloom says. "In the very best way. I will need to use that one... how funny."

Whitney beams.

It's not her joke. It's yours. Well... that's not fair -- it isn't "yours," either. You didn't make it up. But you're the one who first told it to her. Or more precisely, you told it to Ms. Carte while in Whitney's vicinity, and it got a huge belly laugh from the former. Whitney, seeing how her mother reacted to the joke, feigned laughter. And she feigned laughter each and every time that she asked you to repeat your "scrod joke" to her in the subsequent few weeks. You had been getting a little exasperated with it, because even though you dissected the frog by explaining to her what makes the joke funny, it obviously wasn't the kind of thing she'd appreciate.

Now you know why she kept having you retell it. She was committing it to memory. 

During dessert, Darkbloom asks if he can show you something -- just the two of you. You share a worried look with Rose, but you allow him to spirit you away. It's better to know what he's up to than to get blindsided.

As he leads you down the parqueted halls, he makes idle small-talk with you: "Are you excited for Boise?"

"I guess."

"You only guess? Vivian will not stop talking about it. It will be the highlight of her existence... I hope you make it memorable for her."

"I intend to," you tell him.

He smiles wryly. He stinks of aftershave and cologne -- gussied himself up for you all. "You know, Alabaster... I was more than a little perturbed when I first met you."

You come to a stop together outside a certain door in the hall. "Why?" You ask him.

"A boy like you, dating my eldest daughter? I did not like the idea whatsoever."

You set your jaw. Is this why Darkbloom pulled you away? To talk shit about your relationship with Whitney?

"I had no idea what she saw in you. What Vivian saw, for that matter." He arches his eyebrows, tilts his head just slightly forward. "In case you were unaware -- she is smitten with you, by the way. Vivian, that is."

"I know," you tell him. Boy, do you.

"But I found you to be a brash, overconfident, pompous, mean-spirited and ego-driven know-it-all," Darkbloom helpfully explains.

"Are you for f--" you begin.

"--But as I've gotten to know a little bit more of you... I am starting to realize how much you remind me of myself. The faults I see in you are the faults I see in me. If you had the opportunity... with a little bit of mentorship, you could become a great man."

"Like you?" You say, sarcastically.

"Yes," he replies, unsarcastically. 

He leads you into the room beyond the door. It's a little den, with a sturdy oak dining table and chairs, like a cozier version of his main dining hall. At a prominent spot on the wall, far above the fireplace there, is a painting he's shown you before.

"Have you see this piece?" He asks.

You close your eyes. "Yes."

"I think about it so much. Adam's curse... was not knowledge... but incomplete knowledge. He--"

"He knew only enough to know that he knew nothing," you complete.

"Yes!" Darkbloom says, eyes widening. "Yes, Alabaster, precisely. Incomplete knowledge is the unique burden of mankind. Beasts have a blissfully eclipsing ignorance. Gods have omniscience. We, who inhabit the in-between, have neither."

"You want to become a god, Darkbloom?" You spit.

"No." He tears his view from the painting to look at you. "I just want to bring us back their fire."

You shake your head. The bile in your stomach churns like choppy seas. This can't be happening.

"I want to let you in on something I have not told anyone else yet," he says. "I am going to pivot Darkbloom E-Pay away from financial services... towards artificial intelligence. I have a novel concept. A mind-machine interface -- drawing on the awesome power of modern data analytics-- well, I had better not say too much more, but I think it will change the world."

You need to grip the back of a tall chair on your left to keep yourself standing. The world feels like it's going to shatter into a billion pieces. Your searching eyes fall upon a scimitar mounted to a plaque on the wall -- and every atom of your being is screaming, "do it now! Do it now while you have the chance!" But you can't stab David Darkbloom to death in his own home while his daughters eat cake in the dining room. You'd ruin everything like that. But Darkbloom is going to ruin everything if you don't...

He's been droning for some time now. You force yourself to focus. This is important. You need to know what this motherfucker will do. "--which was my initial plan for the company, but... other things... got in the way. Those barriers have been removed now, and now at last I can do with my life's work what I truly want to do."

You swallow hard, and steel yourself. You stand tall, with your chin held up. "Barriers?" You say. "Like your wife?"

Darkbloom gives you a severe frown.

"Or your wife's father?" You add. "He died recently, didn't he? That seems to correspond to all these changes, I'd say... bringing Whitney back into your life, and now making this... pivot."

"There's something you think of me that would be better left unstated," Darkbloom intones.

"'Think' is a soft way of putting it," you tell him. "Do you regret getting into bed with the Kerimovs?"

"You've done your research," Darkbloom says, impressed more than he is frightened or put off. 

"I care about Whitney," you tell him. "Vivian now too. And I care about the world you've brought them into. Yeah, I've done my research. I know so much about you that it would make your head spin."

"I had such a strong hunch about you," Darkbloom says, "but in that, I even still underestimated you. You -- are a formidable young man." He goes to a shelf on the wall and begins to pour some brandy. No worrying over the fact that you're well underage -- he gives you a tumbler, too. You sip with him. "This valley is swimming in prodigies," he continues. "Even your high school. Alex, back there, he has a brilliant career ahead of himself... and your teacher, Ms. Guiteau -- oh how Renee despises her -- but do you know she was once one of the most promising young rising stars in AI? Her own erratic mind got the better of her, but I think she has a generational genius to impart. Something I could corral towards blessed ends. And you. If you treat my daughters well, Alabaster... there will be a place in my organization for you as soon as you graduate from college. You'd be on the fast track to the Forbes billionaires list."

"I don't want your fucking money," you tell him, and take a gulp of his thousand dollar a bottle liquor.

"That attitude is precisely why I want you."

"Big Data is a quagmire," you tell him. Here comes your best sales pitch: "People are turning against it. Do you really want to make yourself the face of the new millenium's Big Brother? Stick to what you're best at. Just keep running the world's second-best Paypal, and keep on being one of those billionaires who no one's ever heard of. Your daughters will have much better lives that way, than if you make yourself into a fucking supervillain that everyone slings hatred at."

He sets his empty tumbler down. "This is the ego-driven and overconfident part of your personality shining through. I've just told you some sensitive information and praised your intellect. So now you see fit to give me high-level strategic advice on my business." He tilts his head slightly like a displeased father dressing down a son who failed to do his chores. "I didn't solicit, and won't consider advice from a teenage boy. Even if he's fucking my daughters." (You feel the five-alarm 'oh shit' bell go off in your gut, at the deployment of that plural, there). "When you've been through school and have climbed the ladder at my company and I have given you a merit-based promotion to the board -- which I am sure you will earn in due time -- then, and only then, should you think of telling me how to run my affairs. And only if you ask permission first." His voice goes rougher still: "Never presume to tell me what to do again."

Do it now, Alabaster! Do it now!

---

When you return to dessert with Darkbloom, Rose pulls you aside at an opportune moment.

"What did he do?"

"He offered me a job."

Rose is mute.

"I think I'd better take it," you tell her.

"Why?"

"If I don't, he's going to build Sand Reckoner again." 

---

One lazy Saturday, while Cerise is at North High planning the next week's programming schedule for anime club with Anna (meetings that always run really long), and Whitney is visiting with Vivian in Darkbloom's manor (you don't even want to think about it), and Alex is helping Sable paint her tiny apartment (it's a step up from a van, at least), and Rose is spending the day in her ostensible home with her family (she invited you, but the last time you were there, Saul spent a long time cleaning his guns in the dining room, and you felt kind of awkward), and Dr. Carte is catching up on grading papers (and/or performing unethical bunny experiments) -- you have a rare couple hours to yourself.

That is, until Mom's shadow falls across you where you sit on the living room couch.

You look up from your phone. She folds her arms. You don't know why yet, but you know you're about to get your ass reamed. But even knowing she's gonna be pissy, can't prepare you for the absurdity of what she says:

"Why aren't you cleaning your little sister's bedroom?"

You wait for her to say something else. She doesn't.

"Where's the punchline?" You ask.

"Her room is a pigsty, Alabaster!"

You exhale, and sputter wordlessly for a few moments, before gaining rhetorical traction: "It's my fault now that Rose is a lazy pig?" You demand.

"Yes!"

"Still waiting for that punchline," you grouse.

Mom blows a bang from her face. "It's because she's taking after you. She looks to you as her role model -- and you're the laziest pig in the world. You'd think having a live-in bimbo like Rose2 would motivate you to at least pick the laundry up off your floor!"

"That bimbo made the best mille-feuille you ever ate last week. Your words."

"Don't change the subject! What's so much more important than helping your sister, anyway?"

"I'm reading the news. Keeping up on current events is important. You admire that trait in a man, don't you?"

She reaches for your phone and grabs it out of your hands.

"Hey--!" You shout.

Mom reads aloud: "The 25 Most Spooky Amusement Parks on Earth? ... Number 7 Will Scare Your Socks Off?" Mom looks up at you. "This isn't news!"

You snatch your phone back. "Sure it is. It's by one of my favorite reporters."

"Do you think I'm dumb? As if you're hanging off the every word of some hack blogger's listicles! You're just frittering away your time with random garbage on the internet instead of doing something productive! You said you would help Rose spruce up. So go do it!"

"When did I say that?" You demand. "I didn't say that. I would remember saying that, I'm pretty sure."

Her upper lip curls. "Don't try to lie your way out of this one, bucko. She already told me."

You narrow your eyes. "Rose told you that I promised to help her clean her room?"

Mom nods.

"You believed her?"

"Rose is a good girl! Of course I believe her." She shifts her weight, making her mom jeans strain deliciously to constrain her meaty thighs. You hate how her perfume, her voice and her thick body tends to give you an erection -- not because you're ashamed but because for now, it's still awkward. For now. Her body does things to you.

But that weighs on you somewhat less right now than your exasperation... Rose, you fucking cute little liar. She shanghaied you into being her bitchboy today with this shit.

"Help" her clean her room? Yeah right. You know what it'll really be. She intends to loaf around on her tablet while you do all the work.

You toss your book down on the couch cushions and breeze past Mom, on your way upstairs, to lay down the law.

"Don't you bully her!" Mom calls after you. 

Rose's room is the sweetest-smelling sty on the planet. You don't know how she does it, but she manages to make her slovenly lifestyle cute. It really pisses you off.

The decor is pink. Not just some of it. All of it. Carnation pink walls. Coral pink carpet. A hairy flamingo pink rug, barely visible beneath heaps of clothes. A shocking pink comforter (belled up near the bed's center, since she never makes her bed) and cotton candy pink sheets (the top sheet missing, the fitted sheet pulled away from one corner to reveal the Chilean pink mattress beneath). An amaranth pink desk, with rose pink bookshelf beside, stocked entirely by manga (her collection is bigger than yours). A Persian pink pencil holder, containing a French pink set of pens (yes, she does her homework in colored gel pen). A China pink garbage bin beneath the desk. A congo pink dispenser for tissues atop it. Her cherished Barbie pink CRT TV, still in use from her youngest days, that she doesn't want to give up for a flatscreen. A stuffed orchid pink bunny, tickle-me-pink bear, and pastel pink unicorn lining a charm pink shelf on the wall. Pink. Pink. Pink.

It would be a pretty charming. Unfortunately, the entire room is choking beneath detritus: her dirty clothes on the ground, her empty soda bottles on the desk, some dirty plates and silverware on her bedside table as well as stacked on the floor next to it. Her garbage bin overfloweth, mostly with wadded-up tissues. A second full bag of trash sits beside it, tied-off. The walk-in closet is open, one of the sliding doors lying partially off its tracks, and the clothes inside are strewn about. Her dresser's drawers are all half-opened too, because they can't be shut, because rather than folding her clean clothes, she just wads them up and stuffs them inside. The ironing board she ostensibly uses to take care of her wrinkled clothes, is lying tipped on its side, and the iron itself is sitting halfway across the room on her bookshelf of all places. She has a vanity along one wall, but its mirror is half-obscured by the mountain of shit on the tabletop: bottles of hairspray, an open kaboodle, a couple stacks of manga and magazines, papers from school, hairbrushes, more soda bottles -- and tubes of lipstick (some without lids), and tubes of mascara (ditto), and bobby pins, and a couple mannequin heads with wigs for her cosplaying, and a pair of socks, and a pair of panties, and a windup cat doll that says "nyan" and etc., etc., etc. But even if the mirror were more accessible, it wouldn't be very helpful, because it's so streaked that your reflection in it is murky. Her window is similarly streaked, her TV is coated in dust, and her carpet is jammed with crumbs.

So it's nasty in here. But it smells like you walked into a candy store.

And rather than loafing around on her tablet, as you prognosticated, Rose is sitting at her PC -- reading a visual novel you recognize. 

Rose swivels in her chair, and gives you a salute. "My manservant is here! Let's put you to work!"

You calmly close the door behind you, and approach her chair. She smiles idiotically up at you the whole way.

"We need to get this place clean, pronto!" She chirps. "Okaasan's orders! Glad you could--"

You bring your foot up so that it touches the bottom of the chair's seat -- and then keep bringing it up, so that the chair tips backwards. She flaps her arms wildly and lurches her weight forward to try to prevent the inevitable before she crashes down, and goes "whhooo-ooooo-aahhh!" as gravity overpowers her. She lands among her used clothes with a thud.

"Rude!!" She says, staring up at you reproachfully.

"Serves you right. What's rude is preying on the fact that you're Mom's favorite so that I have to do all your work."

"You totemo promised me that you'd help me clean my room today!" Rose insists. She's lying on her back, limbs entangled with her chair. "Don't you remember?"

"When?"

"I forget."

You nod at her monitor. "Why are you reading this degenerate filth?"

Rose finally wrests herself free from her tipped-over chair, stands and rights it. She smooths out her blouse, then sits again. "You have this game on your computer, too!" She says. "Don't be a hippocrat!"

"I'm older than you."

"By what? A few years? Geez, Ally, that's not--"

"And how do you know I've got this game on my computer?" You add. "Are you spying on me?"

She giggles.

"Are you spying on me?" You repeat.

"This game is a classic," Rose says. "Anyone who considers herself a fan of Japanese culture should read it! It's a modern day Tale of Genji!"

Somehow, you doubt Imouto Paradise will ever rank in the canon of classical literature, even if you love it too. "Do you even know what the Tale of Genji is about?" You ask

She shrugs. "Well, it's what Gal said, anyway."

"Gal--?" Since when did Anna start going by that name again?

"Oh!" Rose pips, and covers her mouth with both hands. Her grin is visible beneath her palms. When she pulls her hands away, she adds: "Oops. I wasn't supposed to use that name with the normies. That's Anna's OC... Galatea!"

Fucking Anna, perverting your little sister with these hentai games. And apparently indulging her chuuni side with quote-unquote OCs. You'll need to punish her.

"I'll shut the VN off if it bothers you so much," Rose says. In the end, she wants to please her onii-chan.

>[x] Don't shut it off. You'd better monitor her VN habits.
>[x] Forget the game. Bully her for lying to get your help today. 

You begin with Rose's vanity. You open a garbage bag by fwooping it in the air a few times to expand it. Using your arm like a croupier's rake, you sweep the vast majority of the shit on the tabletop into it.

"Hey!" Rose pouts. "You can't just throw my stuff away!"

"Why not?" you demand. "You're not taking care of it. Why would you mind if I toss it out?"

Rose tries feebly to take the bag from you, but you won't let her.

"Give it!" She demands. "I'm not gonna let you throw my stuff away, Ally!"

The tug-o-war she initiates goes only as far as you let it. With all her might, she brings the half-full bag towards her. But right before your elbow locks, you jerk it easily back towards you. Rinse and repeat.

"Alllyyy!" She cries.

"Fine," you say. "Let's go through it, one by one."

You use your foot to clear a spot on the messy floor, kicking clothes and other junk aside, then upend the bag. The stuff inside waterfalls out amid clattering and thumping.

"You're such a jerk!" Rose pouts. "Why are you being such a jerk about this!"

You pick up one of those topless tubes of lipstick, whose sticky part is partially extended and has left a flamingo smear on some of its neighboring items in the tumult. You pinch the tube between thumb and forefinger. "Do you need this?" You ask her.

"Yeah. A-durr. It's my makeup."

You drag it across her cheek in a swift, wide arc like an impassioned artist at his canvas. It streaks her skin. Her eyes widen, her lips quaver.

"It doesn't match your tone," you announce. "Tossing it."

"Wait--!!"

"How about this one?" You ask. You hold up a little inkwell of eyeliner.

"Yes!" She says sourly. She rubs the spot where you smeared her -- accomplishing nothing but spreading lipstick around and staining her fingertips. "And don't you put it on my face like the last one!"

You unscrew the applicator brush and smear her other cheek.

"Allllyyyy!"

"It's all clumpy." You turn the bottle over in your hand, and glimpse the expiration date on bottom. "No fucking wonder. This stuff expired in January. Tossing it."

"Why are you such a bully?" Rose demands, voice trembling, eyes welling.

"Because you're too fun to bully. Do you need this?" You hold up a half-finished container of pocky.

"Those are my snackies," she says.

You take one of the sticks out of the box, and snap it. Instead of a satisfying crack, it just softly bends in half, then breaks noiselessly. "Completely stale," you announce. "Tossing it. How about this guy?" You hoist a piggy bank in the shape of Pinkie Pie from My Little Pony.

"Yes!" She says. "Pinkie Pie's my favorite pone!"

"Just for using the word 'pone,' I'm tossing it. How about these?" You hold up some busted-ass Sailor Moon pencils.

"Those are my favorites, too--"

"If everything is your favorite, nothing is. You need to get rid of this fucking clutter, Rose. You're gonna end up on an episode of Hoarders at this rate. And not in the good way."

"There's a good way to--?"

"Tossed." 

Rose spins on her heels, plops down on her bed, and throws her arms wide. "If you're not gonna listen to a word I say, then just throw all my stuff away and get it over with!"

"Okay."

You begin to toss things back into the bag at random.

"Wait--!!"

She jumps back up and runs to you.

You force a can of furniture polish into her hands, and a rag as well.

"Dust off your bookshelf and your dresser. Then fold your clothes. If you can finish all that before I'm done Windexing your mirror and your window and fixing your fucked-up closet door -- you can help me with picking through the rest of this shit."

It's a perfect motivator. Rose busts her ass to get done before you and thereby save her belongings from the landfill. When you reconvene, you teach her the concept of asking herself whether a given item sparks joy within her. If it does, she can keep it; if it doesn't, it has to be discarded.

Once you tell her This Is How They Do It In Japan, she's all aboard. You actually manage to reduce the ratio of her unneeded things by over half, filling several fullsize garbage bags in the process.

The next couple hours is the tedious work of vacuuming, scrubbing, and doing laundry. Rose's laziness wins over her bashfulness; she doesn't mind at all when you sort her clothes, including her underwear, into piles for her.

She does, however, go into a panic mode when you find her back massager underneath her bed amid the wadded-up clothes. Dragging it out into the light, you sit up on your knees again, and arch an eyebrow at her.

"Ghh--!" She chokes. "That's..."

"Back problems?" You ask her.

She averts her gaze. "Uh... yeah..."

You click it on. She winces when she hears its buzz.

"Pretty nifty," you tell her. "I didn't know you had chronic back pain. Is that why you conned Mom into making me help you? The pain was too much? I hope you wash this thing more than the rest of your stuff."

"It was..." she mutters glumly. "Nevermind."

"It was what?" You prompt.

"I just... I just wanted to spend some time with you today, nii-chan. I'm sorry I lied."

She looks at you with large, sad eyes. You turn the toy back off, and silence fills the room.

"I wanted this to be the best school year ever! But you have so many girls in your life now, and... sometimes it feels like you're forgetting about me." There's another, longer pause. "But I was there the whole time," she says, "way before Viv-tan, and Gal and... that other girl who lives here... and even Whitney."

You sit at the foot of her bed. "I could never forget you," you tell her. "You have no idea how much I could never forget you."

"You've got a real funny way of showing it," Rose says.

"Get up on the bed," you tell her. "Come on -- like that. Lie down. On your belly."

As she does, you clack the toy back on.

"What are you d-doing?" Rose stutters.

"You said you've got some back pain. That's no good. As your big brother, I can't let that stand. So I have to massage your back, okay?" 

"Lay out flat," you tell Rose softly as you rise to your knees on the mattress. 

"Like this?" 

She wiggles a bit, folding her arms beneath her so she can rest a cheek on them. 

You lightly run your fingers up and down her body, like an actual masseuse trying to gauge her stress points or latent qi, or whatever is is licensed massage therapists do. Your fingertips trace the contours of her spine, her shoulders, her thighs, her calves, and even the soles of her feet. She's trembling like crazy. Her body is hot to the touch.

Rose's plaid skirt has a frilled hem that ends about 4 inches above her knees. Paired with this, she wears her floofy blouse tucked into the waistband. When you tug it free, and hike it up, so that her lower back is exposed, she shudders. Rose isn't fat, but she's what connoisseurs might call "healthy," and when she lies on her front as now, her waist is extra fleshy and squishy-looking. 

"I-is this okay?" She asks.

"Why wouldn't it be okay? I'm just giving you a back massage."

"If this is because of..." Rose begins, and trails off. She tries again: "If this is because of how you saw me playing that game -- I'm not -- I'm n-not a brocon... it's just a game... you know?"

You glance to Rose's PC monitor, where the game is still running, its display asking which of the little sisters you would like to visit with today.

"Kids these days," you say. "Why would you play such a dirty game? Aren't you a bit young for stuff this racy?"

She shrugs. "I'm not a kid. I... have needs too, you know. I can be into ecchi stuff same as you."

You click the toy back on. As before, she winces when she hears it. But this time it's a bit more meaningful: she has no idea what you really intend to do with this thing. Frankly, neither do you. You'll let the feeling of the moment guide you.

The magic wand thrums with vibrational energy. The ridges in its domed end become blurred from motion. You use the heel of your free hand to soothingly rub tiny circles around Rose's back, prepping her. She coos and sighs at the firmness of your brotherly massage. Then you use the toy for its ostensible purpose: you press it against her skin and start to rub it back and forth across her vertebrae.

"That... feels really good..." Rose says. "Thank you, Ally..."

She wiggles some more to increase the pressure of the toy against her body. This has the effect of wagging her ass back and forth too. Is she enticing you on purpose, or is this an accidental side effect?

Rose's room is as clean as you've ever seen it; it's cozy in here. And it smells clean, too, her bubblegum scent now overpowered by the rustic aroma of Pinesol. But as you gently run the pulsing, buzzing sex toy around her spine, another fragrance joins the bouquet, one you know quite well from your time in another world. Rose is getting turned on. Her pussy is juicing up. 

Your motions, therefore, become bolder. You add your hand back to the mix, squeezing her in random spots on her waist and hips as you continue to rub the buzzing toy around. Rose grits her teeth. "Alllyyy..." she sighs, not the petulant whine of earlier, but a dreamy one. You're teasing her so awfully. When your fingers slip past the elastic of her skirt, just barely, she jerks like she's been zapped with electricity. 

"Are you absolutely sure you're not a brocon?" You ask her.

She's mute, and lost in a sea of conflicting emotions. So you force the issue by grabbing her butt, through her skirt, in the most unbrotherly way possible.

She chokes. "Ally--!! I  -- I'm not a brocon! I swear! Stop!"

You lean way forward, so that you're practically lying on top of her. She makes a great pillow. Still massaging her with the toy, and squeezing her ass lecherously, you put a cheek to hers. You whisper in her ear: "Too late. You might not be a brocon... but I'm a siscon." 

She gasps. At that very moment, you nip her ear.

"You say you're not into me that way," you add, breathing hotly against her, and rubbing her sensually, "but you were playing this game about a guy who has sex with his little sisters... while waiting for me to walk in on you doing it. Does the idea of that turn you on, Rose?"

"S-siscon..." she mutters, mind still stuck on the prior revelation.

"It's true." You glide your palm up and down the length of her well-formed thigh. She's so meaty, and rubbery, and thick... "I've always been a siscon, Rose."

"Ally... nii-chan... you're such a pervert..."

Your fingers push past the bottom of her skirt. As expected, she wears nothing beneath.

"Have you been playing with yourself?" You ask her. You poke at her infinitely-pliable butt under her skirt. "While you played that filthy game, were you masturbating?"

She nods timidly.

"That's no good. That means I interrupted you, doesn't it?"

She nods again. You rise back to your knees. 

"Don't worry. I'll massage you down here, too."

You flip her skirt up. Her smooth, round ass is out in the open. Although she's shaking worse than ever, she doesn't fight or say no. With either palm, you knead her flesh like a baker kneading dough. That's what it feels like. Your massage grows firmer and more aggressive over time, so that eventually, you're pulling her ass cheeks repeatedly apart by the force of your circular rubbing -- baring her tender holes each time. Just as you remember, they look almost painfully tight, both of them. 

You stealthily unzip, and free your own genitals too. From where she lies, she can't see it happen.

"Ally, are you sure this is really okay? Are you sure we should be doing th-- hhhh-- ahhhh~~"

Her indecisive questioning dissolves into high-pitched squeals of pleasure, as you jam the thrumming sex toy in between her legs so that it vibrates against the back of her cunt. In spite of herself and in spite of her remaining qualms over the incest taboo, she bucks repeatedly against the thing, unable to deny the raw erotic thrill of having her pussy played with. You undo the velcro holding her skirt together, and let it fall flat on the bed so that she's fully naked below her blouse.

"Turn around," you instruct. 

Hesitantly, she rolls over. As she does, she squeaks: "Oh my gosh!"

Her eyes are peeled on your throbbing dick.

"Look at how much you turned me on," you tell her gently. You give yourself a few long, slow tugs. "See?"

"T-that was me?"

You nod. As much as she can't tear her eyes from your dick, you can't tear your eyes from her perfectly formed pussy. It's baby-smooth, shiny with her cream, with tucked-in lips and a cute pearl-pink clitty atop it. She lies there with balled-up fists to her huge chest, totally at your mercy. So you put the wand against her hole again, this time directly attacking that throbbing pink nub above it. What can you say? You love to bully her.

"Nn-nn-nn-nnnnn," she mutters incoherently. Her eyeballs roll to the back of her skull. She clamps her meaty thighs around the toy for added pressure, but you pry them apart again so you can see her orgasm in all its glory. 

"Let your big brother massage you," you say soothingly.

"Y-y-y-y-y-essss..."

"That's my good girl," you say, as she cums herself stupid, and a geyser of her sweet-smelling cum erupts in a high arc. "That's my good little sister." 

You pull the toy away for a moment to watch her multiply-spurting orgasm in all its obscene glory, before pressing the thing cruelly back against her cunt and bringing her off a second time. Her second ejaculation is just as forceful as the first; so are the third and fourth. Yeah, her room smells like lemon ramune again, all right. Her bedsheets are inundated with her girlcum. She's half-unconscious, tongue lolling out, and she's got her hands wrapped around your wrist to keep you from pulling the wand off her quivering fuckhole. 

When you finally wring as many orgasms as she's good for out of her, and turn the magic wand off, and she gets enough of her braincells back online to form words, she takes some gulping breaths before asking: "Do you want me to... to do you, too?"

"Who's the pervert now?" You ask, as your dick oozes a dollop of precum from the piss slit, to intermingle with her fluids on the mattress.

"We both are," she giggles.

"Which of the little sisters are you romancing?" You ask, nodding at her game.

"...Aya. She's my favorite."

Of course. 

"I didn't play Aya's route," you lie. "Want to read it together?"

A few moments later, you're sitting side by side at Rose's PC, reading the VN. This thing is a nukige of the first order -- almost zero plot. There's very little connective tissue between the hardcore sex scenes; and so the two of you are being overwhelmed by scenario after scenario of a slutty little sister with pink hair doing anything she can to please her cherished older brother by servicing his dick. 

Rose is only half paying attention, though, because she keeps stealing glances at your cock jutting up in your lap.

"It's... it's so big..." she mutters to herself. 

Right now it's wrapped in a lubed-up silicone onahole that has an open end, the outer lip of the dicksleeve clinging to the underside of your mushroom tip. You aren't tugging on it, because you're on a hair trigger. You know that the moment you start masturbating, you'll pop off. So instead you occupy your hands by holding Rose's Hitachi for her, against her slimy pussy. You're both breathing hard through your mouths, and trying to keep yourselves from orgasming. This pleasure is too good to end so soon like that.

"This is lewd... this is too lewd," Rose says. "You're making me lewd, nii-chan..."

"Am I making you lewd?" You retort. "Or are you making yourself lewd? I'm just keeping tabs on you. You're the one who was sitting in here playing with yourself while reading hentai."

"Because... because I learned it from you..." she stammers.

"How did you learn it from me?"

"You were right," she says, her voice nothing but a hoarse and breathy whisper as you strum her clit with the humming toy. "I do spy on you... I peek at you in your room, and look at the things on your computer... I watch you with other girls, Ally..." She throws her head back and moans in her girly way as the pleasure courses through her system.

"See?" You say. "You're lewd. You're a lewd little sister... and that's just how I like it."

She clutches at the arms of her chair, rolling her head side to side, humping the wand's dome.

"Play with me, too," you say. "Do lewd stuff with me."

As if she's reaching for the third rail, she haltingly brings her fingertips towards your waiting prick, and the tube of silicone wrapped around it.

"Just like that," you say encouragingly. "Massage me too."

Together, you and Rose, onii-chan and imouto, masturbate each other. 

Her spindly fingers pressing down on your shaft, translated through the synthetic material of your pocket pussy, tease you just perfectly. The way she moves her inexperienced wrists is almost frustrating -- she doesn't maintain an even rhythm at all -- but it still feels great on your member, and brings you some much-needed relief. The vacuumy sluicing of the lube over and across your dick fills the room with indecent sounds, mingling with the wet buzz of the wand on Rose's cunt.

Your toes are curling and your tongue is wagging, but you want to make this orgasm perfect... you want to feel like your dick is really buried in a pussy.

"Rose..." you murmur. "Rose, can you use your mouth on me too?"

This is accelerating to something entirely new. Playing with each other's genitals is one thing... sucking you off, another. 

You nod at her.  "It'll feel good," you tell her, swiping a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You can drink onii-chan's cock milk..."

She slinks to her knees before you. "If-- if it's for you... if it's for you, then okay... I'll do my best."

She clasps both hands around the silicone onahole, down at the root of your penis, and wraps her lips around the tip. Staring up at you, her doe eyes are adorable. 

Like this, she begins to bob up and down. She said she's been peeking on what you do with the other girls... you can believe it. Or maybe hentai really has made her precocious. Either way, her blowjob technique is strangely excellent. Her tongue swirls in fast circles around the inside rim of the cocksleeve as she jerks the thing up and down on you. She herself, sitting under the desk, has her bare pussy against her vibrating toy, getting herself off while she sucks you. She's gonna get her nut at the same time you do. 

If what you have with the other Rose is me-time, then maybe call this one us-time: it's a mutual dive into perversion, each of you assisting the other towards your cum.

You try hard not to blow your load too quickly. You want to savor the sensation of Rose's first-time fellatio. But as you click through the lurid scenes of the hentai game, and stare down at Rose using her lips as an extension of your onahole... it's all too much. 

"Rose-- it's coming-- I'm gonna cum--!"

She nods enthusiastically. She never breaks eye contact, either. You pet her, running your hands in random circles around her pink tresses.

"I love you!" You snarl. "Drink my milk!"

She exhales hard through her nostrils and sucks down your spurting seed. The messy orgasm you have inside the onahole leaves Rose perfectly positioned to get every single drop. She scrapes her tongue searchingly all around even as you spew, licking it all up like the obedient sex kitten she is. And when she pulls her mouth free from your dick, lips bridged to it by a mixture of saliva and sperm, she smacks her tongue against her soft palate and says: "please fuck me, onii-chan... take my virginity, okay?"

So you fuck her. You bring her to her feet, turn her towards her bed -- throw her down onto it, and mount her.

"I..." she says, all of a sudden a little unsure as you loom over her. "I -- popped my cherry for you, but--"

"You what? How?"

"Hairbrush..." she says, looking away. "But... I'm still not that stretchy inside... so be careful, please."

You're as careful as can be, as you sink your aching, cummy dick into the soft embrace of Rose's mostly-unspoiled pussy. Just like when you deflowered in her in the last world, it takes no small amount of force to push your cock past the stubborn barrier of her clamping twat lips. She doesn't want to keep you out, but she clamps her muscles down by instinct, and makes it almost hurt to bust her open.

Her irises are dewy, and shimmer with adoration. Those partially parted lips and welling eyes are too much. They fill your heart with glad feelings. As your dick finally pushes through her resistance and robs her virginity, you press your face to hers, and kiss. 

From either end, you enjoy your little sister's soft body. The walls of her vagina cling to you with the tenacity of bubblegum and her mouth sucks on your tongue with the same fervor she used on your prick. She's so in love with you... and she's so over the moon to finally have her beloved older brother rutting inside her. She might be a little dim, and more than a little cringey -- and lazy, and weird... but she's your sister, and because of that, you find cuteness even in her faults. And also because of that, your bodies fit almost perfectly together. There's nowhere else, right now, that you would rather deposit a load, than inside your imouto's baby pink cunt. You grunt hard directly into her mouth, hunching your body up as you begin to fuck her hard. Her body acts as a shock absorber, the flesh jiggling wildly and making a thwapping sound as you nail her. The violent, incestuous mating lasts only a few moments, because you're both about to really fucking cum -- really, really fucking cum -- harder than any of the previous times today. You unleash a 100% raw, unsafe creampie into your little sister's body, and she squirts all over you as she receives it.

---

The Pink Ranger, sitting beside Cerise on the bus to Boise, uses her index fingers as drumsticks on the seatback in front of them. "99 bottles of beer on the wall! 99 bottles of beer! You take one down, you pass it around -- 99 bottles of beer on the wall!"

"You forgot to subtract one," Alex tells her.

Does that deter her? No. "99 bottles of beer on the wall! 99 bottles of beer! You take--"

Cerise yanks on one of her ears to shut her up. The force of it makes her list painfully to the side.

"Oof-- ow!! What the heck!"

"Shut the fuck up," Cerise growls.

"Rude."

The Yellow Ranger sits at the very back with you, dozing softly against your shoulder. It would be the perfect place for a little funny stuff -- but Saul has been staring you down the entire way there. The man hasn't blinked in almost 200 miles.

Whitney is with Vivian, doing some last-minute quizzarding:

"What part of the cell is responsible for modifying, sorting and packaging proteins for secretion?"

"The Golgi apparatus," Vivian replies without hesitation.

"Hey, Ally!" Whitney calls over her shoulder. "Gimme some secretions from your Golgi apparatus!"

"Do you have some sort of protein deficiency?" Vivian asks her.

"Right now? Yeah, for sure."

"I'm feeling a little protein-starved, too..." Vivian muses, rubbing her chin.

Ms. Carte snaps her fingers, getting the attention of her daughter and her surrogate daughter. "Quiz now. Dick later."

Charlotte is sitting beside Hank, getting some in-depth tips on fly-fishing. Charlotte, you know, is the exact opposite of outdoorsy, and is getting precisely zilch from these tips. But Hank's parents couldn't afford to miss work to come to Boise with him -- so she's giving him some much-needed company.

It would be a nice little tableau, if not for the disturbing fact that David Darkbloom is aboard the bus, too.

He wears a baseball cap, and totes a little triangular flag, both with North High's bobcat logo on them. He's eating chips and queso dip as he discusses the intricacies of server-side encryption with your mother. How he decided to yammer at her, of all people, is beyond you; but although she's humoring him, she's obviously had it up to here with the conversation by this point, and looks about ready to slit his throat.

But you have to give him credit where it's due. He's probably the most excited person here. He can't wait to see his girls perform on the big stage. 

When, a little past 1 AM, you finally arrive at the Boise Ramada Inn -- lap of luxury -- one of you has faltered. Vivian is sound asleep, and will not stir; Darkbloom has to carry her inside.

She isn't the only sleepy one. You have to wake Rose up. And Cerise has to wake Rose up. But at least they can trudge their way into the lobby and up to their rooms on their own two feet, without needing to be carried.

As you help Mr. Langley grab some of the team's bags from the stowage underneath the bus and tote it in, you pass a van in the parking lot you recognize. Depositing the bags in the lobby, you excuse yourself back out into the balmy Idaho night, and knock on the back doors of the van.

"Sable?" You say.

You know for an absolute fact that she's in there, even if she won't answer. You knock again.

"Sable?"

From inside, muffled, comes her voice: "Call me Ms. Guiteau!"

"Open up."

She opens up. She stares at you, squatting, from the homey interior of her van.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You demand.

"I'm on vacation," she says, stone-cold serious.

"In Boise, Idaho."

"Yes."

"You just so happen to have chosen Boise, Idaho for a vacation destination on the same week when our quiz team is at the national championship."

"Yes."

"And you camped out at the same hotel we're staying at, purely by coincidence."

"You are beginning to get on my nerves," Sable tells you.

"You're getting on my nerves. You're here to see Alex. Just admit it."

"I am not here to visit with that horrible boy. That boy, whose name I will not even utter, can go to hell. He's abandoning his vital duties in the robotics club this week to traipse around the country playing Jeopardy. On the eve of our own trip to nationals! It is beyond egregious. In fact, he may no longer deserve his place in the club. I am thinking of erecting him."

"You mean ejecting him?"

"That's what I said."

"How can you be mad at him for not attending the club this week when you're here, too?"

"Hmmph."

She slams the door shut. 

Early that morning, you sit around a shitty dining area eating a shitty continental breakfast with the rest of the team while Whitney quizzards you. It's nice and all that she's so enthusiastic about helping, but does she really need to wear her R and WH in public?

"First state to hold a Presidential primary?" She asks, reading from an almanac propped open in her lap.

"Iowa," you say, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you pick at your cold bacon. Can't they at least do a better job keeping the shitty breakfast food a little warmer?

"Wrong!" Whitney says.

"What do you mean, wrong?" You demand. "That's not wrong. It's definitely Iowa--"

"The answer is New Hampshire," Rose says.

"Correctamundo," Whitney says.

"Fuck that," you boom. You're fully awake now. "New Hampshire is second. Your book is wrong."

"It says here that New Hampshire is the first primary," Whitney insists. "Iowa is a cow-cuss."

"Caucus," Vivian says.

"Yeah, Ally," Whitney says, grinning slyly. "Caucus good."

Rose is beaming. She loves getting one over on you.

"Fucking technicalities..." you mutter, and shove a piece of bacon into your mouth.

Alex plops down beside you with a bowl of Froot Loops. The milk sloshes around, but doesn't spill. He begins to voraciously shovel the cereal into his mouth -- he always eats the most at breakfast.

"Sleep well?" Rose asks him.

"Uh huh," he says. "Well rested and ready to go! Let's kick some butt today!"

"Alabaster has some news for you," Rose informs him.

You huff. You told Rose about Sable coming all this way, on the assumption she wouldn't blab. You should have made it explicit. You wanted Alex to see Sable at the first match this morning -- where she'll doubtlessly be in attendance -- so he would be surprised by it.

[ ] Tell Alex now, so he can visit with her prior to the beginning of the tournament.
>[x] Don't tell him. 

You have to think quick, since Rose just promised exciting news. What you come up with is lame as hell:

"I'm making the team some uniforms."

"...What?" Rose says. "Aren't you going to tell h--"

You stomp her foot under the table. She lets out a tiny grunt of pain, and stomps you back -- but drops it at that.

"They'll have our team logo on them and everything," you add, as you curl your injured toes in your shoe and resist the urge to give Rose a counter-counter-stomp.

But thankfully, Rose gets the message. She lets your white lie stand.

"Really?" Alex says. "That's so cool!"

"Wait -- we have a logo?" Whitney says, glancing up from her book.

"Bobcats, no?" Vivian says.

"I mean, that's the school's logo, yeah," Whitney says. "But that shit's so lame."

"Can we wear wizard costumes too?" Hank wants to know.

"Our team logo is going to be much cooler," you promise. "Cooler than either bobcats or Rs and WHs."

Although in truth, you have no idea what the fuck you're going to make. You give Rose a sour look. A look that says "you're helping me later."

---

The first match of the day begins less than an hour afterwards. You're up against the Eisenhower Memorial Generals, hailing from picturesque Kansas City, Kansas.

Boise's Morrison Center is packed to the gills, but most of the spectators are other competitors and their families. There isn't much of an audience for this thing outside the insular world of quiz dorks. Peering out at the seats from your buzzer-mounted podium, you spy blocks of people in similarly-colored shirts -- folks repping their high schools' colors. Maybe a uniform isn't such a terrible idea, after all.

At the very front, between the foremost row of seats and the stage, Rosepink sets up shop: she marches back and forth in a cheerleader's outfit that she pilfered from North High, waving pompoms she also stole. The shirt is too large on her frame, but too small for her tits, whereas the skirt is just too small for her fat ass, period. The overall look is a bit ridiculous. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Gimme an M!" She shouts.

"M!" shouts Mom, Charlotte, Ms. Carte, and -- ugh -- Darkbloom.

"Gimme an I!"

"I!"

"Gimme an N!"

"N!"

Even they're beginning to grow tired of this, as they slowly realize that the word "Mindbreakers" has a lot of letters.

"Gimme a D!"

"She wishes," the Rose beside you mutters.

"Only wishes?" You ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"Are you fucking your little sister, Ally?" Whitney wants to know. "Wicked..."

Rose purrs in feigned disgust.

The Rose in the rows below Rose is just finishing up her cheer: "What's that spell?!"

But the game's host is coming to his podium between the two teams, and says into his mic: "Enthusiasm is appreciated, but we ask that the families of the competitors please not make any disturbances or outbursts."

"What's that spell?!" Rose shouts over the man.

Only Darkbloom is bold enough to respond. "Mindbreakers!" he gruffly shouts. 

The match is a complete and utter rout, as expected. The final score is North High: 10,500 - Eisenhower Memorial High: 500.

You're all a little disappointed because you didn't beat them by more than 10,000 points. Mr. Langley has been notching his belt for every time you do it; and his belt, by this point in the season, is more notch than leather.

Throughout the entire game... although Mom whoops and hollers for your victory; although Rose continues to dance and sway in her obviously unchoreographed way; although Cerise pretends to be aloof but smiles to herself every time one of you answers a question; although Saul and Charlotte golfclap for Rose every time she gets one right; although Mr. Langley cries with joy and Ms. Carte pumps her fists like a bettor at the prizefight with everything on the line; although Darkbloom watches from behind tented fingers with the severity of a man watching his daughter receive open-hear surgery -- there's a supporter missing. You strain your eyes and scan them about the dim theater, but she isn't anywhere to be seen. Sable is a no-show.

You're gonna have to march right back to her van and ream her ass after the match. She came all this way, and she couldn't bring herself to come see you all play? That shit is not going to fly.

---

Unfortunately, you have something else pressing to attend to after the game. Your next is in two hours, and you've got uniforms to whip up.

Back at the hotel's lobby in the brief interlude you have before heading back to the big stage, you sit in a lounger there, working on your laptop, and Rose sits on one of the armrests, watching over your shoulder. You quickly pull something together in a graphics editing program to use as a logo for the team. Something you know is sure to give Rose conniptions. And it does:

"We are not going to use that--"

"Yes we are."

"Fuck you, Alabaster, you pig. This is the most degrading--"

"It's just a picture of an overtaxed brain!" You insist. "Degrading? Your dirty mind is seeing things that aren't there."

"Don't you fucking gaslight me. I've known you long enough to know what an ahegao looks like."

"A strand of bedhead?" You ask, reaching for a tuft of her hair near her crown, and pulling it ceilingward, to demonstrate.

She swats your hand away. "That's an ahoge--" she begins. Then glimpsing your quivering lips trying to force back your laughter, she screams: "Asshole!"

She shoves you, making both you and the laptop in your lap sway towards the opposite side of the plush lounger. 

Mr. Langley, walking through, grabs your attention. "You two lovebirds better hurry up. We have to be back on the bus in less than an hour."

No more time for squabbling. You and Rose rush to the Kinko's across the street.

The methy, underpaid teen burnout at their screen printer needs your help -- both of you -- to do his fucking job and make the shirts you want. But you manage to get it done just in time. The two of you, arms full of freshly printed shirts, rush back to the bus, and dole them out. Everyone gets theirs, not just the team members.

Your rushjob meets with general approbation from most of them, who see nothing untoward in the design. Mom and Charlotte giggle as they pull theirs over their heads, commenting that it's perfect. Darkbloom, after donning his, pulls the fabric away from his chest to peer appreciatively down at it, smiling. "Mindbreakers indeed," he murmurs.

Among the ones who do see something more than an overtaxed brain: Cerise, who flatly refuses to wear it; Whitney, who tells you it's weirdly hot; and Vivian, who -- in a moment of uncharacteristic exuberance, mimics the expression for your enjoyment, cheek-to-cheek with your little sister who mirrors it. 

After demolishing a team from New Haven, Connecticut, your matches for the night are through, and you return to the hotel for the last time. But you're far from finished tonight, oh no. Ms. Carte has seen to that. She's going to drill you all, all night long, and not in the fun way. She's got a conference room rented out in the hotel, and wants to make you all stick around until 1 AM for practice.

It's only 6 PM now; and your first game tomorrow is at 7 AM. Absurd... it's absurd, what this woman expects of you.

You dutifully join the team, all the while trying to think of a plausible reason to duck out for a bit. You need to go tear Sable a new asshole, after all. She didn't show to the second match, either.

Hank, who's acutely aware of his status as benchwarmer, excuses himself from the proceedings without needing a real reason:

"Think I'll go find some dinner," he says. "There's a good seafood place up the street. I'll be back in a bit."

He is, after all, a brick shithouse who needs to eat the rations of a small army every day to nourish himself.

"You're excused," Ms. Carte tells him, not looking up from the whiteboard where she's writing.

He leaves. A few silent moments pass as Whitney flips through one of the trivia almanacs and the rest of the team settles in.

You and Rose realize it at the same moment. Your eyes shoot up, bulging, and meet.

---

"Hank!" You wail, running at a full clip down the sidewalk, past confused pedestrians, holding an outstretched arm before you. Rose tries to keep up, but you're majorly outpacing her. "Hank! HAAAAANNNNK!"

You catch up with him at the last possible moment. He's just about to step off the curb as the crosswalk's indicator turns green. But hearing your voice, he stops, and faces you.

"Alabaster?" He says. "What's u--"

A coal-rolling red Trailblazer blazes through the red light, pulling 60, and doesn't slow for even a nanosecond. Hank's clothes billow in the wake it leaves.

Shellshocked, he turns towards the road again, to watch the truck receding. Panting hard, clutching your knees, you draw alongside him.
Hank stands fully a head and half taller than you.

"Holy smokes," he says. "That asshole would have hit me for sure." He holds a palm flat up in front of him: "I'm fricking shaking, man. I could have died."

Rose is several moments delayed, but she catches up, too.

"...So what did you guys want?" Hank asks, already back to normal after his near-maim experience.

"I..." you begin, gulping air. You stretch your back at a sharp angle, gripping your coccyx with both palms, staring at the evening sky. "I forget."

"Yeah," Hank says. "Pretty crazy stuff. I'd forget what I was about to say, too."

Rose begins to tell him something, but can't muster words, either.

"Wanna grab some dinner?" Hank asks.

You do. You and Rose accompany him to the Bonefish Grill. You order the scrod. It's pretty good. More than worth how bad Ms. Carte chews you out when you return to practice two hours later. 

A little after 11 PM, Ms. Carte excuses herself for a smoke break. Such a nicotine freak. She demands your presence with her out front -- claiming that she doesn't feel safe by herself after dark in a strange city like this. Boise doesn't strike you as a particularly crime-ridden area, but you don't argue the point. It's a great opportunity to get away.

Ms. Carte leans with the sole of one shoe against the cobbled wall of the hotel, taking long, appreciative drags, her other arm folded beneath her breasts.

"Give me one," you say, motioning for the pack of cigarettes in her coat pocket.

"No," she instantly replies.

"Come on. Geez."

"No," she repeats. "You're underage."

"Doesn't stop you from letting me cum inside you--"

Ms. Carte hits you upside the head. You grimace.

"Cumming inside doesn't cause cancer," she says.

"It's equally as addictive, though," you say.

"Fair point," she admits. "I'm a woman of vice. What can I say. You're still not getting any cigarettes."

She throws the butt onto the concrete and stamps it out. She narrows her eyes at you.

"You're not leading my girls on, are you?" Ms. Carte asks.

"What do you m--"

"Don't play dumb," she snaps. "Some horny teenage boy like you, out to lay as many girls as he can -- I know your type. How many girls are in your little harem, huh?"

"Counting you?"

She swats you upside the head again. You rub the sore spot with both hands, wincing.

"Do you love them?" She asks.

"Yes," you reply, without hesitation.

"Will you love them forever?"

"Yes! The hell is this, Meatloaf?"

She tries to swat you a third time, but you sidestep it.

"I've got my eyes on you," Ms. Carte tells you. "Whitney's had a hard life. And Vivian might be a billionaire, but she hasn't had a much easier time of it. If you break their hearts, I'll never forgive you."

"They mean the world to me," you tell her. "I love them so much that sometimes I feel like my heart's going to burst out of my chest." You sigh, and glance skyward. "Look -- don't tell them I said this -- but sometimes I have nightmares about one of them dying. And when I wake up, I still think it's real for a second, and I..." you trail off, clear your throat. Ms. Carte's expression, when you finally meet it, is slack, surprised. "I love them," you finish.

Ms. Carte nods.

After a lengthy lull, she turns back for the glass doors of the Ramada Inn's lobby.

"Ms. Carte," you call after her.

She looks at you.

"I love you, too," you say.

Her eyelids flutter. "Y-you--"

"Sometimes the future doesn't seem real. But I know I want all three of you in it."

You step to her, and rub noses with her, and then kiss her tenderly. Her breath tastes like menthol, but that's fine.

"Are you coming back to the practice room?" She asks when she reluctantly pulls away. Her voice is like silk.

"Give me a few."

"Okay..." she kisses you again. She doesn't want to stop, or leave you warm embrace. When at last she does, she's wearing a smile that won't go away.

Standing outside the hotel, you watch Ms. Carte's backside through the glass doors as she steps past the reception desk and rounds the corner towards the first floor conference room where the rest of the team is sequestered. You smile to yourself.

"Psst. Hey kid."

You startle at the voice to your left. Wheeling, ready to karate chop the snot out of whoever just accosted you, you discover the source: Kay Vera's bespectacled eyes are peeping at you from between the low hedges of some manicured bushes in a planter beside the entrance.

"...Kay?" You breathe, unable to stop yourself.

She squints at you. Maybe she's trying to gauge whether you really said her name, or just expectantly said, 'kay? A beat passes.

"What are you doing?" You finally ask.

As she rises to her feet, leaves and twigs waterfall off her head and shoulders. Since these hedges lining the building's perimeter are kept in a long cedar chip-filled planter, she now stands several feet taller than you. It's an odd vantage. You graciously offer her a hand to help her step back down to the sidewalk, but she brusquely refuses. Instead she tiptoes to the planter's edge before finally hopping down under her own motive force. She lands flat on her boots, making a little "ope" from the force of the impact.

She dusts the clinging bits of foliage off her pantlegs and peacoat, first the right side, then the left.

"How long were you hiding in there listening in on me?" You ask.

"A while."

"You make it a habit to spy on people?"

She extends a hand to shake. You'd rather ravish her with kisses, but you know the forward method you unleashed on Whitney the first time you saw her isn't the right thing for just everyone. You shake Kay's hand -- politely, but firmly.

"Kay Vera," she says. "You're Alabaster Soliloquy, right? I'm a news reporter for -- well -- it doesn't matter. As for the hiding thing. I've been after some dangerous leads on a couple stories -- so diving headfirst into bushes sort of became my new habit. Maybe I was a bit too gung ho. I don't mean to seem like a creep."

"Way too late," you tell her.

She ignores that. "I'm doing a story about David Darkbloom and his daughters. I take it you know them quite well."

You nod. "And I know you."

"So you did mean to call me by name," she says, trying not to look too fazed. "Does David Darkbloom know I've been researching him?"

"I couldn't say. If he does, he didn't tell me. I just know you by your oeuvre."

"My--"

"Your quiz on which Cowboy Bebop character I am was inspired. I didn't take you for an anime fan."

She turns crimson.

"I'm Faye, by the way, Kay," you tell her. "What's the scoop this time, though? America's top 25 most interesting teens? 10 moments of epic win from the national quiz bowl championship? The top 15 most--"

Kay balls her fists. "I'm not here for some stupid blog post! This is a real news story I'm chasing!"

"I think the bar inside's still open. We should grab a drink." 

"Rico Suave here," Kay giggles, sliding you your glass across the short span of bartop between your stools. "How's that Shirley Temple, Rico?"

You stir the syrup up with the swizzle stick and then take a sip. "Very cherry. I love cherries."

"Uh huh." She sips her Jack and Coke. "So what's it like to be screwing a billionaire?"

"Screwing?" You say in faux shock. "Gee willickers, lady. Whitney and I are going steady, but we aren't ready for anything more than that until marriage!"

"Very funny," Kay says.

You drop the wholesome act. "I'm just trying to look nice," you say, shrugging. You lean in, whisper. "I know people of your generation are less open-minded about sex than us younger folks."

"These little jabs aren't going to put me on the back foot," she says (but she's clutching and unclutching that cocktail napkin in her other hand quite ferociously...) She goes for magnanimous: "I know you've got a long practice to get back to, so I'll leave you my card. I'd like to schedule an in-depth session with you."

"Why me? Wouldn't you rather talk to Whitney or Vivian?"

"Maybe soon," she says. "For now, though. You'll do." She leans against the balls of her palms in between her legs on the stool, hunching forward, and invading your personal space. "Quick. In one word -- how would you describe Vivian Darkbloom?"

"Pale."

"Anyone can see that she's pale," Kay grumps. She straightens her posture.

"Isn't it your job to use a bunch of flashy words to describe people? I'm a simple man. I call it like I see it."

"You're simple all right. Try again."

"Eccentric."

"That's better. Eccentric. I like it. Not strange, not weird -- eccentric. Eccentric is strange plus cute, isn't it?"

"Not always," you say. "Tesla was eccentric. Mike Tyson is eccentric. Diogenes of Sinope was eccentric. None of them rank as cute, to me."

"But Vivian Darkbloom does," Kay says.

You shrug. "Sure. She's an idiosyncratic cutie. Is that what you want to hear?"

"How about Whitney Carte -- one word."

"Good."

"I know high schoolers aren't the most eloquent people, but I seriously thought Mr. Mensa, King of the Quiz Nerds would have a bit more loquaciousness in him than your average pizza-faced adolescent."

"No," you say, "I chose exactly the word I wanted to. Whitney's good. She's everything good, and nothing bad. Vivian too -- just in an eccentric way. They're good. I hope you say good things about them." You stand up, and extend your hand to shake one last time. "Thanks for the drink, Kay, I'll be calling you. I should get back--"

"Wait," she says, and rebuffs the proffered handshake. "David Darkbloom. One word."

"Evil," you say without thinking.

Kay grins. "A tale of good and evil. All right. Maybe this is better than I thought."

"Goodnight," you try.

"Just one more thing."

She whisks you to a little alcove just past the hotel bar, where a couple loungers sit facing one another between a small, low, round table. It's not perfectly private, but it affords you some space away from prying ears.

"Why don't you like David Darkbloom?" Kay asks, as she seats herself.

"'Don't like' is a soft way of putting it. I don't like kale. I don't like professional golf. I don't like cleaning. David Darkbloom -- is way beyond 'don't like'."

"Why?" Kay repeats.

"You don't get to know everything," you tell her. "Sorry. I've said too much already. If you publish anything about me calling David Darkbloom evil, I'll wring your neck."

Kay ponders for a moment, the side of her forefinger to her lips.

"I've been watching you all day," she finally says. "And for a while before that. You might not like him, or maybe you even hate him, but the man is just gaga for you. You know that?"

You shrug.

"Maybe you know some things already. I wonder..." She rubs her upper calves as if massaging out a kink. "Full disclosure: I got my sniffer on David Darkbloom because of a different story I was following. Corruption in law enforcement -- that led me to mob elements in silicon valley -- and it seems like all roads lead back to David Darkbloom. Doing a couple soft interest pieces on his daughters is just the in I'm using with my editors so they let me keep working the real story. Now -- you said David Darkbloom is evil. Is there a specific reason for that?"

"I told you I'm not telling you," you insist.

"That's fine. Maybe I'll tell you, and then we can compare notes." 

"Have you ever had an X-ray, Alabaster?" Kay asks you.

You shrug. "Yeah. I broke a finger when I was 12. My li
ttle sister accidentally slammed it in a car door."

"Ouch," Kay says, wincing in sympathy. She knocks back a sip of her drink that she stole with her away from the bar. "When you had your X-ray, did you find it at all odd that the technician explained how the device was perfectly safe, then ran and went and hid in a different room before he turned it on?"

"Uh, no," you say. "That's obvious. One small dose of radiation like that is no big deal. But if you're the X-ray tech, doing it every day as your job, you'd get cancer if you didn't shield yourself."

She sets her glass on the table between you. She perches a chin on the back of her palms, across her interlaced fingers. "How precocious. You were a know-it-all even at 12."

"I'm a know-it-all now," you say. "At the time, I wasn't thinking one way or the other about the effects of radiation. I was going back and forth between: 'oh shit this hurts' and: 'I'm gonna kick my little sister's butt.'"

"But you didn't," Kay says with a smirk.

"Kick her butt? How would you know--"

"Big brothers," she snorts. "They're all the same. They talk a big game, but when push comes to shove -- nary an ass kicking in sight. They're too soft to actually do it."

"You have a lot of experience?" You ask.

"Oh, sure. I've got two of my own. They always thought they were bullying me, but in the end, it was always me who was bullying them."

"What's your point?" You ask.

"Right. So you hit the nail on the head with that radiation bit -- or maybe more like the fingernail in the car door?" She waits for your chuckle that doesn't come. "Anyway, do you know very much about David Darkbloom's former wife?"

"No," you lie.

"You know she's dead?" Kay asks.

"Sure," you reply.

"What of?"

"Cancer."

"Correct. But what if I told you that it wasn't just bad luck or genetics? What if I told you David Darkbloom killed his own wife?"

You laugh derisively. "What? How could Darkbloom have killed his wife with cancer? Did he keep her locked up in a tanning booth?"

"Kinda sorta," Kay says cryptically. She's grinning way too hard for a woman who's talking about the wife-murders of the rich and famous. She lays her fingertips on the table and moves them about, like a line coach plotting the defensive line's movements, as she maintains eye contact with you. "He had an X-ray machine installed in secret, in the walls of Mara's office at Darkbloom E-Pay. Every day for ten years, while Mara would check her morning emails, he blasted her with radiation. Pew pew. Ten years. Until, finally, she got sick from it -- and died." She leans back in her seat, one arm's elbow looped over the chairback, and allows you a few moments for this revelation to sink in. Finally, she continues. "David Darkbloom was playing the long game. He wanted his wife gone, at all costs. And David Darkbloom... always gets what David Darkbloom wants." 

"Why are you telling me this?" You ask.

"Because I believe you. You want to fuck David David Darkbloom ... over, that is."

"Is that what you think of me?" You ask her. "I know enough about Mara Darkbloom to know that she deserved worse than what she got. She was his mob connection -- but you know that already too."

Kay's eyes glimmer. She likes talking to someone who's got the goods. The more you talk, the more you reveal, despite yourself.

"This is a huge news story, Alabaster, and you could be the pivotal piece I need-- that the world needs-- to see how much of a maniac this man really is. He installed a radiation device in the walls of his own company like a comic book supervillain! But right now, this is all just speculation. No proof. You could break it open. You're David Darkbloom's favorite son... if you asked for a tour of Darkbloom E-Pay, I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige. And if you coincidentally happened to snap a few pictures of Mara Darkbloom's former office in secret while you were there, you could confirm the story. We could put him in prison -- where he belongs."

You lean back, and regard her severely.

This could be a lifeline... for you, for the world. If David Darkbloom goes down in infamy and gets locked up for life before he can even begin his work on Sand Reckoner--

But what about his daughters? Their riches, their legacy, their fragile sense of family?

And what would they think if they ever found out that you were the linchpin of their father's ruin?

"Why should I help you?" You ask her. "It's dangerous -- and maybe illegal, what you're asking... all for what? To put away a man who maybe killed an unrepentant mobster? The father of the girls I'm involved with?"

"It's a sweet deal," Kay says. "Darkbloom E-Pay has a debt-to-equity ratio that would make any investor trip over their dick to fund. Totally amortized and returning consistent year-over-year profits. If David Darkbloom goes to prison, he can't run the place anymore -- but he has secret provisions for that -- key-man clauses in the structure of the company, allowing him to name the next CEO in the advent of his death or incapacitation."

"...Whitney?" You breathe.

"What? Oh, God, no," Kay manages through peals of laughter. "Why on Earth would he name an 18 year old girl with no job experience to head one of the world's most valuable corporations? No, no. That's retarded. In what fucking universe does that make sense?" She points at you. "Her mother, though..."

"He named Ms. Carte his successor?"

"Bingo. Renee Letourneau doesn't know it yet, but she's the next CEO of Darkbloom E-Pay. And since you're so ... chummy ... with her... I'm sure you can see the dollar signs. Plus you'd be doing the world some good. Even his daughters. Do you really want them being raised by an egomaniacal murderer?"

[ ] I'll help you. David Darkbloom has to answer for his crimes.
>[x] I won't help you. David Darkbloom should be free with his family. 

What you say surprises even yourself:

"I told you that Whitney and Vivian are everything good and nothing bad, didn't I? Well, they came from David Darkbloom. So if they came from him, he can't be the opposite of that -- he can't be everything bad and nothing good. I don't like him. I despise him. You could not possibly comprehend how much I despise him. But I love his girls, and his girls love him, and if they love him... then maybe whatever's good inside him can come out. I won't help you destroy him. I don't think you should keep trying, either. You'll only ruin a lot of lives like this -- and for what -- a Pulitzer? Leave it alone. Just do your soft interest pieces on Whitney and Vivian. And find the next Watergate somewhere else."

Kay scrunches her lips to one side of her face, and furrows her brow, having a good long think on that.

"You're pretty interesting, yourself," she says at last. "Here you are at age -- 17? And you've got this apparently tortured relationship with one of the world's foremost billionaires." She searches her tumbler for more liquor, but finds only half-melted ice at the bottom. She sets it down again. "I'd like to know you and the Darkbloom sisters a bit better. Can I shadow your team at the quiz bowl?"

"Are you going to drop this murder story angle?" You ask.

"Mara Darkbloom was a cunt who got eaten alive by cancer. Happens to better people every day. Anyway, without proof..." Kay shrugs theatrically. "Like I said. It's just speculation. I'm not in the speculation business."

"I'll have to ask my teammates," you tell her. "They wouldn't be too happy if I showed up unannounced with another girlfriend in tow."

"Girlfriend?" Kay says, arching an eyebrow.

"They know I'm weak for older women, so they'd make the assumption."

"Mmm hmm. Well unfortunately for you, Rico Suave, I'm not weak for younger boys."

"Mmm hmm," you retort.

Kay tells you goodnight, stands, and starts down the hall towards the elevators.

"Hey," you call. Kay turns around. "Do you know a woman by the name of Noelle?"

Kay's face goes slack. She's not used to being on the other side of a person who asks unexpected questions. "Yes..." she murmurs. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing," you say. "Just, when you see her again, could you pass along a message for me?"

She's mute for a brief moment, before finally telling you: "I'm listening."

"Tell her that Lillith is best girl -- a thousand times cuter than Lulu. She'll know what I mean."

Kay frowns. "I know what you mean, too... unfortunately." She turns back around and begins to walk off again, waving at you with the back of her palm. "I'll pass it on for you. Even if you're wrong." She glances over her shoulder, one last time: "Lucy is best girl." 

---

"Sable. Open up."

You knock on the van's back doors, for the fourth time.

"Sable!"

You start to pound.

"Sa-- Ms. Guiteau! Open this fucking door!"

You're about to start leaving dents in the bodywork.

"...Alabaster?"

Sable's voice, behind you, catches your attention. You turn around. Gravel crunches under her shoes as she uncertainly walks across the parking lot towards you, a white styrofoam carton of food in one hand. "Why are you banging on my car?"

"I -- thought you were inside," you say.

"I'm not inside."

"Obviously."

"I'm out here."

You rub the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger.

"What do you want?" She asks. At least she's in a courteous mood tonight.

She takes a key fob from her trouser pocket and brushes past you, using it to unlock the van's back doors that you were so recently (and senselessly) assaulting. Standing aside, you watch her for a quiet moment, the way she tilts her chin slightly downwards and focuses on lining up the key with the hole. In her less psychotic moments, she can be quite cute. Finally you answer her: "why haven't you been at our games?"

Sable twists the key and swings the back doors open. "I'm not here for that," she says. She crawls inside, sets her late-night dinner on the futon mattress, turns 180 degrees to face you again. "Goodnight," she says, and starts to close the doors on you. But you hold one of them ajar against her feeble tugging.

"You drove halfway across the country. Don't waste your chance to see us play because you're too proud to admit you care."

A strange look spreads over her features. Her thin lips and darkly bagged eyes twitch. You're not sure whether you're about to witness one of her signature rages or moments of despair. In the end, it turns out to be neither. She only says, at last: "no one cares about me. I've decided not to care about anyone else, either. Now please let me enjoy my enchilada supreme in peace."

"I care about you," you tell her.

"Lies are horrible things," Sable responds.

"And Alex sure as hell cares about you," you add.

Sitting on her knees, hands folded in her lap, Sable considers that.

"Please come inside," she says. 

You and Sable take turns using the same plastic spork to take nibbles out of a giant beef enchilada. You sit on her mattress, you with your back against one of the van's interior walls, and Sable with her back against the one opposite, the container of food between you.

"We're supposed to go to St. Louis in a few weeks," Sable tells you. "The team has so much work to do... and honestly, Alex is the only one who can do it."

"Don't you rely on him a little too much?" You ask.

"Who else could I rely on?" Sable says. "Everyone else in the robotics club is completely incompetent. I give them simple tasks and they always find a way to disappoint me. Alex has to come in and clean up their messes. Without him, the team falls apart."

"What about Cerise?" You offer.

"Cerise is a great help, but she isn't a student. There's a limit to what she's allowed to do. Anyway, she's here too. Abandoned me right along with Alex."

"They're here because of me," you tell her, and take a bite. Through a full mouth, pointing at her with the spork, you say: "don't blame them."

Sable takes the spork you're using to point at her from you. She takes a bite of her own. Does it count as an indirect kiss when the flavor is completely masked by cayenne peppers and cumin? "I do blame you," she says, also with a full mouth. "I blame you for not joining FIRST to begin with, too. You could have done so well underneath me."

Phrasing, Sable... phrasing.

"Regardless of any of that," you say, "you're here. So since you're here anyway, why not give us a little bit of support?"

"No," Sable says, "I'm going to drive home tonight."

You sigh. "Okay. I guess I'll have to do that, then."

"...That?" Sable says, cocking her head. 

"I'm going to tell Alex you came to see him. Which means if you don't show up--"

"Don't you dare!" Sable shouts.

"--just imagine the pitiful crying, the heartbreak--"

"I don't care if he DOES cry! What difference does that make? Don't you try to guilt me--"

"--the sniveling, the betrayal. For sure he would run into the arms of the first person to give him any sympathy. Who would that be? I bet Ms. Carte would be perfectly happy to let him into her tender embrace..."

Sable kicks you. With the hard rubber heel of her boot, in your shins. You bowl over, almost landing with your forehead in the carton of half-cooled food.

"Fuck!" You snarl. "What the hell was that?"

She kicks you again. This time in your shoulder. You jolt upright, and adopt a defensive stance.

"Go to hell!" Sable shrieks. "I didn't ask you to get involved with my affairs! Alex is an ingrate, you're an obnoxious meddler, and Cerise is a worthless drunk! I don't need any of you!"

You stare at the ceiling and slowly shake your head, your crown rubbing against the cold hard metal of the van's wall. "You don't mean that. You need us."

"No I don't! Idiot! Moron! St--"

"And we need you."

Sable's rage dissolves. You lock eyes.

"We need you in our lives," you repeat. "You're part of what makes North High such an interesting place. When we get back from Boise after winning nationals, we'll work double-time to make sure your team wins the nationals too. It's a group effort. No club left behind." 

"You'll help, too?" Sable asks, her voice small, and pinched.

"Of course. I even bet I could drag along most of these other quiz bowl losers. Since our season'll be over, why not?"

Sable crawls towards the front of the van. You're half expecting her to pull a gun out and shoot you. She's calm again, though, with the promise of sticking by her team. What she produces from her glove compartment is something entirely different: a small package wrapped with wrapping paper, and topped by a bow. It has penguins and snowmen on it.

"...You're a little late for Christmas," you tell her, as she settles back down on the mattress across from you, sitting cross-legged again.

"This was all I had in my closet," she says. "But it's not for Christmas... it's for a birthday. Alex's, specifically."

You frown. "You're a little late for that too. Alex's birthday was last month."

"I know. I never gave it to him."

She offers it to you, holding her hand outstretched over the short distance between you.

"Give it to him for me. Tell him I'm sorry I was so late."

"Tell him yourself," you say. You push her hand away. "Give it to him after our games tomorrow."

She nods, but shakily. The idea of gift-giving is foreign to her -- she isn't comfortable doing it, as badly as she wants to.

"It's all right if I show up to the games?" She asks again.

"We'll save a seat for you. And a T-shirt, too. You can show some team spirit."

She nods again. As you make to leave, she calls out, stopping you.

"By the way -- while we're speaking of birthdays. What did you get Whitney for hers?"

Your stomach lurches. In all the hubbub of preparing for the quiz bowl, you neglected to get Whitney anything at all. Now the hour is approaching midnight... which means you're about to miss Whitney's birthday just in time to segue into missing Vivian's birthday too. Fucking fantastic.

"That's... a secret," you tell Sable with an awkward laugh.

"You forgot," Sable says, perceptive as ever.

"I didn't forget. I just -- mentally misplaced it."

"You'd better hurry," Sable says.

"...Yeah."

You hurry out. 

---

You return to the quiz bowl drilling already in session. Usually, Ms. Carte would lambaste you for taking so long. Between your little drink date with Kay and your dinner date with Sable, it's been well over an hour since you've left. But your parting love confession has left a sugary warmth in your teacher's heart and a dopey grin on her face -- she can't even pretend to be angry at you right now. 

You take a seat beside Vivian, and resume the question-answering marathon. Except you're not invested in it. You need to come up with a birthday gift, and fast -- that's your overriding priority. You whisper so that only Vivian can hear:

"What did you get Whitney for her birthday? Anything?"

"Of course," Vivian whispers back. "I have already informed her that her present is waiting for her back in Gilroy."

"What is it?" You ask. "...Can it be from both of us?"

Vivian gives you a displeased glare. "Do you believe, that Whitney will believe, that we went halvsies on a Camaro?" 

She deserves props for using a slangy word like "halvsies," at least. But her refusal to lie about the gift's provenance leaves you in the same position as before. Then another disaster:

"Hold on a moment," Vivian says, "if you have forgotten to get Whitney a present, that means you almost certainly have forgotten to get me a present as well."

"That is a shoddy logical inference," you say, trying to play on her level. 

"Not at all. Alabaster Soliloquy, I am beyond hurt. Not so long ago, I gave you the most precious gift of all: my virginity. I allowed the blood of my maidenhood to trickle down your turgid erection, all so that you might have the fleeting joy of a masculine orgasm. And this is how you repay me for breaking my body on your manhood?"

Accusatory words, but she says them with a grin. She was expecting you to forget. And what she's describing turns her on.

"I'll let you do the whole mistress thing, if you tell Whitney the car is from both of us," you promise. "That can be your present."

"You will do the 'whole mistress thing' regardless, as reparation for your horrible mistreatment of me."

Ms. Carte finally notices your back-and-forth whispering session. "Do you two have something you want to share with the rest of us?" She asks, tapping a foot.

"No," Vivian replies curtly. "You may proceed."

Ms. Carte sighs. "Only if we have your permission."

"You do."

"That was sarcasm," Ms. Carte tells her.

"I am well aware. My response was not."

Ms. Carte and the others continue. 

"Well," you say sadly, after some moments have passed, "if I can't be the co-joint giver of a brand new car, I'll just have to give Whitney something else."

"Indeed. And it had better be good. I will punish you if you let her down."

"Oh, it will be good," you say, as your loop an arm around Vivian's waist under the table.

"...Alabaster?" Vivian says, voice catching. Not so haughty all of a sudden when you highlight your size discrepancy like this.

"Shhh," you coo. "Don't want anyone to hear, do you?"

Your hand snakes into her skirt, across her soft inner legs, and under her butt. 

"What are you d--"

She chokes on her own words as you poke a finger inside -- right into the warm, grippy confines of her anus.

"I didn't buy her anything," you whisper. "So I'll just have to give you to her, instead."

Vivian trembles. Although the two sisters have been in a sexual relationship for some time now, and although it's something of an open secret within the group, Vivian is still hush-hush about it. She won't agree with or argue against your plan, because she doesn't want any of the others overhearing discussion about such a sordid thing.

Which means that you get to finger Vivian Darkbloom's butt in peace.

With your ring finger embedded up to the third knuckle inside her, it's a snug fit. You can hardly wiggle it around at all. The heat emanating from her interior is swampy and fervid. As you toy with her, you feel your palm becoming wet; her pussy is drooling from this gentlest of abuse. 

"Jerk me off," you whisper. 

She finds your cock inside your pants, and wraps her dainty fingers around you. Now this is the high life: molesting a hot bitchlet like Vivian while she plays with you in return, during a rousing round of trivia. You can still answer the questions coming your way, perfectly fine. But all this unexpected and intense sexual tomfoolery has left Vivian a mush-brained idiot. When Ms. Carte turns to her and poses the question: "who founded the Tokugawa Shogunate?" -- Vivian, face droopy and twitchy, can only mutter: "d-dick..." in response.

"Dick who?" Whitney says, assuming Vivian is right, and that some guy named Dick founded an ancient Japanese kingdom. 

But Ms. Carte swiftly moves on, gleaning what her daughter doesn't: that Vivian's mind is completely elsewhere for the moment.

Alex is more perceptive than Whitney, too. He grins at you. "Hee. Ally, you're so dirty."

And Rose, ditto: "Child molester," she says -- half contemptuously, half warmly. 

"Vivian is the dirty one here. Dirty bitch..." You use your other hand, briefly, to fishhook her, pulling her cheek away from her teeth even as you ruthlessly fingerblast her asshole. You were hoping the briefness of it would only let Alex and Rose see -- but Ms. Carte's eyes draw up at precisely that moment, and she sees, too. 

She's well aware that you've been fucking Vivian. But being confronted by a brazen sexual display such as this is something entirely new. She clears her throat, blushing, and glances away. Whitney, for her part, reads trivia questions, oblivious. 

Over the next few minutes, you simply enjoy the naughty pleasure of fondling Vivian in this semi-public space, amid your friends and loved ones. The conference room is windowed, and although the view is only to the first-floor hallway outside, any random hotel guest could definitely walk past and see. 

As it turns out, a not-so-random hotel guest walks by -- and into the room. David Darkbloom enters, still wearing his team shirt, carrying a box of donuts.

"How is everyone doing?" He asks, peppy, and apparently oblivious to what's happening under the table. Vivian's eyes are glassy. She looks half-uncomprehendingly up at him as she spreads her legs just a little wider for you to get even better access to her rear hole. She picks up the pace of her wanking, and you feel yourself mounting that apex. She wants you to really get inside her deep while her father's in the room with you.

"I brought donuts!" Darkbloom announces, to general approval. "I wanted to make sure you keep enough glucose in your systems that your brains don't starve -- like this one here." He points at the ahegaoing brain on his shirt, smiling. That thing has become a favorite of his, it seems. He sets the box on the table. "What do you say, Vivian? You're looking a mite tuckered out already."

"Yeshhh father," Vivian says, as underneath the table she gyrates on your invading finger. You add your pinky, spreading her open even wider. The spongy softness of her insides combined with her teasingly light grip around your prick, combine to dunk you into a sea of electric erotic pleasure. Without forewarning, you pop off -- and ejaculate in her rapidly fapping little hand. You mask your guttural grunts of pleasure by pretending to clear your throat. 

Vivian has no sooner finished bringing you off than she flicks the lid of the donut box open. She uses the same hand she just used to milk your cock. She selects one of the two dozen enormous donuts inside, a plain glazed, and thankfully no one seems to catch that her hand already had some extra glazing on it before the fact. She begins to eat, with uncharacteristically enormous bites, cooing to herself as she enjoys the delectable mix of sugar and cum.

"Don't be shy," Darkbloom prods the rest of you. "Help yourselves!"

You all dig in, too. And at the same time, you continue to dig into Vivian -- fingering her baby asshole for the rest of the night. By the end of the quiz drilling, Vivian is basically a puddle of goo. She's a swoony, sweaty mess.

You half-lie to Whitney and Ms. Carte as the team clears out, telling them that you'll help Vivian upstairs. It's true that you intend to help her upstairs. But you won't take her to the suite she's sharing with her dad. And you won't bring her up for a little while yet. 

Instead, you escort her across the street -- to a local Walgreens. There, you buy some chintzy gold-leaf ribbon and a package of bows. 

Enervated from being used for so long, Vivian's mental acuity isn't quite up to snuff, and she doesn't understand what you're doing. "What... is the meaning of this?" She asks as she stands beside you at the checkout, her skirt rumpled, her thighs visibly wet in the bright lighting. You pay up without responding, handing cash to the disinterested cashier, and lead her outside again. 

"Strip," you tell her.

She doesn't question you. Doesn't protest or dither. She strips. She undoes her skirt, and pulls it down, then takes her blouse off too. You're glad she wasn't wearing anything particularly elaborate tonight -- and that she she wasn't wearing underwear. She kicks off her flats, too. All of these articles she hands over to you, right there outside the Walgreens. And so she stands stark naked in the middle of a Boise parking lot.

"Happy birthday, by the way," you tell her. 

"Thank you." She reaches behind herself and fingers her own little ass -- missing your gentle molestation, you guess.

You set her clothes on top of a nearby concrete post, and begin the work of wrapping Vivian up. You work quickly. Though it's after 1 AM, and though Boise's a sleepy little city, you're standing outside a 24-hour drugstore after all, and someone could easily happen upon the sight of you getting frisky with this young girl. 

Your wrap-job covers only what is legally required to be covered in public. A strip of ribbon around her chest, to just barely conceal her nipples. Two more strips of ribbon in a V that extends from her crotch up to her shoulders, meeting again behind her back. A final little spool of ribbon secures her wrists together, behind her back. You put a giant gold bow on her head, and another on her navel. All wrapped up and ready to tear into. 

Her discarded clothes hanging off one of your arms, you loop your other arm around her and walk her back to the hotel. She needs the support.

Though sparse, there is some passing traffic -- she gets honks and catcalls aplenty. Rather than make her embarrassed, the attention makes her proud, and her body flushes with excitement. In 421 or 422, it's just the same: Vivian Darkbloom is a pervert, and she likes to flaunt it. Her cunt leaves a snail trail of arousal down her legs... and across the grimy sidewalk on the trip back. She turns the head of the receptionist at the front desk of the Ramada Inn, too, who gasps and covers her mouth as you pass. You just wink at her as you stride towards the elevators. Vivian smirks. Her wet cunt is making the bits of ribbon over her crotch all transparent and sticky -- the folds and crevices perfectly well visible by now, especially in the light. 

Upstairs, you fire a quick text to Whitney, asking her to come to your suite. You've got the room to yourself -- kinda -- sharing it only with Alex for the duration of the trip. You know he won't mind letting you have a little fun on the Darkbloom sisters in his vicinity, if he's still awake to witness it. But you find him conked out when you get back. 

You figured Whitney would be up. She's always all abuzz with excitement on the night before a big day like the one you've all got coming. Only she doesn't respond to your messages, even when you send her a lewd photo of Vivian on your bed on all fours, face pushed down into the pillows, waiting for her. Time to take matters into your own hands.

You and Vivian go to Whitney's room, the one she's sharing with her mother. Rather than knocking, you let yourself in -- you've got Whitney's spare room key -- and check on the belated birthday girl. She really is asleep, shocker of shockers, and so is her mother. They're curled up with one another, snoozing soundly, wearing nothing but panties. The sight of it makes your cock lurch. But you suppose this was a chaste (albeit kind of strange) sleeping arrangement. They're not bashful around each other, and it doesn't look (or smell) like they've been fucking. They haven't *ever* fucked -- not yet anyway. You know that they're both horny for it. They just need a little nudge.

Maybe tonight can be that nudge.

"Whitney... hey, Whitney. Wake up."

Groggily, she stirs. She turns in place, still entwined with her mother, and glances up at you -- at Vivian, too.

"Happy birthday," you tell her. You smile winningly. "You're legal now... your sister, not so much."

Her face lights up with unrestrained joy. She rises to her butt. Her little B-cup tits are cast in soft relief by the dim light from the room's entryway, the only illumination. Her plain white panties are soft-looking, too, especially at the dimple left by the cleft of her pussy mound. "Oh my god, Ally," she hisses, glancing her younger sister over, "you wrapped her and everything."

"What are you waiting for?" You ask her. "Open your present."

"Open me," Vivian parrots. 

Whitney looks uncertainly back at Ms. Carte's sleeping form. Ms. Carte is a heavy sleeper -- she probably wouldn't come to even if SHE was the one getting fucked, a fact you know quite well. Whitney knows the way Ms. Carte can sleep, too. You've spent many evenings fucking Whitney's brains out, just outside Ms. Carte's bedroom door, and her snoring never faltered.

She's not as confident about doing it in the same room, though. Nor comfortable with the prospect of getting caught with her fingers in the cookie jar of her little sister's pussy. So although her wolfish eyes can't tear themselves away from Vivian's petite, underdeveloped, and underconcealed body, she can't muster courage for the next move. 

So you nudge her along.

"You thought I forgot. Didn't you?" You say, as slowly and sensually you stroke Vivian's back. Whitney watches your hand's transit -- up and down, up and down -- up and much, much farther down... your fingertips skirting the edges of the ribbons, then poking underneath, to prod the treasures hardly hidden there...

"Of course I thought you forgot," Whitney says. "You were the only one who didn't say happy birthday to me today--"

"He did forg--" Vivian begins, but you cut her off by sticking two fingers in her mouth, and gagging her. She heaves and sputters, unable to fend you off with her hands still tied behind her back.

"You know I like to keep people in suspense," you say. "How do you like the present, though?"

Whitney grins. "I dunno. I haven't opened it yet."

You pull her slowly from the mattress by her hands. She rises to her feet, taut body flushing with taboo excitement. The taboo of incest -- and this new taboo, of doing it in such close proximity to her mother, too. Whitney takes Vivian's face in her hand. Just one hand, clasped around Vivian's chin, can almost entirely encompass her face. Whitney has to stoop down to kiss her. A kiss Vivian returns with low, whorish giggles. They start to tongue, getting right into it, these perverted sisters. They've been like this for months. They're insatiable for each other. It's adorable, and it's also really fucking hot, too -- both at the same time. 

"Open me... open me..." Vivian moans. 

Whitney's answer comes between kisses up and down Vivian's face, neck and shoulders. "Hmmm... but it's technically not my birthday anymore... I should wait another year, shouldn't I?" 

Vivian's counteroffer comes paired with her trying desperately to rub her body against Whitney's. "If you wait a single second longer... I will be forced to force myself on you..."

But Vivian lacks what is known in the biz as leverage, and Whitney knows it. And Whitney loves to tease. She tickles the little bee stings that Vivian calls breasts, rubbing her fingers against the rough-hewn material of the ribbons. The motion scrapes and irritates Vivian's highly sensitive nipples, making her throw her neck back, and grit her teeth and groan in her adolescent way. Whitney does this until she can see the circular red burn-rashes spreading. By then, Vivian's eyes are streaming joyful tears of masochistic lust. Satisfied with that, Whitney traces her fingers southward now, to join yours. Your digits dance nimbly around together, to rub and titillate and torture Vivian's orifices as a duo. You and Whitney each get an index finger in Vivian's twat, and spread it -- then she goes for Vivian's asshole, while you tickle Vivian's clit -- then you hold Vivian's fuckholes like a bowling ball while Whitney lightly slaps Vivian's totally smooth and hairless labia. With you behind her, and Whitney in front of her, Vivian is pinned; you force her to remain standing against this wanton misuse. She's so fucking wet that you and your partner in crime have no trouble at all getting as deep into her as you please.

You kiss Whitney softly -- you and her have enough height on the brat trapped between you that doing so is no problem. 

"Love ya, Ally~" Whitney mewls. "Thanks for the present... so which one of us do you wanna cum inside?"

"I love you too," you tell her. "But Vivian's your toy tonight. I just want to watch for now."

"Perv~" Whitney says, mewling again. "Gonna jerk off while I rape my sister?"

"Of course."

She giggles.

You stand aside and let Whitney guide the young heiress down to the diamond-patterned carpet in front of the bed. She lavishes suckling kisses all over Vivian's tiny body. Watching this toned tomboy looming over her anemic little sister and doing these lewd things is enough of paradise all on its own that you wouldn't ever need anything else. But you've got plenty else -- such as a buxom MILF sleeping close by, who you know will join in with the right incentive. 

You strip fully nude, and settle in on the bed. The spot where Whitney was so recently asleep is still warm with her body heat -- and slightly damp with her sweat. You nudge Ms. Carte. She flops from her side onto her back. Her udders shift and then flatten slightly, like beanbags dropped onto concrete from a great height. She, too, is slightly damp, all over -- a night-sweater, if ever there was. All the better for some late-night paizuri, right? 

Whitney and Vivian are so enmeshed in their little world of incestuous carnal pleasure that neither notices you mounting Ms. Carte to fuck her tits. You slide your pulsating dick between the meaty crevice of her titmeat and press the two jugs together from either side, using your fists. No synthetic dicksleeve was ever this soft, spongy, smooth and hot. No rubber onahole ever enveloped your dick's every little pumping vein so deliciously. You could fuck Ms. Carte's tits forever. You thrust like a dog on heat, just enjoying this titfuck for its own sake, momentarily forgetting that your object is actually to wake her. If she wakes, she wakes. If not, you can have enough fun just masturbating with her slumbering body. Your prick's mushroom head pistons in and out across the top of her breasts, smearing her chin with cockleak. 

Ms. Carte is no Rip van Winkle, after all. She finally does come awake from this act of sexual assault. Her eyelids flutter open. At first confused, then lustily interested, and finally worried -- her face runs through a panoply of emotions as she realizes what's going on, then subsequently realizes it's happening in the hotel room she's sharing with her teen daughter.

"Al-- Alabaster--" she whispers. "You... b-b -- Whitn--"

You put a finger to her lips, as your cock batters her chin. "She won't notice."

Ms. Carte glances to the side, looking for her girl. Nada. You helpfully rise up to your knees, so Ms. Carte can see between your legs, down to the floor, where Whitney and Vivian are even now hungrily sucking on each other's holes like their lives depend on it. 

You let her watch for a couple lingering seconds. Then you lower yourself again, and seat your dick in the meaty confines of her wet tits once more. 

Ms. Carte is so aghast that she cannot form any words whatsoever -- can only blush, and blink rapidly, and breathe heavily. 

"You knew that about them -- didn't you," you prompt, keeping your voice low. You saw your cock in and out of her cleavage with brutal relentlessness. 

"I..." Ms. Carte begins, but can't finish, and trails off. Finally she just nods.

You enjoy fucking her massive tits for just a few more moments before moving on to the next thing. Sliding lower, you tug her panties aside and ram your turgid prick into her cunthole. You don't give her any foreplay because you don't need it. Lying atop her in the missionary position, you nuzzle her, and whisper in her ear as you fuck: "you're really wet tonight."

She nods.

It's true that's she's really wet. Well, that's an understatement. She's incredibly, soppingly, oozingly, drippingly wet. Your cock is inundated with her feminine arousal as you fuck on top of her. It spatters and squelches while you hump. Your nostrils fill with her deep, musky and womanly scent. You know this wetness of hers is partially from waking up with your cock in her face. That always gets her dripping. But it's also because she just glimpsed her daughters 69ing. She is, same as Whitney and same as Vivian, and same as always, a complete pervert. 

"Do you think about her -- about Whitney?" you ask Ms. Carte.

"Like... like that, you mean...?"

You nod. Ms. Carte's pussy around your dick clamps down, an orgasm rolling through her body. You stroke her fever-hot face with the back of a palm.

"This is wrong..." she says timidly. But merely being accused of thinking sexual thoughts about her biological daughter made her climax. And even now, her surprisingly tight quim is fluttering around your invading fuckpole.

"Then let me be the bad guy," you tell her.

"What?"

You reach for the spool of ribbon and the package of bows you left strategically on top of the bedside table. You hold them up to show her. "It isn't wrong if you're forced into it, right?"

You punctuate your question with a few extra-deep, powerful thrusts into Ms. Carte's cushiony interior. She shivers, and cums again.

---

"Fuck, Viv... fuck, I love your pussy... so cute... so fucking cute..." 

Whitney is in that phase of her sexual excitement where she begins to mutter half-incoherent obscenities, more to herself than to her partner. She gulps hard as she licks and sucks her kid sister's cunny. She blows cool little puffs of air on it, then moans and kisses and latches her entire mouth around it -- rinse and repeat. Occasionally she travels a bit lower, too, and sucks on Vivian's asshole just for the the added thrill. 

You have to poke her in the head with your toe to grab her attention. 

She slowly cranes her neck upwards, her eye-line traveling up your calves, your waists, your hips and torsos. There you are, and there's her mother, too. You remain naked, but Ms. Carte is all wrapped up. Hands behind her back like you did with Vivian's, ribbons biting into her prodigious hips and meaty cunt, two humongous bows over her huge nipples. 

"Ally-- oh FUCK--" Whitney begins -- having a hard time processing this new obscenity, given Vivian's busy tongue still working underneath her. Whitney cums hard on her sister's face, practically drowning her with slop, while Ms. Carte stands there watching.

"This one is a present for the both of you," you announce, loud enough for Vivian to hear. But Vivian doesn't register it. She just keeps rooting her tongue around inside Whitney, lapping at Whitney's cream. You clear your throat. 

Whitney clambers to her feet, and finally now Vivian, purple-faced and dripping girlcum, can see everything too. Although Vivian still wears some tatters of the bows and ribbons she was wrapped in, her hands are fully free -- cut loose so she could put her fingers to use inside her older sister. With no small difficulty, she props herself up, and stands as well. 

"My MOM?" Whitney barks. "Oh my God, Ally... you fucking freak!"

You wouldn't dream of doubting your play here, protest though Whitney may. You know that Whitney and Vivian are both horned-up, and more than willing to add their Mom to the mix if it means the chance to cum even harder. But Ms. Carte remains uncertain. She gazes hard at the floor, shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm. 

You sit her down at the foot of the bed facing the two sisters. Standing off to her side, you stroke your dick, rubbing it against Ms. Carte's supple body too -- against her cheeks, her shoulder, her breast, leaving little dribbles of precum all over her left side.

Vivian is the first to jump on board with you. "This gift -- is meant for me, also?" She asks, taking a hard breath in the middle of the sentence. Still worn out from getting her face sat on.

"Happy birthday, Vivian," you tell her. "Fuck this bitch to your heart's content."

Vivian wipes strands of matted, cummy hair from her face. She looks levelly at her surrogate mother. "Do you consent to this?" She asks.

Ms. Carte nods slightly, but can't make eye contact.

"Whitney ejaculated on me -- as you can see. Would you like to kiss me, Ms. Carte?"

Ms. Carte answers by whipping her head up to finally meet Vivian's gaze with wild eyes, and leaning in to the deep tongue kiss Vivian offers. She licks all around inside Vivian's child-sized mouth, sucking her own daughter's cum from out of it. 

Whitney is woozy with shock and excitement. "I... oh my gosh, Ally... oh my gosh!" You know she must be truly taken aback, now that her typical profanity has dissipated into goshes. You delight in keeping Whitney on the back heel, sexually... but this takes the cake by far. 

You whisper firmly in Whitney's ear: "I know you want to -- so do it."

That's all it takes.

Whitney, as if in a daze, crawls onto the bed beside Ms. Carte. Ms. Carte stares sidelong at her, even throughout Vivian's devouring kissing. 

"Ally's such a fucking perv -- isn't he?" Whitney says. She gulps. "Making us -- do this together..."

"Yes," Vivian agrees. She'll play along: "What a nasty man, forcing us into this immoral tryst..."

You'll happily accept the blame. Ms. Carte turns from Vivian's face now, towards Whitney's, and kisses her too. For the first time, their lips meet not as mother and daughter but as lovers. Their tongues dance around and meld, and little strand of their spittle drop over their pressed-together boobs, unheeded. They moan sweetly into each other. All the while, curious and debauched little Vivian pets Ms. Carte's drippy kitty. 

"Is it wrong to say..." Ms. Carte begins, her breathing jagged, "that I always wanted this?"

Whitney dispenses with the guilt and shame. "Let's fuck, Mom."

She nudges Ms. Carte onto her back. As if working with one mind, Whitney and Vivian each take one of Ms. Carte's thick thighs, to spread the woman's legs akimbo. Settling down on their tummies, brushing their hair behind their ears, the two teen girls take turns showering Ms. Carte with a lengthy, lewd, and loving oral service that has her screaming in no time. Out of courtesy to the other guests in neighboring suites, you silence Ms. Carte's caterwauling by putting your penis in her mouth. It's the considerate thing to do. Ms. Carte swirls her tongue around your meaty shaft, but for maybe the first time ever, it's not the focal point of her lust. Rather, her precocious little girls are. She watches desperately as they suck the orgasms wetly out of her. When Whitney, chin dripping cream, looks up and says: "Your cunt tastes so good... Mommy..." that cinches it. Ms. Carte gives the last of her resistance away, and starts to buck like a bronco, squirting hard all over the place. Whitney, gulping all the cum up, adds with a dreamy voice: "it smells good, too..."

It becomes a whir after that. Whitney mounts her mother's face and starts to ride -- while meanwhile you fuck Vivian's barely post-pubescent cunt right in front of the pair. Another first for Ms. Carte, then: the first time seeing Vivian get penetrated by a dick. It's so overwhelming to her -- licking Whitney's clitty while watching Vivian get nailed -- that she cums even without anyone giving her swampy pussy attention. 

Then another swap: you get Whitney on her belly, with you atop, mounting her well-muscled butt and hugging her slender body for purchase. You fuck her like that, a rough, fast-pounding speed-bump that presses on her cum-button just perfectly. Vivian and the good doctor eat each other for your amusement while you rut.

It's the fulfillment of what you knew already. Once the floodgates are open, there's no closing them. When you finally blow a creamy load inside Whitney's uterus, it doesn't stay there long -- she props herself up on some pillows, spreads her legs wide open, and enjoys mashing Ms. Carte's face into the creampie. Vivian, sitting on Ms. Carte's back like a child on a pony, assists -- clutching Ms. Carte firmly by the hair. And Ms. Carte, without use of her hands -- they're still ribboned-off behind her back -- has no choice other than to suck it all up. 

The three, then, take turns fellating you. They kneel in front of the bed as you sit there -- swapping your dick back and forth like the only controller for a video game. You get to enjoy the wonderful experience of comparing and contrasting their blowjob techniques again, at long last. There's Whitney's eager, gagless deepthroat that feels like fucking a pussy; Vivian's tiny, wet, gagging little esophagus that sticks to your cockflesh; Ms. Carte's warm, sloppy, almost motherly tongue-on-dick massage. When and where you cum is immaterial. Whether it's inside Vivian's gullet, or on Ms. Carte's face, or into the bowl of Whitney's tongue -- your next few loads end up getting swapped between them all regardless. And all the while, moaning, they molest each other's holes. And all the while, they tell each other such nice things -- things like -- "I love you so much" and "I love this dick so much" and "make me cum, Mommy, please..." and so on.

When at last you're all cummed-out, all of you -- you collapse. It's past 4 AM and you all need to be awake quite soon for the quiz bowl. Oh well. No rest for the wicked. You know that there's truly no going back from this. This swan dive into utter degeneracy is irrevocable. From now on, Ms. Carte is a woman who fucks her little girls. And her little girls are little girls who fuck their mother back.

---

Kay hears the knock on her apartment door, but she doesn't answer. She just stays splayed out on her yoga mat as she slowly finishes with her head-to-knee forward bend exercises -- working at her own pace despite the impatient guest waiting for her answer.

The knock comes a second time, more insistent than the first. Kay sighs to herself. Limbs all limber now, she scoops herself to her feet and strides slowly to her tiny foyer. The knocker is knocking again when she answers.

"Oh!" Noelle squeaks, fist still held up by her head as the wake of the door's opening ruffles her hair. "There you are."

"Here I am," Kay says with a wry frown.

They cut quite a contrast right now. Kay is wearing a getup Noelle's never seen on her: a tight white tee and tight black yoga pants -- and she's a bit flushed and damp from the exertion of her workout. Whereas Noelle herself dressed like she was going out on the town, donning a really nice pencil skirt and matching blouse, getting all perfumed and doing her hair... strange choices, since the intent tonight was only to sit down for a brief interview in Kay's apartment.

Kay's eyes drift downward.

Noelle, noticing this, hefts the bottle up so she can get a better look. "Tequila!"

When this draws no noticeable reaction, she appends, a bit halfheartedly, a faux-enthusiastic "wooo-ooo!" noise.

"Why?" Kay asks.

"Well -- to lighten the mood," Noelle says. "And I figured you'd like it."

"Why do you figure I like tequila?"

Noelle is at a loss. "Because... I mean."

"Are you racially profiling me?"

So she's taking the shit again. Noelle makes a face. "The hell is wrong with you? It's tequila. Mexicans don't have a monopoly over tequila."

"I'm not Mexican."

"Half-Mexicans don't have a monopoly either--"

Kay steps aside. "Just shut up and come inside already."

Noelle enters. 

It's the first she's ever been in Kay's apartment. She swivels her head this way and that as she passes the threshold, taking stock. The pictures on the wall are all clippings from Kay's stint as a photog for the Air Force Times. Along with that are some shots she's taken in her spare time, and her diploma for journalism, and a couple small shelves bearing some minor awards she's won. The shelves are arranged in a sort of pyramid -- but the arrangement's pyramidion, its uppermost shelf, is bare.

"What's up with that?" Noelle asks, nodding at the shelves as she sets the bottle of tequila on Kay's squat black wood coffee table.

"My awards," Kay says unhelpfully, and plops back down on her yoga mat in front of her bookcase.

"You're missing one," Noelle informs her.

"For now. That's where my Pulitzer's going."

Noelle shakes her head. She knew Kay had an exorbitant level of self-regard, but making her living room a shrine to herself crosses into narcissism, doesn't it?

Noelle sits on the loveseat facing Kay's ad-hoc yoga studio. "Anyway, I figured you'd like a little something-something to ease the loneliness," she says, indicating the liquor she brought.

"What loneliness?" Kay asks, and resumes her head-to-knee extensions. Noelle is transfixed by Kay's flexibility for a palpable moment.

"It's -- Valentine's Day," Noelle says, catching herself. "Instead of being out with someone, you're cooped up at home."

"Is there something the matter with that?" Kay asks as she shifts position to stretch herself towards her other knee.

"Well, no, but... some people might find that a little--"

"I'm not some people."

Noelle nods. "Well -- I had to totally blow off my boyfriend to come tonight, so I guess we're both a couple of dateless broads anyway, huh?" She swipes a strand of hair behind her ear, holds her knees and giggles nervously.

"Hmm, good point," Kay says. She rises, then begins a truly bewitching downward-doggy stretch that leaves Noelle dry-lipped and slackjawed. "We've been meeting so much lately. Maybe you could finally introduce me to this boyfriend of yours."

"I -- uh --"

"Who is he, anyway?" Kay asks, hyperextending, getting her face almost level to her crotch and putting her ass way up in the air.

"He's... er... a field agent."

"Oh, interesting. Workplace romance?"

"Y-yeah."

"Hugh?"

"What about me?"

Kay straightens up. Noelle is inwardly crestfallen. "Not you," Kay says. "Hugh. Hugh Thurston."

Noelle can't hide her grimace. "Oh, no... no. No."

"Bill Cheslock? Paul Gunderson?"

Noelle waves her hand anxiously. "No -- it's no one in the San Fran field office. It's... someone from a different field office. Uh. You wouldn't know him."

Kay smiles. "Does he go to a field office in Canada?"

Noelle doesn't get it. "No -- there's only the one office in Ottawa. He isn't there." Desperate to move the conversation on, she grabs the bottle of tequila by its neck and produces a couple shot glasses from her purse. "L-let's get drunk!" 

"I'll drink, but I'm not really in the mood for drunken revelry," Kay says. She grabs the full shotglass Noelle proffers, and knocks it back. She makes an appreciative "ahh" and smacks her lips as the warmth spreads through her chest. She examines the empty glass, then the bottle that Noelle still holds in her lap. "Whoa. This is the good shit. How much did you spend on it?"

"I always go for broke when it comes to tequila!" Noelle explains, and downs her own glass too. She coughs. "You get what you pay for... the cheap stuff tastes like furniture varnish."

Kay huffs. "Yeah, well. Coming to my place all perfumed-up, with an unopened bottle of Patron on offer -- you better look out, or I'll start thinking that you want to make ME your Valentine's date."

Noelle is silent for a split second as she flushes practically infrared. "...Hahaha!" She laughs, a little too late to be genuine, and obnoxiously loud. "That's -- well that's stupid, I mean -- I -- mean --"

"Hey, top me."

"W-what?"

"Top me off." Kay holds her shotglass out. Noelle nervously pours it, splashing a little bit on the coffee table in the process. Kay jumps back to make sure none hits her.

Noelle is mortified by the faux pas. But Kay, inoffended at the messiness and grinning broadly, repeats that downward doggy pose from earlier. She bends in two, keeping the hand holding her shotglass high aloft, and siphons the tequila from her tabletop using her pursed lips. Slurrrrrp. When the table is dry once again she straightens up, and downs her second shot of the night.

Noelle presses her thighs together, with her hands folded in her lap, and hopes that Kay doesn't notice how aroused she is.

"Careful where you spill," Kay warns her. "This stuff is way too good to go to waste. I want it all in my belly."

Noelle coughs like she's been punched.

"Yeah," Kay says, thinking. "I change my mind... you're right. It's Valentine's Day, we're alone -- let's get drunk." 

---

"Never have I ever stolen towels from a hotel room."

Kay scowls. "That's a lie."

"No," Noelle says, "it's true." 

They're sitting Indian style facing one another, each on a cushion of Kay's loveseat.

"Fucking seriously? How can you go your entire life without taking towels from a hotel room? Have you just never slept in a hotel, is that it?"

"Because it's theft. I'm not a thief. But man did I read you right. You are. Take your drink."

Kay guzzles down the shot, and Noelle immediately replenishes her. After a satisfied "pwah," and taking back her refilled glass, Kay says: "cut it out with the girl scout act. It's not impressive."

Noelle laughs derisively. "I'm so sorry I'm not a scumbag like you."

Kay uncrosses and recrosses her legs, grumbling. The black spandex of her yoga pants bulges. "Buying all your own towels... a chump, is what you are... thinking you're all high and mighty because you're willing to blow $100 at Bed Bath & Beyond--"

Noelle rolls her eyes. "Oh my God. Just take your turn already."

Folding her arms, Kay says, "never have I ever arrested someone."

"What!" Noelle howls. "That's not fair!"

Kay, arms still folded, leans forward until she's practically butting brows with Noelle. "Take your drink, bitch."

"The point of this game is to learn things about the other person. You can't just use stuff that you already know. You might as well say something like, 'never have I ever been named Noelle.' It's bullshit."

"That's a good one. Maybe that should be what I use on my next turn."

"That's so fucking st--"

"I play to win," Kay says.

"Win HOW? There's no points! There's no winning! This is just a social game! Psycho!"

"You win by being the least drunk at the end."

But the bottle of tequila is less than a third empty, and they're both rosy-cheeked. They haven't been playing long, and the tequila is going to be creeping up on them in a major way soon, even as they continue to down their shots.

"Drink," Kay sneers.

Noelle drinks. Then grumpily, as she repours her glass: "Never have I ever done yoga."

Kay doesn't drink. Instead, she flicks her wrist, and splashes her shot of tequila all across Noelle's face.

"Oh, FUCK you," Noelle growls, tiny droplets spraying off her lips. Still in shock, she holds her arms out to the side and tilts her chin towards her body as the liquor drips off her face. 

"Think you can target me like that, huh?" Kay says. "Go to hell. Hypocrite."

Noelle, in a rage, splashes her back.

"Ugh! Bitch!" Kay screams. 

"Take your goddamn drink already!" Noelle screams in reply. She motions for Kay to hand her her glass so she can refill it. But rather than that, Kay steals the bottle from her. Then she rises to her feet, crosses the short distance between the two of them -- and takes Noelle's face in her hand. 

"K-Kay--?" Noelle stammers. "What are you--"

Kay leans in. She puckers her lips into an oval and sucks the vestiges of the alcohol from the left side of Noelle's face. From top to bottom, her lips quickly swipe up Noelle's jawline and to the ridge of her brow, finally swooping back towards her ears. Then, using Noelle's chin as a handle to swivel her now-trembling face the opposite direction, Kay sucks the alcohol off the right half too. When, done, she relinquishes her grip on Noelle, Kay licks the traces of tequila off the fingers that were clasping Noelle's chin. 

Noelle's teeth are chattering like a Kalahari bushman who got teleported to the south pole. 

Kay did this on purpose. It was a calculated effort to turn Noelle into a gibbering mound of gelatin. Boy did it ever work.

Kay rests the back of her wrist on her waist, staring down at Noelle. "Yeah, I do yoga. I actually give a shit about my body. I like to stay active, and healthful -- and flexible. Maybe you could use the exercise. Pasty-ass desk jockey."

"Y-you -- y-yoooouuu--" Noelle can't settle on whether to be angry or aroused.

"Allow me to demonstrate," Kay tells her. She squats down, right in front of Noelle, her calves and thighs forming a rough M shape, her palms pressed together near her crotch. The material of her yoga pants stretches and strains, and even though Kay isn't very meaty, there's only so much give to the material. Her cameltoe is clearly outlined. Noelle decides, at that moment, to settle on being aroused. The tequila Noelle splashed on Kay's face is still dripping off of her, down to her tee that's already a little damp with perspiration. 

"This is the Mālāsana pose. Beginner stuff. I bet you can't squat like this, can you. Not for an extended period."

Noelle folds her hands in her lap and tightens her face. She's trying very hard not to let the signs of her arousal show. "I -- never tried..."

"But I'm no beginner," Kay says, talking over Noelle. She claps once, then slams her palms flat on the carpet. Unbelievably, then, she hunches her back and hoists herself up -- supporting her entire weight on her hands as her feet draw into the air, crossing at the ankles. She waggles her toes for effect. Her knees are so high that they rest on her shoulders, and she sways slightly back and forth as she maintains her balance. But even drunk, it takes precious little effort. "This is the Bhujapidasana."

Noelle is flapping her lips, but no words escape.

"Never have I ever masturbated in public," Kay says.

If Noelle wasn't shaking before, she sure is now. Kay can practically see the motion blur outlining her upper half. 

"Well?" Kay says, maintaining her flawless Bhujapidasana. "Are you gonna take your drink?"

Noelle clears her throat. "Wellll, n-no-- because I haven't ever-- done that -- either."

"Now THAT'S a lie," Kay says. "Liar. You've got public wanker plastered all over your face. Don't you dare try to tell me you've never done something like that."

(It's true. Kay is right.)

Noelle feels the throbbing in her crotch grow more insistent, plus the equally insistent throb of the blood circulating through her cheeks. She gulps, and wrings her hands in her lap.

"Drink," Kay demands.

Noelle uselessly indicates the bottle sitting on the table where Kay left it. "I don't -- I don't--"

Kay swings her entire self backwards, gracefully plopping supine on the carpet with her limbs sprawled all akimbo. The swift motion makes her shirt ride up, and bares her belly button. "Shavasana. For the end of yoga sessions. Have you ever done body shots, Noelle?"

Now she's just fucking with her. Kay is cruel like that. A little red meat tossed to this lesbian bitch will have her wrapped around Kay's pinky for eternity. Noelle'll be a font of useful inside info for as long as Kay needs, all for the effort of a little titillation. That's all this is for, Kay convinces herself. Just part of the honeypot.

"Uh -- yeah," Noelle lies.

"Awesome. I shouldn't be the only one stuck sucking tequila off another girl. If you don't want to take your drink out of a glass, then take it out of my belly button why don't you." She points at her midsection, the taut tan tummy just slightly concave as she lies there, with the perfectly smooth innie of her navel at center. Noelle's breath hitches.

"What are you waiting for, sex offender?" Kay demands.

Noelle, legs hardly capable of supporting her, totters towards Kay as she weakly clasps the bottle in hand. She gets on her knees at Kay's side, and gently pours a tiny dribble of the high-end liquor into Kay's navel. She pours like she's afraid using too much will kill them both. Kay, grinning, puts her hand around Noelle's on the bottle and tips it farther forward, pouring out considerably more. It makes a tiny pool in the bowl of her stomach. When Kay is satisfied at the amount, she takes the bottle for herself with no resistance from nervous nelly Noelle. Noelle stares at the translucent puddle, like a gambler down to his last quarter agonizing before a slot machine that's surely due for a payout.

"Come on, bitch, drink," Kay says. 

Noelle gets on all fours, bows her head -- and vacuums the tequila into her mouth. It's tainted with Kay's sweat. The tang of it overpowers the smooth flavor of the tequila, and Noelle has never tasted anything more delicious. Kay giggles, ticklish there, although she holds Noelle's head gently in place.

"So how often do you do it?" Kay asks as she stares at the crown of Noelle's hair and listens to Noelle's piggy slurping. 

"...Do what," Noelle says flatly as she finishes and draws her face upwards and meets Kay's eyes. Her voice is woozy with exhilaration, and she isn't quite paying attention to the meaning behind words right now.

"Jerk off in public. How often?"

Noelle feels a little dribble escape her nether regions. "N-never," she insists. "I told you."

"Then why'd you drink?"

"You TOLD me to--"

"You do everything a pretty girl tells you to do?"

Noelle swallows hard. The taste of Kay's sweat is still dancing saltily on her tongue. 

Kay draws one knee up, her sole scraping against the soft carpet. "Are you into girls, Noelle?" 

"Never have I ever kissed a girl!" Noelle says -- truthfully -- all at once -- desperate to avoid answering the substance of Kay's question.

Kay, still on her back, drinks directly from the bottle. It's an amount she judges to be roughly equivalent to a shot, but which is actually quite more. "Pwah," she gasps when she's through.

"I knew it," Noelle says. "You're the one who's into girls. That's why you're making me play these -- SICK games--"

"I'm not into girls," Kay says slyly, "but... in bootcamp, when there isn't any dick around, you take what you can get. I'm not gay. More like... prison-gay. You get a pass on that."

Noelle closes her eyes and shakes her head.

"Come here," Kay beckons.

Noelle opens her eyes, but doesn't move a hair. Can't move. On hands and knees, looking at Kay's shiny olive-colored skin and beautiful body, she's turned to stone. But when Kay crooks a finger, it drags Noelle out of her trance. Noelle leans forward, and down, so that her face is hovering inches above Kay's.

"You have to take a drink too, because you've also kissed a girl," Kay tells her.

"But I haven't--"

Kay fills her mouth with another venti shot of the Patron, grabs Noelle roughly by the back of the head, and pulls Noelle's lips to hers. Though Noelle, flabbergasted, keeps her lips firmly pressed together, Kay's skilled tongue pries them apart, and then she slowly fountains the warmed-over liquor into Noelle's waiting mouth. Noelle has no choice but to swallow, and does. Then she lets Kay mack on her for a few lingering seconds. Noelle has no idea how to respond, and though she settles on trying to respond in kind, all she succeeds at doing is knocking her teeth with Kay's. 

When Kay lets go of Noelle's hair, and lets Noelle pull back slightly, Kay croons: 

"You smell good."

What Kay smells is the sweet, heady scent of Noelle's perfume melded with her sex.

Noelle, without another word, leans forward again for a second kiss. She wants it so bad, that and more. But Kay stays her with a palm against her chest. 

"That's enough fooling around," Kay says, "I kissed you so that you wouldn't go to your grave as a kissless virgin." She begins to rise to her butt. "Like I told you though, I'm not actually into girls. So--"

Noelle forces Kay onto her back again. Kay is unprepared for such assertive behavior, and can't react until Noelle is already straddling her. Noelle's skirt hikes up as she swings her calves over Noelle's waist and she sits on Noelle's belly -- ass to tummy. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kay snarls. "Get off of me."

Noelle falls forward and kisses Kay hungrily. Kay might by a certified yogi, but all the flexibility exercises in India can't help her overpower a Quantico-trained lesbian who's had her switch flipped. She tries, uselessly, to fend Noelle off, flopping and writhing around beneath her. Finally she resorts to upending the bottle of liquor over Noelle's head. It waterfalls out of the bottle with steady glugs, and coats them both, not just Noelle. Noelle is undeterred, anyway. Her breathing through her nostrils against Kay's face is heavy and desperate and hot. Her tongue in Kay's mouth is hotter.

Noelle, never breaking that forced kiss, swats the bottle out of Kay's hand lest she drown them both, where it topples to its side on the floor unheeded and spills over Kay's carpet. Noelle then pins Kay's wrists on either side of Kay's head to forestall any further resistance as she probes Kay's mouth and moans like a cunt into Kay's throat. Kay tastes so good -- vital and sweet and feminine.

Once Noelle finally stops to take a small breath, Kay uses the opening to wail: "YOU STUPID DYKE SLUT! GET OFF ME! WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO, RAPE ME?"

Noelle is a babbling mess. "It's not rape -- it's not rape -- this is what you wanted--"

"--What--?"

Kay's spine goes rigid as Noelle begins to gyrate atop her. Through the thin material of Noelle's panties, pressing against her tummy, Kay finally feels it. 

"Ghh-- what-- what is that?" Kay asks.

"Be quiet," Noelle says, and kisses her -- harder, more voracious even than before. She keeps humping back and forth against Kay's firm but supple body with an increasing tempo. Her precum is smearing against Kay's stomach. Kay rolls her eyes downward, straining to get a glimpse between their two bodies, at what Noelle was concealing. But she feels it, even if she can't see it. 

"Are you... wearing a strap-on?" Kay heaves.

"No."

But Kay knew that already. No rubber dick has heat and vitality in it like that. No rubber dick throbs and pulses like that. 

"You're a -- a man? All this time... you're a MAN?" Kay can hardly believe it. It's impossible. Surely her research would have turned up that the ballyhooed agent Keki was a man in drag all along.

"I'm not a man," Noelle tells her. She trails kisses down Kay's tequila-coated neck as she rubs her hardness against Kay's stomach.

"Transexual, whatever!" Kay spits. "You've got a DICK--"

Noelle rises to her knees, and using one hand she lewdly pulls her skirt up. With her other, she tugs aside her plain white panties. Yes, she has a dick, a big drooling veiny fucker. But underneath that, drooling equally copiously, is a honeyed little slit -- a vagina, with smooth pink folds and tender lips set in an adorable mound. 

Noelle explains, voice equal parts embarrassed and lusty: "I was born like this... but... I'm a woman."

Kay's eyeballs nearly pop out of her skull. She stares in mute wonder and apprehension at this enormous, twitching member Noelle presents. 

"You said..." Noelle begins, but stops to take a gulping breath of air. With the fingers of the hand she's using to hold her panties aside, she starts to diddle her own cunt. Slowly, but obscenely. The sound is wet and drippy. "You said you're only into girls when you don't have any dick around -- well -- here's a girl with a dick." 

"Listen..." Kay says, anxious pinched-off twinge to every syllable. "...I talk a lot. You know? I'm a motormouth. But I haven't... I mean to say -- I've never been with -- and you have a -- you--"

Noelle pulls Kay's glasses off her nose and chucks them aside. Masturbating still, she kisses Kay's soft, full, brown lips again. "You teased me so fucking much... and you're just a virgin?"

"Well... I--"

Noelle pets Kay's hair. "What the fuck did you think was going to happen, fucking virgin? Huh?" Noelle's voice is deeper, husky and tinged with sexual lust, but still undeniably feminine. The awful realization is dawning on Kay: she's definitely going to get raped. She's going to get raped by a woman with a dick. 

Kay begs. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to tease you so much! Just -- let's talk about this! All right?"

"No more talking," Noelle growls. She grabs the waistband of Kay's spandex yoga pants and tugs. They slide down Kay's legs with no small resistance, clinging tenaciously to her deeply toned flesh. Noelle coos. "I'm gonna punch your V-card. Get ready..." 

"Noelle! This is rape! Get ahold of yourself!"

But Noelle is physically incapable, any longer, of getting ahold of herself. Between the drunkenness, the teasing and the male aspect of her arousal, she's a girl pushed over the edge. She lines her dick up with the tender opening of Kay's slit. With a girlish grunt of pure joy, she rams herself home, all 8 or 9 thick inches of it, right up Kay's unwelcoming twat. She really did punch Kay's V-card. Kay even still had her cherry intact -- keyword "had" -- and now a tiny trickle of virgin blood runs down Noelle's cockshaft. 

"So soft..." Noelle moans. She was a virgin, too. She's had plenty of pocket pussies to jizz in, but nothing could possibly compare to a real human cunt, its heat and complexly organic texture and wetness.

Kay, in spite of her resistance, is turned-on. She's been turned-on since the second Noelle showed up at her apartment dressed up like she wanted to fuck. And by now after all the teasing, and after seeing the monster Noelle packs, her cunt is dripping. It accepts the absurd size of Noelle's futa dick without trouble. She shudders at that full feeling, deep inside her belly. At the sensation of Noelle's spongy cockhead knocking at the door of her cervix. At the gooey feeling of Noelle's precum oozing into her body. 

Noelle pulls Kay's tee up, to grope Kay's pert little breasts. Although Kay is quickly warming to the experience of getting raped, Noelle isn't here to give Kay any pleasure one way or the other. She's just trying to enjoy Kay's body to its fullest extent. This isn't foreplay or passionate exploring, this is molestation. She grabs Kay's boobs, tweaks the dark brown nipples, and establishes a hard, thwapping fuck-pace inside Kay's quickly bruising insides.

But Noelle, to her credit, is an apologetic rapist. She brushes Kay's hair from her face, brushes her lips to Kay's cheek, and moans deliriously: "Sorry... I'm sorry... I have to fuck you... I have to CUM... just fucking take it... oh god... so soft..."

Kay shivers with every hump and thrust of Noelle's enormous cock. To think that this slight, pale church-mouse of a girl had THAT between her legs, all this time... to think she could use it like this... Kay exhales, and orgasms. 

Noelle feels the orgasm around her raping dick. She might be inexperienced but she knows what it is -- she's cum with own pussy plenty of times. Noelle thrills at the feeling, at the way Kay's swampy pussy clamps down and hugs her fleshpole. "Yesssssss," Noelle moans through gritted teeth.

Kay stares up at this woman who's violating her. Noelle is on a different fucking planet right now: her face is contorted into a shape barely human, the lips hanging open, her eyes glassy and half-lidded and rolled up, her skin all red and sweaty, mouth drooling, with even a trail of transparent snot leaking from her nose unnoticed, and sweat dripping from her every pore, off her bangs, off her chin, off her neck, and down her torso, making her blouse all soiled and transparent. She's a mind-melted slave to the pleasure her dick is giving her, and her stupid fuck-face shows it. 

And as wet as she is up top from the drool and sweat and snot, Noelle is even wetter below. At the union of their bodies, Noelle's cock leaks like a sieve, and her cunt does too, smearing Kay with juices both inside and out. It works to tenderize Kay even more, and lubricate the way for Noelle to fuck as deeply and as brutally as possible. The slapping of their thighs and crotches mixes with the throaty "uh-uh-uh-uh" grunts that Noelle's apologies have dissolved into, creating a lewd cacophony that overloads Kay's frazzled brain. The sheer volume of liquid makes it feel, to Kay, as if she's been pissed in. And that's before Noelle cums--

Oh, no, Kay thinks. If Noelle cums inside her... if Noelle cums inside her, then what? 

But, Kay realizes with a shuddering mini-climax... it's not a question of "if," now, is it? It's a question of when. Noelle won't stop. Noelle won't stop fucking her until she blows her wad inside.

"Stop... stoooop... noooo..." Kay pleads in vain, even as hot cums rip through her body, too. 

"Soon, soon..." Noelle promises. "Uh-uh-uh-- uh -- uhhh~"

At the moment it happens, Noelle kisses her again. Her tongue snakes out and reaches almost to the back of Kay's esophagus. Kay gags on it. It's not a tender or loving kiss, but a selfish, violating one. She kisses Kay's mouth like she fucks Kay's pussy. For perverted pleasure. 

And like that, she lets loose a torrential outpouring of semen into Kay's previously unsullied gash. 
 
They both moan, in unison: "oooooohhhhhhh" -- as Noelle's seemingly never-ending supply of jizz pumps like a geyser into the too-small confines of Kay's body. The dense, sticky, smelly semen clings like glue to Kay's walls, to the mouth of her cervix and even to the back of her womb. Then the backpressure forces it all out with a sick slllrrrp, to splurt and froth up all around Noelle's thrusting penis. The backflow coats both their mounds and makes their pussies all shiny and slimy and white. Noelle's face is even more contorted than before, all blissed-out and cum-drunk. Kay's face is the same now, too. They cum in, and on, each other for what seems like minutes on end.

But it does finally end. And so all at once, Noelle is back to her old self. She's off of Kay and remorsefully staring down at what she's done, before Kay even realizes it. She surveys Kay's battered body -- the yoga pants half-around her legs, stained white with jizz, her bare torso all sticky with flakes of dried prefuck, her face slimy with sweat and slobber -- and the jewel of her femininity, her pretty brown pussy lips, leaking a sloppy, clumpy, stinky puddle of Noelle's copious sperm. Kay is vacantly staring at the ceiling, only half conscious and babbling lowly to herself as she turns her head this way and that.

The sight of Kay's defiled, raped body is enough to stir Noelle's cock back to full mast, although she hates herself for it. She sits on her butt, covers her face and cries. "Oh no -- oh no, no, no -- oh god... I'm sorry..."

Kay, slowly coming to, rises, and crawls towards her rapist. "Oh, you're gonna be sorry..." she says between panting inhalations. 

"Just kill m--" Noelle begins, but chokes off her plea with a gasp as Kay pushes her to her back. How the tables turn.

Kay lies on her belly in between Noelle's legs. Flipping Noelle's huge futanari dick up and pinning it in place against the skirt that no longer hides it, Kay gets her lips latched onto the female part of Noelle's genitals. 

"Ahhh~" Noelle groans, and bites her hand to stifle her cries.

Kay laughs to herself. "You might have a dick, but you're still a lezbo bitch... I've dealt with plenty of your type before. You're gonna FUCKING regret raping me."

Some punishment. Noelle appreciatively stares at Kay's small, plump butt and the genetic material leaking out of her, as she eats Noelle's pussy. Noelle has never been eaten before -- it's something she could get into. Kay's skillful tongue wagging back and forth inside her body is heaven... and the delicate way Kay applies pressure to the underside of her dick only adds to the enjoyment...

But it ends too soon. Kay stands, looming over Noelle. In Kay's shadow, Noelle stares up, and finally now comes some fear percolating in her stomach. 

Kay parts her cum-leaking pussy with two fingers. "I hope you were paying attention. It's your turn, slut."

She plugs Noelle's nose between thumb and forefinger. Noelle gasps for air, opening her mouth; and so Kay squats, half-sitting, on Noelle's face, right over that opening. The cum runs in nasty rivulets from out of Kay's broken-in pussy, and across Noelle's tongue. Kay cums hard, her cream mixing with Noelle's to create a thick, delectable broth of fuckslop that Noelle happily drinks. Kay enjoys the sight of it, Noelle guzzling the fluids from her cunt. 

Once you take the edge off and let her blow a load, Kay realizes, Noelle goes back to her same old pliable, suggestible, mostly submissive self...

Kay turns in a semicircle, arches her back and spreads her plump ass cheeks wide. "Back here, too."

Unquestioningly, piggy bitch she is, Noelle latches her mouth to Kay's rear end, and the brown pucker of Kay's anus. Kay laughs cruelly as Noelle, face buried in her ass, begins to desperately jack off with both hands. "Yeah," Kay says tauntingly. "Make out with my asshole... that's it..." She wags her hips back and forth and humps against Noelle's overeager tongue.

It goes like this, back and forth, all night. They guzzle down the rest of the tequila, and take turns raping each other. One never has the upper hand for long.

But in the end, finally, they wind up entwined with each other in the middle of Kay's ruined living room; Noelle nuzzling Kay's chest, Kay breathing hard against Noelle's head, enjoying the scent of Noelle's shampoo.

"You... don't actually have a boyfriend... do you," Kay drunkenly murmurs.

"No..."

"Yeah, I thought so. Good."

"Why good?"

Kay doesn't respond to that. Instead she says: "what time is it?"

Noelle glances at the clock on a nearby end-table. "12:24 AM."

"Oh. Damn..."

"Why damn?"

Kay uses a forefinger under Noelle's chin to draw Noelle's face level with hers. "I was gonna say we should be each other's Valentines."

"Next year," Noelle says, smiling like a dope.

Kay frowns with one side of her mouth. "That's a little presumptuous. Don't you think?"

"Next year," Noelle repeats. 

They fall asleep on the floor together.

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, harem master. 

Your quest for quiz bowl greatness hits some snags, like all the best plans always do.

The problem is: not all of this has happened before. You know the basic contours of history but it varies in the details. That's why, although you're at the same national tournament you rollicked through in the previous universe, you don't have a guaranteed path to victory in this one. You and Rose recognize some of the questions, yes, but the vast majority are different. You can't rely on past experience to see you through. You have to use good old-fashioned quiz nerdery instead.

So as the second and far more grueling day of matches marches onward, the competition becomes stiffer. You have a particularly close scrape with a school from Montana at the end of the pools stage, emerging victorious 5,520-4,590. For any other team, a win by nearly 1k points would be seen as a drubbing. For the Mindbreakers, who have made a habit of shutting the opposition out entirely, it's a bit close for comfort.

Some of the fault lies on you. There's the special present you gave to Vivian to wear today, for example -- let's call it an undergarment served extra creamy -- that left her less focused on answering questions and more focused on vacantly squeezing her thighs together and drooling, looking a bit like the mindbroken mind of your team's logo.

Then there's the special game you played with Rose and Whitney, who were seated on either side of you during the match -- let's call it mutual dual-wielding underneath the podiums -- which left the three of you somewhat distracted, too.

Actually it was Alex and, surprisingly, Hank, who scored a lot of the points in that match, and kept disaster at bay (thank god for questions about big game hunting). But the experience of "nearly" losing has left the team chastened -- plus also Ms. Carte afterwards, hammering the point home by beating you all about the head and neck, backstage:

"How many times do I have to tell you little shits?!" She shouts. "Quiz now! Dick later!"

"Am I missing something?" Mr. Langley asks, oblivious as always.

"This team needs discipline! Things are only going to get harder from here on out!"

"Harder... how wonderful..." Vivian mutters, eyes rolling to the back of her skull. Her big sister has to keep her steady with an arm looped over her shoulder.

"You don't have to beat us, ma," Whitney grouses as she keeps Vivian from fainting. "We hear you loud and clear. Less handies during matches."

"Fewer," you correct.

"NO handies during matches!" Ms. Carte clarifies. She wheels, pointing at Vivian. "And you! Change your underwear! You smell like an oyster farm!"

Vivian, woozy, slurs: "Will you change them for me?"

Ms. Carte makes a disgruntled purr that actually sounds like "grrr," then grabs Vivian by one wrist. "Come with me," she barks, dragging her in the direction of a nearby restroom.

"Oh, I will..." Vivian promises.

(And she does. Inhuman sounds emerge from that restroom for many minutes hence.)

"Gosh, my Mom is such a freaking Nazi," Whitney says, only when Ms. Carte is well out of earshot. "We won, didn't we? So what's the big deal?"

"She's right, though," Alex says. "The next school is gonna be really tough. We need to keep our eyes on the prize--"

The clack of approaching footsteps on the slick finished concrete ground backstage draws your collective attention. Turning, you see Sable. So she finally decided to show.

"Ms. Guiteau...?" Alex marvels, clearly unable to believe what he's seeing. But he's really seeing her, in all her mismatched spats-with-pants, labcoat-with-tie, mussed-hair glory, this strange nigh-bipolar woman he idolizes.

"Am I too late?" She asks, looking from face to face. "Have you already lost?"

"What?" Alex says. "No -- we -- just won our last match... what are you doing h--"

Sable cuts him off by shoving a small wrapped package to chest. "Take this," she demands.

Alex, hesitantly taking the package foisted upon him, examining the snowmen and penguins on the wrapping paper, can only sputter: "Ch-Christmas...?"

"No."

"...A present for winning the game?" He asks.

"No."

"..."

"Birthday," Sable says. Her voice is so soft as to be nearly inaudible. She's crimson.

"My birthday was last m--"

"Shut up!" Sable shouts, face contorting in anger. "Shut up!"

"Do you... want me to open it?" Alex asks, timid.

Sable balls her fists and stomps. "Of course I do! Why would I give you a gift I don't want you to open!"

Alex begins to tear at the paper. Sable's wrapping is a complete botch job, with the seams uneven, the folds thick and bulky, and bits of scotch tape adhered in odd places. Alex has trouble getting in. But when at last he has one end of the package shredded enough to reach inside, he slides the little box of gourmet chocolates out.

He doesn't recognize the name stamped on the box, but you do: Alegio, a high-end chocolatier out of Palo Alto, once a favorite of Rose's back when you had your billions. That Sable would splurge her meager teacher's salary on such an extravagant gift is...

"Chocolate," Alex mutters.

"You had better not lose here," Sable warns him. "If you lose this tourmaline after abandoning our robotics team, I will--"

Whatever threat Sable had in store is lost the moment Alex tenderly hugs her. He wraps his arms around her waist, still clutching the box of chocolates, and nuzzles her chest. Sable, clearly unsure what to do with her own hands, startles, and stares down at him.

"Thank you so much, Ms. Guiteau... this means so much to me! We'll all do our best!"

When he pulls back, Sable is blushing even more madly than before. As Alex opens the box's lid and surveys the bonanza of chocolate within, he does the only thing he can think to: he offers to share. "Would you like some, too, Ms. Guiteau?"

"No. I hate chocolate."

"O-oh," Alex says, a bit deflated. "Well... thanks again, anyway. I love chocolate."

"I know you do. That's why I got them," Sable says -- then snatches the box from him.

Alex squeaks in surprise.

"I see a couple white chocolates in here," she says. "I do like those." She takes one of the bonbons out, and bites into it, leaving a little strand of the raspberry filling to drizzle down her bottom lip. She hands the box back to Alex then, who happily takes a peanut butter cup for himself and eats it with her.

For that moment, with their mouths full, they just silently enjoy one another's company.

Sable spends the rest of the tournament as a spectator, perched at the very front row. She even wears a pink Mindbreakers shirt like the others.

"Gimme an M!" Rose shouts, waving her pom poms to one side.

By this late stage of the tournament, none of your friends and loved ones are enthused by Rose's pre-game cheerleader act. The only person to respond to her call for an M is Sable, and only because she probably thinks she's obliged to:

"M," she says robotically.

"Gimme an I!"

"I," Sable says.

"I can't heeeeearrrrr yooooouuuuu!" Rose calls, cupping a pom-pom to her ear and leaning way in.

"...I."

"I still can't heeeeeearrrrr youoooouuuuu!" (Rose nearly loses her balance trying to lean in even further, and has to windmill her arms to stay standing.)

"...I."

Rose pouts, be-pommed hands on her hips. "You guys have no team spirit! What the hecky!"

"Sit down, honey," Mom tells her. "Root for your brother with the rest of us."

Rose, still pouting, blows a bang from her face. "Hmmph."

"I have team spirit," Sable insists, sounding a bit hurt. She looks at Mom. "I have team spirit, don't I?"

"Of course you do," Mom says.

Rose plops down in her seat, still clearly upset. Sable turns to her. "Say. Would you like to cheer for our FIRST Robotics team next month?" She asks.

"Oh no," Cerise cuts in, suddenly haunted by visions of Rose's cringe-inducing cheering following her for the subsequent weeks leading up to that event. Rose's caterwauling practice every night in preparation for this tournament, conducted in her bedroom adjoining Cerise's, was enough. Cerise can't bear any more. "We don't need a cheering section in Vegas--"

"Yes we do," Sable says. "We need to broaden our appeal beyond only the intelligent."

"I'd be totally honored to help out!" Rose says, having obviously missed that last bit.

"Thank you, young lady," Sable says. Cerise looks like she already has PTSD, as she contemplates more sleepless nights listening to Rose practice.

Your margins of victory grow thinner and thinner. But that's no problem -- winning is winning, whether by 10,000 points or 100 points. You're still confident.

And although the contours of history can vary in the details, some parts remain fated. In the grand championship, you go up against that magnet school from New York and their showboating little shit of a team captain.

To strike the fear of God into that shitter, you do a little showboating of your own, when the host comes by to interview you before the game.

"It all hinges on this match, Alabaster," he says. "What would you say is your gameplan tonight?"

"Well, my gameplan is to win," you say simply, with a smug grin.

"Confident!" The host says. "...Overconfident?"

"Not at all. We've been prepping for this moment all year. We know we're going to win."

Your teammates nod along in agreement.

"And -- it's more than that," you add. "More than winning, that is. Because it's not enough for me to succeed--"

But the host takes the microphone back from you and turns towards the other team's captain.

"And you, Ji? What's your gameplan?"

"My gameplan is also to win," he says, from behind his dorky spectacles and buck teeth and pimply face and button-down shirt and khakis. "May the best mind come out on top." Fucking asshole.

"The host didn't let me finish..." you mutter, aggrieved.

"It's okay, honey," Rose says soothingly. "You'll get another shot." Behind that smile of hers is a hatred of the rival team to surpass even your own. The thing you love most about Rose is that when you truly hate something, she truly hates it too.

"Stop calling him 'honey,'" Whitney says. "It's creepy. You'd think you two were married."

When the match begins, it becomes immediately apparent that you've gotten more than you bargained for. Your rival captain is quicker on the buzzer than you. So are all his teammates. Quicker than they were even in 421. Quick enough to beat out not only you and Rose but the dork all-star team, the dork dream team, the dork MVPs. On this lavishly lit stage in the sleepy city of Boise, watched on by nearly everyone you care about, you're getting trounced. And it isn't close.

"COBOL is an acronym for what?" Common Business-Oriented Language, answers one of the Marduk Acaemdy Nerves, before Alex can buzz in. He hides his face in shame from the teacher who came a thousand miles to watch him.

"Of all integers larger than 5 and smaller than 90, what is the largest integer relatively prime to 422?" The answer, an asthmatic manlet from the Nerves shouts loud enough to make him wheeze, is 89. A question that's a complete layup, Rose tells you in anger at herself, although you're not so sure.

"Who scored the winning goal in the 1999 FIFA Women's World Cup?"

For the first time all tournament, Whitney answers. Or tries to. She's pounding her buzzer so hard you think the thing will explode in a shower of plastic shards. But the buzzer on the other side of the stage registers first, lighting up with a steady blue glow: Ji Shin himself is ready to respond.

"Goddamn it!" Whitney howls. "But I know this one! I totally know it!"

"We ask that all contestants please keep calm," the host chides.

"I know it, though--"

"Brandi Chastain," Ji says.

"Correct. 500 points to the Nerves."

"FUCK!" Whitney howls, even louder.

"Any further outbursts and you will be ejected from the competition," the host intones.

Fuel to the fire: Ms. Carte shouts from the audience, hands cupped to her mouth, "try it, you little bitch! Try to kick her out and see what happens!"

But what actually sobers the host, it seems, is the truly frightening expression the mute David Darkbloom, sitting beside Ms. Carte, wears. Seeing that glare, the host tugs at his collar, gulps -- and then play continues.

"Who wrote Ballad of the Goodly Fere?" Ezra Pound, answers not Vivian, but a 300 pound simulacra of Vivian on the Nerves' side of the aisle, a greasy girl in a too-small dress.

Not even Hank can get a lick in. "Plugs, jigs, spinners, spoons, and flies are all examples of what?" Fishing lure, apparently -- but Ji Shin grabs the bait first, and answers correctly.

In the second half of the championship match, you and Rose adopt a bold strategy of play: you buzz in at the first possible instant, no matter what, relying not on your recall but on your reaction time. The reason it's a bold strategy is because wrong answers penalize the team. And although you sacrifice some points, it pays dividends: together, you claw the Mindbreakers back to within spitting distance of the win.

The 422nd scenario giveth, and the 422nd scenario taketh away. You hammered oology back into Whitney's brain in preparation for this moment. But the final question, the one that can bridge the 400-point gap remaining between your teams, is not "what is the study of eggs commonly called?" -- but rather: "What is the study of time commonly called?"

Whitney doesn't buzz in. So you do. You don't know the answer.

"...Fuck," you heave.

The announcer frowns. "I ask once again that you please refrain from using foul language."

"Just -- give me a second..." you plead.

"You have five seconds," the announcer says.

You could be given a billion seconds. You still don't know the answer. So you take a stab in the dark: "Temporology?"

"Sorry," the host says. That's 500 points down the drain, and with it all hope of your win. "Nerves -- you have a chance to steal."

Ji Shin, the FUCKING COCKSUCKER, buzzes in, even though his team has already won. "Horology," he says, triumphant.

The announcer replies with a cold stare. But over the course of a few moments his steely expression breaks into a Cheshire grin.

"Congratulations!"

An uproar of adulation and applause from the crowd. But not for you. Confetti streaming down from the rafters. But not for you.

The Mindbreakers have lost it all, right at the very end.

Your friends and loved ones crowd the stage to palliate the sting of defeat, while simultaneously the friends and loved ones of the Nerves crowd the stage to celebrate along with them.

As the shock of not coming out on top rapidly subsides, you find yourself feeling strangely... zen.

You lock eyes with Rose, and shrug. Winning isn't everything. It was an experience anyway -- a better experience, even, than the time you did win this tournament so many eons ago.

If only the others could say they felt the same way. Vivian is openly sobbing, and Charlotte has to physically restrain Whitney from charging the rival team and single-handedly beating them to a pulp. Sable, in a burst of speed you didn't think she was capable of, jumps on top of Alex and prevents him from fleeing the stage in shame; together with Cerise, she hugs him and promises better times ahead at the national robotics competition in Vegas in a few weeks. Ms. Carte is so shellshocked she's mute and ashen-faced, like a researcher exposed to Lovecraftian cosmic horrors; Darkbloom requires a tissue from Mom to hide his tear-stained face and preserve what little dignity remains to him. Mr. Langley is the best-composed, on balance; he's glum, but masks it by asking your little sister: "C'mon, Rosie -- give us one last cheer."

Rose, voice hoarse, and face dripping tears of her own, sniffles and says: "Gi... give... give me a -- an M--" and then dissolves into horrible weeping, burying her face in the multicolored pompoms.

"Don't be sad, everyone," you tell them. "We had fun. Didn't we? That's what counts."

"Second best in the whole country ain't too bad!" Hank agrees, but you can tell it's a put-on.

"We should cherish our memories," Rose tries. "The time we all had together here--"

"Oh, fucking BULLSHIT," Whitney shouts. "Shut the fuck up!"

"This is the worst day of my entire existence..." Vivian snivels, wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her wrist.

You sigh. Such drama queens in your harem. Oh well. You'll make them feel better on the ride(s) back.

The camera crews are already surrounding the winning team, and you figure it's probably time to move on. "I guess we should be headed back to the--" you begin. But whatever train of thought you had is derailed, the moment you see... her.

Rose notices her at the same time. Her breath catches. She clasps a hand to her chest, and takes a stumbling, shrinking step backwards.

Qiangxiang Xi has climbed up onto the stage, and is walking towards you.

"No, no, no..." Rose mumbles, shaking her head violently, wrenching her eyes closed; trying to wish the nightmare away.

Your heart is palpitating, your mouth is dry. You're literally shaking. You never truly comprehended what it meant when veterans spoke of getting war flashbacks; now you do. So many horrible images are flashing through your mind that you're paralyzed, stopped dead in place, unable even to scream. You want to vomit, to pass out, to run -- you can do nothing.

Right now, in the year 2015, Qiangxiang cannot be much older than 11 or 12. She looks even younger than that. But the all-consuming fear she strikes in your heart is as real as anything, no matter her age or looks.

The others around you are so consumed with their own small-fry worries that they don't notice the panic that has suddenly gripped both you and Rose.

When at last you find the strength to move, you step forward, not back, to interpose yourself between the people you love and this utter psychopath walking towards you with obviously ill intent. Rose joins you, ready to strike, too. Ready to murder this child in public, if needs be. You'd do it in a heartbeat, without remorse. You both would.

But Qiangxiang isn't walking towards you, after all. She's walking towards the game's host -- and in her hands is a sheaf of papers.

She beckons for the host's attention. He has to stoop pretty low, to hear her over the din of the crowd. She whispers something in his ear, something you can't hear.

The Nerves' captain, finally noticing her too, breaks away from his hangers-on and starts to curse at her in Mandarin. Qiangxiang is not fazed in the slightest. When Ji starts to stride towards her, an older Chinese man steps to him and pushes him firmly back with a palm to his chest -- a man you recognize from Rose's old oppo research document as Qiangxiang's late father. Not-so-late, in this version of the universe, as it turns out.

As Qiangxiang whispers into the host's ear, the host's eyes go wide. He steps back from her, peering at her disbelievingly. Qiangxiang nods, and hands him the papers.

---

An agonizingly long review period follows. The victory celebration for Marduk Academy is put on hold as the moderators and judges go over the evidence. An hour, two hours, three hours pass; the crowd at the Morrison Center thins, leaving only some scattered press, including ESPN-3 (+/- 1). The air on your side of the stage is bated hope; on the Nerves' side, fittingly enough, agitated nervousness.

Finally the host appears again from backstage, tugs at his bow tie, and announces haltingly into the microphone:

"Folks, we've gotten some late-breaking evidence of cheating. It seems that questions and answers were illicitly sent to the team from Marduk Academy prior to the tournament. We have reviewed the evidence and believe these accusations to be founded. In light of this -- unfortunate revelation -- we are left with no choice but to disqualify the Nerves, and name the second-place team, North High's Mindbreakers, the champions."

Immediately upon the host's declaration of your default victory, Whitney pumps her fists and screams: "WOOOOO-HOOOOOOOOOOOO! EAT IT, FUCKERS! EAT MY ASS!"

Ms. Carte is similarly overjoyed. As Whitney turns around, moons the Nerves and spanks her own ass -- Ms. Carte grabs either side of Whitney's hips and shakes them so that the globes jiggle. "Eat it!" Ms. Carte mimics. "Eat it!"

"EAT THE WHOLE ENTIRE ASS!"

Rose, the pink one, spontaneously breaks out into song, waving her pompoms spastically: "Miiiiindbreakers, with the guts to thrill! Miiiiiindbreakers, with the brains and will!"

But most of the rest of them, exhausted, are just smiling wanly. Sure, winning isn't everything. But winning is sweet all the same.

You pose for the cameras, hoist the trophy overhead, wave and smile and self adulate.

But you, and Rose too, feel a peptic sourness underneath the facade of joy.

And as you file out of the venue, you pass by the source of your indigestion: Ji Shin, or more properly, Xi Shin -- or more properly still, Shin Xi, a distant cousin of Qiangxiang's -- is shouting angry recriminations at her along with a number of his branch of the Xi family, in the lobby leading to the outside. Qiangxiang's father is defending her, the only one of the Xis willing to do so it appears, shouting back at them, and bodily shielding her small frame from them. You don't understand a whit of the words exchanged, of course, but you don't need language to get what's going on. They're apoplectic that she would betray them by snitching.

Qiangxiang locks eyes with you as you and the others pass. But she stays mute, and only clutches her father's pantleg a bit tighter.

>[x] Ask her why she revealed the rival team's cheating.
[ ] Don't approach her.

Qiangxiang's father whisks her away, striding with her down the semicircular expanse of the lobby towards a set of exit doors on the opposite side. You pause in place, watching them, as Qiangxiang's now-estranged family curses after her. Rose stops with you, too.

"Alabaster..." Rose says softly, taking your hand, and trying to get you to come.

"C'mon," Whitney says, less subtle about it, as she passes you up. Hands on her head with her pits bared to the world, she spins 180 degrees and walks backwards towards the doors, calling after you. "Let's goooo. You don't wanna get the stink of losers all over you. Come get the stink of winners on ya instead~"

"I'll catch up," you tell her. "I, uh-- gotta use the bathroom."

Whitney snorts. "Want me to hold your dick for you?"

You're not sure whether that's sarcastic or genuine. But when you meet her question with silence, she moseys on out with the rest.

You stride towards Qiangxiang and her father, Rose fast on your heels.

"Chloe," you call. "Chloe!"

But of course, here and now, she has no recognition of that name. She and her father keep walking.

"Qiangxiang," Rose says as the two of you draw closer.

She stops, turns. So does her father. He's a grim-faced, imposing man -- and he stands between you and his girl, partially shielding her, just as he did against his own kin.

"I'm... sorry," you begin. "But I just have to ask. Why? Why did you --"

Qiangxiang's father clears his throat. Qiangxiang is still half-hiding behind him. But when he steps aside, she stands straight-spined and confident before you, chin held high.

"They cheated," she says.

"But why did you tell the judges?" You ask. "Isn't the captain... isn't he family of yours?"

"Family or not," Qiangxiang says, "he does not deserve to win if he only can do it by cheating. There is no honor in lies -- or trickery and deceit."

"I... see," you say.

Rose adds, voice quavering: "thank you." And you can tell she really means it. It's a thank you not only for what Qiangxiang did just now. It's a thank you for so much more.

"Alabaster Soliloquy," Qiangxiang says. "You mentioned prior to the start of the match, something... about success. The host interrupted you. It was very rude of him. You said..." She stares at the high-vaulted ceiling, thinking back. "It's not enough for you to succeed..." She looks back down at you. "What was the rest?"

You swallow hard. "No," you say softly. "I was wrong."

Qiangxiang cocks her head.

"It's enough to succeed," you tell her.

"If you do it the right way," Qiangxiang adds.

You nod. "If you do it the right way."

"You played well tonight. You almost beat them even despite their cheating. I was rooting for you the entire time."

You smile at her.

"May we meet again," she says, and departs holding her father's hand.

You hope you never do.

---

As you climb aboard the waiting bus, you immediately notice that someone's missing. You glance around, confused.

"Pff," Whitney chortles. "What, is your gaydar not going off? Is that it?"

"I--" you begin.

"Don't even. You're, like, immediately missing Alex right now. Don't even joke us. Don't even lie."

"Well... where is he?"

"He's riding back to the hotel with his sensei!" Rose tells you, excited.

"In her free-candy rape van and everything," Cerise says with a wry grin. "My boy's growing up... forcibly."

"Cerise!" Rose squeaks from beside her, swatting her shoulder. "You hentai!"

"I will circle of shame you, Rose," Cerise growls, spinning in her seat to glare menacingly at her. "Right here, right now."

"Do it," Rose says, apparently in a cheeky mood after the vicarious high of victory. "You won't."

She will. Cerise gets her in a headlock and gives her a vicious noogie. It's the perennial Cerise special. She's given Rose so many noogies over the years that you're surprised the poor girl doesn't have a permanent bald spot. Rose whines and cries, but doesn't have the strength to get free. And although she pitifully screams, "Mooooommmmm!" -- Mom tacitly ignores it. She accepts that sometimes Rose needs a bit of bullying.

Rose -- err, the other one, the one you're slightly less related to -- walks to the back of the bus and settles down on the gravy-brown plastic bench seat back there. You sit beside her, serenaded by the wailing of your little sister. It makes you hard... you're not sure whether that's a bad thing.

"What's on your mind?" Rose asks. She strokes your arm and leans in. "Are you still upset about-- you know... seeing... her?"

You shake your head. "Actually? I'm thinking more about that, uh... 'free-candy rape van' Sable's got going."

Rose laughs, the tension draining from her face. "You're the worst."

She goes from stroking your arm to stroking your leg. She can already feel the monster there. She surreptitiously glances forward, to check on what the parents are up to; Saul and Charlotte are distracted, gabbing with Mom about something or other, up front.

"We've got an opening," Rose whispers. "Or do you want to go and mark your territory with Alex?"

"You wouldn't be upset?"

Rose laughs again, low and husky. "God. You really are the worst. But no. If you want to go be gay--"

"--I am not gay--"

"If you want to go and be bi-curious, I can bully your little sister instead."

>[x] Go celebrate the win with Alex and Sable.
[ ] Stay and celebrate the win with the Roses.

>[x] Passing Sable between you like a couple of good friends do.
[ ] Passing Alex between you like a good student-teacher duo do.
[ ] Just fuck everyone's shit up, senpai.

>[x] Alabaster and Rose keep predicting the future. It's weirding everyone out.
>[x] Charlotte confronts Alabaster over his intentions with her daughter!
[ ] Mom gets to know this odd Anna girl who Cerise is always hanging out with.
[ ] Sable might regret asking Rose to cheerlead for her...
[ ] Cerise couldn't stay a NEET forever. But is that a good thing or a bad thing?

When the van is a-rockin', you definitely will go a-knockin'. Sable's idling van, sitting at the ass-end of the Morrison Center's parking lot, is humming under the hood and swaying side to side in the back. Cerise wasn't joking around when she said Alex had been spirited away to a rapemobile. 

Your knock receives no response. So you knock more insistently -- and this time, you finally get something:

"Go away!"

That would be Alex's voice, and it's gruffer than usual -- the voice of someone in the midst of heavy exertion. 

Well, you don't intend to go away. And maybe you were a bit prescient -- the other night, you palmed a spare key to this thing when you were eating dinner in there with Sable. You unlock the van's back doors and swing them open unceremoniously. The dying daylight washes over the rutting pair. It's a sight you hadn't expected, although maybe you should have.

Alex isn't being taken advantage of. He's in control: fucking Sable on top of the mattress in the back of the vehicle. It's not a gentle fuck, either. Sable is on her back, nude, and Alex, equally nude, is lying over her in a missionary. He's holding her wrists above her head as he slams himself in and out of his beloved teacher's beloved cunt. There's a sloppy mess there already, around the union of their bodies, seeping wetly out and back down to the sheets below. You were late to the moment of truth. Alex has already lost his real virginity inside Sable's body. But that hasn't slowed him down one iota. The thing about Alex is that although he's an awful quickshot, he's always got multiple rounded chambered. He can cum himself fucking stupid -- five, six times in a row -- and never miss a beat. Horny bitch.

Of course, he does miss a beat now. So does Sable. When you horn in on this sordid teacher-student mating session, they startle. 

"A-Ally--! It's not -- this isn't what you --"

"What are you doing here?! Pervert! Idiot! Get out of my--"

Thinking quick, then, you swoop into the van and close the doors behind you. You push the flat of your palm firmly against the broad side of Alex's back, so that he can't dismount. Alex grits his teeth and gasps. The globes of his butt go deliciously firm and taut. This is a shock to him: your barging in, and the forcefulness of your silent command to keep going. That, plus the way Sable's vain attempt to wriggle free from underneath him only succeeds in humping herself against his still-erect dick... it's too much to withstand. The look of surprise on his face melts away -- the dopey grin of sexual pleasure replaces it. 

When you're sure he'll keep on fucking, you let go of him, and circle the pair. You sit on your knees beside Sable's head.

Sable looks reproachfully up at you, even as Alex continues to use her fuckhole for selfish relief. "What -- are you doing here--?" She chokes in between thrusts.

"I'm just here to watch the show," you say. "Maybe jump in and fuck you too."

"Oh, please!" Sable says. "You're a homosexual. You wouldn't be able to get it up!"

"What makes you think I'm a homosexual?" You ask, playing confused.

"I know what you and Alex get up to! You and he are complete--"

Sable's eyes go wide as you begin to stroke her cheek. 

"Sable..." you say gently.

"F-for the last time! Call me Ms. Guit--"

You smack one of her little tits, making her jolt. The pale skin turns quickly red where you struck her. Your voice is a lot rougher now: "Sable. Shut up. I'm gonna fuck you."

You glance up at Alex, to gauge his reaction. You might be taking quite a commanding role here, but you wouldn't carry through with this promise if you didn't have his approval -- or Sable's for that matter, although she's a lot more difficult to read. Anyway, Alex's eyes glimmer in delight. He laughs, not a little cruelly, as he fucks at a frenzied, squelching pace. "Heee... Ally, you're so dirty."

That's good enough for you. You ditch your pants and toss them aside. Your boxer-briefs, you keep on. You loop the crook of your arm around Sable's head, gripping the side of her face the way you might palm a basketball. Settling down to your butt, draw her towards your lap, and the enormous tent poking up there.

"I dunno," you tell her. "Seems like I got it up just fine."

She tries to pull off of you, but it's no use. You keep her firmly rooted there, her nose pressed straight up against your shaft. Only the thin wet cotton of your underwear separates her. The effect is powerful, and nearly instant -- as your manly scent wafts through her nostrils, she can't help but go just a little glassy-eyed. This in combination with the full-force strokes that Alex delivers, work together to dissolve the token resistance she tried to put up.

"There we go," you say. You pet her. "See? We can all get along."

Gripping her next by her hair, you nudge her face upwards and downwards, to rub it against your leaky dick. It doesn't take very long before she's doing it of her own free will, without you guiding her through the motions -- although whether she realizes that is another story. She turns her pretty face this way and that, coating her cheeks, lips, nose and forehead with your precum. 

Meanwhile, Alex is blowing another load. You can actually hear the additional volume of cum he deposits, sloshing around inside Sable's tight pussy and getting frothed up by his pulsing dick. Then of course there's Alex's shrill whine, the same one he makes every time he cums. "Ahh-- aahhhnn~~" -- followed by the increased pace of his humping as he milks the cum out of his dick. The jiggle of his cute ass is a nice accompaniment to these lewd noises and sensations.

"Have you ever sucked cock before?" You ask Sable.

"Yes," Alex says leeringly, on Sable's behalf, as his orgasm subsides and he resumes the less frantic rhythm he had before. "She sucks me all the time... after school... or sometimes even during..."

How interesting. So the Sable of 422 is just a little less domineering -- or maybe she has an oral fixation this time around. Well, if the shoe fits: "let's put that mouth to the test," you say.

You pull your cock out of the fly of your underwear. Sable's previously docile eyes bulge in apparent disbelief. It was obvious enough that you were big -- but *this* big... she's got some new doubts about the geometry here, clearly. Too fucking bad for her.

"Show me how you suck on Alex," you tell her.

"Y- you're crazy," Sable says.

"That's awfully rich, coming from you," you say. You slap her a few times with your cock, enjoying the way her supple flesh gives and quickly bruises under the assault. "Don't make me force you. Suck my dick."

Sable makes a little mewl, from the back of her throat, one that melds hesitance with lust. You keep idly slapping her face with your cock... it's always fun to beat a girl with your manhood. Alex releases her wrists. She uses her newly freed hands, both of them, to immediately clasp your twitching penis down by the base. The bulbous, spongy head, she gives a few appreciative sniffs -- to get high on your smell directly from the source. And then at last she dives in. She wraps her lips around your cockhead, and sucks.

Alex was telling the truth. She's had practice, and a lot of it. Her wet lips slide across your foreskin and her tongue swirls around inside it. You haven't showered since last night; she scoops up whatever residue of stale cum and piss remains leftover from the day. She does it without reserve -- savoring the taste, in fact. She swallows it all down to the back of her throat, and in return salivates like a broken fountain, coating your prick in viscous lube. As her gullet expands and she envelops your length with her hot, sloppy mouth, you let out an almost agonized groan of relief. It's been too long, way too long, without the sexual service of this crazy bitch. It's good to be back. 

Alex is really hammering away. He grips the sheets on either side of Sable's head and hunches his back as he works her over. He keeps his eyes fixed on the obscene sight of Sable's bulging cheek as she swallows up your cock.

"Do you ever fuck her throat?" You ask.

"Uh-huh..." Alex gulps.

"Great. I wanna try it too."

Sable shakes her head no, but who cares? You swing your legs over her face, straddling her. You grip her by her hair, firmly, with both hands. Between that iron grip you exert and your thighs pressing against her cheeks, she's pinned.

"Open up," you tell her. She has no choice -- she opens up. And with that, you begin to fuck her.

Sable's tight esophagus is a joy to screw, and she hardly gags at all. Her tongue, a bit longer than the average person's, snakes around your horny cockshaft and services it as you fuck her. You feel your face contorting in pleasure as you stare at the low ceiling and hump away. Slimy spittle goes flying, and behind you, you can hear Alex's girlish squeals as he gets off with you.

This first round is merely to take the edge off. The sight of such a woman as Sable getting so degradingly used has put you on a hair trigger. You knew right away that you were going to bust quick. And you do. Your nuts tighten, then comes the joyous race of sperm up your urethra as you seed Sable's throat like a pussy. Although she didn't gag much from getting her gullet pounded out, having half a pint of jizz pumped in it without warning is enough to choke her. She coughs and sputters as you dump your load. You don't loosen your grip on her head at all, nor do you modulate the speed of your throatfuck. You milk it all out, and let her worry about her gagging. It's her problem -- not yours.

When you're all done and pull off her head, she coughs, croupy and hard. A little spray of frothed-up sperm goes flying in an arc, upwards, and then back across her sweaty face. Her deep red hair is matted by spit and fuckslop, and stuck in places to her glossy features. She's breathing ragged. And her eyes are full of anger.

"Yoooouuuu MOTHERFUCKER!" She shrieks. "How DARE you--!! Piece of shit! Stupid fucking faggot!" 

You fish-hook her with your index finger to shut her up. "I don't know how you put up with this," you tell Alex, who's still banging her.

"She's fun..." Alex insists. Then: "nnnf~~" as he deposits another creamy load inside her. Her nuzzles her neck, then works his lips northward, towards her messy face. You pull your finger out of Sable's mouth so he can kiss her properly. He licks your jizz up from her cheeks, and out of her mouth. Sable kisses him back. Under his tender ministrations, her rage immediately dissipates. They make out like the lovebirds you suppose they are, Sable moaning sweetly into him, as they share your cum. It messes Alex's face up too, but he hardly cares.

"Roll over once, huh?" You prompt him.

"Hmmm?" He says between kisses.

"Roll over. Let's fuck her at the same time."

Alex, the pervert, is perfectly happy with the concept. And Sable, newly docile again, is too. She helps, as Alex gets onto his back, and the two shift into a reverse missionary. Alex suckles sweetly on her nipples as she slides up and down on his dick.

You spread Sable's ass cheeks apart and take some time to admire that soft-looking, brown ring of her anus. Tight as a drum though it looks, you can somehow tell it's no stranger to toys and fingers... Sable may be a bit more into oral in this timeline, but you know that she's still a dyed-in-the-wool buttslut. That's Sable and Alex for you. A couple of horny buttsluts.

You spit, a long thin strand that lands squarely on Sable's hungrily twitching asshole. With a thumb, you smear it in -- and this produces, by a wide margin, the most pleasurable moan of the evening so far. Oh yeah. She likes it up the ass, all right.

"Alabaster..." she says. Her voice is hoarse. "Go slow... I've never had anything that big -- inside me, back there..."

You pet her tenderly. "You'll get used to it."

"I'll--"

You spread her cheeks as far as they'll go and thrust your prick past the rubbery ring. You missed it so much... the wet, unbearably tight confines of Sable's anal chute. Even with just your cockhead inside, it's enough to make you want to nut. And with Alex's chode of a dick inside her slickened vaginal chute, the tightness is doubled. It takes real effort to get any more than the squishy head inside her ass. Sable, her scrawny body sandwiched between the two of you, is not having an easy time. Her senses are in overdrive. Still choking a bit on the thick wad you deposited in her throat, with Alex nursing on her little titties and his cock sawing in and out of her pussy; plus you, forcing your fucking monster past the pucker of her butthole and up into the depths of her guts... she can't focus on any single thing. She's completely overwhelmed, inundated by conflicting impulses of pain and pleasure. That's why she suddenly cums -- hard and wet, all over Alex's cock. You hear the splashy splatter of it, and smell the sweet tang of her feminine ejaculation. 

You kind of regret that you never got the chance to do this before. Sable is a small woman where it counts: her holes might be smooth and slippery, but they're brutally vicelike. With you and Alex DP'ing her, the effect is just like sharing an onahole, only this one is living -- and making all sorts of delighted, pained noises while you get off in her. Centimeter by centimeter you slip ever deeper into her bowels. Through the thin membrane separating her ass and cunt, stretched so taut you halfway worry it'll snap, you can feel Alex's dick. Just like your dick, his is buzzing with electric pleasure, and he wears an expression of fucked-out bliss on his face. He's not always such a bottom bitch. He likes to dominate a slut, too. 

"Ally... I think she likes it in the butt... huh?"

You smile deviously. You sweep Sable's hair back over her shoulders, gathering it into a ponytail. Using the ponytail as a handle to yank her head back, forcing her to look you in the eye, you sneer at her: "Well, bitch?"

"Yes... yes!" Sable moans.

As a reward, you fuck her ass harder. You don't loosen your grip on her hair. The effect is to yank cruelly on her head and neck as you rail her. 

Alex laughs again. "I knew that, though... she always makes me rim her... Ms. Guiteau is reee-eeeally slutty..."

Pulling even harder on her hair, you lean across her back, and around it, to kiss her. You swap spit as you pound her asshole with full-force strokes. 

"Fuck my ass..." she moans against your lips, delirious. "Fuck it, you fucking bastard..."

As if on cue, you and Alex cum almost at the same instant. First him, and then you, in rapid succession. The sheer volume of this dual cum-load, getting jizzed into both of Sable's lower holes, makes her dizzy with perverted relief. What a lucky girl, getting cummed inside so much. Her eyes roll back and she almost loses consciousness. When you let go of her ponytail, she flops limply to her stomach atop Alex, who hugs her with his lithe arms and fucks the rest of his cum into her like that. You do the same, fucking her from above. Just a couple of friends sharing some holes.

But if Sable thought she was done servicing you, she was wrong. You've only just begun. Next, you sit side-by-side with Alex, against the van's sidewall, legs splayed out before you. Your cock, tall and proud; his, thick and meaty, jut out from between your laps. Sable, all three of her fuckholes leaking sperm, looks from dick to dick. 

"Get to work," you tell her.

"Yeah, Ms. Guiteau..." Alex says, revealing more of his inner sadist. "Don't make us wait."

You do all sorts of terrible things to her. You make her suck her own ass off your cock, while Alex evilly fingers her butt. You make her rim you both, while you rub your nuts and cocks in her already ruined hair, using it for a jizzrag. You spitroast her, and DP her again, and fuck her throat while plugging her nose, competing to see whether one of you can make her pass out. There was something in the air tonight, something that told you Sable really needed to be humiliated, maximally. Alex feels it too. And although her eyes burn with rage at times, although she sometimes starts to scream and holler; all it takes is Alex slapping her in the face, then following it up with the sweetest of kisses, to calm her. He's got a way with her, you have to admit. He can flip her switch back and forth at will. He delights in doing just that. Driving her bonkers, then bringing her back from the edge of insanity. And all the while, he uses her body to get his cock off... you do, too. She's your communal cock-dump tonight, and she knows it.

But probably the favorite game you play with Alex, in terms of using Sable's body for relief, is this. Sitting side-by-side again, you make Sable go back and forth between the two of you. First she sits on your prick, taking it to the hilt inside her asshole. You hump her brutally for a few thrusts before you push her off you and it's Alex's turn. The process repeats: she sits in his lap, their slender bodies pressed together, and he fucks her silly for some brief moments. Then he shoves her off like she's nothing, and she has to crawl back to you for more. It's a wonderfully depraved way to share her. It keeps you both from cumming for a very long time, and it keeps her from ever getting used to the abuse. Every time she switches partners, her anus has just enough time to seal back up before the other of you is breaking it open again. It's such a painful way, a deliciously painful way, to do her anally. 

And she loves it. The more she bounces between your waiting cocks, the wetter her dark pink cunt gets. Soon she's rubbing orgasms out of it as she bounces willingly up and down on you. Her tongue lolls out of her mouth, and you take turns sucking on it for added perversion. She presses and gropes her own sensitive tits, cums and cums and cums.

To cap it all off, comes this. You lie on your back amid your commingled fluids on the bedspread. You get Sable on top of you, belly to belly. Alex takes his spot above her. But this isn't a typical DP. You're both going to use her asshole this time.

When Sable realizes your intent, she gasps. "N-no-- wait-- that's too much!"

"No it isn't," you say.

"You can take it," Alex adds.

"No... please..." she's almost crying in panic.

"Stop it," Alex says. He nips her earlobe. He whispers sweetly, "you want it, Ms. Guiteau... just shut up and be our dicksleeve, okay?"

She shivers, but she doesn't try and stop you. 

Here's another thing you missed dearly. Using a hole in tandem with Alex. The same hole -- nudging your dicks together and frotting as you get off inside a wet, hot dicksleeve. Synthetic, bunny, or human, it doesn't matter. It all feels the same to your cocks. And it feels fucking good. You might break Sable apart in doing so... but that's a small price pay... and she kind of wants to break on your dicks, anyway. 

"Ally-- your dick is so big--" Alex moans.

"Yours, too," you say. "And-- she's so tight--"

"Uh huh," Alex agrees. "Let's cum together!!"

Sable is only half conscious, and can only slur something like "yesssshhhh," which is consent enough.

You cum in unison, again, spraying Sable's anal walls with your sticky seed. It feels so good to cum all over the place with Alex, coating your thrusting cocks in your sperm, and messing up the hole you're sharing. Well, Sable accused you of being a homosexual, so you may as well lean into it. At least she gets to enjoy it too. She squirts, her pussy spasming and climaxing without any attention paid to her erect nubbin of a clit. She gets off purely from the bliss of being fucked in the ass. As expected of Sable Guiteau.

Of course, Alex is a bottom at heart. Over the ensuing next few minutes, he eats the nasty creampie out of Sable's asshole, and licks up the fluids from the sheets, your cock, and your belly, too. He just lives to eat cum -- it's his favorite. Sable wears a dreamy smile on her face as she lies on her stomach, and lets Alex gobble it all up from her hole. She might just forgive you both for raping her, if Alex can eat ass like that all the time. 

As you get dressed and prepare to depart, they curl up together, still nude, staring deeply into one another's eyes. They kiss -- and then they Eskimo kiss -- guess it's contagious among teacher-student pairings.

"I love you..." Alex tells her.

"I --" Sable says, but stops herself. She glances away, blushing.

"Just fucking say it," you tell her, completely sick of her bullshit, as you pull your jeans back on.

Sable nods tremblingly. "I love you," she says.

Alex cries. Only a little, to his credit.

When you leave them, Alex is sharing a favorite joke of his, the way a normal person might whisper sweet nothings:

"So... this is so cheesy."

"Tell me," Sable prompts.

"Uhh. Two programming students are given two spreadsheet files... each containing... hundreds of tabs. And each tab contains thousands of signed integers. The professor tells them to verify that the two files both contain exactly the same content. The first student is... totally horrified, and says -- he says do we really have to check every single one of these numbers? So the other student says -- well, no... you... only need to check some."

Sable laughs, long and loud. But you're lost. 

That's all right. It wasn't for you. You leave the van, and catch an Uber back to the hotel.

---

It's a lazy Sunday. Mom works in the kitchen desserting-for-dinnering. Cerise is out with Gal. Dad's flying a plane to Malaysia. And Rose is with her family. Rose lies curled up beside you on the living room couch. She's tending to her town in New Leaf; you're playing PS3. 

Dark Souls II is a hard game. Really hard. Really, really hard.

"Fuck!" You yell, as you die for probably the 50th time today.

"Language, language, language!" Rose chides. 

You grunt.

She curls up just a bit tighter, drawing her knees towards her prodigious chest and absentmindedly scratching her thick thigh. You can't help staring at her smooth, unblemished skin and the way her miniskirt rides up. 

But enough ogling your own little sister. It's game time. You turn your focus back towards the TV screen -- but this Dragonrider motherfucker just keeps kicking your shit in. You have no idea how to get past him. 

"FUCK!" You yell, as you die again.

"Allyyy..." Rose whines. "Your negative energy is so *totally* a kimochi warui right now."

You grunt. 

Cerise was always better at this game than you. You're loath to admit it, but you might need her help, in just a few spots, for this playthrough.

"I'm trying to focus positive energy here," Rose tells you. "I really need Hazel to move into my new town. So positive vibes ONLY! Okay?"

"Hazel?" You say. "That butt-ugly squirrel with a unibrow--"

Rose looks up at you, pouting. "Hazel is a precious little cinnamon bun cupcake and I will NOT listen to you talk smack about her! Hmmph!"

"Who's got the negative vibes now?" You say. 

"Hmmph," Rose repeats, more pointedly. 

You take another swing at the Dragonrider. Rose is fast coming down from her little spate of anger -- as she usually does -- and soon enough she's grinning happily at her screen as she rearranges her house's furniture. Would that you could say the same for your own mood. Then, injury to injury: you die. Again. 

"Fffff-- aaaggghhh--" you groan, consciously trying to keep yourself from cursing in Rose's presence. You take your controller in one hand and beat it repeatedly against the couch cushions to your right. 

Rose jumps, frightened. "Ally! Nani the hecky!" 

You grunt.

"Geez, Ally. This game makes you so mad... aren't video games supposed to be fun?"

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," you sneer.

Rose rises partially to her butt, enough to grip the back of the sofa and peer towards the kitchen. Mom is zipping back and forth between the stovetop, the kitchen's central isle, the fridge, and elsewhere -- working hard on tonight's feast. Rose whips her head back around to glance at you, cotton candy bangs lagging behind, and grins devilishly. 

"I -- don't like that look," you tell her.

"You gotta have a little fun, onii-chan..." Rose says, and starts to stroke your leg.

"I REALLY don't like that look--" you say. 

The source of your apprehension is this. Mom was okay with brother-sister incest in a universe where she partially remembered a lifetime being someone other than your mother. But how would she react in this universe, if she walked in on you fucking your little sister? This is way too dangerous, even for you.

Rose reaches for your zipper. This causes a renewed jolt of panic -- but you compose yourself, and set your controller aside. 

"I... gotta go take a leak," you say, in an attempt to extricate yourself from the situation, beginning to stand.

But Rose pushes insistently down on your upper legs with strength you didn't suspect, and all but forces you to sit again. She lays her head sidewise in your lap. You meet her dewy eyes. Wordlessly, with one forefinger, she presses down on her own squishy cheek, right near her lips.

"You're -- joking --" you stammer.

She shakes her head in an exaggerated way, neon hair going wild with the momentum. Then, still wordlessly, she mashes on her cheek with her forefinger like an impatient person hammering on an elevator's call button. 

"God," you breathe.

She unzips your fly. This time, you don't try to stop her. You just nervously glance over your shoulder, back towards the kitchen, to make sure Mom is keeping busy. And she is. She's absorbed in her cooking, has no reason whatsoever to stray into the living room. But she could... and she could see you sitting on the family couch, pissing into your 15 year old sister's mouth. 

Rose laughs to herself, a low "hmmm~" when she gets your dick out. Even flaccid, she loves it, its heft and its give. She takes a couple moments to appreciatively squeeze and caress it. But when this adoration quickly makes it start hardening, she gets down to work. She gets her lips around the mushroom tip -- just the tip, pressing it against her bowled tongue. Even taking your tip into her tiny little mouth is enough to distend it, and make the lips slightly blanche. Lying with her head in your lap and your cock firmly rooted in place, she pulls her DS towards her face so she can continue to play. Although now she has to watch the screen from around your meaty shaft, and through a forest of pubes. She obviously doesn't mind -- her eyes glimmer excitedly. 

"Mmmf mmf," she goes, in an approving tone, your signal to let loose, you suppose.

You draw some bracing breaths and flex your muscles. The first few dribbles take concerted effort to make come. But once they do come, there's no holding back. Right here in the living room, you're taking a leak inside your imouto's thirsty mouth. It's audible -- so much so, that you worry it will carry all the way into the kitchen and alert your mother -- the hollow echo of your hot pee splashing against the back of Rose's tight wet throat. As you void your bladder, Rose has trouble keeping pace with the flow. Her cheeks bulge like a chipmunk's. To keep from drowning her, you cut the stream off, and give her a moment. She gamely swallows, loud and gulpingly, apparently enjoying the flavor of onii-chan's pee. More than enjoying it -- loving it. She blushes a deep pink and despite the cock filling her mouth, she's smiling as she drinks the nasty liquid down. When you judge she's swallowed everything in her mouth, you start pissing once again, to fill her up a second time. Rose's mouth is extraordinarily small. It fills fast. So it takes multiple cycles of topping off the urinal in her face and letting her swallow it before continuing, until you at last go empty. The rhythm you establish with her draws this disgusting act out, makes it feel all the better. First the sweet agony of cutting off your urine in mid-flow, having to wait for her to catch up. Then, the even sweeter relief, of starting to piss in her mouth again. She guzzles everything without missing a beat. Spills not a single drop. It's beyond amazing, her skill at this new game of hers. You expected it to be horribly messy, but it's as clean as can be; it all goes straight into her hungry tummy. Your little sister is a human toilet par excellence.

When you have no more pee left, Rose lets your semi-erect penis slip out of her mouth, and gives the piss slit an appreciative peck -- like a more wholesome little sister might kiss her big bro on the cheek.

Fear suddenly grips you. You stopped paying attention to the looming danger. You spin your head around and check the kitchen. Whew -- Mom is still in her own little world of culinary delight. 

Rose rubs her squishy cheek back and forth across your cock, nuzzling it as she continues to play her DS game. "Aren't you gonna keep playing too, Ally?" She asks.

"Y-yeah..." you grumble.

You begin, again, to play, but Rose's skinship with your prick makes it hard to keep focused. Especially when, apropos of nothing, she says: "you smell goooood~ ... and your dick is so warm, onii-chan..."

You choke. "Be quiet, will you," you hiss.

She giggles dumbly. Regardless of your protests, you're getting hard. "Want me to suck you, too?" Rose asks.

You can't but nod.

Rose twists in place, settling down on her belly. In this position, with her arms across your lap, one on either side of your throbbing dick, she can properly go down on you even as she attends to her mayoral duties in the game. You always thought of her as a dim bulb, but she's got a knack for multitasking, at least in this regard. 

Her rotation also makes her skirt ride ever higher -- and you see she wasn't wearing panties. Rose's fat, pale ass is on free display, and you can even see her candy-pink anus. 

You try to play your game, you really do, but with a hole that inviting staring you in the face, and her gobbling on your prick, it was never really an option. You reach down, and begin to lewdly finger her butt. Rose giggles in surprise, but doesn't resist. Instead she just wags her hips back and forth, inviting you deeper, making the globes of her ass ripple.

You keep looking back to the kitchen, terrified as hell that you'll be caught. So far, so good. And Rose's excellent fellatio technique, combined with the fleshy, grippy, pliable anus of hers you're molesting, is working to tear down your own higher reasoning faculties. For the next several minutes, there's only that, only the gug-gug, sllck-sllck  noise of Rose sucking on your achingly hard cock like a lollipop. But your ministrations on Rose's rear end have their own effect. You can see how wet it's making her little twat, stippling her thighs with a sheen of arousal. Finally, Rose pulls her mouth off you just long enough to whine: "Allllyyyy... you're teasing me too much!"

"Don't tease your sister!" Mom hollers from the kitchen.

You exhale hard. "Fuck," you mutter.

"Language, language, language," Rose chides. 

You keep molesting her asshole. It's impossible not to. She happily kicks her besocked feet, sets the DS down, and grins at you -- as she languidly jerks your prick with one hand.

"Ally... do you need a little bit better dick-service? 

You grunt.

She laughs. "Use my cumhole, okay?" She says. Full dick-service today, from your little cum-toilet of a sister.

She climbs into your lap, her back to your belly, and settles down onto your waiting dick without foreplay. There's no need for any more foreplay, anyway -- her cunt is sopping wet. Your hot prick slides between the in-turned folds of her labia with zero resistance and nestles itself in her inmost parts. She gulps air, shuddering, as she impales her small pussy on you. Penetrating your little sister is a divine sensation, the very best... this bubblegum cunt is so soft, sticky, and warm. 

After she adjusts to the size of your manhood (she always needs a few moments), she takes her Nintendo in hand again. You decide to follow suit, and pick up the PS3 controller. Together, brother and sister game while they fuck. It's a slow, delicious, and lazy fuck -- just perfect for this seemingly endless Sunday afternoon.

But your worst fear comes to pass. For some reason, Mom randomly decides to come towards the living room. You hear her footsteps approaching from the kitchen, and through the foyer, before she arrives. Knowing there's no time to make yourselves decent, you go for the desperation play. You let your arms and hands fall south, into Rose's lap, pressing the frilled hem of her skirt down. This manages to poorly conceal the obscene union of your bodies, largely with your controller. And not a moment too soon -- Mom is standing over the back of the sofa already.

You're trembling with adrenaline. But Rose, dumb cunt she is, has no sense of danger, and her pussy continues to ooze and flutter around your leaking prick. You try not to moan.

Mom looks from Rose, to you, and then to the television screen. "Are you winning, son?" She asks you.

"Yes... I am..." you say, trying to keep your voice as level as possible. On-screen, you die.

"It doesn't look like you're winning," Mom says.

"Fuck," you grunt.

"Language!" Mom says. She frowns, thinking, back of her wrist perched on her thick hip. "...Why is Rose sitting in your lap?"

Rose humps up and down on you. Only slightly. Only as much as your forceful downwards pressure on her thighs will allow her to. It isn't enough motion to be noticed... you hope. You perch your chin on her shoulder, grit your teeth, and let an almost inaudible groan escape your throat. And since you're in no state to answer Mom's question, Rose answers for you. She throws her head way back, to stare at Mom from an upside-down vantage. Smiling broadly, she says: "We're just hangin'."

"That's nice," Mom says. "So he stopped teasing you?" 

"Oh yeah," Rose croons, clamping your prick again and again with her vicelike cunthole.

"Mm," Mom murmurs, approvingly, then turns back towards the kitchen.

"Oh my god, Rose..." you whisper, chin still perched on her shoulder for support.

"Hmmm~ this is so naughty and fun, Ally... we almost got busted, huh?..."

"Yes... yes, we did..."

"Take off your pants," she whispers.

"What?" 

"Take off your pants, onii-chan."

"This is fucking crazy--" 

But Rose is already on her knees, in front of the couch, tugging at the waistband of your jeans. Desperate to bury your cock inside her again, you'll do anything she wants, and she knows it. You help her get your pants off, your boxers too. Rose sashays out of her miniskirt. Now if Mom returns to the living room... you don't want to think about it. You don't HAVE to think about it, do you?... all you have to think about, right now, is the return of that divine sensation -- the sensation of penetrating your imouto.

The two of you start to really fuck now. Rose sets the pace. She pumps her body up and down on top of you. Her meaty thighs colliding repeatedly against your lap create a steady, lewd fapping noise, a plop-plop, plop-plop. It's unmistakable as the sound of two people screwing. By sheer serendipity, Mom begins to use her electric mixer. The cacophony this creates is the cover you need to pick up the pace even further. You hold your sister about the waist with one arm, and join her in shaking your hips. You fuck without care for the risk... plop-plop, plop-plop, you fuck. Her flesh ripples and jiggles all over, her skin flushes and she gets feverishly hot all over, inside and out. The swampy wetness and vacuum-like suction of her inner walls is too much to resist... you throw caution to the wind. Rose's mind is as gone as yours. Her jaw hangs open, and she drools like a moron as you rail her.

You were so scared of Mom finding you out that you hadn't even considered other possible calamities. Like this one: Cerise comes back home early. You hear the unlatching of the deadbolt and the creak of the front door. Rose, in her ecstasy, doesn't -- and so she doesn't stop. 

"Rose--!" you gasp.

Cerise closes the front door behind her, and stands in the foyer sniffing at the air. "Smells good..." she says. 

"Dinner around 7:30," Mom calls over the whirr of the mixer.

Rose is as cognizant as you, now, of the imminent risk. But she doesn't care. She just keeps fucking herself silly on top of you. Well, you shouldn't have expected any less. She is a toilet, after all.

Cerise turns her head now towards the living room. She can't see you fucking your sister, but she can see the TV screen, and the huge red letters saying "YOU DIED."

"Pfff," she laughs. "Sucks to suck, huh?"

Oh no... here she comes. As you and Rose continue to mate, unable to stop with this insane pleasure coursing through you -- Cerise enters the room. And as she draws closer, she can finally see over the top of the couch. She gasps. "What the f-- oh my GOD..."

Cerise knew there was funny business going on between you and Rose. She's seen you sneaking between each other's rooms, she's heard the sounds at night. But this is her first glimpse at the un-ignorable truth -- what a rude glimpse it is. She stands there, frozen in place, trembling as she watches. 

"Alabaster..." she whispers. When at last she has the wherewithal to move, she simply circles around, to face the scene head-on. "Our own *sister*?"

"Yeah!" Rose says, and humps up and down on you even harder, to drive the point home. You're too far gone to try to stop this insanity, and just let it happen. You shrug nonchalantly at Cerise.

Cerise glances uncertainly towards the kitchen, to verify that Mom is distracted, then fixes her eyes on you. Keeping her voice to a whisper, she says: "you're really having *sex* with *Rose*...?"

"Silly," Rose giggles. "Ally and me aren't having *sex*! He's just using my cumhole!"

"Your--" Cerise gulps.

"He's masturbating inside my cumhole!" Rose says. "It's not sex... it's just little sister dick-service!"

Cerise, going weak in the knees, gets down on the floor in between your legs. She grips the edges of the couch cushions and examines that spot where your slimy dick plunges in and out of Rose's thick little body. 

You know that over the past few months, your friskiness with Rose has had a secondary effect on Cerise, too. The blossoming of Rose's cockteasing ways has inadvertently made her into a cuntteaser, too. Cerise is attracted to Rose, degenerate weebs they both are. And having been hit with this revelation of incest like a schoolgirl getting isekai'd by a semi truck, there's no going back for your dear sweet onee-sama. Her breath is hot against the underside of your dick, and the crevice that it's buried half to the hilt in.

"Y-you're not even..." Cerise says, gulps again, and starts over. "You're... not even using a condom..."

"Nope," you say.

Cerise licks her lips.

"Haha," Rose laughs, "Cerise... your breath tickles..."

"What if -- she gets pregnant?" Cerise asks.

"Toilets don't get pregnant, silly," Rose says. "A-durr."

"Alabaster," Cerise pleads, begging you to be the reasonable one.

You grin cruelly down at her. "I have some condoms in the drawer beside my bed," you tell her.

Cerise stares at you dumbly.

"If you don't want Rose to get pregnant... you'd better hurry," you say.

Cerise springs to her feet and goes dashing up the stairs. You hear her heavy feet thudding across the house's upper floor. 

"Chill out up there, missy!" Mom screams. 

"Ally," Rose whispers. "Play with my boobs too."

You help her out of her blouse. Of course the slut wasn't wearing a bra either, why would she be? With her fully naked save for her ankle socks, you fuck her freely and grope her heavy udders. These fat tits of hers with their huge, soft nipples are always fun to squeeze and torment. You suckle her neck and enjoy her body to its fullest extent. You're pretty close to cumming... 

Cerise comes down the stairs, two at a time. She has a little roll of condoms in hand, and tears off one of the foil packages. She tries to hand it to you, but you don't take it -- just keep toying with Rose's sensitive breasts instead.

"Alabaster," Cerise says, voice trembling. "Please!"

"What?" You say.

"Put it on--"

"If you want me to wear it, put it on yourself," you tell her.

You pull out of Rose's honeyhole and present your dripping dick to her. Entire body trembling, Cerise goes to her knees once more before you -- but she's completely at a loss. 

"I... don't know how," she says.

"Didn't you take sex ed?" You ask.

"Shut up," Cerise says.

"Fucking figure it out. It's not difficult. And hurry up... if you don't get going, I'll just cum inside her like I was going to."

Rose watches with a smile on her face, and tickles her own clit. This is all a fun game to her.

Panting, Cerise tears the foil's top off and takes out the latex ring. She turns it this way and that, trying to gauge which side is the right one to apply. Guessing, she fits it over your prickhead, curls her index finger and her thumb into a rough O, and rolls it down your shaft. The thing hardly fits. The pressure of it, plus the sensation of Cerise putting it on for you -- your first bit of skinship with her in trillions of years -- is a pleasure all its own. When the rubber is stretched taut around your straining cock, and the little reservoir at the tip is centered over your piss slit, she tests the snugness of the fit by squeezing your shaft a couple-three times. Rose laughs at the sight. Your little sister may be a stupid slut, but she can tell that Cerise's fondling of your dick is driven more by lustful curiosity than anything practical.

"Are we good?" You ask.

Cerise lets go and haltingly nods.

"Put me back inside her," you say.

"Alabaster..."

You guide her hand back to your dick. There's nothing she can do. She's a slave to the moment, just as you and Rose are. She grasps your dick more firmly than before, and pushes it away -- back towards Rose's onahole cunt. The rubber-coated head slides across the shiny, lubed-up crease of Rose's pussy, and towards the orifice hiding at the bottom of it. With a low sucking noise, it slips back into her vagina. Rose does the rest. She settles her weight back down on you, and swallows up your shaft in one motion. Cerise shudders just to see it.

Condoms were Rose's idea. The other Rose, that is. She's not on the pill and doesn't want a baby yet. She also doesn't want you making a baby with this Rose (yet). But none of you like them, and thus the supply you've got has remained largely unused... risky sex is usually the order of the day, unless you're close to the most fertile part of the month. Even then, you sometimes forego the rubbers for the bliss of cumming raw. As now. This is one of Rose's dangerous days. You got so used to the pleasure of cumming inside, in the universe before this, that it's hard to be a good boy and play it safe the way you know you should. 

But although you're not a fan of protection, it still feels pretty good -- fucking is fucking, after all -- and the perversion of forcing your older sister to aid in the defilement of your younger sister makes it even better.

So with these thoughts in mind, it doesn't take too long before you're blowing your wad inside the bag. You kiss Rose voraciously as you pump her, and enjoy the alien sensation of the latex expanding almost to its breaking point with the sheer volume of sperm you ejaculate. Despite everything she just did with her mouth, Rose tastes like candyfloss, and you enjoy the warm sweetness as you cum like a bull. Cerise, underneath you, transfixed, watches.

"Ooooh," you moan, shivering. "That was good... that was really, really good. Thanks, Cerise."

"Yeah!" Rose agrees. "Thanks for helping Ally masturbate inside me!"

Cerise falls to her butt as if she'd been pushed by a strong wind. She stares vacantly back, as you pull slowly out of Rose's hole. You take care not to snap the over-stretched condom. You slowly pull it off your cock, letting the load coalesce towards the tip. Greedy, Rose snatches it from you, and puts the open end to her lips. She starts to suck. She swirls her cute pink tongue around the rim, and siphons up the dense, creamy jism, moaning to herself, and letting out a little trickle of her girlcum from the debauched fun of it. You scruff her hair, like she's a favored pet. She smiles dreamily.

"Don't hog it," you tell her, with faux severity. 

"Awww..." she whines, as you wrest the condom back from her grasp. 

"What are you--" Cerise begins, but she doesn't get anything else out before you upend the condom and let some of your juicy load drizzle out, and all across her face. "Alabaster--!!" She hisses. 

You hand the condom back to Rose, so she can keep sucking on the cummy residue. She mewls in delight as she turns it inside-out and puts the thing back to her shiny lips. She's gonna suck up every single molecule of it. Meanwhile, disbelievingly, Cerise touches her face and tests the pearly mess spattered across it. "Oh my god... oh my god..." she repeats.

"There's more here," you say, nodding down at your still erect, still twitching, and still oozing penis. A dollop is waiting thickly on top of the urethra, and the veiny shaft is coated in even more frothy sperm. 

Cerise's teeth are chattering.

"You better get it all off of there, before it comes into contact with Rose's pussy," you warn.

"Yeah... yeah..." Cerise pants, nodding, agreeing with this twisted logic. "Only to keep Rose safe... so she doesn't get pregnant..."

"That's it."

Cerise lets her jaw hang open, grips the edges of the couch cushions a bit tighter, rolls her tongue out -- and starts to lick up your cum. She can't help moaning as she does. It's her first taste of your jizz, and she's savoring it. Yes, the first lick is hesitant, maybe even a bit grossed-out -- but the second is hungry, and enthusiastic. So are the third, fifth, twentieth and hundredth licks. She sucks up the salty-sweet mix of your cum and Rose's pussy juice like a woman who's been starved. And soon she begins to outright fellate you -- as she scoops your drying cum from the bridge of her nose, and shovels it into her hungry maw. Rose's sweet-smelling pussy leaks a bit too, but Cerise doesn't mind Rose cumming on her. 

You decide to leave Cerise hanging, though. It's best to stay safe in a different way: you really don't want Mom stumbling upon this scene. You force Cerise off of you, and get dressed again. So does Rose. Cerise, reduced to a cum-hungry sow, gets her hands down her pants and begins to masturbate right there on the floor. 

"Do you... do you fuck her like that a lot?" She asks desperately.

"Yes," you say.

"You never use protection?" Her hands quicken in her shorts.

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no. If you want us to use it every time... you'd better be there to make sure it happens..."

She cums wetly in her pants, and falls to her stomach on the carpet. "Unnfff..." she moans.

Just a few moments later, all is back to relative normal. You're playing Dark Souls II, in a much better mood, and Rose is curled up beside you planning for the arrival of her new villagers. Cerise is still lying on her stomach on the floor, though, half-conscious -- with a huge wet spot in the crotch of her shorts.

Mom comes back into the living room. "Hungry?" She asks you all.

"Yeah," you say. 

"Mmm-hmm!" Rose agrees.

"Good. I made cream pies tonight!" Mom announces. "Hope you're all in the mood!" 

"I know I am," Rose says, giggling. 

"Me too," you say.

Cerise mewls. She's going to have her work cut out for her.

---

You leave Rose -- uh, wife Rose, not sister Rose -- slumbering in your bed one evening, around 1 AM, to go downstairs and grab a drink of water. Not just any water: cucumber water. It's been a recent addiction of Rose's -- uh, sister Rose, not wife Rose -- and it's rubbing off on you. You crave the stuff constantly.

You make your way groggily to the kitchen, fish through the fridge, pull the pitcher out. But as you swing the door closed, you jump in terror as a human form reveals itself. In the pale pool of light from the moon, you can barely make her out: Charlotte fucking Mallory.

"What the f--" you yelp. "Mrs. Mallory...?! How the hell did you-- why are you in my house?"

"Why am I in your house?" She repeats. "Why is my daughter in your house!"

"You can't break into my house--"

"Don't turn this around on me, you little twerp!"

You calm yourself before this can blow up, set the pitcher on the center island, and invite her to sit at one of the stools there. If Charlotte is anything like her girl, and you know she is, she won't be deterred.

You grab two glasses from the overhead cabinets. Pouring one for yourself, you offer the other to Charlotte: "cucumber water?"

"What is your intention with Rose?" She demands.

You slide her a glass of water, regardless of her refusal -- but she doesn't take a sip.

As you settle in on a stool across from her, you fold your arms and regard her for a silent moment -- thinking how best to play this. You decide honesty in the best policy. "I'm in love with her, Mrs. Mallory. When we're both 18, we're going to get married. So I guess you could say my intention is to be her husband."

Charlotte obviously doesn't like this response, but you can tell from the look on her face that she believes in your sincerity -- even if she disbelieves in the probability of the relationship being successful.

"You're children," Charlotte says. "You don't know about love."

You shake your head. How could you possibly even begin to explain?

"It's like Mom told you," you try. "Rose and I -- we're doing okay, aren't we? Good grades, scholarships lined up... we're using protection--"

Charlotte turns crimson. "Y-you-- oh my God--"

"TMI. Sorry. Well anyway, we're not exactly an episode of 16 And Pregnant here. Right? So what's the harm?"

"The harm is that she's practically a runaway!" Charlotte says. "And on top of that, she's your cousin--"

"No. You're my cousin."

"--fine, once removed. Regardless. You're closely related! It's not right."

"It's right," you tell her. "Just give it time. You'll see."

Charlotte lays a hand on yours, leans in. "I believe you. I believe you mean it. But you don't know it -- you don't! And this kind of thing is only going to end horribly. For both of you!"

You stare at the ceiling as you take a long, ruminative sip of water. What to do?

>[x] Tell her the entire truth.
[ ] Tell her your version of the truth -- sans the timeline jumping and universe resetting.

You meet her eyes. "What would you say -- if I told you that I'm not 18, but 24 -- and that Rose is not 16, but 22?"

"I'd call to have you committed!" Charlotte says. "What are you even talking about?"

You take another sip, and then gently drum the table a bit, mustering up the words. History might vary in the details, but you think this one should be the same. You hope it is, anyway.

"The universe comprises strange curvatures," you say, and Charlotte recoils. "Stranger than the human mind can comprehend even as we travel through them in the course of our lives. How absurd it is to plan for the future when the path ahead is not only invisible but incomprehensible! How fearful it is to travel along knowing no compass rose can ever orient us. Our existence itself becomes strange as the curves we are bound to. I could never possibly have guessed the curvatures of our lives would converge. We tried to veer them apart. No use. Now inescapably we are fellow travelers, in our little two-passenger boxcar, together. I will never fear the unforeseeable path as long as I have that."

Charlotte's face is bloodless and slackened, and she looks at you like a woman haunted. Which is great news.

"How...? How do you know about that?" Charlotte finally asks.

"You showed it to me."

"I haven't shown that letter to anyone-- he'd kill me!--"

"You showed it to me. On the night I married Rose. It was a very, very long time ago."

Charlotte shakes her head. "The night you married Rose? This is crazy... you're speaking complete nonsense."

"How else could I know about a letter that only you and your husband have ever read?" You take a sip. "It's a really nice letter, by the way. Saul has quite a way with words... then again, I guess you bring it out in him. He's a lucky man."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"I'm telling you that Rose and I -- are, in layman's terms, reincarnated. We remember a prior life in a world very much like this one. At least through about the year 2020. In that world, we were married... and you, Mrs. Mallory, were like a second a mother to me. I called you Mom. You wanted me to."

"Ridiculous," she mutters. "This is insane."

You take a notepad and a pen from a junk drawer nearby, and begin to write.

"I ought to have you sent to a psych ward," Mrs. Mallory is saying. "Listen to yourself. You aren't well--"

"If you don't believe me--"

"You're psychotic!--"

"--If you don't believe me," you repeat, much louder, and firmer. "Then try this." You slide the paper across the countertop towards her. She takes it and reads it. "In about a week, you'll be invited to attend a gala for the local humane society, since you're such a big booster. It hasn't been announced publicly yet, but it'll take place on that date, at that address. And while you're there, the keynote speaker, Malcolm Turnwater, will get sick during his remarks. Some bad vegetarian pizza from the buffet. He'll throw up right there at the lectern." Charlotte begins to say something, but you cut off her obvious question: "I know because I was there. I went with you last time this happened, since Saul was out of town on business."

"Do you really understand what you're saying?" Charlotte asks. "--What you're asking me to believe?"

"What I've just told you isn't even the half of it. The really crazy stuff is yet to come. But don't take my word for it. Go to that gala, on that date. See for yourself. All I'm asking is for you to withhold judgement until then."

---

A few minutes later, Charlotte and Rose are conferring over the darkened kitchen's center island while you chug another glass of cucumber water by the fridge. Rose echoes everything you've said. She's sore at you for not getting her involved before you blabbed. But she does back you up.

The longer Charlotte has to mull the concept of lovers reincarnated, the more violently she rejects it. She begs Rose to tell her that she's joking -- that it's all a farce, or a trick, or a flight of fancy. She accuses you both of being on drugs. But you -- you and Rose -- stand firm, and hang your hats on the promise of that gala.

You prophecy a few other upcoming events, too, just in case. You're pretty sure these things should happen as foretold... if they don't, you're fucked. You'll be sent to the nuthouse for sure.

Rose, as a little bit of collateral, goes back to stay in the Mallory home full-time until your predictions come to pass. In exchange for that, Charlotte agrees to keep this all a secret, pending the outcome.

That Thursday -- Rose tells you at school, that Charlotte has received an invitation in the mail for a gala hosted by the Gilroy Humane Society. And that Charlotte just about fainted when she opened the letter.

She wants you to go with her.

---

"Saul's gonna be mad," you tell Charlotte as you step out of the Uber, to meet her on the curb outside the little conference hall, and take her gloved hand. You never enjoyed these white tie affairs, but you've had plenty of practice to get used to them. Charlotte's sequined cocktail dress is easy on the eyes, anyway. And her hand, even through the glove, is warm to hold.

"Mad about what?" Charlotte asks. "His wife going on a date with the boy who stole his daughter?"

"Is this a date?"

"I'm speaking strictly of how he might characterize it."

"He might be mad about that," you say. "I'm thinking about something else, though."

"Oh?"

"He'll definitely be mad about the fact that Rosencrantz v. Gilroy Public Schools isn't going to get picked up by Scootus -- um -- SCOTUS -- this term. It's going to die in the 9th Circuit. For want of a substantial constitutional question."

"So you say," Charlotte says, rolling her eyes.

"So I know. But I hope he has fun in San Fransisco this weekend."

"Oh, I'm sure he will," Charlotte tells you. "As for you -- enough playing Miss Cleo for one night. I don't want to hear anymore fortune tellings. Understood?"

"Yes ma'am," you say with mock deference.

You sit in the gently lit hall at a small round table near the room's periphery, admiring, as you did last time, the charcoal grey and cream striped wallpaper more than you admire the interminable presenters and their interminable presentations. Charlotte sits with you. An elderly couple occupy the table's other two chairs. Charlotte knows the couple, the husband an accountant for one of her firm's clients (or something). She introduces you to them: "This is Alabaster. He's my -- daughter's boyfriend. He's... erm, an animal lover. So I thought I'd take him along."

You shake their hands and ignore their plaudits for being such a socially conscious young man. Here it comes: the servers are carrying out trays of food to line the buffet table at the back. You watch, clutching and unclutching the linen napkin in your hands. It's hard not to be nervous. Charlotte is intently focused too, and equally in a tizzy. The trays get lined neatly up, and then the chrome tops come off, and the servers arrange the little placards at each serving station. Build your own salad, whitefish in cream sauce, vegan tofu quiche. And vegetarian pizza. The codger hosting the night's event is first in line: Malcolm Turnwater grabs three slices of the pizza and dumps them on his plate, commenting to his wife that he simply cannot resist.

Charlotte looks like she's going to be ill before Malcolm is.

"Want anything?" You ask her, standing. You feel a renwed confidence and energy. "Quiche? Salad? ... Pizza?"

"I'm not hungry," Charlotte tells you.

You are, though. You eat the whitefish, and some Caesar salad, and enjoy the fireworks. Malcolm's remarks begin with a little slideshow of recently adopted pets out of their no-kill shelter -- "this is what we do it for!" He says enthusiastically, fighting back some indigestion. Among the adoptees is an animal you recognize. A rottweiler with distinctive markings on his fur, male. Underneath the photo, in comic sans, the footer says, "Found his forever home with: Kay." You smile to yourself.

He grows greener as the speech progresses. Charlotte is on tenterhooks -- the only person actually absorbed in this little self-congratulatory speech. Then it happens. Malcolm is barely through thanking all the donors for their generosity before he projectile vomits all over his own wife sitting beside, and faints.

Amid the rush and shock and gasping guests and people calling for a medic, Charlotte grabs your hand, and whisks you away -- straight out of the hall, into the calm night, and down the sidewalk at a full-bore jog. She kicks off her heels and tosses her handbag. You have no idea what's going through her mind as you run with her, but you run with her, holding her hand. And finally near a public park about a block down the street she's out of breath, and stops, clutching her knees, gulping down air.

"How did you get reincarnated?"

You begin to explain.

---

>[x] Family Movie Night Mk. 2
[ ] As decreed by chartanon's bot -- Characters: Alex & Cerise, Tags: orgasm denial, urination, shimapan
[ ] Kay and Noelle, minus penis
[ ] Sable discovers sapphism
>[x] Rose and Alabaster decided to combine Mom's sweets with Vivian's aphrodisiacs. Has science gone too far?

After school one day, you're in the StuCo room, stonily standing at the window, staring down at the quad below. You watch the students leaving for the day -- all of them oblivious to what's happening... you sort of envy them.

"This is the hardest decision... we'll ever have to make here," Rose says, voice choked.

"I know," you tell her, not looking back.

"Nothing is ever going to be the same after this... do you think they'll forgive us?"

"Why would they be mad at us?" You ask. But you feel like you know the answer already. Of course they'll be mad. How could they not be? Cerise, most of all...

You clear your throat, turn around. "Well. I guess it's best to rip the bandaid off now. We have to tell them one way or another. So let's get it over with."

Rose shakes her head. "They're going to blame me. I know they will."

"I'll take the blame," you tell her, going to her, and hugging her. "It's my fault anyway."

"No it isn't... no, it isn't..."

The truth is that the blame lies on neither of you. You just hope the others will understand. They have to, right? They have to understand why you made the decisions you did. Still, you can't believe it came to this.

Fartin' Franklin reported the anime club for showing pirated material at meetings, and now the school administration is pressuring you to disband the club entirely. Even if you refuse, you'll just get booted from the council, and anime club will be disbanded regardless. It's a no-win situation.

As expected, Cerise is apoplectic when you and Rose go to tell her. "That egg sandwich smelling little freak!" She shrieks. She grabs a stapler from the teacher's desk and savagely hurls it across the clubroom. Rose, who was in its flight vector, barely dodges it -- scoring some graze points, there.

"Could you please not assault me--" Rose begins.

"I'll show you some fucking assault!" Cerise says. She grabs her own head with both hands and scratches her scalp like she's been doused in itching powder. "AAAAGGH. Franklin! Fuckin' Franklin!" She stomps, balls her fists. "This is all because Anna told him that he's got bad taste in anime, isn't it? Isn't it!"

"Did she really say that?" You ask.

"yes" Anna says.

You startle, shirking away from her. As if from nothing, she's appeared at your side. "Jesus. Don't sneak up on me."

She sticks her tongue out at you -- just ever so slightly -- just the very tip.

"I'm impressed," Rose tells her. "You stood up to that shitlord, huh?"

"He's not a shitlord," you tell her. "Let's be precise. He's a fartlord."

Rose ignores you. "Assertiveness is the key to success!" She tells Anna.

Cerise throws another stapler at her.

"Will you stop?" Rose says, after successfully clearing this unexpected QTE for a second time.

"This is all your fault!" Cerise tells her. (There it is.) "This has your stink all over it."

"Are you sure that's not Franklin?" You say. You sniff at the air. "Man, does he have a way of making his presence felt after he leaves a room."

"Don't defend her just because she sucks your dick!" Cerise says. She points at Rose. "You don't want anime club operating at North High anymore. Because it's objectifying towards women or some shit. Don't lie."

"Well--" Rose begins.

"some women like being objectified you know" Anna offers.

Cerise who was ready to toss a third stapler, instead freezes. She gives Anna a look tinged with surprise, curiosity, and barely-constrained lust. Ultimately, though, the horribleness of the moment wins out over her mounting horny level. Groping for the rolling chair at the teacher's desk, she pulls it towards her and sits as if she'll faint otherwise. She props her elbows on the desktop, cradles her head in her hands. "I'm such a pathetic fucking loser," she mutters.

You frown. "Are you day-drunk?" You ask her. She always gets depressed when she is.

"Fuck you." She sniffles back tears. And doesn't fight your soothing palm on her back. "Look at me. Sad because a high school anime club got banned. I'm not even in high school anymore. What the hell is wrong with me? If these fucking faggots want to kick me out of their precious club so bad, that they'll destroy it to keep me out... all because I tried to show them some culture? Then whatever. I don't care anymore. Let anime club die."

"i care" Anna tells her.

That alone seems to give Cerise some solace.

Rose sighs sadly.

Rose, on the other hand, is peppy:

"Aaaactually -- maybe we can save this thing!"

You jump in fright, as she draws alongside you. "Do you guys live in this clubroom or something?"

"Just because anime club died, doesn't mean we can't start a new one!" Rose says, holding up an index finger. "Cultural clubs are all the rage. How about one of those?"

Cerise looks at her younger sister through rheumy eyes. The pieces are coming into place inside her mind. "A cultural club?... yeah... a Japanese cultural club! Rebranding!"

Rose nods.

"You're a genius!" Cerise says, without a hint of irony. Rose beams like the sun.

"Now hold on a moment," Rose says -- the one who's (marginally) closer to being a genius. "North High has a Japanese cultural appreciation club already. And as far as I know, everyone in it despises you people."

"most people despise us" Anna says.

"For good reason," Cerise says.

"Can't blame 'em!" sister-Rose says.

Cerise sighs and lets the backs of her palms fall flat to the desk. "...Fuck. Well there goes that idea, then."

"So anime club is doomed after all?" Rose asks, toying with one of her pink bangs. "Mou~ ... and I thought I was a genius for a sec..."

"Maybe you are," you say, thinking aloud. (If Rose beamed like the sun when Cerise called her a genius, now she's Sirius A.) "Why does it have to be a club focused on Japan? You guys could be a Mongolian cultural club, or a Thai cultural club, or a Laotian cultural club, or--"

"Turkey?" The yellow Rose asks.

"...Turkey," you say. "And I just so happen to know a young Turk who'd be happy to help."

Rose the Lesser claps excitedly, and Rose the Fatter smiles.

But Cerise and Anna aren't sold:

"i don't want to turn into a turkey club" Anna says -- giving you unhappy flashbacks to /gg/'s resident shitposter who fantasized about Galatea magically transforming him into a sandwich.

"If we become a club dedicated to the nation of Turkey," Cerise says, interrupting herself to add: "Fucking Turkey? Really? ... Then how does that leave space for anime?"

"All you have to do is make token appearances at the winter and spring cultural festival," you tell her. "What you guys actually do during club time is up to you."

"But get a few Turkish-to-English dictionaries," Rose adds. "You'll need them. All cultural appreciation clubs are required to do language practice, too."

"We actually have to learn Turkish?" Cerise says, plainly frustrated.

"That's not too bad! I've always wanted to know a foreign language!" Rose says. She starts hopping up and down, clapping even harder. "Sugoi!"

"Inanılmaz," you correct.

"Bless you!" She replies.

---

A few hours later, you come in clutch for the newly Christened Turkish Cultural Appreciation Club. You've secured a huge endowment: Vivian agreed to purchase brand-new translation dictionaries for the entire club, out of her own deep pockets.

You'll never tell anyone the awful toll she took in exchange for her charity.

---

Saul unlocks and opens the cabinet in his garage. "Take your pick," he tells you.

You immediately reach for the Colt 1911. It's a model you carried with you for months in Alaska. You became used to the way it handles. Easily concealed, but more than capable of killing -- and you've gotten pretty good at aiming it, too.

"Pussy," Saul says.

"--Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He takes a shotgun off the rack on the other side of the cabinet, and checks the breech, mostly to call your attention to his choice's signature feature: its three barrels. "Now this is a personal defense weapon. Chiappa triple barrel. If a horse became a cat burglar and tried to rob my house, this sucker would take him out."

"Horses aren't cat burglars, Saul."

"Am I seriously to believe that you kept my little girl safe from an army of Chinese mercenaries, armed only with sidearms like that? That's the most unrealistic aspect of this entire story, as far as I'm concerned."

(Of course, Saul had to find out eventually. You knew when you told Charlotte that the news would have to make its way back to him. If for no other reason than practicality.)

"Rose was the shtogunner. I guess it's not hard to figure out where she gets it."

"You're supposed to wear the pants in the relationship," Saul tells you with a frown.

"That's a bit patriarchal, don't you think?"

"Smash patriarchy!" Myrna shrieks from the corner. "Smash! Smash!"

Saul sighs. "Kids these days. Listen to yourself! I can't believe you let your once-and-future wife bend you over like that."

"Only figuratively," you say. "It's not like we have a special dungeon in our basement or anything."

Saul sputters, and blushes, and falls silent for a turn. He clears his throat. "Ah -- well. Rose can handle herself pretty well with a firearm, but she's got some bad habits I never weaned her of. And you're obviously beyond incompetent. Now... I mean it when I say that I had goddamn better not become a grandfather before my 40th birthday. But when that day far in the future comes, you send your kids to me to learn how to shoot."

Ohhh man.

You move the conversation quickly on. "If you want to teach me some real skills, why don't we shoot some real guns?"

Saul arches an eyebrow. "Whatever do you mean?" He says, faux-ignorant.

"You know what I mean."

Saul goes to hands and knees, and triggers a hidden catch under the cabinet. A compartment in the cabinet's back wall comes open. Inside is some more weaponry. All of it illegal in the state of California, and most of it illegal federally.

"M1919 or minigun?" He asks, standing, folding his arms, and admiring his own cache.

"I'm thinking the grenade launcher, myself."

"Now you're talking like a man."

The drive to the desert takes longer than you actually spend firing. But it's ample opportunity to get to know Saul Mallory again, this time as something like a peer; and, more critically, for him to get to know you.

That night, he allows Rose to return to your house.

---

Whitney lies across your bed, on her belly. She's snacking on chips, kicking her feet back and forth in the air. Her ankles make a satisfying fleshy scruffing noise as they scrape against each other. She has her phone laid out in front of her, and browses it with her thumb.

You sit at your PC. Rose (blondie ver.) is underneath your desk -- keeping busy.

"Whoaaa," Whitney gasps all of a sudden. "This is wild! ... Guess who just announced that they're running for President!"

Rose chokes on you, and tries to pull off of you, but you force her back down. "I already know," you grunt over your shoulder. Rose repeatedly smacks your knees, but your palms are pressing too hard on her scalp for her to get away.

"Dorkus malorkus," Whitney laughs. "Of course you already know. Is there anything you don't know, smartass?"

"Very little."

Whitney takes a potato chip and eats it. "Uh huh... know-it-all." She grabs the edge of your bed and uses it to pull herself forward on her belly. She cranes her neck, to get a glimpse at the difficulty Rose is having between your legs. "Ally -- you're gonna knock her out if you don't let her breathe once, you know?"

You let her breathe. She comes up amid an arc of flying spittle, gasping: "ASSHOLE!!" But her voice is hoarse and whispery, and she gets nothing else out before she starts coughing and choking. Eyes wrenched shut, she props her weight on one wrist between her splayed-together knees as she covers her hacking mouth with the other.

"Heeeh," Whitney wheezes. "So hot." She scoots herself off the mattress, toned butt jiggling against her tight spats as she stumbles standing. Then she gets down on her knees beside Rose. "Need some help with that thing, bitch?"

"No--" Rose begins.

"Too bad," she replies, grasping you, "you're getting it."

Afterwards, while Rose is on her back recuperating, and Whitney is on hands and knees licking the remnants of the festivities out of Rose's mouth, you get dressed again.

"Excited for prom?" You ask.

"Oh hell yes," Whitney says between slurps. "How about you?"

"Why wouldn't I be excited to have a prom date with the cutest girl in the universe?"

Whitney, some of your genetic material dangling in a pearly strand off her lower lip, whips her head around to meet your eyes. A deep blush is spreading across the bridge of her nose. "Y-you -- you liar! Don't make fun of me, you fag!"

"Don't talk with your mouth full."

Whitney grins like a fiend and giggles. She turns back towards Rose and continues her cleanup duty.

"Errrgghhh..." Rose moans, out-of-it. And yet still with enough cognizance to swirl her tongue around to meet Whitney's.

"Do you have a dress picked out?" You ask as you sit next to the girls. You part Rose's meaty thighs and begin to idly molest her.

Whitney gulps. "Dress?"

"You know, those long frilly things that girls occasionally wear?"

"Sometimes boys..." Rose mutters.

"Mostly girls though," you add. You add another finger, too, to keep her quiet.

"I've never worn a dress!" Whitney complains.

"Yeah. I know. You weren't planning on wearing one for prom?"

"No. I was just gonna... wear what I usually wear..."

"A tanktop and spats?" You say with a frown.

Whitney grows indignant. "Yeah! Why the heck not, huh?"

"Language, language, language..." Rose murmurs. You make her lick herself off your fingers.

"This is senior prom, Whitney," you tell her as Rose holds your wrist and her tongue slithers all around your invading digits. "You have to wear something more -- formal -- you know?"

"Hmph," Whitney says. "Dresses are gay as shit. You wouldn't catch me dead in one!"

"Don't talk about dying," you say severely.

"God, you're so touchy sometimes. I don't want to wear a stinkin' gay-ass dress! Okay? It's my date too, shouldn't I get to pick?"

[ ] Okay, Whitney. I'll take you to prom in the cutest, sluttiest tank and spats you've got!
[ ] If you won't wear a dress, how about a tux?
>[x] Sorry, babe. The cutest girl in the universe has to wear the cutest dress in the universe.


Whitney chuffs. "You are such a fucking dweeb." (She can hurl insults, but she can't hide the color she turns every time you call her cute.) "Anyway, I would look like complete ass in a dress."

"No you wouldn't," you insist. To which Rose adds, slurring: "You look good in a dressh..."

"Would look good in a dress," you correct, giving your wife(?) a sour look.

"P'yeah right." Whitney gets up onto her knees, and draws up close to where you sit, way close -- so close that you can feel her body heat and she has to tilt her head practically all the way back just to look you in the eyes. Her chin is almost touching your chest. You suppose this is supposed to come off as intimidating. "What are you gonna do if I say no? Huh?"

You shrug.

"Gonna call it all off?" She goads. "Gonna take your fatass cousin to prom instead? Or -- maybe you'll stoop even lower than that! -- Maybe you'll have to take your little sister! Hahaha--"

"I won't have to," you tell her. "You're going to wear a dress. That's all there is to it."

"No."

"Then I'll be forced to discipline you," you tell her flatly.

"Yeah? How?"

You push her flat on her back and then flip her over so she's lying on top of Rose. You execute the maneuver so quickly that she has no time to launch a counteroffensive. Climbing over top of the pair, you reach for Whitney's spats and yank them down. You pull the spandex just far enough to bare that wonderful butt of hers.

"We'll start like this," you say.

"Oh-- ohhhhhh--" Whitney breathes, as you get inside her -- before Rose wraps her arms around her, and draws her into a deep tongue kiss that cuts off any further protests.

As you enter the hallway with Whitney and Rose in tow, you run into Mom right at the head of the stairs.

"O-oh!" Mom says, surprised but somehow already naggy. "Are you all done having sex for the night?"

"Probably not," you tell her.

She sputters.

"What's for dinner, Mrs. Soliloquy?" Whitney wants to know. "I super worked up an appetite."

"Something you won't be eating!" Mom tells her.

"Heeeh. That's a myth."

"...A myth?" Rose says, drawing a strand of hair behind her ear, and checking that her skirt is straight.

"If either of these skanks gets pregnant, I'm not paying for the abortion!" Mom tells you.

"Then start coming up with good names," you tell her, brushing past, and hurrying downstairs. Your girls follow.

"I -- tch! I cannot believe you, Alabaster--"

"So what's for dinner?" You ask, nonchalant, as Mom turns and also descends the stairs.

"You tell me!" Mom says. "I've been trying all day to get Cerise out of her cave. But she won't come! And I need some help with this cake."

"Geez. What's her deal now?" You ask, stopping at the foyer to let Mom catch up to you.

"Probably listening in on us with a glass against the wall," Whitney says, literally elbowing you. Then she pantomimes it for effect.

"Disgusting," Mom says.

"That's n--" you begin, then stop, thinking, and ask Mom: "Wait a second. Why were you outside my bedroom just now, anyway?"

Mom can't say.

You turn and set towards the dining room. That's when you see her, sitting alone at the table.

"hello Sir"

"Oh," you say, nodding. "That explains it. Cerise is hiding from her wife."

Anna blinks rapidly, and looks away.

"This strange little redhead has been lurking around all day asking for Cerise!" Mom says. "It's absurd. The least Cerise could do is talk to her club members when they come over!"

You slide into a chair across from Anna. "What's going on?"

"cerise won't talk to me"

"I gathered. Is this about your upcoming prom date with you-know-m'who?"

She half shrugs, half nods, and refuses to meet your gaze.

You glance up at Mom: "Well. As long as she's here, why don't you put her to work?"

"What do you m--"

"Teach her how to cook. One of them should know how. They can't eat ramen for the rest of their lives."

"Anna is a girl," Mom says. "Stop it with these perverted jokes about her marrying your older sister."

"You think I'm joking."

Anna fiddles with her own hands in her lap.

"Besides, I can't teach her what she's clearly incapable of!" Mom says, motioning at Anna with one hand. "Everyone knows that girls from this generation are awful at cooking. All they know how to do is play on their darn phones!"

"that's not true," Anna lies. "i can cook"

She nervously begins to nibble on a spicy Cheeto.

"It's no use," Mom tells you. "You and Rose2 have to help. At least then I'll have some halfway competent support."

"I wish I could," you say sincerely, "but I have to take Whitney dress shopping."

"Dress shopping!" Mom says. She swats her own apron. "Whoever would put this rampant lesbian in a dress?"

"Beats the snot out of me, Mrs. Soliloquy," Whitney says. "But Ally really wants it. He raped me until I agreed to it."

Mom clenches her fists and locks her elbows, shocked beyond words. Then, grimacing, she barks at Anna: "You! Missy! Come over here and make yourself useful! If you're going to come into my home uninvited, you won't be slouching around!"

Anna, unable to refuse, gets timidly up and follows her future mother-in-law to the kitchen.

"...I suppose I should help too," Rose says, sighing. "Have to keep on her good side as long as I'm living here rent-free, huh."

"Well, it's what a good tradwife would do," you say. Rose slugs you.

You follow Whitney towards the living room. "Hey -- aren't we going?" You ask her.

"I'm gonna need some serious help with this..." Whitney says, plopping down on the couch. She almost doesn't see the other Rose, who's already lying there playing Brain Age on her DS and struggling with mental arithmetic. Only at the last moment does Whitney alter the trajectory of her plop, to avoid landing butt-to-butt with the pink menace.

"Ohayou!" Rose says.

"Michigan," Whitney says. She turns to you. "Look -- I don't know shit about dresses. Viv, though..."

"You're going to wait for Vivian to drive all the way out here from Palo?"

"Nah. She's at Mom's place. I'll text 'em."

Oh boy.

[ ] Stay home and help Mom, Rose, and Anna cook dinner.
>[x] Go out dress shopping with Whitney, Vivian, and Renee.

Secondly:
>[x] Make Cerise go dress shopping too.
[ ] Have them surprise Cerise by bringing back a prom dress for her.

---

You wheel a pilfered chrome serving cart down the halls of North High. As you push it through the door of the anime clubroom (scratch that, the Turkish Cultural Appreciation clubroom), you announce: "Hey guys, I brought some calzones--" 

You had expected to find the club in normal session. But only Cerise and Anna are here. They're in the midst of anything but a normal session. Both are nude from head to toe, slouched back side-by-side at two schooldesks. They have their ankles propped lewdly up on the desktops as they piston dildos in and out of their pussies. On the opposite wall's projector screen, hentai is playing at full volume. The caterwauling of a slut getting gangraped fills the air. 

They've obviously been at it for a while, too. The room is rank with the musky scent of their arousal, and they're panting like bitches while they diddle themselves. "Hah -- ah -- ahhh -- haahhh~~" 

Anna's glasses are all fogged up, and Cerise's tongue is lolling from her partway open mouth. Her chin is coated in drool. It's adorable. You're glad they have the chance to bond like this after hours. 

Unfortunately, your entry puts a dampener on the fun. The girls immediately startle, and go tumbling ass-over-elbow from their desks. They tug the dildos from their cunts and go groping madly for their discarded clothes. In the confusion, Anna ends up wearing Cerise's black tee, and Cerise ends up wearing Anna's shorts. Of course, Cerise's ass is so fucking fat that the shorts can't be buttoned or zipped, and her cuntal mound remains prominently on display. 

"What the fuck!" Cerise gasps between wild attempts to get un-disrobed. Anna is meanwhile sputtering: "S-Sir... it's not -- we're not -- we didn't --"

Cerise, her massive yet perky tits still hanging out, finds the pair of slime-coated dildos on the ground and tosses them into Anna's bookbag. "Why the fuck are you just standing there!!" She wails -- at you, or at Anna, it's hard to say. 

You answer anyway. "What am I supposed to do? Jump in and help?"

Cerise stumbles her way towards the teacher's desk, and the laptop connected to the projector there. Her movements are cum-drunk and uncoordinated. With a slam of her thumb against the mousepad, she kills the hentai. A mindbroken cumslut's mating-call of "ikuuuuu~~!!!" cuts out all at once, and awkward silence engulfs the clubroom in its stead.   

Both girls are still panting, though -- dazed with unfulfilled sexual need, shame, and embarrassment. Their bodies are flushed all over. Anna stares madly at the floor. Cerise gulps.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" Cerise demands once more.

You heft a calzone up to wordlessly indicate it, on the assumption that that is answer enough.

"Asshole!"

"That's no way to treat the guy bringing you free food," you retort. You can't help letting your eyes be drawn southward, towards Cerise's wet cunt hardly contained within Anna's equally wet shorts. Cerise covers it with a palm. But she can't conceal her jugs, and so you stare at those instead. She has such nice, big, mauve colored nipples...

"Pervert! Idiot!" Cerise shrieks. Music to your ears.

"I thought I'd bring some lunch in as a peace offering for disbanding anime club," you tell her. "This was supposed to be the club's usual meeting time... what happened?"

"club's canceled today" Anna says. She meekly removes the shirt she's wearing and hands it to your sister. Cerise puts it on. But that gives you some time to admire Anna's barely-there buds instead. Puffy and pink -- so small, so pretty. But Cerise interposes herself between you and Anna, blocking your view. 

"She's underage, dick munch."

"That's a great point," you say. "Why are you masturbating with her?"

Cerise stammers, but has no response. 

"Even if the club was canceled today, this is kind of risky, isn't it?" You say. "What if it wasn't me who walked in on you two, but someone from the administration, huh?"

"the risk is what makes it so fun" Anna says, getting her own shirt back on. Cheeky slut. 

"I'd prefer for you not to become a registered sex offender anytime soon," you tell Cerise. "If you're going to masturbate to hentai with an underaged girl, have the common decency to do it in the privacy of our home."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Cerise says venomously. 

"I absolutely would," you agree. 

"Not gonna happen," Cerise snarls. Big words for a girl whose pussy is still visible, the dark pink clitoris still hard.

You pause to enjoy a bite of the calzone you're holding, since neither of these dykes are partaking. "All right," you say after swallowing. "Well -- since anime club got canceled, I'm sure Rose is devastated. How about we have a normal, wholesome club meeting at home tonight?" 

"What about Mom?" Cerise asks.

"What's Mom got to do with anything? Didn't I just say this was going to be wholesome? Such a dirty mind you've got."

Cerise is stumped, again.

"Mom is over at Charlotte's tonight," you say. "She won't be home until late."

"Rose does need a constant, watchful eye..." Cerise muses, a finger to her lips. "If I don't keep her on the straight-and-narrow, anime-wise... she'll relapse right back into Naruto and One Piece."

"we could finish neekyu tonight" Anna offers.

Cerise snaps. "Yeah -- perfect."

You grunt your assent, and take another bite of the calzone. Then, nodding at Cerise's exposed crotch, you tell your sister: "XYZ."

Cerise turns neon, covers her genitals with one hand again, and chucks a stapler at you.

---

That evening, Cerise is curled up on the couch with Anna partially in her lap. They're sitting like this, Cerise informs you, purely so she can protect Anna from your evil clutches. Of course. It only coincidentally looks like the posture a lovey-dovey couple would adopt on movie night.

Rose of the cousinly variety is sitting with her back against the couch's armrest, her black-socked feet in your lap. Making herself right at home, as usual. 

But the night's viewing activities are on hold while Rose of the sisterly variety thuds around upstairs, doing God only knows what.

"Will you tell that dummy to get down here already?" Cerise says.

"Why don't you get up off your fat ass for once and do it yourself?" You say.

"Rose actually listens to you," Cerise replies. "You're the Rose whisperer, apparently. Got Roses hanging off of you everywhere you fucking go."

Rose, smiling, wiggles her toes, cracking them. You stroke her smooth calf. Cerise flips her off.

"we can wait" Anna says, always the diplomat. "we have all night... no rush"

Cerise rolls her eyes. She pulls the laptop from the armrest on her side of the couch, and checks its wireless connectivity to the living room's television. "I'm gonna start the episode," she tells you all.

"don't start without rose" Anna says, trying to brush Cerise's hand off the mousepad. Cerise swats her away. Anna sticks her tongue out at her. You swear they're nanoseconds away from diving in for a passionate French kiss.

Before the lesbianic tension can escalate, though, Rose comes down the stairs. "Totemo gomen that it took me such a chotto!" She chirps as she rounds the corner into the living room. "All stocked up and ready to go!"

Her arms are full of lewd implements. Dildos, onaholes, vibrators, and lube. She must have been digging through your drawers -- Cerise's, too. These items, she dumps on the coffee table in front of the couch as nonchalantly as she might dump an armful of snacks. Righting her posture again, she salutes you. "Ready for some tanoshii?" She asks.

"W-- what the--" Cerise stammers. "Why did you -- is that MY dildo? Were you in my fucking room?" 

The Rose with her feet in your lap sniggers, covering her lips with her dainty fingers. "Oh my," she says.

"rose you freak" Anna adds, laughing.

Rose's cheerful expression turns uncertain. "What's the matter? ... Ally said we were gonna do lewd stuff tonight. Aren't we?"

"I knew it," Cerise sighs. "You completely corrupted our little sister."

Rose grins broadly. "No way," she says. She strikes a pose reminiscent of a mahou shoujo: "I was already one-hundred-percent corrupted before Ally put his dick in me!"

Cerise exhales, the wind knocked from her.

Rose is once again uncertain. Her pose dissolves. "Do you guys... not wanna do lewd stuff right now?" She asks. 

The other Rose, parting her legs just slightly, smiles back at your sister. "I'm game," she says.

"me too" Anna says. Her glasses are getting foggy again -- always a promising sign.

"You know I'm always up for it," you tell her. 

Rose, spirits lifted, points triumphantly at Cerise. "There! Outvoted!"

"This is -- too much --" Cerise tries. "We can't just-- just--"

"Hey, if you want to duck out, that's your right," you tell her. "No one's forcing you."

Yellow Rose mockingly imitates Pink Rose: "We'll have some totemo tanoshii without you. That's all."

Cerise shakes her head. But she doesn't leave. Instead, she begins navigating folders on her laptop. "Changing the plan up at the last second... honestly, you guys. Now I have to completely rearrange the playlist."

"Ganbare," you tell her.

"Next person to speak pidgin Jap gets put in the circle of shame," Cerise warns.

"The circle of hazukashii, you mean," you say.

Cerise glares at you. This should be an oh-shit moment... but you're perfectly happy with your fate. If you could be encircled by girls this cute, even if they're disparaging and shaming you, is that really a punishment? 

That game will have to wait for another day, though. Cerise is already queuing up files in the media player. 

"This had better not be your trap bullshit," you say.

"Oh!" Cerise huffs. "That's pretty funny from the boy who fucked another boy in a maid costume just yesterday!"

"Ally did it with Alex again and I missed it?" Rose pouts. "Awww..."

"You didn't miss much," Rose informs her. "Alabaster is a quickshot whenever he gets his penis in another boy... I think he's a little gay. Not that there's anything wrong with tha-- ggghhh-- ooof--"

You cruelly grip Rose's calf, pressing into her flesh with your nails, to give her her fair share of pain for that comment. She responds by mashing the ball of her heel directly into your crotch, pressing down hard on your already growing erection. This could turn violent, and quick. But thankfully, Rose comes between you and Rose. She sits, forcing Rose to move her legs, and curls up around you in much the same way Anna is curled up with Cerise. Monkey see, monkey do. 

While Rose of the infinite weebiness settles in, Rose of the infinite nagginess draws her knees back towards her body -- and, getting ready for the oncoming fun, she flips her skirt up at the waist, baring her pristine, smooth innie of a pussy. In the pale light of the TV screen, it glistens already. She's not too possessive of you at the moment. She likes watching the incestuous relationship among siblings blossom. 

The hentai begins. Full bore, right away: it opens on a shot of a hardcore deepthroat. This is an animation you recognize. A certain highly-anticipated H OVA from several months back. Cerise is still getting good mileage out of it, it seems. (Of course she would be. It's a plot that centers on an older sister who's addicted to her little brother's cock.)

The five of you watch with bated breath, and the only sound in the homey living room is the slick sluicing of a dick getting serviced on-screen. You rub Rose's shoulders as you tug her a little closer to you, and bury your face against the crown of her head while she snuggles against you. The warmth and intoxicatingly sweet smell of her are fuel on the fire of your lust. Meanwhile, Anna uses Cerise's tits for a pillow, rubbing her cheeks back and forth against them. Cerise's nipples get hard from the attention, and become visible through the thin fabric of her tee. And your first-cousin-once-removed is the most shameless of all. She begins to masturbate right away. Not with her pussy, but with her anus. Anal masturbation is one of her favorite forms of foreplay when she doesn't have you available to lavish attention on her. She digs two fingers into her asshole and stirs it up while her cunt gets more and more drenched. She spreads her own anus this way and that, toying with herself, burying her fingers as far as they go -- then pulling them out and spreading herself some more. Occasionally she switches hands, to suck clean the fingers that were so recently inside herself. 

"Rose..." Rose breathes, noticing the display. "You're so lewd..."

"Hand me something, will you?" Rose asks, voice husky with desperate need.

Rose reaches for the table, and finds a vibrating egg at random. She passes it off. 

"Hey -- that's mine!" Cerise complains. 

"It is," Rose says smugly as she takes the thing from Rose and clicks it on. She admires the way it buzzes for a moment, before adding: "...And it's about to go inside of me." She puts it in her mouth, and sucks on it to get it wet, even as it continues to buzz. Then pulling it back out by the long pink cable, she finally sticks it into her asshole. "Ohhhh," she breathes happily as the vibrations rumble through her back hole.

"Eugh," Cerise fumes.

"Get me another one," Rose says, tickling her clit. 

Rose gets her another one. This second vibrating egg is a toy that actually belongs to her -- and so instead of sullying it by putting it in her asshole, she sticks it up her pussy. With two vibrators in both of her lower orifices, your lovely wife(?) is vibing in the most literal sense... she lounges back and lets the pleasure course through her body while she watches the hentai.

"Tell your girlfriend not to put my things up her ass!" Cerise tells you. "She's such a fucking--"

Whatever complaint she was about to make ends in a choked grunt as Anna, growing bold from how randy she is, tugs Cerise's shirt up to bare her breasts. Anna begins to grope them with both hands. 

"soft..." she mewls.

"A-Anna--"

"you don't mind do you" Anna asks, gazing up at her like a fawn. Who could say no to those big innocent eyes? "Be gentle," is Cerise's only stipulation.

That leaves you and your imouto as the only ones not getting hot and heavy. She won't put up with that. She spreads her thighs, takes one of your wrists, and guides your hand to the dewy cleft of her panty-covered crotch. "Make me feel good, onii-chan," she begs.

"Get my cock out," you say into her pink hair, as you slip your hand past the elastic of her undies. She's perfectly happy to do as ordered. You hiss in pleasure as, with her assistance, your hot prick meets the cool open air.

For a long lazy while, not much changes: Anna mauls Cerise's tits with both hands, you and Rose masturbate for each other, and Rose lies back enjoying the sensation of two vibrators at once. You all watch the hentai together and enjoy the obscene images of throatfucking. Anna was exactly right: you've got all night. No need to rush.

Cerise has a whole playlist of depraved animation on tap. No hands required: as soon as one episode ends, another episode of another OVA series begins. This one is about a proud kingdom's proud royals getting conquered and raped. 

"Rose," you whisper to your little sister. "Use my onahole on me, okay?"

She's more than okay with that. She slides down to her butt. Taking a bottle of lube from the table, she opens the top and squeezes it in a viscous laminar stream across your throbbing member. Not wanting to ruin your pants, you slide them off -- your shirt, too, why not? It's liberating to be nude while your sister services you, and your other sister lezzes out beside you. 

Rose takes a few moments to make sure your cock is thoroughly coated with the slimy liquid. She loves to jerk you off, and she has a nicely honed technique after months of practice. Her two hands corkscrew around your shaft in opposing directions, milking you, and making you moan involuntarily. But she knows that no handjob will satisfy you right now. So at last she takes your favorite closed-end onahole of sticky pink silicone and fills that with the lube, too. Once it's full to the brim with the transparent slurry, she upends it and slips it over your cock. It's like fucking your prick into a warm puddle. As your cock displaces the huge volume of the lube Rose used -- way more than was ever needed -- it flows back out, down across your cock, over your balls and ass, and seeps into the couch cushions. Should have laid out some towels... too late now. 

The other three girls all have their attention fixed squarely on this nasty sight, not the ongoing anime sex scene. Rose cums hard on her vibrators, squirting a little as she rubs herself. Cerise is getting hot, too. Between yet again watching her siblings get freaky, and having her little schoolgirl lover toy with her breasts, she's at her limit. She slides her fingers down her pants, lost to shame. But Anna, helpful as always, quickly removes Cerise's hand, and replaces it with her own.

"You're--" Cerise gasps. "You're touching my--"

"shhhh" Anna coos. "let me help..." She slips her fingers past the opening of Cerise's hole at the same time as she latches her lips to Cerise's nipple. 

Rose establishes a steady fapping pace with the toy. You lean forward, and Rose never breaks pace as you grab two of the dildos off the table. You dump them next to the lovebirds on your left. "Use these," you tell them. More of a command, really -- but it's a courtesy, too. They could use the relief.

No recriminations of "pervert!" from Cerise right now. She's too horny to play the prude. Instead, she struggles free of her shirt and shorts, with Anna's eager help. Anna strips, too. Grinning at each other, they each take one of the ersatz cocks. The two do as StuCoRo did -- using their lips and tongues to get the toys nice and wet with slobber, in preparation for insertion. There's an obvious debauched enjoyment in this for them, too. They take a long couple minutes fellating the rubber toys as they grin and stare into one another's eyes. Then they swap: Anna licking the toy Cerise is holding, Cerise licking the toy Anna is holding. Dick sucking practice for lesbians -- valuable curriculum.  

Rose's fapping of your cock is close to bringing you off. You don't want her to be the only one missing out on the enjoyment, though. You nudge her with your ankle, silently signaling her to spread her knees a bit. This gives you enough clearance to molest her cunt with your foot. It's just enough pressure, through her panties, to tickle her little kitty's clitty and make her sigh in pleasure at the tease. That's you -- you love to tease your little sister's cunt. She closes her eyes, breathes hard, and picks up the pace of her dicksleeve-assisted service. She uses both her hands to slosh the pocket pussy up and down on your horny cock, like churning butter. The pink toy is a blur on you. It sounds just like fucking a real pussy -- squelchy and wet.

Cerise and Anna are ready for the main event. And rather than use their dildos on themselves, Rose has given them the deliciously pervy idea of using them on one another. They open their legs akimbo, Cerise's thick and jiggly, Anna's scrawny and firm. With the crook of Anna's knee hooked over one of Cerise's fat thighs, they rub the heads of their toys up and down against each other's pussies. It gathers up their dew, and smears them with their spit too. You so love both their darling little fuckholes: Anna's all pink and tight, Cerise's dark and squishy-looking. They're such a contrast with one another, but they both get your cock throbbing in their own special ways. And right now, with your cock throbbing in the slick confines of your favorite masturbation device, it feels... really, really good. 

The Rose beside you on the couch is the only one paying much attention to the TV. Hentai centered on rape always gets her motor revving. That word is what's on her mind right now -- and her lips. She shoves the vibrators as deep as she can get them, muttering to herself over and over, "rape... rape... rape... I love rape..."

It doesn't take much effort for Cerise and Anna to get these fake cocks lodged inside each other's bodies. Even as huge as the sextoys are, and as small as their sopping cunts are, they're so turned-on that a little bit of pain is nothing to them in service of cumming. They watch Rose playing with your cock while they pump the dicks in and out of each other, for each other. Each dildo's base rams against the puffy mound of each masturbating girl, and a loud meaty thwacking noise joins all the other elements of tonight's indecent chorus. 

"I wanna fuck you... I wanna fuck you, onii-chan..." Rose pants, as your pussyfooting starts to melt her mind. 

This catches the attention of Cerise, cum-addled though she is. Her glassy eyes regain their focus. "C-condom--!!" She says, unable to form full, coherent sentences, but still desperate to keep her sister unimpregnated. 

"We've got one," you tell her.

Rose giggles like the dumb cunt she is. You love her so much. "Yepperoni! Don't worry, Cerise-neesama! He's already got his condom on!"

She takes the now mostly-empty bottle of fuck lube again, and this time she drizzles it over the outside of your onahole. 

"no-- no way..." Anna murmurs, understanding but disbelieving the spectacle she's about to witness.

With the thick walls of the silicone toy hugging your already thick dick, the thing that Rose is about to stick in her baby pussy is an absolute monster. She's up for the challenge. And the other three girls are up to see her tackle it. Cerise and Anna's hands quicken, fucking each other's holes faster and faster. Rose meanwhile tugs the vibrating eggs from her holes and begins to use a good old-fashioned dildo too, to reach those really deep spots that she wants to feel getting repeatedly hammered. 

Rose's pink bangs sway as she crawls into your lap, on her knees, and clings to your shoulders. You hold your rubber-encased dick against her twat for her, as she rubs herself back and forth. 

You start to buck, but: "hold on... hold on, hold on," she pleads. She pulls up just a smidgen, takes the lube one last time, and squeezes the remainder of the bottle's contents straight into her own body. It's one of the most perverted things you've seen in a while, and that's saying a lot. She gets the lid of the bottle inside her cunny and presses down. It takes more than a few long, sputtering, wheezing squeezes on the bottle before all the slick liquid is inside her -- it's like she's inseminating herself. And as she pulls the bottle's lid out of her and tosses the now empty thing to the ground with a clatter, all that stuff is dripping and oozing from her orifice in thick, gloppy strands, all over your lap and the cushions below. She's inundated, inside and out. A total mess. So are you, now.

She's not the only mess. Rose rapes herself on her rubber dick, so wet that she's sitting in a puddle. She bows her knees and grips the dildo's base with her surprisingly prehensile socked toes, freeing up her hands to tug out her enormous boobs and tweak her nipples while she keeps up the pace of her self-fucking. Cerise and Anna are hardly more dignified: they're writhing against each other and sucking on each other's tits while they hump each other's toy cocks and make a wet mess of their own from out of their leaky crotches. 

Despite greasing herself up as much as humanly possible, Rose needs help getting fucked. You have to hold her thick tummy about the waist, and force her down over your dick. You've talked about trying this before, figuring it would feel better than a condom, but it's your first attempt at actually doing it. She grunts in something approaching agony as the head of your prick pushes past the tight pucker of her twat. It's way more than a girl of her size and age should ever be made to accommodate. She even begins to cry a little as you relentlessly force yourself into her and wreck her cunt up. But through the tears, she smiles, and enthusiastically helps you defile her. She wants nothing more than to be her big brother's living cock-hole. 

But does this kind of thing even really count as sex anymore? It truly is like you're masturbating inside her body. Her cunt is an actual dicksleeve now, and your cock is likewise a dildo. You and your sister are just helping each other masturbate, not having sex. The nice thing about it, though, is it feels just as good as actually fucking her.

Rose hugs your neck and kisses you deeply as she begins to hump up and down. Her pussy's fluttering makes the synthetic pussy wrapped around you clamp down and kiss your prick all over with its many ridges. You can feel her immense body heat translated through the silicone. "Cum for me, big bro! Cum for me!" she says, voice slurred like she's drunk or drugged.

"she -- really did it -- that's so hot..." says Anna, cumming herself fucking stupid. "i want to try it too..."

"Try it, hell..." Cerise moans. "I want to see it..." 

Cerise adopts a now-familiar position, on her knees in front of you as you fuck Rose silly. But this time she's got a second, and a third. Anna and Rose both join her. They get the suction-cup bases of their dildos affixed firmly to the ground, and fuck themselves down to the root on their respective toys as they huddle in close to the sight of your union with your young sister. They get their noses pressed up against your nuts, and your ass, and Rose's candy-sweet cunt too. They don't mind how the collective fluid of your mating seeps out, down, and across their faces. The disgusting commingled mess of it -- a slime of lube, cock juice, and girl-cream -- spatters and splashes and drips across Cerise's, Anna's, and Rose's girlish features. They not only do not mind this humiliation, but they open their mouths and welcome it inside themselves... and in unison, they begin to buck their hips, getting their pretty pussies off while they watch.

It's a wonderful view, these three beauties sniffing your genitals, and your sister's genitals too. Horniest of the three, Rose is unable to hold herself back, and begins to lap at Rose's asshole. Cerise, seeing this, focuses instead on your asshole -- rimming you out while burying her nostrils against your heavy testicles. And so Anna gets the good bits in between. She uses her tiny pink tongue to lick your prick, and Rose's quim, and the opening of the flesh-toy separating the two. She's indiscriminate, and a bit selfish in the way her tongue explores. They all are. Cerise licks your asshole not to help please you but to help please herself -- because wagging her tongue around deep inside your anus is just the thing to set her cunt off to an explosive orgasm. Ditto Rose, who enjoys the sweet flavor and aroma of her former love-rival's asshole, and could not possibly care less how good it feels for the stupid bitch. 

With all this nasty action happening, these horny gals could be forgiven for losing their situational awareness. Honestly, you do too. But you have enough left over to finally hear the soft rustle behind you. With both elbows looped over the couch's headrest, you turn your face and glance over your shoulder towards the foyer. There, standing nearly motionless and transfixed, are two women. You mother, and Rose's mother. They've come back much earlier than anticipated. 

Mom and Charlotte both have adopted similar poses. They clutch their tops up by their collarbones, and blush deeply as they watch this unfolding depravity. Their thick thighs are pressed together tight as can be. Subconsciously, their fingers are drifting down, down... towards their denim-covered crotches, and the wet spots quickly developing there, as their breathing becomes heavier and heavier. They notice you notice them -- you lock eyes first with Charlotte, then with Mom. They gasp, but can't bring themselves to move. 

You decide to go for broke, then. Not breaking eye contact with Mom, you say in your gruffest voice: "Fuck, Rose... I'm gonna cum inside you."

Mom moans.

"Cum inshide me, big bro!!! Cum inside my pusshhhyyyyy!!!"

And below you, Cerise eggs you on: "Yes! YES!! Fill her up!!"

The Rose between your knees adds: "Cum on our faces, too! Let it all out! Rape us!"

Charlotte cups her pussy through her jeans and begins to squeeze her mound rythmically. Mom wobbles like she's about to faint.

You maintain eye contact: "Oh fuck... oh fuck... I'm cumming! I'm fucking cumming!"

The sloppy sound of it is audible over the hentai, as your seed escapes the overfull dicksleeve and splatters the three cunts orally servicing you. As your long, luxurious, incestuous orgasm goes and goes; as your little sister, humping you, wails like a banshee; as Cerise, Anna, and Rose make noises like pigs at a trough as their bury their faces into their chosen spots and rub them all around the sloppy mess of your genitals -- Charlotte and Mom both forego their own decency, slip their hands into their jeans, and begin to openly masturbate, too. They paw their breasts through their sweaters, and orgasm in their pants while they watch you use their daughters. 

You even hear Mom mutter under her breath: "yes... rape your sisters..." -- and Charlotte tacks on: "use my little girl..."

You grin at them as you do just that.

But that little vocal outburst of theirs draws notice, other than your own. It happens just as the two moms finish cumming and the post-nut clarity hits them. They have barely enough time to vacate the foyer, fleeing towards the stairs, as the girls all poke their heads up.

"Was someone there?" Cerise asks.

May as well tell the truth: "Yeah, I think so."

"Ehhhh?" Rose says, unable to keep herself still, continuing her lazy humping on your dicksleeve. "Who?"

You shrug. You help Rose climb off your cock, and take the onahole in hand -- and begin to dump the creamy load all over the other three. They tilt their heads back and cup their hands in front of their chins to happily receive it, swirling their tongues around in the slimy mess that pools in their palms and on their faces. As they fuck themselves on their dildos, they're already desperate for round 2, and have forgotten any concern over who the interlopers were.

"Cerise," you say. "Get on your stomach. I'm gonna fuck you."

Cerise's eyes bulge. "C-condom?" She says.

"No fucking condom," you snarl. "Get on your fucking stomach."

Cerise can only obey. She climbs off her dildo and lies on her stomach on the carpet -- face down, ass up. For moral support, Anna adopts an identical position beside her. They link hands and kiss as you get seated inside your elder sister. Meanwhile, the Roses continue to enjoy the pleasures of rimming -- mutually this time, in a 69.

As you begin to fuck Cerise raw with your already cummy cock -- on a maximally unsafe day, check -- she finds your discarded onahole and sucks on it. So... Rose isn't the only sister of yours who likes to suckle on your used condoms. Although, since Cerise is kissing Anna too, she has to share. Their ruined faces become even more disgusting.

Mom and Charlotte are already back and watching again. They haven't joined in. Yet. But you're fully confident that they've crossed a point of no return. Their jeans are unzipped and their hands are working hard -- on each other's pussies.

---

You jimmy the lock on Cerise's door. Thank you, Rose, for finally imparting that skill.

Cerise is surprisingly content with you trespassing. Sitting at her PC in just panties -- nothing else whatsoever -- she grumps at you: "go away, asshole." But it's a halfhearted demand and she makes no real move to oust you.

"You've got an admirer waiting for you downstairs."

"No I don't. I've got a slut who's gagging for weeaboo dick waiting for me downstairs. Excuse the holy fuck out of me if I don't rush to go meet up with her." She cranes her neck down to look at her own naked tits. Frowning, jaw and lower lip jutting out, she notices a single long strand of her hair stuck in her cleavage. She takes a moment to pull it out, examines it for a moment, then tosses it unheeded onto her messy carpet. Such a high-class lady, your sister.

"Look at yourself," you tell her. "You're jealous of Connor for godsakes."

"I'm not jealous of anybody," Cerise says flatly.

"Just a few days from now, Connor is going to get Anna's dress hiked up in the back of a limo and deflower her. And all you c--"

Cerise does that thing where she scratches her scalp madly with both hands as if infected with lice while groaning like a fatally wounded animal.

"Right," you say. "You're not jealous."

"I AM NOT JEALOUS, ALABASTER, YOU COCK! YOU ABSOLUTE COCK!"

You go to her desk, reach behind it, and unplug her PC tower. The gentle LED glow from the tower dies, and the gentle whir of the fans along with it. You can hear the monitor cut out, too -- a high-pitched electric ca-liiiick of dissipating static.

"I was in the middle of something important!" Cerise shouts. "What is wrong with you?"

"You were shitposting on *chan," you say. "That's the opposite of important."

"Who the hell are you to define what's important to me?"

"If you spend too long on there, it'll rot your brain," you tell her. "And sooner or later, a girl like you is gonna get those weirdos all obsessed with her."

Cerise snorts. "Yeah, right. I don't reveal any personal info on *chan. The last thing I want is their thirst coming through my monitor. I'm not stupid. I know they'd trip over their cocks to get at a cute girl like me."

"Cute," you repeat. You make a show of looking her from head to toe, as if skeptical. Grimacing, Cerise grabs a stapler from her desktop.

"If you toss that thing at me," you warn her, "I am going to beat you black and blue with your own dildo."

Cerise's face goes slack as she notices her favorite pet dildo has been left out in the open. It's standing tall and proud just beside her PC monitor. She drops the stapler, and grabs the sex toy instead, rolling it under her bed like a SWAT member rolling a canister of tear gas. So smooth.

"Get dressed, tits," you tell her. "We're going shopping."

"Fuck off."

You take it in stride. "We're both fucking off. And while we're gone, I'll have Rose and Rose try to febreeze the pussy funk out of here. You live like a pig. Do you know that?"

Cerise spins in her chair to face you, unashamed of her tits hanging out, as she obscenely cups her crotch. "Suck my dick."

"Your degenerate media has got you confused over your own gender now," you say in mock sadness.

"You'd love it," Cerise insists.

"Suck my dick," you rejoin.

Cerise arches an eyebrow.

"Later," you add, and Cerise just barely can't hide the whiff of disappointment that crosses her face. You glance around her sty of a room before continuing: "Whitney and I are going dress shopping. I thought it would be a good chance for you to get out of the house too, and away from Anna. Since you're so not-jealous and not-upset at her that you're hiding from her like America's most wanted. Besides, we can get you a dress while we're out, too."

"Why do I need a dress?" Cerise asks.

"You're a chaperone."

Cerise looks at you like a particularly dull cow.

"Chaperones should be presentable..." you say, as if explaining numbers to a kindergartner. "It's important."

"I'm getting my strap-on. Suck my dick, Alabaster, for real. Suck it."

"Why do you even own something like that?" You ask. "Got some big plans for it?" But Cerise won't answer. You move on. "Ms. Carte is coming, too. Maybe she can help you with all the latest trends in underage drinking, like usual."

Cerise's face lights up, just a little. She loves hanging out with the science teachers in your life: Sable and Ms. Carte alike. The two older women are in the midst of a minor war over the affections of both Cerise and Alex. Well... minor is a bit of an understatement.

"I'll get dressed," Cerise says.

"Oh, that's too bad. I was looking forward to parading you around town fully tits-out."

Cerise threateningly hefts her stapler.

You rub your chin. "Arms ziptied behind your back... embarrassed look on your face... maybe a little something else all over your face, too... no?"

"Get out of my room, you fucking prick!"

Well. She's going, anyway. Which is the important thing.

Fōtsūtsū is a designer boutique Ms. Carte insists is perfect for the occasion. You're skeptical. You seem to remember this place, or one quite like it, from a world before. And back then, all it sold was slutty cosplay apparel.

"Trust me," Ms. Carte tells you, petting your arm as she drives you all towards the destination. (Snagging shotgun from the three girls currently sitting in the back of the car took quite some doing.) "This place has such an amazing selection. We'll turn these hos into knockouts."

"I'm not a ho!" Whitney whines.

Ms. Carte meets her daughter's eyes in the rearview. "Oh you know I love you, baby, but you're a ho."

It seems Whitney's unique patois is rubbing off on her mother -- and now is being weaponized against her. Whitney rears back and repeatedly kicks the back of her mother's seat. Ms. Carte just laughs at the assault.

Vivian says: "I agree with Ms. Carte. You are a slattern, Whitney. No shame in that." She glances from her sister, towards her surrogate mother. "And it isn't your fault. Being a slattern runs in your genes."

Ms. Carte gives Vivian an unimpressed glare. "Are you calling me a ho?"

"More than that. I believe I am calling you a dirty whore."

Whitney cups her hands over her mouth: "Shots fiiiired!" She says in her deepest voice, like a ringside announcer. She jumps up in her seat as if caught in the radius of an exploding landmine: "Kapow!"

"Pot calling the kettle whore, don't you think?" Cerise asks Vivian, cheek-on-fist, elbow-on-windowsill. "I've seen some of the stuff you and my brother do."

Vivian is cool and collected. She examines her fingernails. "I already said that there is no shame in being a dirty whore. The sooner the rest of you come to accept that, the more fun we can all have..."

Cerise rolls her eyes.

---

"All this place sells is slutty cosplay apparel!" Cerise groans as she looks through the racks at Fōtsūtsū.

"That's not all of it!" Ms. Carte says. "There are some wonderfully elegant dresses along the walls. You just have to look in the right place for what you want."

Making a disgusted face, Cerise tugs a gyaru-style seifuku from the racks: the blouse cropped mega short and tied off like a do-rag at the chest, the skirt cut even shorter. It comes with a free pair of baggy kneesocks and all.

"That's not the right place to look," Ms. Carte admits.

"We sure about that?" You ask.

"In your fucking dreams," Cerise says.

"But you'd look great as a gyaru--"

Ms. Carte takes the thing from her and examines it appreciatively. "Is that what's it called? A gyrau style?" She holds against her chest. It's pitifully small for her build, in all dimensions. "What do you think? Would it accentuate my youthful beauty or what?"

Whitney puts her thumb and forefinger between her lips and literally wolf-whistles. Vivian's impression of a wolf, meanwhile, amounts only to silently gazing at Ms. Carte like one -- she even licks her chops.

This trip could be interesting.

Vivian and Ms. Carte, neither of whom need a dress for prom, while away the time trying on slutty cosplay apparel. Ms. Carte forces her buxom body into that gyaru seifuku. The cropped blouse strains against her tits, the single black button threatening to pop at any moment. If not for her bra underneath, you're pretty sure her nipples would be visible. And if not for her panties, you're certain her cunt and ass would be. You're intensely interested in seeing her wear the outfit like that, braless and pantsuless, as God intended.

Vivian, on the other hand, dresses as a succubus. It's an outfit not dissimilar from the one you used to make Alex wear.

Now there's an idea... Vivian would be the perfect person to initiate Alex into the seedy world of succubus-ing. Vivian's tiny body looks amazing in the form-fitting leather onepiece, and the fishnets make her twig-like legs somehow infinitely sexier. You're curious about the possibility of an aftermarket mod on the demon tail. You did that for Alex once upon a time, too -- and you know it would be even easier to convince Vivian to use the same solution for affixing the tail to her rear end...

"What do you think?" Ms. Carte asks Vivian. She slowly twirls through a full 360 degrees, admiring her body in a full-length mirror. "Do we look like hos?"

"Oh yes," Vivian says slyly. "Wouldn't you agree, Alabaster? Do we not look like cheap sluts?"

You nod, mouth dry.

"His head is full of indecent images," Vivian says. "He wants nothing more than to pin me to the wall, and rip my fishnets to shreds --"

Ms. Carte boxes her ears, making her wince and clutch her head like a scolded child. "Don't get carried away. We're in public."

"All the better..." Vivian murmurs as the pain subsides. "Would you like to punish me some more?"

You tug your collar. Turning and heading towards the dressing room where Whitney is cooped up, you raise your hand to knock on the wooden-slatted door. But the delinquent known as Renee Carte pulls you back.

"Ah-ah-ah," she chides. "You don't get to see."

"The hell?" You sputter.

"You heard me. You don't get to see Whitney in her dress before the big night."

"Don't tell me you believe it's bad luck or something," you say.

"God no," Ms. Carte says, disgusted at the mere implication she would be so superstitious. She circles you and strokes your chest. Then she raises her leg, and gently presses your crotch with her knee. The absurdly baggy sock around her calf jiggles with the motion. "I just want your first glimpse of her to blow your mind." She perches her chin on your shoulder and whispers: "If you don't fuck my little girl in the back of the limo on your way to the dance, I've failed as a mother."

As Ms. Carte pulls back, you flap your lips, but no words escape.

Ms. Carte giggles, low and smoky. "Run along now, baby. Go help your sister pick her dress out. But don't get your dick too wet. Dressing like a horny teenager made me feel like one, too. I'm calling dibs tonight."

You sneak into the dressing room where Cerise is hiding. She has a number of dresses hanging off a small rack on the wall -- ones she hand-picked as potentials. You watch her rifle through them as she searches for an outfit you'll find acceptable. She's wearing only her bra and panties.

"I usually charge for a show like this," she tells you over her shoulder. She pulls out a plain carnation-pink evening gown from the riot of dresses and holds it up for your appraisal. You give her a thumbs down. She tosses the dress aside and goes back to rooting around.

Finally she pulls a stunner out. It's a long, sweeping white dress with ornate pearl-like baubles around the chest, a wide hip, and a flowing skirt. Playing aloof, you meet this with a shrug rather than a thumbs down, which is good enough for her. She begins to put it on.

"You're putting that thing on over your dirty underwear?" You demand. "Are you the grossest human being to ever live or what?"

She pauses, one arm inside the selected dress. "You want the panties to come off too? I definitely charge for that."

"Do I seriously have to be your fucking daddy, Cerise? Put it on nude."

She uses her index finger to make the universal signal for "turn around," and you oblige her at least that level of dignity. She changes in relative privacy.

"You know that this is nothing I haven't seen before, right?" You ask. "No need for modesty now."

"Shut up."

"You literally drank my sperm out of a used onahole the other night--"

"Shut up. Shut up."

"I'm just saying. It's not like I'm never going to see that fat ass of yours again. But that's fine... play it prudish if you want--"

"You can turn around now."

You do. She makes a half-heated "ta-da" motion, showing off her dress. Rather than refined, she looks uncomfortable, all itchy and hot.

"Do you have a brooch?"

A few moments later, you're pinning a brooch for her in front of the mirror. She sits in a chair as you lean over her shoulder, your cheek against her cheek. Your fingers are quick and nimble.

You like the way her perfume smells.

As you work, the two of you fuss and bicker without fully forming any real sentences. It's just a back-and-forth of: "come h- will you- stop- for the- Ala- Ceri- just stop mov- tch- hss-"

You have to swat her hands away every time she tries to move them towards her collar. You can tell she's mortified.

Finally, it's over. "I could have done that myself," she grumbles.

"The first five minutes of watching you try was more than enough," you say. "We don't have all day."

Cerise turns and examines herself in the mirror. "...Do I look presentable?" She asks, worrying her lower lip.

"Just barely. Presentable enough to make a weeaboo go full dyke for you -- we'll see."

---

One day, Alex rides to school on a pogo stick. You see him cross through the front gates at North High as you and some of the others are just getting to campus yourselves.

As he hops around like a methed-up bunny, with apparent ease, Whitney goes agog and stares at him like she's hallucinating. She literally rubs her eyes with the balls of her fists. "Is that a fucking pogo stick?" She says.

"Yep!" Alex says, laughing, as he crosses in front of her.

"Ehhhhh?" Rose says. "Sugoi!"

Alex glances over his shoulder, back at Whitney. "What do you think?"

"It's nucking futs, it what I think!" Whitney says.

He keeps hopping back and forth, and all around, as you walk through the quad. He's drawing no small amount of attention from his peers. They watch him, murmuring among themselves. Not in a mocking way, either. Such a strange sight is sincerely impressive to them. (It doesn't hurt that Alex is far from a typical nerd. A cute boy doing something so quirky is as fun for the other students to witness as it is for you.)

"Isn't that kind of... tiring?" You ask him.

"Nope! Using a pogo stick is actually easier than walking, once you get the hang of it."

Rose snickers. "My, my. I suppose you are rather acquainted with bouncing up and down on sticks."

Alex almost falls over.

"What compelled your decision to act in such a bizarre fashion?" Vivian asks.

"I told Ms. Guiteau yesterday that a spring-assisted hopping mechanism for our robot would be the perfect solution, but she thinks jumping is inefficient!" He finally comes to a halt, and gets down off his stick. He hefts it over his shoulder like a soldier toting his rifle. In an almost apologetic tone, he tells you: "Ms. Guiteau is a genius, but she doesn't have a solid grasp of physics... she doesn't understand at all the stored potential energy of springs! So I'm proving to her how efficient it is!"

There's a brief, awkward silence.

"...Good luck," you finally tell him.

"I'll need it!"

As he hurries towards his first period class, you notice Anna watching him with a curious look on her face.

Thus begins a two-week war of unusual locomotion.

You don't know why she wants to best him. Anna is the precise opposite of an attention hog. But she comes to school the next day on a pogo stick, too -- and hops literal circles around him, ten times faster than the poor boy. He's humiliated by the spectacle, and the students hooting and hollering over it. Anna, though remaining her usual quiet self, is plainly exultant in her cruel one-upsmanship. When, at lunch, you ask her why -- she only shrugs. But a sly grin is visible on the edges of her lips.

The next day, Alex returns having obviously trained in the hyperbolic pogo chamber. He's a speed demon -- and he even does a few sick stunts, pogoing up and down stairs, across the outdoor tables in the quad, and over some low railings. If Anna was exultant yesterday, she's downright sullen and pouty now.

After that, Anna comes to school on a velocipede. Apparently her mother works in a museum, and found a way to steal such an artifact just for her daughter to outdo her twink rival. Anna isn't amused when you ask where her bowler and handlebar mustache are. Alex is even less amused at her hijinks. Whereas fellow students were gaga for his pogo, now they're all paying much more attention to Anna's old-tymey contraption. He hates it.

So the next day he blazes in on rollerblades. Olympic-quality rollerblades -- complete with a spandex racing suit (pink). He vaults into the air and rollerblades across the walls a little. Rose claps; Rose gasps. Whitney shrieks with laughter. And Anna -- is so mad she's red.

So she comes into school on a razor scooter. Terrible miscalculation. Razor scooters are lame no matter how you ride them. And she flubs it anyway, missing a jump down a short flight of limestone stairs, scuffing her knee. As you kneel to tend to her booboo, Alex looms over you: "Oof... that looks like it really hurt."

"Fuck you," Anna says -- voice crystal clear with hate.

"Oh well," Alex says, smiling. "There's always tomorrow!"

Alex has the advantage now. He presses it by arriving on campus the next day riding a motherfucking, goddamn unicycle. He's obviously been practicing for this... it's his coup de grace in this battle of iron wills. As he circles the campus, he's a virtual pied piper. Dewy-eyed girls and suddenly-bicurious boys alike go following him around as he performs for them.

But it doesn't end. The next day, Anna comes to school on a unicycle of her own. And she's pedaling it with her hands. Upside-down, legs high in the air.

She doesn't maneuver the thing as well or as quickly as Alex does. But the fact that she can ride it at all, like this, is enough. Alex at last must concede defeat. He can't top her. He stomps off, ego injured.

At lunch, Anna is smug in victory: "theres always tomorrow"

Whitney slaps her back, making her jolt. "You're a laugh riot, Gal!"

"That nickname is silly," Alex grouses.

"You're silly," Whitney tells him.

He chews a french fry and simmers.

---

After programming class, Sable asks you to stay back. "There's something important that I need to speak with you about," she tells you.

You wait for the other students to file out. Stackleford is the only one who doesn't.

"'Sup?" He asks Sable, drawing up alongside you.

Sable stares at him blankly.

"I said 'sup?" Stackleford repeats.

Sable stares at him blankly.

"...I think this is meant to be a one-on-one conversation," you tell him.

"Oh."

"Just us," you add. "Us as in Sable and I."

"Oh -- ohhh. Yeah. Uhhh. Sure. See you in Turkey club!"

He finally leaves. But his smell lingers.

Sable frowns at you. "Why are you friends with that boy?"

"That's really overstating the case," you say. "Hey -- at least he lost weight this semester."

Sable goes to the window. She's a little downcast. More than usual. "Alex has taken an interest in unusual forms of locomotion," she says, as if announcing that he has terminal cancer.

"No shit? It's not like I saw him riding to school on a unicycle today or anything."

"Sarcasm is not appreciated," Sable says. She turns, and looks at you. "I can tell when love is in the air. It's a seasonal phenomenon... springtime infatuation. He's vying for the love of one Anna Healy by trying to impress her... and her him."

You think she's severely misunderstanding this situation. Their battle is just one of two cheeky cunts being cheeky at each other. But you understand why she would see it the way she does. Especially when her own perspective is clouded by infatuation.

"What's the problem with that?" You ask. "They're your two best students. Wouldn't it be neat if they dated?"

"No!" Sable shrieks, so shrill it could shatter glass, as she pounds the desk with a fist. You jump back. Sable clears her throat, and brings her voice level again. "I want to learn to ride a unicycle. You have sex with Alex often enough -- do you know how to unicycle, too?"

"Having sex isn't like Megaman," you tell her. "Why the fuck would having sex with Alex make me into a unicyclist too?"

Sable sneers at you. "So you can't help. As expected. Useless boy."

You suspect something is missing in her baseline knowledge here. So before things move any further, you ask: "do you even know how to ride a bike?"

"No," she says.

"Shouldn't you learn how to ride a bike first?"

"Doesn't it make sense to begin with one wheel before moving on to two wheels?" Sable replies.

Alex was right. Sable does not have a good grasp on physics.

"Do you own a bike?" You ask her.

She shakes her head, just barely enough to be discerned.

"All right. Let's begin there. We'll buy you a bike."

"I don't need--"

"Do you want to impress Alex or not?" You demand. "Do you want to win him back from the clutches of that redhaired slut, or not?"

"I don't need to impress -- I don't care ab -- this isn't --"

You pull out your phone and look up a local bike shop. "Here... The Blue Sprocket. Sounds promising. Do you have some time to go shopping?"

---

The day after family movie night, Alabaster is out at that skank Ms. Carte's house, visiting with her and her two skank daughters. Mom takes the opportunity, with the house to themselves, to have an important conversation with Cerise, Rose, and Rose2. She gets them sitting in three chairs, all in a row, just off to the side of the dining room table. She sits in a fourth chair directly facing them, like a teacher about to read a storybook at storytime.

The girls already have a pretty good idea what this rigmarole is all about. And Cerise is already defending herself: "Mom -- what you saw last night -- it wasn't--"

"Shush," Mom tells her. "I know exactly what I saw. You're having sex with Alabaster."

No use denying it. They're mortified, all three of them are. Yes, in the throes of passion last night, Mom was clearly into what she saw -- the girls did eventually notice her there since she made herself hard to miss diddling herself on the floor of the foyer with Charlotte -- but in the harsh light of day, they think, she may not be so enthusiastic. Cerise hangs her head. Rose fiddles with her skirt. Rose2 takes off her glasses and cleans the lenses.

"How long have you been doing this with him?" Mom asks.

"A few months," Rose says. She knows Mom may or may not approve, but she's still happy to announce how long her big bro has been fucking her.

"We've fooled around a little bit here and there..." Cerise begins, putting it as mildly as possible. She's crimson. She can't look up from her lap. "But... uh, last night was our first, uh... ahem... you know..."

Mom nods. "That's wonderful. You gave your flower to him..."

"Please don't call it that," Cerise begs. 

Mom glances at Rose2. "How about you?"

Rose2 looks rather like a deer in headlights. She puts a palm to her chest, to indicate herself: "--Me?"

"Yes!"

"How long have Alabaster and I been having sex, you mean?"

Mom nods expectantly.

"...Quite a while, I should think," Rose2 finally says.

Mom, raising an index finger in the air, says: "I'm glad the three of you have such an intimate relationship with him. Even you, Ro, dear... you've practically lived here so long that you're like a third daughter to me. It's so sweet." 

(Cerise rolls her eyes. Rose2 smiles warmly.)

"But you need to be careful!" Mom tells them, cutting to the chase.

Cerise sighs. "I... I know, Mom. We're usually careful. I swear."

Mom nods. "Good. I heard some mention of condoms... so you're using condoms with him, then?"

Cerise puts an arm around Rose's shoulder. "Yeah. Of course. I always make sure Alabaster uses protection with her."

Mom looks Rose's way for confirmation.

"Mm hmm!" Rose chirps, nodding, pink pigtails swaying. "She's a real stickler about it. Always makes us use 'em!"

"Stop that!" Mom barks at Cerise.

Cerise coughs.

Mom's expression grows stern. "You need to stop using condoms! That's the worst thing you can do!"

"Are you -- are you joking?" Cerise stammers. She takes her arm back from around Rose's shoulder. "You have to be joking right now."

"Why do you think Alabaster has sex with you?" Mom asks. She answers her own question: "He does it because sex feels good! But sex doesn't feel nearly as good with a condom on. Any man will tell you. Men hate using condoms -- in other words! If you force Alabaster to wear a condom, he won't feel as good, and he'll stop wanting to have sex with you. That's obvious!"

"Ehh?" Rose says. "Do you really think so?" 

"Alabaster is fine with condoms," Rose2 insists. "He won't leave us just because he has to use them sometimes. He loves us."

"And anyway, what about the risk?" Cerise says.

"If you're worried about pregnancy, I can get you all some birth control," Mom says. She pauses before adding: "...If you want me to."

"I mean, if you expect us not to use any condoms--" Rose2 begins.

Mom cuts her off. "Right. Since you won't be using condoms, you can use the pill instead. ... If you want to."

"Well if we don't use *something*, we'll end up getting pregnant," Cerise says.

Mom lets that remark hang in the air.

"Alabaster is a young man," Mom says. "Young men are looking for one thing and one thing only in a partner: someone to cum inside of!" The girls are a little gobsmacked by the directness of that one. "Sorry to be so crass. But it's the simple truth. Alabaster has a biological need. He can't help it. If you make him wear a condom, that need isn't being met... and he'll go find another pussy to meet it with!"

"Mom..." Cerise whispers.

"Let me ask you this. Do you think Whitney makes Alabaster wear a condom? Or how about that creepy little Darkbloom girl? Certainly not! *They're* letting Alabaster fuck them raw! That's why he's over there right now, instead of here, fucking you! Think about that!"

"This isn't a competition," Rose2 says. "Don't frame it that way."

"That's what you think," Mom says. "But don't you want to be his wife one day?"

"Well -- yes," Rose2 admits. 

"That makes it a competition. And you won't win if you keep a mindset like that! None of you will! If you girls are going to have sex with Alabaster, you need to do it the right way -- without any protection. Only by letting Alabaster ejaculate raw inside of you, will you keep him coming back for more. It's not about love! It's nothing to do with how he feels about you! I'm sure he loves you all. But none of that matters when it comes to sex. Men might talk a big game about lovey-dovey romance, but when they're having sex, that isn't what they care about. They have sex to cum! You girls need to accept the fact that when Alabaster fucks you, he's using you as a receptacle for his lust. So be a good receptacle!"

"A semen toilet!" Rose, peppy, adds. "That's what Ally says I am."

"Exactly," Mom says with an encouraging nod. "That's the perfect way to think of it. Your pussies are semen toilets for Alabaster now. So if you won't actually let him use your pussy as a semen toilet, you've failed as a lover."

Rose giggles: this is exactly what she wanted to hear. Cerise chews her thumbnail: this is way too much for her to absorb.

"I just know that Alabaster will get completely hooked on our pussies if we use them the right way," Mom says. "You've all got wonderful pussies for him to use, don't you?"

"I know I do," Rose2 says, smug as usual.

"Yep!" Rose says. "He's always saying how he loves my pussy."

Cerise can only nod.

"Let me see them," Mom says, crooking a finger as if to beckon someone closer.

"--What?" Cerise sputters.

"Let Mama see your pussies. Don't be shy."

Rose2, who's maybe the most perverted of all, has no compunctions. She slides a bit down in her chair, flips her skirt up, and spreads her legs. Her bare cunt is visible for all to see. She likes exposing herself -- especially on command.

Rose won't be outdone. She stands and shimmies out of her underwear, sits and hikes her skirt up too. Like Rose2, Rose's cunt is a perfect, tiny innie. Side-by-side, they look like a matching pair.

"Rose, baby, you need to stop wearing underwear around the house," Mom tells her. "You should always be ready for Alabaster to fuck you."

Rose tosses her panties like a litterbug tossing a candy wrapper. "Okay!" She says.

Cerise, hands trembling, undoes the button of her jean shorts. She slowly unzips the zipper. Raising her butt just enough to tug them past, she pulls the shorts over her supple thighs, across her smooth calves, and down around her ankles in a bunch. Her pussy, unlike the other two girls, has defined labia. Those meaty lips look just as supple as the rest of her flesh down there.

"As I thought!" Mom says. She takes the hem of her own dress now, and pulls it up to show off her own mature cunt. "We're all wet."

She's right. All three girls are so wet they're dripping. She is, too. 

"We also have a biological need," Mom explains. "We need Alabaster to cum inside us. That's why we have sex with him -- it's why we spread our legs for him. Having sex without getting semen inside you is like having dinner without dessert. Pointless!" Her voice is developing a half-crazed lilt and tremor as she rambles. "Look: even just talking about having Alabaster's... manly cock... putting its rich, gooey sperm in us... made our pussies get like this... now just think about how good it feels to actually experience it... you need Alabaster to cum inside you, girls. It's what your bodies are craving... what your little pussies and wombs are crying out for..."

Rose2 shamelessly starts to dig at her own horny twat. So Mom encourages the other two: "it's all right... you can play with yourselves. It's only natural to get turned on when thinking about getting cummed inside of. It's the #1 thing any pussy wants... even mine... hot, sticky, creamy semen... ungh..." with that, she starts to masturbate too. She sighs happily to herself as she rubs her clit and fingers herself for her own daughters to see. "That's better..." she mewls.

Rose and Cerise can't resist any longer. They masturbate just like their mother does: one hand's fingers rubbing the clit in a rapid circular motion, the other hand's fingers pistoning in and out. Rose2's method, as always, is perhaps more depraved... she fingers both her holes at the same time, bouncing up and down on her hands. Sloppy wet noises fill the little room as all four girls race towards a mutual climax.

"I want your promise, now..." Mom says, gulping, "that you'll keep your pussies open for Alabaster's total use... you'll let him cum inside you raw, the way nature intended... be good semen toilets for Mama..."

"I promise!" Rose2 screams, ejaculating her own fountain of girl-cum as she continues to viciously finger her holes.

"Me too!" Cerise says. "He -- came inside me last night... I wasn't even safe, but he came inside me last night... it felt so good..."

"No more condoms?" Mom says.

"No!!"

"Do you want the pill, then?" Mom prompts, driving her fingers deeper and deeper into herself.

"No!" Cerise screams. "Fuck, no! Fuck the risk!" She partially stands, knees bowed, as she rubs a rolling orgasm out of her steamy twat. She sprays and squirts all across the ground.

Mom smiles warmly. Cerise is her daughter after all. "That's it, baby... the riskiest sex feels the best... your body can tell the difference. You want to be inseminated... so just accept it..."

Rose cums, too. She wails, and shivers all over. Then just barely composing herself, she says in a tiny voice: "Mommy... my pussy feels so good... it's so hot and tingly and squishy! Can Ally make a baby in me, too?"

"Of course," Mom says. "He gonna make a baby in all of us."

Rose slides out of her chair and down to the ground, and crawls to Mom on all fours. She puts her hands on Mom's meaty upper legs, pressing them a little bit apart. Mom gazes down at her, surprised.

"Mommy... can I be everyone's cum toilet...? Not just Ally's? Can I be your cum toilet, too? Can I lick you?"

Mom takes her hands off her genitals, and holds her palms flat against the tops of her thighs. She nods. "Go ahead, honey. Use your mouth as Mama's toilet..."

Rose buries her face in Mom's crotch. "You smell so good..." she mutters, before starting to lick. "Mmmf... mmmf..."

"You... are really good at that..." Mom says, genuinely impressed. She starts pawing at her tits while she watches the pink crown of Rose's head twisting back and forth. 

"I taught her," Rose2 says with the smuggest of smiles. "You're welcome."

"Thank you, honey. You're the best daughter in law I could ask for--"

Mom is even more surprised when Cerise joins Rose on the floor in front of her. "Me too," Cerise gasps, voice husky and desperate. "I want do it, too..."

Mom pets her two daughters while they take turns eating her sweet cunt. They lick her all over, from the well-groomed patch of hair above her mound to the star-shaped pucker of her asshole, and everything in between. They get their tongues nice and deep, and wag them around -- both at the same time, even, battering her interior walls with their slimy probing. But she knows, and they know too, that this is an appetizer. Nothing more. It's just a diversion, to get off a little, before Alabaster can come home and fuck them properly. 

Mom explains to the three girls what they'll do. 

And so, that night after dinner, just as Alabaster is finishing up his banana cream pie, he looks up from his plate in surprise to find both the Roses, Cerise, and Mom all coming back from the kitchen in nothing but matching pink-and-yellow aprons. They line themselves up along the side of the table, gripping the edge as they hunch themselves forward -- jutting their asses way out. They wag their hips hypnotically back and forth. Like four hookers trying to entice an indecisive john. 

The stem of a cherry protrudes from each girl's anus, and a little dollop of whipped cream sits just above, on their tailbones. Another commonality: All four asses are huge, smooth, fat and round. And an additional commonality: below each ass, framed perfectly by squished-together thighs, is a bare, wet, raw cunt.

Alabaster chokes on nothing.

"What are you waiting for?" Mom asks him. "Come get some dessert."

---

Alex is already waiting, sitting on the curb, when you step out of Sable's van with her.

"Alex--!!" Sable gasps, noticing him, as she closes the driver's side door. "What are you doing here?"

Alex hops to his feet, and brushes the dirt from the back of his shorts. "Ally texted me that you were going bike shopping. I wanted to help out!"

"Yoouuu..." Sable drawls, obviously angry at you. "This was all set up to embarrass me, wasn't it? Admit it."

"Yes," you admit.

Sable's face goes livid both figuratively and literally. And it only gets worse when Anna pulls up on her unicycle.

She's pedaling with her feet this time, at least. "hello Sir. hello ms. guiteau."

(She conspicuously leaves out Alex, and doesn't even glance his way. Alex shoots her a sour look.)

Sable's head swivels this way and that as Anna rides in tight circles around you and her.

"This is cruel," Sable says, voice tinged by despair. "You've all come to mock and denigr--"

"whoaa-oaa-oaaa," Anna cuts in, struggling to maintain her balance for a moment. She just barely rights herself and continues to circle you.

"Be careful!" Alex tells her -- in a voice dripping sarcasm.

"hey ms. guiteau, can you tell alex to please regrade wednesday's quiz. he marked me down because he didn't understand how i set up the recursion function."

"Maybe you should start commenting your code!" Alex offers, face twitching.

"hey ms. guiteau, can you explain to alex that good coders don't need comments to understand code."

"You didn't comment the code in your quiz?" Sable asks, just before Anna slips out of view behind the two of you.

"not enough time" Anna says as she draws back around towards your front side.

"Good coders make time," Sable says sternly. "You're lucky Alex graded that quiz. I would have failed you immediately."

Anna stops pedaling, and fumbles her way down from her unicycle. With unsteady hands she hoists the contraption up and holds it under her armpit, the ultralight frame no trouble for even her anemic ass to tote around. "i..." she mutters, surprised and embarrassed.

"I can definitely regrade it, though, if you want!" Alex tells her.

Anna pouts.

"No one is obligated to make sense of your code," Sable tells her. "If you did something in an unorthodox way, explain it! Otherwise you're wasting everyone's time. Not commenting your code is your way of saying that your time is more valuable than Alex's. It isn't!"

(You can only smile bemusedly. You've lost count of the number of times Alex has bemoaned to you, in this universe and in the last, how Sable never comments her labyrinthine, meandering, byzantine code.)

Sable brushes past Anna, towards the shop's entrance.

"ms. guiteau -- i..." Anna begins.

You shrug at her.

"aren't you going to say something, Sir?" Anna asks, having come to expect that you'll leap to defend her whenever she faces bullying.

"No comment," you say. You follow Sable and Alex into the bike shop. Anna glumly brings up the rear.

You enter the cozy little shop. Bicycles and assorted gear line the four walls. An assortment of racks in the middle have even more bikes for perusal. As you step in, the bell over the door announces that customers have arrived. A figure hops up from behind the counter.

"Hello! Welcome to the world-famous Blue Sprocket! An easy ride for everyone!"

You feel a world-warping sense of shock. Samantha Smatters is here, in the flesh -- bunny ears and bunny tail and bunny suit and all.

"Is this place really world-famous?" Sable asks, skeptical, as she glances all around.

"I'd like to think so!" Samantha says.

"You would know whether or not you're world famous," Sable tells her.

Samantha giggles.

"Is she wearing a..." Alex begins, half-whispering to you.

"Yep," you affirm. What sight for sore eyes. She's got the best rack here.

"unf," Anna breathes, unable to contain herself.

"Are you just here to look, or do you need some service?" Samantha asks.

Alex is here to look, that's for sure. He's staring unashamedly at Samantha's considerable cleavage. And as Samantha steps out from behind the counter, his eyes drift down to her fishnet stockings, admiring the way the criss-crossed nylon bites into her thighs.

Sable notices Alex noticing Samantha. She looks from him to her. "Yes, I'm here for a bicycle," Sable says, in a tone of barely-concealed jealousy.

"Wonderful!" Samantha says. She's unable to register the jealousy in Sable's voice. "What sort of biking do you want to do? Mountain biking? Courier service? Or just riding around town?"

"She's never ridden a bike before," you tell Samantha.

Samantha blinks. "Oh! Oh my goodness! That's no good! You need to fix that right away. Riding a bike is so fun... the very best, even!"

"I think I'm done, actually," Sable says, turning away. She beckons for Alex: "Alex -- let's go."

But Alex is firmly rooted in place. So is Anna for that matter. So are you for that matter.

Samantha stops Sable by putting a hand on her shoulder. "Come on now, miss! You don't want to disappoint your son, do you?"

"...My son?" Sable says.

Samantha nods at Alex.

"Alex is not my son!!!" Sable shrieks.

Samantha shirks back, hands clasped over her ears. She stares at Sable in sudden fright. "I-- I'm so sorry, miss! I just thought... well, you're both so cute, and the way you called after him-- you-- must be siblings, then, right?"

>[x] Tell Samantha that they're lovers.
[ ] Tell Samantha that Alex really is Sable's son and that Sable is just self-conscious about her age.
[ ] Let Sable and/or Alex answer on their own.

>[x] Dommymommy Cerise
>[x] Dommymommy Cerise
>[x] Dommymommy Cerise
>[x] Dommymommy Cerise

---

One day at lunch, right in the middle of the cafeteria at North High, the discussion becomes a long and protracted debate over the question of who's best at orally servicing you.

You're not sure why it became such a heated point of contention. But you won't try to quell the spirited back-and-forth.

"I bought a dildo off of www.Amazon.com in seventh grade just to practice!" Whitney says, beaming proudly. "I haven't had a gag reflex since I was 13! Of course I'm the best!"

"Alabaster enjoys making girls gag," Vivian says between sips of a little carton of strawberry milk. "A gag reflex is not a malus to one's overall technique. In fact, it is a benefit. It increases his sense of male dominance, and adds to the tableau of perversity inhering to irrumatio... put simply, it makes his pleasure all the greater."

"I can gag if I want," Whitney says. "I know he likes to gag a bitch! It's not like I can't gag. I just don't have to. So if he wants to go all the way in and really pound my--"

"I don't care if I gag or not!" your little sister proudly says. "He's even made me puke before and everything, and it's fine!"

"Not on purpose--" you add hastily. "And that's not really--"

"Plus," Rose adds, "since I'm his imouto, that automatically makes my blowies ten times better! No, a hundred times! Nothing compares to having sex with your little sister's mouth! Tell 'em, Ally!"

Rose goes for a direct appeal to you, too. She puts a hand on your shoulder. "I've been having oral sex with you for so long that I know every square millimeter of your dick. Tell them, honey... there's simply no comparison... right? Especially when I add my breasts to the mix..."

Alex is faux apologetic. He rubs the back of his head, smiling. "I'm sorry, but... none of you can compete on my level! Since I'm a guy, I know exactly what feels best to a penis, so..."

"So?" Whitney demands.

"My technique just can't be beaten! Don't be upset. It's no one's fault. That's just how it is..."

"Alabaster may use you as a sperm receptacle when there are no girls at hand," Vivian says, "but he much prefers to fuck the mouth of a girl. That is not your fault, either, of course..." She gives him a pointed smile as she sups her milk.

Anna's eyes drift from face to face as debate continues. She says nothing, just keeps picking daintily at her fruit cup. She's the only one not taking part in the discussion.

"You have to factor in tongue action!" Whitney says, pounding her fist in her palm. "Mom's been showing me so many advanced techniques. Stuff that you bitches can't even begin to master... it's not even close! My mouth is basically a pussy with a tongue!"

"Is that supposed to be a sexy image?" Rose says. "How vile."

You shrug. "Actually, it is kind of sexy to me..."

Rose tuts at you. Whitney smirks at her.

"There is nothing too far advanced for my able mouth," Vivian says. "I have on multiple occasions made Alabaster climax just by orally stimulating his anus. Once I turn my attention to his penis, it practically melts. On average, he ejaculates in less than five minutes' time under my superior oral service... if I let him..."

"Ha! Sucking Ally off is like making minute rice for me!" Whitney crows. She points at herself with her thumb. "And I can make minute rice in 57 seconds!"

"One time, Ally got on top of my face and counted to a hundred before he pulled out!" Rose says. "And I let him use my face as a urinal, which makes me even better!"

"That's hardly unique!" Alex says. "I let Ally pee in my mouth all the time--"

"That is more or less prerequisite," Vivian agrees. "If you cannot do that much, you don't even deserve consideration in this arena..."

"Maybe we need a neutral arbiter," you suggest.

"We could make a day of it," Rose agrees. "Excellent suggestion. Although we would need to rig up a glory hole, to make it anonymous -- therefore objective --"

"Pff," Whitney chuffs. "Of course you'd want to do it glory hole style. That's one of your strong suits. You're rigging the game just like you try to rig everything else!" They get into a little kicking fight under the table.

Anna clears her throat. Since she's been mute for so long, it draws everyone else's attention. They expectantly look her way.

She shoves a whole cherry past her pale pink lips. Her face is still as stone for about 10 seconds. Then she slowly opens her mouth and lets her tongue unfurl like the red carpet. Sitting atop it, tied into not one, not two, but three concentric Celtic knots, is the stem of the cherry.

So ends the debate.

(Although you're intensely interested in having that neutral arbitration, anyway.)

---

You lie with Rose in bed together, on your sides, facing each other. The nights when you fuck other girls are numerous nowadays, but you still usually wind up in your bed with Rose at the end of the night. It shook out like this in the Nail House too, of course. Although in 422 there's an even better reason for it. You never know when one of those nightmares will strike. They're starting to taper off... but only just.

This isn't the time for such a morbid train of thought. You haven't seen Rose since the afternoon, and so as you sweetly kiss, you break the good news. "I saw Samantha today."

Rose's eyes light up in joy. "No! You saw Sam again? Really?"

You nod.

"Oh my goodness." Rose's voice is fluttering with happiness. "I thought for sure we would never find her..."

"Blessed be the Optimizing Parameter, I guess," you say wryly. "Hallowed be her name."

Rose isn't in the mood for jokes. She wants details, quick. "How did you find her? How is she?"

"She's doing really well," you say. "She's working at a bike shop not too far away. It suits her. I didn't expect to see her when I went there... but... there she was."

"Why were you at a bike shop?" Rose asks, confused.

"Long story."

She moves on. There's a lot of long stories in this carefree day and age. "Did you have sex with her?"

"I saw Samantha Smatters for the first time in trillions of years. You do the math, math genius."

She tuts at you. "Prick. You should have called me or something."

"Calm your tits. Fuck. We'll get another crack at her. It's not like she disappeared. And it's not like it's particularly hard to get her to spread her legs, in case you forgot." You turn through a full 180, and reach down over the side of the bed for your backpack. From inside you produce a little something special. "Here. I brought back a souvenir to whet your appetite until we can go back to the shop together."

Rose grabs the G-string from you, pulling it towards herself like a child handed their favorite toy. She presses it to her face and joyfully inhales Samantha's unique scent. You can hear the rush of air past the silky underwear and straight into her lungs.

This isn't her typical brand of fetishism, but when it comes to Samantha, Rose makes an exception... well, pretty much everyone does. The familiar smell of Samantha's pussy is both fruity and musky, sweet and sexy, clean and dirty. It's an intoxicating blend that overwhelms the brain with all its complex notes and undertones. As Rose presses the crotch of the undergarment against her nose, her eyes roll to the back of her skull and she seems to be practically cumming just from that.Still, you can't resist the opportunity to rib her. "You're a real pervert. You know that?"

Rose nods, blushing, and closes her eyes as she huffs and huffs.

"You gonna hog that thing all night?" You ask her.

Eyes still closed, she nods again.

"Selfish slut," you say with a smile.

Through the garment, Rose replies: "You had Sam's actual pussy all to yourself, and didn't even tell me. Don't give me that. Let me have this..."

"I didn't have it all to myself," you grouse. "Alex, Anna, and Sable were all there too. We passed her around."

"Not my problem," is Rose's muffled reply between deep inhales.

"Well, what are you gonna do for me?" You ask.

She starts to knead your manhood with her knee, as she suckles on Samantha's g-string.

"That's a start," you allow, shifting to allow her better access. "But that's not good enough."

Rose sighs in frustration. "You're so demanding. Can't ever let a girl have the fun, huh?"

"I believe in equality, that's all..."

You feel the blankets shift around and hear the smooth noise of Rose's legs moving one over the other, as she gets one foot's toes in the elastic band of her other leg's kneesock. She takes the sock off like that, reaches down under the covers, and pulls it up. "Here," she says.

You snatch it from her. Unfortunately, over the years, the scent of Rose's used socks have gone from being a torture for you to being a perverted pleasure of yours... is this what Stockholm syndrome feels like?

She has your number, anyway. You hate and love her for it. What can you say about this dirty thrill? This girl who has become your wife gets off on taunting you with it: the tart, sweaty, slightly nutty aroma of her socks after a long day spent confined inside her flats. As you press the sole of this strangely alluring, slightly damp thing to your nostrils, your cock get a little harder. And Rose laughs lowly at you, feeling it twitch against her leg. "Who's the pervert?" She asks.

"We both are," you say. It's true. Who else other than a pair of perverts would lie in bed together sniffing underwear? Oh well. You roughly grab her and twist her to her other side.

"Alabaster--!" she grunts, still holding Samantha's underwear to her face.

"Shut up," you tell her, still holding hers to yours.

You enter her. You and Rose fuck like animals, just like that.

Afterwards, lying spent in each other's arms, trading the G-string and the sock between yourselves (Rose is nothing if not vain) -- kissing one another from between them, even -- you mention an idea of yours:

"We've got all the ingredients, you know. Whatever strange pheromone cocktail Samantha has... my Mom's cooking... and whatever the hell it is Vivian likes to drug us with... if any of those work on their own, then..."

"That's dangerous, isn't it?" Rose says, gulping.

"Danger is fun," you say, as your tongues swirl around one another's past cotton soaked variously with sweat and cream.

---

At school, you and Rose find Vivian in the library reading Marx. It's an interesting discovery.

"Know thy enemy," is Vivian's explanation when you ask her about it.

While it's true that politics makes strange bedfellows, maybe one day in the future Vivian will find that bedfellows make strange politics, too.

"I have a question for you," you tell her, settling in across from her at the long study table.

"Out with it, then," Vivian says. "I am deep in contemplation, and would like to return to my research."

"Uh huh. What do you drug me with when you want to get me in the mood?"

Vivian at last puts her book down, and perches her cheek on her fist. "I've no idea what you're talking about. I think you're delusional."

"A spectre is haunting our love life," you tell her. "The spectre of aphrodisiacs."

"Very droll. Consider a career in standup."

"We're asking for a good cause," Rose tells her, standing at your shoulder.

"We want to conduct a... scientific experiment, on my family," you explain.

Vivian smiles with one side of her mouth. "I see. You want to drug your mother and your sisters, then have your rapacious way with them."

"Me too," Rose says.

Vivian nods at her.

"So what do you use?" You ask.

"To reveal that would be to ruin the magic, would it not?" Vivian asks.

"Look -- I can ask you nicely, or I can beat it out of you," you say.

"You are a terrible negotiator, Alabaster. You have just weakened your position by making an even better counteroffer on my behalf."

Rose grins sadistically. "We'll beat you in appreciation, then."

"I expect you to. But I must demand something more than that."

You wait for her to say.

"If I tell you the secrets of how I ply my trade... and provide you with a source for my ingredients... you will promise to use it on me."

"...Promise to use it on you?" You say.

"Mm. You must deploy it against me, without my foreknowledge. Then, at the moment when I am at my weakest and most desperate, take sexual advantage of me. These are my conditions. Do you accede?"

"I accede," you say solemnly.

She nods. "Wonderful. The concoction I use on you is a roughly one-to-one-to-one mixture of heroin, cocaine, and MDMA -- aka ecstasy -- cut with microdoses of PCP, LSD, and methamphetamine."

You feel a sick revulsion in your chest. You push your chair back from the table, jumping to your feet, as if blown back by an invisible force. "Oh my -- oh my god--"

Rose meanwhile has her hands tented across her nose like a person frozen in the moment of sneezing. Her eyes, from either side of her knuckles, are saucers, and she's gone completely pale. "You used -- that on us--? Without our consent--?"

"Consent?" Vivian says, cocking her head. "How quaint."

Revulsion turns to rage. This horrific breach of trust is something you'd never expected. "How could you... how could you do something like that to us! What the fuck, Vivian?!"

"It's not as awful as you make it seem," Vivian says. "The mixture I use carries a quite small risk of fatal overdose... less than 1 in 100, perhaps, if administered with care."

You want to beat her. For real. Rose seems right there with you. And it's made all the worse when Vivian begins to laugh at your sense of betrayal.

"Ufufuf--"

"Fuck you, you horrible... horrible... raper!" you scream. "You raper! You drug dealing raper!"

"Go to hell!" Rose adds. "How on Earth could you do that?"

She wipes mirthful tears from her eyes. "Please... please, sit. I am only joking."

"...Joking?" you sputter, mid-rant, caught off-guard for the second time in as many minutes.

"Yes. I wanted to see your reaction. Of course I would never dream of trafficking in such highly illegal narcotics. To say nothing of the risks and immorality. Pervert I may be, but entirely mad I am not. Sit. You are both making a scene."

Temples throbbing, you grope your way to your seat and practically fall to your butt. "Holy shit," you whisper, as your heart slowly returns to its normal pace.

Rose sits beside you, with equal difficulty, wiping the cold sweat from her brow. "Don't fuck with us like that," she says.

Vivian giggles. "What I really use is a serum of Spanish fly, ground rhinoceros horn -- ethically obtained, never you worry -- bull's testicles -- aka Rocky Mountain oysters -- ambergris, yohimbine, rabbit pheromones--"

"Doubling up a little, then," Rose mutters.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

"--and sildenafil. All of which is legal, nonaddictive, impossible to overdose on, and quite horny-making."

"Horny-making," you repeat flatly.

"Yes. Horny-making." She reaches past the collar of her dress, and produces the pendant of her necklace -- which isn't a pendant at all, but a phial. "1/16th of a teaspoon is enough to drive even the most frigid person to insatiable sexual frenzy."

"You carry it with you?" Rose marvels.

"I am ever prepared." She yanks the phial, snapping her necklace, and hands it to you. "Enjoy, Alabaster. May you think of me when you have a gaggle of overstimulated blood relatives clambering over one other to mount you."

In the kitchen that Sunday, when Mom excuses herself to take a restroom break, you quickly swoop into the kitchen. The Soliloquy family kitchen is already awash in the heavenly scent of rendering chocolate and freshly whipped batter. Rose is using a handheld wire whisk to beat that chocolate and that batter together -- creating a finely grainy mixture that will be just perfect as brownies, once baked.

Mom has taught her so well. It's the only reason she was even willing to leave the room for so short a time as to go pee. She trusts the night's main course is safe in Rose's hands.

"Did you do it?" You ask, sidling up to her. You watch while she whisks. The widening gyre of the brownie mix is as hypnotic as a swinging pendulum.

"Mm, not yet," she says. "I was waiting on an opening."

From the pocket of her apron, she produces Vivian's phial.

You go searching through the little fob of measuring spoons sitting on top of the counter. "The smallest they go is 1/8th of a teaspoon," you report, glum.

"Let's eyeball it, then," Rose suggests. "We don't have much time anyway."

She unscrews the black cap. Maybe it's only the placebo effect manifesting itself, but you swear simply being close to the uncorked serum is enough to make your dick lurch.

Rose slowly tips the thing towards the mixing bowl. A tiny droplet the color of bromine comes viscously out, like a drop of melted tar, and lands on top of the batter. You and she eye it.

"Is that enough, do you think?" She asks.

"Try a little more."

She adds another couple droplets.

Then a couple more. And a few more after that.

Then finally, she just upends the entire thing. Glug-glug. Fully a tablespoon or more seeps out before the supply is spent.

You take another pair of Samantha's panties from your back pocket and rinse it a little under the sink's tap. You wring a tiny bit of the water into the bowl, too. You're just putting the panties back into your pocket when Mom returns.

"So you've decided to help after all!" Mom says. "Finally learning that a husband's place is at his wife's side?"

"I think you two have got it from here, actually," you tell her. Rose starts to whisk again.

"Hmmph," she says as you draw past her. "You'd better be thankful for all this hard work!"

You know you will be. You leave the kitchen again.

From the living room couch, your other Rose watches you coming out. She's gripping the headrest, chin resting atop -- obviously sitting on her knees.

"Smells oishii in there," she tells you. "What's good in the neighborhood, Ally?"

"Brownies," you say as you sit beside her.

She twists around and sits on her butt again. "My favorite!" She pips.

"They'll be especially good tonight, I think," you tell her -- just as the doorbell rings.

---

One day when you come home with Cerise, you find Rose sitting at the dining room table, writing. Since this is the Rose who once refused to write an essay by shouting at Mom, "I'll write when I'm dead!" -- you find her sudden turn towards the authorly a little strange, and tell her so.

"I have a penpal," she tells you, rather imperiously. "Sugoi desu ne."

Cerise karate chops Rose over the top of her head. "Shut the fuck up desu ne," she says.

Rose hunches forward, elbows propped on the table, clutching at her head where Cerise struck her. "Cerise nee-sama... itai! Onegai don't hit watashi!"

You frown. "Pidgin Jap is taking up an even bigger fraction of your vocabulary now... is your penpal from glorious Nippon, by any chance?"

Rose is all smiles again. She bolts upright. "Hai!"

You nod sagely. So -- that explains that.

"Don't tell me that you're exposing some poor Japanese person to that butchery of their language," Cerise says, from over by the fridge, having wandered kitchenward in search of beer.

"Uh... well, no..." Rose admits. "My new penpal wants me to use English, so she can learn better."

You sit at the table too. "That's for the best," you say. "I'm sure your penpal is better at English than you are at Japanese."

Cerise is back with a bottle of Kirin, cracking it open by hand. She tosses the bottlecap over her shoulder, where it lands with a swish in the bin behind her -- an old trick of hers that she never fails to demonstrate in her faux-nonchalant way. She takes a swig of the beer and then points at Rose with the hand holding the bottle. "Why not choose a penpal who speaks a foreign language you're actually practicing to learn?"

"I've got Fazil for that," Rose says. "I want to broaden my horizons."

"Baka," Cerise says.

"Siktir!" Rose retorts.

Cerise begins to say something, but Rose turns her attention to you: "Did you know! My penpal used to be a famous idol!"

Your heart skips a beat. Could it be?

But you have a more immediate concern: "you're not still under the impression that you'll be a famous idol one day, are you?"

Rose abashedly looks away, and biting her lower lip, focuses again on the letter she's penning.

"Oh, you know she is," Cerise says. "You hear her in her bedroom in front of her mirror, yowling into her hairbrush every night, same as me. She thinks she's a Japanese pop star already. But what Puffy CummyCunny doesn't seem to understand is that she's a disgusting gaijin."

"I'm keeping my options open!" Rose insists. "You never know!"

"We're gonna need to do an impromptu circle of shame tonight," Cerise says severely between guzzles. "I'll call Anna over... maybe we can get Mom and Whitney, too, for backup."

"Don't mock me!" Rose says bitterly. "You're so mean, Cerise!"

"Let her dream," you tell Cerise. As always, it ends up being big bro who's the slightly lesser bully as compared to big sis. Cerise rolls her eyes.

"Me and my penpal both have dreams," Rose says. "She's such a major inspo."

...Rose tries so hard to punish you whenever you stand up for her. "Don't say inspo," you tell her.

You reach across the table, for the trifolded paper sitting beside Rose's letter-in-progress. Arching your eyebrows and tilting your head forward in the universal signal for "can I?" -- Rose allows you to take her penpal's letter in hand, and begin to read it.

>To Rose.

>It is a big joy to see your letter today! I am so happy to make a friend from America. America is so big country! I want to have a dream as big as America one day. 

"Isn't that beautiful?" Rose asks.

"It's meaningless," you say. But Rose isn't so convinced... you aren't, either. Maybe it's not so meaningless:

>My dream used to be as a idol singer on the stage. I could not succeed at my first dream and my new dream is to travel all around the world as a scientist. I want to help the people of the world who do not have so much. There are so many sad and sick people in the world. It would be a good thing to help.

>To answer your questions. I am not much often watching cartoons but there is recently a show of the name Rabu Raibu to which I enjoy. I have also seen many times the shows, Sailor Moon and Pretty Cure. I do not much often play video games but my elder brother has lost to me a lot at Tekken (LOL). My favorite kind of candy is a type of melon flavored hard candy with a name I do not know of English. In Japan we are calling it, おおきなメロン飴. Maybe you can find it on a shelf in one of America's large stores. I read that in America there are stores called Wallmartu which are so large, you need to rent a special car when you go there and drive it around inside. Have you drove this car? Does it go fast?

>Do you read the series of Harry Potter? I am a big fan. My favorite character is Draco. I think he is misunderstood.

>I want to go to America one day. Are you close to Hollywood? Let's star in a movie together! (LOL)

>Dieng your hair pink is so brave! I want to see a picture. I think you are probably so cute that way! A girl with pink hair is ready to break a lot of hearts! (LOL) 

>Please criticize my grammer. It will make me better to speak with you if you "hate" on it. I will not be sad. One day we can speak face to face when I am better with English! This letter took so long to write because I want to choose the best words! 

>Sincerely
>Kikuchi Makoto

---

Charlotte pesters you with questions about the future. She wants to know everything from the political outlook of the coming six years, to the stocks she should invest in, to the more intimate personal details of your collective lives. You tell her what you can, which is all you know. But caveat emptor: history varies in the details. Buy long calls on Tesla in 2015, yes, but watch out that Muskfucker doesn't do something wacky in 422 that he didn't in 421. You never can tell.

She has you over at the Mallory house all the time nowadays -- seems almost desperate to become close with you. (How fast things have changed from the still very recent days when she hated your guts.)

Maybe more critically, she's fully on-board, and Saul is too, with the idea that David Darkbloom must be prevented from fulfilling whatever plans he may or may not have with regards to Sand Reckoner tech. You intend to do this by exerting a little soft pressure on him -- joining his company and steering him away from the poor choices of the past. But if needs be, there's always the other way. The Camelia way. Charlotte even personally volunteered to assassinate him at the soonest available opportunity, a suggestion you shot down (no pun intended). "Let's get to know the guy first," you had said. "He doesn't seem as bad as he used to be."

Even as you said it, you couldn't believe the words coming from your mouth. But all Charlotte could think of was a world in ruin, a chain of events leading to her husband's death and then to her daughter spending six cold months in the barren far reaches of Alaska running from murderers.

You talked her down from going full Camelia herself, though. Via your shared connection to David Darkbloom's daughters, you were able to engineer several encounters between him and the Mallorys, like the quiz bowl trip to Boise, for instance. Saul and Charlotte's Type A personalities took things from there. Soon they had Darkbloom thinking of them as friends. When they joined Darkbloom E-Pay's legal team this May, they did so at his suggestion.

It never hurts to have friends on the inside.

Today, though, Charlotte fields a different strategy for the future. As she hands you a drink and sits beside you on the living room sofa at her house, just the two of you, she asks: "should we tell the others?"

"About what?" You take a sip: grapefruit juice. Not your favorite, but Charlotte likes it.

"Everything," Charlotte says.

"I wouldn't even have told you if I didn't think you were about to call the cops on me," you admit. When she looks a little stricken, you explain: "this kind of stuff is traumatic. I don't want to burden everyone if they don't need to know. Rose doesn't either."

"I understand. But it's no burden... or rather... it's better not to shoulder things alone. The ones you love mean more than anything -- remember that. It goes both ways. You mean so much to them, too. They wouldn't want you to suffer with this knowledge. Do you think that Scarlett, or Cerise, or Whitney, or anyone else, would choose to remain ignorant if they could?"

You shake your head and close your eyes. "I don't know. But for now... I don't want to tell anyone else."

You open your eyes again when you feel Charlotte's fingertips against your cheek. She pets you. "You poor thing," she says softly. "I brought up your bad memories again."

"It's fine."

She gently takes the glass of grapefruit juice from you and sets it down. "Let's get your mind off such morbid things."

You didn't bother to dispense with your clothes. She just unzipped you, and fished out your dick, and started to play. Now, in the middle of the day, with sunlight streaming through the windows, Charlotte Mallory jerks you off on her living room couch. 

"Did we fool around like this before?" She asks, as her soft but nimble hands twist around your shaft. She pauses to slather more lotion onto your cock, from the little tub sitting out on the coffee table. She likes to make it messy -- because, she always points out, "your cock likes it messy."

"We did," you grunt. "I fucked you all the time..."

Her swift jerking motions stop for a moment, as she absorbs that. "Really?"

You nod.

She starts again to tug your cock. This time her pace is quicker, but somehow just as sweet and gentle. The way Charlotte jerks you off is motherly, in its way. As if she's trying to soothe you by massaging a knot from your neck or calf, chaste as can be -- and not trying to milk you of your cum. Sitting just beside you, she hunches forward a little bit to stare lovingly down at your member while she works. Her double-barrel handjob technique makes a steady, slick thwapping noise that's deliciously lewd. Her hands are able to wring such wonderful sensations from your prick.

She flings her hair back over her shoulder, and looks up at you. A couple stray droplets of lotion have landed on the lenses of her glasses, but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Was your mother involved, too?" Charlotte asks.

"Everyone was... her, Rose, Cerise..."

Charlotte pauses. "Did you really call me Mom -- back then?" 

You nod.

"Even when we... fooled around?"

You nod again.

She kisses your cheek, and brushes her face against yours as she whispers to you: "please keep doing that..."

She pulls away to lock eyes with you, eyes shimmering with need and uncertainty. You smile to reassure her and reply: "anything you say, Mom."

"Alabaster..." she coos. Her voice lilts with adoration. "I always wanted a son... let's fuck."

"Is that okay?" You ask, anxiously glancing towards the front door. You're more concerned with being walked in on than the mere fact of Charlotte's adultery. This was supposed to be a quickie, after all. She replies with: "it's fine, honey, really. If Saul can go have sex with random women whenever the mood strikes him, I'm entitled to help my son blow off some steam. Don't you agree?"

She licks her lips as she stares down at your pulsating cock. She likes to pretend that she does this to help you relieve your stress (some things never change). The reality is that she's a horny degenerate bitch, and your dick is her stress relief toy equally as much as her cunt is yours. She never fails to get off hard on your cock. In a hurry, she kicks herself free of her oppressive jeans and yanks off her itchy sweater... revealing, beneath the clothes, her plump but shapely body. If Rose keeps a body half as sexy in the future, she'll have no choice but to become  your baby factory -- you won't be able to help yourself. And she may object to it, but you know Charlotte won't. Charlotte would have you knocking Rose up right this instant if she got her way. She's as baby-crazy as Mom.

Clad only in her silky black panties and matching bra -- what a naughty thing to wear under her unassuming outfit -- she straddles you and hugs your neck. "You can use your mother's pussy as much as you need to," she whispers. "Don't hold back."

So it's like that: although she sits atop, she wants you to do all the moving. You take her about her hips, squeezing hard and finding no bone, only flesh. She's hot but your touch makes her shiver. And as you nudge aside her underwear with your prick, to find the sticky, clean-shaven hole underneath, a perfect match to her daughter's -- you thrust inside her. Unable to contain herself, she throws her head back and moans like a sow. 

Fucking her in this position feels a lot like using a life-sized onahole. That's the fantasy Charlotte wants to fulfill... she wants to be your masturbation toy today. You have no qualms taking part in that depraved daydream. You keep a firm grip on that squishy, fleshy midsection of hers, and bounce her up and down on your cock as you stab your prick into her over and again. The syncopated pace of it is erratic but forceful, and soon her swampy insides are leaking all over the front of your jeans. She's such an indecent woman, Charlotte Mallory, unable to keep her lewd body in check. She apologizes again and again for making such a mess of your clothes. "I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry for staining your jeans -- Mommy doesn't mean to -- don't stop, don't stop -- I'm sorry, baby, Mommy's a slut -- " And through it all, she doesn't stop cumming on you. 

As the two of you fuck with utter abandon, you lose track of time. This raw, sweaty mating with Charlotte Mallory's stress-relief hole has a way of doing that to you. And so you do get walked in on, exactly as you had feared. 

Thankfully it's by a member of the family who's fully in-tune with the perversion. Your loving soon-to-be-wife comes through the door, and catches you fucking her mother. Her reaction isn't to freak out, but merely to tut: "Good lord... I can't leave you two alone for five seconds anymore, can I?"

Charlotte meets eyes with her girl by arching her spine and tilting her head back. She holds the sides of your arms for balance. "Oh, honey... don't be so selfish... we can share."

Rose is always a little jealous of her Mom. She saunters up, around the couch, and strokes your shoulder from behind as you continue to rail Charlotte. Her blonde tresses tickle your cheeks as she leans over. She tries to entice you away. "Alabaster... why are you wasting time like this? Shouldn't you be having sex with me instead? I won't be 16 forever, you know..." 
 
"Your pussy will be... if you age like your Mom..."

Charlotte likes that, a lot. She squeezes your prick with her insides in appreciation, and a trickle of her cream spurts out, too. 

"Tch -- pig!" Rose barks.

"He's telling the truth," Charlotte says, her voice vibrating slightly as you bounce her up and down on you. "Mallory pussies age like fine wine... if he was blindfolded, he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between us!"

---

...Which inevitably leads to the greatest competition of mother and daughter ever to unfold. Rose uses her mother's panties to blindfold you, and her mother's bra to tie your hands behind your back. This immobilizes you from any inadvertent groping in the heat of the moment, and keeps the competition pure. You will have only the friction of their cunts against your dick to judge who is who.

The first pussy to sink down on your turgid prick feels a lot like Charlotte's... no, maybe it's Rose's. Both girls are moaning, like a couple of bitches whisked in from a hardcore porno -- working in league to keep you from getting any clues. You hear, too, the nasty sound of them kissing each other, as this mystery pussy begins to slide up and down. The warmth, the rubbery tightness and stickiness of it leaves no doubt whatsoever that this is prime Mallory pussy, but Charlotte was exactly right... they age like wine. You really cannot tell. Charlotte's 36 year old pussy is just as nice a cumdump for you and your massive dick as Rose's 16 year old pussy is. These fleshy lips, the way the tucked-in labia get pulled further inwards and rumble with raw lust while you fuck, the way the internal body heat increases seemingly without bound... you realize that everything you love about fucking Rose's pussy is everything you love about fucking Charlotte's pussy. 

"Mommy... Mommy..." Rose pants. Your dick twitches just hearing her say it.

"Are you going to get pregnant today?" Charlotte asks.

"I'll try... I'll really try... will you let him cum inside me?"

"He's going to cum inside us both, honey. He's so backed-up, I can tell... we both need to take care of it for him. Let's wring him dry, okay?"

"Yes, Mommy..."

You shudder as the divine sensation of fucking a cunt gets replaced by air wafting across your unmated dick... whoever was on you has suddenly dismounted. You try to reach out, frustrated. But you can't. Your hands are tied, after all. You can only moan instead.

Rose's face is pressing against your right cheek. Charlotte's face is pressing against your left. Each Mallory girl has a hand wrapped around your cock, and they jerk you in tandem.

"Who was that?" Rose asks.

"Was it me?" Charlotte asks.

"...Or me?" Rose asks.

You shake your head mutely. You've no idea.

"Guess we need to keep testing," Charlotte says.

They let go. Soon after, a second pussy is wrapping its creamy insides around your oozing prick. ...Or is this a fakeout, and they're giving you the first pussy again? You furrow your brow, trying to focus, but wave after wave of insane pleasure is beginning to overwhelm you. You buck your hips to meet the hips of your anonymous fuck-bitch. 

"He's so worked-up," Charlotte coos.

"What a disgusting man," Rose purrs.

Divorced of visual stimulus, the carnal pleasure of a Mallory cunt is still enough on its own to coax you to climax. This Mallory cunt, whoever it is, is about to make you blow your load. It's going to be a big one. You warn them with a deep rasp: "I'm gonna cum--!!"

Instead of pulling off, the cunt you're fucking presses down on you. Her pussy swallows your dick up entirely, to the root. Then using her full weight, she mashes against you in tight circles. This is the vaunted Mallory special: a balls-deep milking to cap things off. You can't see a thing, but you see stars anyway. Your cock belches squirt after squirt of dense, sticky seed straight into the depths of whichever girl was first to bring you off. Mother or daughter, you don't care -- with teeth gritted you yell out: "get fucking pregnant! Fucking bitch!" 

When you finish cumming inside, and your unknown partner climbs off of you, Charlotte says with wonderment: "there's so much... oh my goodness..."

"You were right, Mom. He WAS backed up..."

"Still is..."

"Mm."

"Here... let's get some of Alabaster's sperm on your tongue, hmm?" 

What follows is a lewd, wet noise as -- presumably -- Charlotte digs some sperm from out of the pussy you just creampied, and puts her cum-smeared fingers in her daughter's mouth. Then even more wet noises, as the two begin, again, to kiss. They may even be kissing from either side of Charlotte's fingers, still probing Rose's tongue and the back of Rose's throat. Your cock is as hard as it ever was.

"Who was that?" Charlotte asks, tickling your nuts.

"Was it me?" Rose asks, suckling on your neck.

"Or me?" Charlotte asks, running a hand under your shirt, and playing her thumbtip against one of your nipples.

You shake your head. You really need to fuck something again, right away.

"Did you make me pregnant, Alabaster?" Rose asks.

"Or did you make a baby with Mommy?" Charlotte asks.

Someone gets on top of you again. They're laughing at your desperation and confusion, both of them are -- even Rose, who ostensibly wants you to discern the difference. These girls will be the death of you... you need a devious strategy. With a low grunt of "unghhh..." you bow your head forward, and peek. The crotch of Charlotte's panties draped over your eyes allows just enough space to see a sliver of the world, from this severe down-facing angle. You can peek without them knowing that you are. Huge violation of the rules. Oh well. 

You find a glimpse of your own cum-stained lap, and an even narrower glimpse of the girl grinding on top of you. You see a thick thigh, jiggling as you fuck. And you see a slick, drippy, shiny pussy, with a cute little button of a clit peeking out. 

Even seeing this much, it's impossible to tell. Or it would be, if not for one minuscule yet crucial discrepancy. The pussy you're fucking has a small brown beauty mark just above it, to the right. That beauty mark belongs to Charlotte. Rose hasn't got one to match. You're still not sure whether Charlotte is the cunt you just came inside of... her pussy is streaked with cum as if she's just taken a load, but your lap is all streaked with cum too, and the mess down there in Charlotte's pussy easily could have been deposited just now when she climbed on top. 

Regardless, you now can tell who's riding you... and that's all you need. You let your head rest against the couch's back, and enjoy the fuck on its own merits. You bask in it. A few moments later you feel pressure against your dick from the back walls of Charlotte's cunt, and realize it must be fingers, pressing on the membrane between pussy and anus. Rose is fingering her mother's asshole while she fucks you. Dirty bitch.

That image, which you have to settle on merely envisioning in your mind's eye, brings you across the finish line a second time. You creampie Charlotte without forewarning. But Rose, who knows the signs of your impending orgasm without needing to be told, and who's an excellent actress, responds with surprised moans to match her mother's. She times is perfectly. And so you get the noise of two girls being creampied, simultaneously, for the price of one...

Charlotte is still mashing herself against your embedded prick, as she and her little girl do their schtick again:

"Was that me?" Charlotte asks.

"Or--" Rose begins.

"It was you," you cut in. "It was you, Mom."

Charlotte immediately rips the panties from your face. She's pouting harder than you've ever seen her pout  before, even as she sits impaled on your member. "You cheated!"

"No he didn't," Rose says, smiling smugly. "He loves young pussy way too much to be fooled by someone as old as you..."

"I cheated," you instantly inform Rose. If only to knock her down a peg. Now they're both pouting at you. Is it really advisable to anger both Mallory women while your hands are tied?

Charlotte roughly blindfolds you again with her panties. Her musky feminine scent overloads your system. "Well you won't be able to tell our buttholes apart!" She snaps. 

And you probably won't.

---

You smile at Samantha, adopting a cocky tone: "They're lovers." Then you take Anna's hand in yours. "We're on a couple's date, actually."

It's hard to tell who's the most taken aback... Anna, whose clammy hand trembles like one of Cerise's vibrators in your grip; Alex, who's turned a crimson bordering on infrared; or Sable, who's sputtering incoherently.

Samantha draws a sharp inhalation, to register her understanding. "Ahhh -- uh huh! Lovers. How lovely!" She leans way in, one palm bracing her fishnet-clad upper thigh, and cups her other hand over her mouth as if sharing a secret. "I love lovers."

"Alex and I-- are not-- we aren't-- this is absurd-- he's my student!--"

Meanwhile, Alex is waving both hands in front of him. "I-it's not like-- we didn't-- she's my--"

"It's a shame you're taken," Samantha tells him. Or is she talking to Sable? Or to you? Or to Anna? She straightens her posture, the back of her wrists on her hips, her torpedo tits sticking out. "Of course, taken doesn't always mean taken..."

Alex forces a loud, false laugh. "Hahaha! Taken! That's... you're really funny! I mean--"

Sable interposes herself between Alex and Samantha, like a mother fending off a bus pervert. "Taken means taken," she announces. Not so embarrassed anymore, at the threat of a rival.

"Oh sure," Samantha agrees. She winks. "Keep an eye on him, then, okay! He might get gobbled up!" Sable glowers at her, but Samantha doesn't seem to notice or care. She casts a glance at Anna instead, who's staring at the ground, and too timid even to take her hand from yours. "You might get gobbled up, too!" Samantha warns her.

Anna squeaks. Her hand in yours grows sweatier.

"Do you have any tandem bikes?" You ask. "We've recently taken an interest in unusual forms of locomotion... it's what all the cool kids are into."

Samantha nods. "Oh yes, sir! We have bicycles built for two, three, four, or more! The only thing more fun than riding a bicycle is riding it with someone else at the same time!"

Alex pipes up. "Actually -- a tandem bike is a little bit advanced for Ms. Guiteau, I think..."

Rather than react negatively, Sable surprises yet again with an emotional swing, this time towards calm rationality. "I agree. Let's start with the basics." (Maybe she's on her best behavior to make sure she stays in Alex's good graces.) "Do you have a bicycle for beginners?"

"Yes!" Samantha says. She points at a child's bike in a rack in the middle of the room. It has training wheels on it, and little multicolored pastel streamers hanging off the handlebars, and daisies painted on the pink metal frame. Sable is well over a foot taller than the target demo, clearly. Samantha obviously took the word "beginner" quite literally.

"May I test it out?" Sable asks.

"Feel free!"

Dutifully, Samantha then helps Sable don a helmet, kneepads, and elbow pads. It takes some fussing, as Sable is completely unfamiliar with how to do up the straps and catches, and she doesn't make herself very easy to assist. The two make a strange contrast as Samantha presses up against her, and forcibly holds her still as she works to get the protective gear on her. But finally Samantha has Sable all kitted out: ready to face the rigors of piloting baby's first bike.

"You can take it for a spin outside, if you want!" Samantha says. "Ride around the block a couple times, and let me know if you like it! First-timers get a discount!"

"You aren't worried about theft?" You ask.

"You... won't steal it... will you?" Samantha asks, looking suddenly unsure.

"Well -- no," you say. "But--"

She's feeling fully assured again. "Then it's no problem!" She says, swatting at the air and giggling.

"I do not want to be seen in public, struggling to ride a bicycle," Sable says. "It's bad enough being seen by my students like this... and by a slut in a bunnygirl costume..."

Alex coughs. He casts a worried look at Samantha. "Uh -- no offense -- she doesn't mean what she says sometimes..."

"No offense taken!" Samantha replies, obviously sincere. She goes to the shop's entrance, and flips the sign hanging there, to announce to the world that they're closed. She locks the door securely, turns to face you all: "There's plenty of room in here to do a little bike riding!"

Leaning with your tailbone against the checkout counter, you watch Alex guide Sable around the store's perimeter. You figure this will take a little while -- Sable still gasps and nearly falls whenever Alex lets up his grip on her. So you hoist yourself up, using the countertop as an impromptu bench. Anna tries to mimic you. But she's shorter, not to mention weaker, and when she tries to haul herself up, she fails. She lands flat back on her feet almost as soon as they leave the ground. She tries a second time, drawing herself slightly higher, but her butt still doesn't clear the edge of the counter and she ends, again, on her feet.

She gives up, and decides to sit on the floor in front of the counter. Whenever Alex and Sable come by, she draws her knees up towards herself to make way. Then when they pass, she lets her legs stretch out again. With the heels of her tennis shoes touching, she idly swivels her feet towards and away from each other, staring at them.

"Those two make a cute couple," Samantha whispers. She looks from you to Anna: "So do you."

"With Anna and I, it's less like a couple and more like master and slave..."

Anna is over her shyness about meeting a new person, enough at least to elbow you. "i'm your master now?" she says, glancing up at you.

"What? No--"

"that's the order you put it in"

Samantha squats to get at Anna's level. "I saw you on a unicycle earlier! Do you ride it often?"

Anna shrugs. With the way Samantha squats, thighs folded over her calves, balanced precariously on her pumps, legs a little spread... it's hard not to stare at the taut seam of her bunnysuit's crotch. Anna does. So do you.

"It's such a unique skill!" Samantha says. "I don't think I've met a unicycle rider since I was in the ci-- well anyway, it's been awhile!"

On the other side of the store, Sable shouts at Alex: "Don't let go! Don't you dare let go! I'll expel you from the FIRST program if you let go of me!!"

"You're pretty unique, too," you say. Samantha doesn't rise, but does look up. "Your boss lets you dress like that at work?"

Samantha nods. "Mr. Eichmann is understanding! He knows this is how I'm most comfortable."

You blink. Mr. Eichmann... now there's a name you hadn't expected to hear.

"Doesn't it draw a lot of attention?" You ask.

"I don't mind attention," Samantha says.

"Well, you're getting it," you tell her. You nod at Anna. Anna is still staring transfixedly at Samantha's crotch and the cameltoe there. Her glasses are getting fogged. Her lips are slightly parted.

Rather than conceal herself, Samantha just smiles slyly and scooches her stance a bit further akimbo -- giving Anna an even better view.

"Anna," you say firmly.

She shakes her head, at last tearing her eyes off Samantha's barely-concealed cunt. "whuh"

"Are you ogling this poor woman?" You ask.

"huh"

"I said are you ogling Samantha."

Anna blushes.

"I'm sorry," you tell Samantha. "My pet is a slut."

Samantha tilts her head. "Do you mind a slutty pet?"

You and Samantha get Anna onto her butt on the countertop. Anna is her usual taciturn self: "Sir... is this really a good idea...?"

"Don't look a gift bunny in the mouth," you chide. "Or actually... do. Samantha, say ahhh."

Samantha fishhooks either side of her own lips, letting her jaw part and her tongue loll out. "Ahhhhhh," she says. 

So far, neither Sable nor Alex have noticed the oncoming lewdness as they draw lazy circles around the store. Sable is getting a bit more comfortable on her training wheels, so Alex has graduated her to a grownup bike. But now with just two wheels to support her she's really freaking out. The pair are so consumed with it that they don't have the bandwidth to pay attention to what you're doing with Samantha and Anna. 

Samantha stands between Anna's legs. Her tits, pressing up against Anna's plank-flat chest, make for a cute contrast. She takes Anna's face in her hands. "You want to be a better kisser, right? For that girl you're trying to make fall in love with you?"

"i... w-what Sir told you about cerise... is totally--"

Samantha kisses her. Anna goes stiff all over, holding her balled fists up on either side of her. Then she wilts, going all floppy, and gives in to this bunnygirl's insistent kissing. She opens her mouth to Samantha, and lets Samantha's tongue root around. One of Samantha's long pointy ears twitches -- she's enjoying herself, too. When finally Samantha cuts the practice kiss off, she gives her feedback: "your tongue should be more lively okay! Try again!"

If Anna's glasses were fogged before, they're San Fransisco in October now. 

Samantha begins, again, to kiss her. Just watching this older women teach a new protege the ways of a true slut has got your cock engorged with lust. You unashamedly reach for Samantha's rear end, groping and squeezing her always so squishy flesh. She gives absolutely no protest. In fact, she arches her back, to jut her ass out a little more. All the better for you to get a nice firm hold on both globes of her ass. You reward her sluttiness, and follow up the groping with a little tail-play... yep, Samantha's cottontail is just as sensitive as ever. Even just brushing it with the broad side of your palm causes her to jolt and shiver. This has a delayed effect on Anna, too -- who jolts in turn when Samantha's kissing gets suddenly hungrier. Teasing Samantha's tail makes her sluttiness go into overdrive. 

This display is enough to at last draw the notice of Sable and Alex. You no longer hear the rotation of the spokes of Sable's bike. You can sense their eyes upon you as you stand there feeling Samantha up and she stands there molesting Anna's mouth with her tongue. 

"Lesbian..." Sable mutters. "So Anna is a lesbian after all..."

It seems her primary concern is that Anna has been eliminated as a potential source of competition for Alex's heart.

Alex himself is a bit scandalized. "Ally--! We're in public!" 

"Why is this my fault?" You demand. You glance over your shoulder at them. "This slut attacked us. She seduced us both."

Samantha turns, relinquishing her grip on Anna's face. Anna is half-dazed from the oral assault, and sways lightly, unable to form any comprehensible words. Samantha, all hot now, eyes Alex like a carnivore after prey. Gobbled up, indeed. "Alabaster says you like to be underneath a woman. Is that true?"

"Let's go," Sable insists, struggling to step off her big-people bike. Alex is no help to her, because he's struck still as stone staring back at Samantha.

"Come lick my butt," Samantha says.

Alex takes a single unhesitating step towards Samantha, ready to heed the command. But that's as far as he gets. Sable grabs his arm and hauls him back. "What are you doing?!"

"I-- I'm sorry, Ms. Guiteau..." he begins, dithering. "B-but..."

Samantha may be brazen, but she's no thief. "You're really not okay with sharing?" She asks Sable. 

"No!" Is Sable's immediate response.

"Samantha's a good teacher," you say, playing salesman. "...Or so I assume. She could help Alex's technique -- vis-a-vis butt licking."

"Alex has all the technique he needs to learn from me!" Sable says.

The only thing Samantha likes better than fucking is solving a tough problem using practical solutions. "You like to get your butt licked too?" She asks Sable. "Let's get our butts licked together, then! Alex can do you... Alabaster can do me!"

You choke. "How did I get roped into this?"

Samantha frowns. "You don't want to lick me there? But you were playing with my rump so much..."

Anna, ever the subby bitch, swings herself down off the counter and gets on her knees on the ground. "i'll do it"

This wasn't the kissing that Anna set out to practice at first... but Cerise will be happy with the gained exp points, either way. Samantha tugs her one-piece's crotch aside to bare her drippy bunny cunny and the pristine, twitchy, pale pucker of her her bunny butt. 

Anna goggles. "the tail..." she breathes. She's just now realizing that thing is the real McCoy, connected at the base of Samantha's coccyx. 

Sable is equally awed by the tail. She gets on her knees beside Anna and grabs a tuft of it, and yanks -- what more scientific way to test its authenticity? Samantha lets loose an ear-splitting shriek of agony that blows the now utterly flabbergasted Sable back. 

"Please don't do that!!!" Samantha cries. "It hurts a lot, okay!"

Sable, after a long awkward silence, can only think to reply: "...I'm sorry." 

She fights her way to her feet as Anna, maybe wanting to patch things over, gets to work on Samantha's asshole. That pristine little star between Samantha's cheeks quickly becomes sloppy with Anna's drool. Samantha sighs pervertedly.

"I'd no idea you were a lesbian," Sable says. 

Between languid laps at Samantha's asshole, Anna corrects her. "i'm bi"

"Bisexual?" 

Anna nods even as she continues to tongue Samantha's hot butt. She hugs Samantha's meaty thighs to keep balanced.

"So you're a whore," is Sable's assessment.

"Ms. Guiteau..." Alex says, unable to look away from the erotic sight of Anna servicing the bunny. "That's not nice. I'm bisexual too, you know!"

Sable looks at him reproachfully. "You're also a whore."

The erection clearly visible through Alex's shorts twitches.

"Get on your knees," Sable commands, as she undoes her belt buckle. Alex has no choice but to obey his beloved teacher. Soon the proud Ms. Sable Guiteau is taking off her pants and panties in the middle of the bike shop, so that her underage student can eat out her asshole. Where does she get off calling anyone else a whore?

Samantha's eyes go wide with childlike wonder. "Whooaaaa... he's so good at that! You taught him so well, Sable!"

"Of course I did!" Sable says. "It's what his mouth was made for. It's only good to say yes and eat cum."

Alex, hands folded in his lap, suckles on Sable's dark asshole like it's his favorite candy. You suppose it is. These two women who could not be less alike, Sable Guiteau and Samantha Smatters, face one another as they receive their dual rimjobs. Who's going to cum first? It's a contest you're keen to witness... Sable's fat cunt lips and Samantha's peachy twat both ooze girl-cream all over the faces of the teenagers serving them. It's nearly enough to make you cum just by watching it. Sable might be a hypocrite, but she was precisely correct: you've never seen a pair of more eager whores than Alex and Anna.

"Don't you want to join too?" Samantha asks you.

The answer is yes. Satisfying your horny cock on Samantha's slutty body is a joy you've missed. You get nude -- Samantha marvels at your size. "Oh geez, Alabaster! You'll break my pussy apart if you're not careful!"

"Should I be careful?" You ask.

Samantha shakes her head, an emphatic no on that count, and grinds her ass a little harder on Anna's able tongue.

With Anna's face buried in Samantha's rear end, your only option for getting yourself stuck inside Samantha's cunt-hole is to fuck her facing forward. It's an awkward position that even you aren't used to, but you'll manage. Samantha, grinning, pulls her humongous tits free of her too-tight nylon costume and lets them hang out in the open for you to grope and ogle while you mate. She may be an older woman, but her tits are bolt-ons nonetheless. They're as perky and springy as the rack of a little teen bimbo. And the soft red nipples, you know, are another weak spot of hers. You thumb them as you plunge your tumescent dick into her. Samantha shivers, and squirts another little stream of cum -- all over your cock shaft, all over Anna's face.

Sable is losing her last remaining dignity, too. As Alex enthusiastically eats her out, making shrill feminine moans the whole time, Sable begins to masturbate. Her ring and middle fingers dig at her twat and her thumb scrapes her clitoris. Her fore and pinky fingers hold her cunt lips open. You've never seen Sable play with herself so wantonly. The reason is obvious. Samantha is bringing out her inner whore, too.

As in the world prior, Samantha's pussy is almost scorchingly hot. Its strange ridges and crannies burn against your thrusting manhood. You know, too, that Samantha's asshole is equally as hot, and you wonder how Anna is taking to it. Pretty well, you'd guess, judging by how desperately she tries to get her entire tongue into Samantha's anus. 

"This... this is too goooood..." Samantha moans, tongue wagging. Her eyes are glazed and staring into the middle distance. You slap her tits to be cruel, but she thinks you're paying her a favor: "You're too nice... gonna... gonna cum..."

"Me too," you grunt.

"Do it inside okay! It's what my pussy is made for!"

Anna's paying more attention than you thought. She scooches a little forward. Her tongue, so recently rimming Samantha out, is now licking you both at the point where you're connected. This extra bit of stimulation is enough to push you across the edge. You bellow, and dump a load. You dump it straight into the sucking depths of Samantha's rabbity cunt. But that cunt of hers is achingly tight, and sends long tendrils of spunk seeping out around your thick dick. Anna is happy to take the overflow. She twists her spittle-covered face this way and that to catch it all and drink it up. Baby batter, girlcum, whatever -- she doesn't care. Her mouth is a willing hole for anything you want to put in it.

Speaking of willing mouth-holes, Alex is playing cleanup duty on Sable's creamy cunt too. Like a dog lapping up water, he laps at Sable's cunt and cleans the aftermath of her orgasm out of her. Sable orgasmed from his rimjob, and now she's riding a post-cum buzz as Alex gets his fill. Her smile is always the cutest right after she busts a nut -- slightly tired, but carefree. She keeps her pussy held open for him.

As you dismount Samantha and a veritable waterfall of jizz seeps from her, Anna is quick to latch her mouth over the gaping orifice. But not before giving you her appreciation: "thank you Sir for cumming so much" -- and then it's back to work.

"You eat pussy so good!" Is Samantha's judgment. "You'll get Cerise addicted for sure!"

You know she will.

Alex, glassy-eyed, still on his knees, stares at the sight. Sable regards him, the way she might a bug. She nudges his cheek with her knee to catch his attention. "Do you want to lick up Alabaster's cum, too?"

"Uh... uh huh..." Alex moans, hypnotized. 

She leans over and puts both hands on his shoulders and pushes him towards Samantha. "Then eat it," she sneers. She rights herself and watches with satisfaction as Alex immediately joins Anna under the bunny. From either end, they eat her out, vacuuming up your sperm. And this degrading act has left them needing some relief too. Wordlessly, they help each other out: Anna gets Alex's cock out of his shorts, and Alex gets his hand into Anna's spats. They never stop feasting on the creampie you left in Samantha. The spectacle is at once hot and pathetic. A couple of desperate sluts masturbating for each other while they eat your sloppy seconds. Anna tugs Alex's cock and Alex fingers Anna's pussy.

"Thank you for sharing him!" Samantha tells Sable.

Sable folds her arms while she watches. "He has to know his place."

"Between my legs!" Samantha guesses.

"Between the legs of anyone who wants him there," Sable says.

Samantha giggles. "He's a fuckpet! Just like me!"

Sable nods.

"Will you let him put his cock inside me?" Samantha asks.

Sable is much less certain of that. But maybe the way Alex so sweetly moans at just the suggestion of it, and loses a couple spurts of precum into Anna's palm, makes her take pity on him. She seems to be considering it. The thing that breaks down her last barrier of resistance to seeing Alex fuck another woman is this: Samantha, rubbing her own tits and smiling brightly, offers: "I'll lick your pussy if you let him do it!"

This is the power of bunny pheromones. Sable, so recently disgusted by lesbianism, plops down on her naked butt and spreads her legs. "Do it."

A change of position, now. Samantha gets on her belly in front of Sable, and Alex mounts Samantha from behind. He's much slighter than she is. His lower half could be wholly enveloped by Samantha's thick body, her fat butt and hips. Sable uses Samantha's pointy ears as handles, and directs Samantha's face towards her pussy as Alex gets himself seated inside. Samantha's interior walls, you know, are still coated in your jism, and provide a slick tunnel for Alex to fuck to his heart's content. Together, he and Sable spitroast the bunny. It's oddly sweet.

As for Anna... you get her flat on her back and mount her face. Enough with these teasing licks from before like your cock is an ice cream cone. You're going to fuck Anna's face until she blacks out, and then you'll keep right on fucking it. 

As if she's nothing but a disposable onahole, you pound her throat and enjoy the way your cock creates an outline in her neck visible from the outside. True, Anna is hopelessly in love with your older sister. But she's also hopelessly addicted to cock, and as long as you've got that, she'll submit to any degradation for it. If it means getting pumped with cock, she'll even let you knock her out... like now. Her body convulses and she nearly aspirates on your dick slime, but her eyes are rolling around in sheer joy. She loves getting raped.

Samantha likes rough use, too. Alex bares his dominant side the more he fucks. He holds Samantha rudely by the hips, and really pounds her. His dick is no tiny thing, and you know with every pump, he's really making Samantha feel it. That erotic pleasure is being translated through Samantha's mouth, and into Sable's pussy. Sable humps Samantha's face like you hump Anna's. The tiny shop is filled with the shlicking noise of that, of Sable's wet cunt slapping Samantha's face. 

Sable grunts. "Fuckpet... what better word for it is there... this is our fuckpet now..." She throws her head back, grits her teeth, and hisses: "Yessss... cum with me, Alex!"

Alex obliges. The two let loose a spectacular, synchronized orgasm. Alex sperms Samantha's cunt, and Sable sprays all over Samantha's face. If Sable is going to be forced to share Alex, she's set on making clear who's on top in the hierarchy. Or more importantly, who's on the bottom. But being the bottom bitch suits Samantha just fine. She happily acts as their sperm bank.

Oh no... Anna really did pass out. You feel her constrictive throat suddenly loosen, and her convulsions completely stop. She's still breathing, though -- as the hot, gentle exhalations from her nostrils against your balls evince. So you decide to keep enjoying the fuck. You did fantasize about fucking her after she passed out, so why not? Anna likes to get cummed inside while she's unconscious, anyway.

You fuck Anna's now resistance-free face, and spew a cummy mess right into her gullet. It feels like fucking a heated fleshlight that occasionally blows a puff of air against your testicles. You can hear the distant echo of your cum filling her oxygen-starved throat. 

After you've had your fun on Anna's mouth, cumming straight into her belly, Sable takes a turn. She squats over Anna's unconscious, slime-coated head.

"How do you like being a lesbian?" You ask, bemused.

Sable rubs her gash all over Anna. "She can be our fuckpet, too. It's what she gets for humiliating Alex..."

(So possessive.) 

Alex, meanwhile, is still rutting inside Samantha, this time in a missionary position, and suckling on her breasts. You guess that things won't die down for a while yet. So you decide to enjoy a little anal with Alex for a change of pace. Without warning, you lean over him, belly-to-back, and press your palms to the backs of his hands, pinning him.

"Ally--!"

"Shut up," you sneer, and fuck him. It's always so nice to fuck Alex's bubble butt. And every thrust of yours drives his cock deeper into Samantha's cunt. Samantha mewls and moans, and presses Alex's head to her bosom. He continues to suckle on her nipples while you bugger him -- they're like a pacifier to him.

While the three of you fuck, Sable makes a game of smearing your cum all around Anna's face, mashing it into her cunt in the process. It makes a creamy, cummy, frothy mess. Anna is still out cold, but Sable doesn't care. She rides Anna and cums all over her, adding to the sheen of slop.

"Have you ever eaten pussy?" Samantha asks.

"Are you talking to me?" Sable says, taken aback.

"Give it a try!"

Sable must have been curious. It's all the sales pitch she needs. She twists around and enters into a 69 with Anna. This sensation is enough to bring Anna out of her stupor. She gasps and sputters back to consciousness, only to find her face full of her teacher's cunt, and her cunt full of her teacher's face. "ms-- ms. guiteau..." she says, voice hoarse, cum bubbles forming on her lips.

"Be quiet."

"you're--"

"Eat me!"

The two lez out for what feels like hours, sucking and licking each other's twats and assholes, while you give Alex the prostate orgasm of a lifetime. His cock embedded in Samantha, and his ass stuffed full of you, he's riding a wave of bliss he probably didn't imagine was possible. The squelchy, nasty noises of his rolling orgasm inside Samantha are evidence enough of that. So too is the way his eyes roll to the back of his skull. He seems on the verge of losing consciousness himself. But Samantha keeps him awake by rubbing her tits back and forth against his face, all but smothering him, and adding to his depraved delight. He cums and cums, and cums and cums. You never knew before meeting Alex that boys could have multiple orgasms, but Alex always does. And by the time you empty your load deep into Alex's anus, he's panting like a fucked-out slut. 

In the midst of all this orgiastic depravity, you almost don't notice the figure striding out of the room in the back, wheeling a bicycle towards the racks on the walls. And when you do notice it, you can hardly believe it.

"S-Spancer?!" You gasp. Shocked, you stop fucking -- but you're the only one who stops. 

Samantha's head snaps up. She smiles at him. "Spancer! I thought you clocked out!"

"Negative. There are five more units to complete."

He turns and starts towards the back room again, where, apparently, he builds bikes for the Blue Sprocket.

"Keep working hard!" Samantha says encouragingly, as she cradles Alex's face to her sweaty boobs and humps against his still-spurting cock.

"Affirmative."

Spancer shuts the door behind him.

---

One night Cerise decides to go through your sadpanda history at the worst possible time. It's a bad time because recently, for reasons beyond you, you've been on a MILF binge whenever you indulge in a little bit of dueling with the bishop. Moreover, the type of MILF hentai you've been into has been pretty heavy on M part of that acronym. Cerise is getting totally the wrong impression of your tastes here.

"Is this really what you jerk off to?" Cerise, sitting at your computer desk, asks as she scrolls through your favorites.

"Look, I can explain. This isn't my usual h-- wait. Now hold on a second. Why am I even justifying myself to you? Since when did you decide it was okay to snoop on your little brother's porn habits?"

"Since you decided that 'Comic MILF' was the best thing since sliced bread! What the fuck, Alabaster? This is totally wrong! You're supposed to be a lolicon. This is turning my entire concept of the universe upside-down..."

"I thought you hated lolicons."

"I hate you for changing the script!" Cerise shouts. She chews her thumbnail as she browses through a few pages of a recently favorited doujin. Her eyeballs dart around as she reads bits and pieces of the scanlation. "Straight shota is a league of degeneracy so much greater than what I figured you for..."

"I don't want to hear it from Little Miss Trap Rimmer," you roar. "You... you... stone in glass house... throwing... person!"

Cerise spins in your chair to face you. "You've got insults. But I'm hearing a distinct lack of denial over the fact that you jerk off to this shit."

"What, do you think I read it for the story?"

"...Do you?"

"No!"

Cerise frowns, and her voice grows softer. "Is this what you want?" She asks after a short silence.

"What I want is for you to get out of my bedroom. Rose is gonna be back soon and--"

Cerise holds up a palm. Her voice loses its gentleness. "Jeeesus. Go two seconds without mentioning your live-in landwhale. Try it once, for big sister, will you?"

"You're getting the wrong idea. That's all. All that hentai -- this isn't real life. It's just fantasy."

"Oh yeah fucking right," Cerise fumes. "There's a digital goddamn landslide of Mommydom porn on your favorites list! There's no escaping that, Alabaster!"

"Open your eyes!" You shout. "Look up my favorites tab and see. After the MILF stuff, you'll find my perfectly normal tastes--"

She turns back towards the monitor and scrolls some more. "Happiness Milk?"

"After that."

"Kurenai Yuuji?"

"After that."

"Drill Jill?"

You throw your arms up. "So what if I was on a futa kick before my MILF kick! Don't make some big fucking point of it!"

"Oh, you poor boy," Cerise says with mock sympathy. "It can't be easy to cum when you're looking at all these fetishes you hate."

"Get out of my room!" You yell. But Cerise is heading the wrong way -- towards your bed. Or more specifically, towards your bedside table.

There, in the drawer, she finds what she's looking for. Your prized onahole, and a bottle of silicone lube. She clacks the cap of the lube open. With a lewd splurt, she douses the open end of the toy with an overflowing supply of the slick transparent fluid.

"What are you doing?" You demand.

"Shock therapy." She approaches you, slowly waving the onahole, as lube that missed the mark runs down the sides of it, and across her fingers.

"Stay back--!"

"We're either gonna exorcise your Mommydom fetish or we're gonna help you embrace it. Either/or."

"Cerise--"

"Sit down," she says. Her voice is sterner, and deeper, than you've ever heard.

[ ] I need backup. Get Alex on the case.
>[x] No time for that! I'm about to get ara-ara'd!

You sit down at your computer chair, as if under an irresistible gravitational pull. The leather seat makes a soft pomf underneath you.

"What are you doing?" You ask, voice shaky.

Cerise fucks her index finger in and out of your wet onahole to demonstrate. "You're a dirty boy, Alabaster... even dirtier than I thought. I have to punish you."

It's ridiculous, but you're actually a little scared. Her voice has no trace of play-acting to it. She means it. Cerise so readily stepped into this role that it's freaky. She looms large over you, an arm folded under her breasts to accentuate them through the cotton of her tee. She holds the onahole up by her cheek, teasingly -- a little dribble of the lube smears her face a bit -- and says in a voice that's deep and silken, "oh my... you're not getting turned on, are you?"

"No," you lie. "This is stupid--"

Cerise's eyes dart downward. She stares down the bridge of her nose at your crotch, and the tent developing there. She lifts a foot, sets it on the chair just between your legs. The implication is menacing. "You're a liar," she says with venom.

You move to stand up, but she shocks you back to sitting again by jostling the chair with her foot. That's all it takes. You gulp.

"Is this what you wanted all along, Alabaster? For me to be your mother? Did you need a little discipline in your life?" 

"You're crazy!" You say.

"And you're a nasty little pervert." She takes her foot from between your legs and tilts her chin up, as if imperiously judging you. "Come sit in bed with me."

She turns and sits there too, patting the mattress to beckon you along. "Don't worry," she says. "I'll take care of that perverted part of you that makes you such a dirty boy." She hefts the sextoy to demonstrate, its open end pointing down. A few lewd viscous strands of lube seep from it like a mouth set to drooling. 

The idea of "discipline" is still frightening, but the promise of Cerise jacking you off with an onahole is too alluring to resist. You stand.

"Take your clothes off," she says.

You ditch your shirt. Cerise, giggling smokily, watches the show with a hand to her cheek. Next, hands trembling, you undo your belt, and your button, and your fly.

"You're in such a rush," Cerise says.

Hands on either side of your waistband, you pause, and suddenly ask: "are you gonna get naked too?"

"Hmm~ Would that make your perverted dick even bigger, seeing my body?"

You nod.

"You want to see my breasts?" She folds her arm under her bosom again, to show it off -- the outline of her nipples are poking through now, proud and erect. "Or do you want to see... down here?" She lightly grips the hem of her shirt, where it sits draped across her soft, pale legs. She hikes it up, but only a little. And with her thighs pressing so tightly together, you can see nothing but the barest hint of the top of her pussy mound. And that only for a split moment. She drops the hem of the shirt over her lap again. "You're hopeless~" she laughs. Then, tilting her head: "what are you waiting for? Take your pants off already."

You have no clue how sadistic or gentle Cerise intends to be with you, but you're going along for the ride either way. You ditch your pants as well, and your boxers, and stand nude before your elder sister. You dick is jutting out in front of you, so hard it could fuck a hole in diamond. 

"Sit down. Right here, Alabaster. Let me take care of you... the way you should be taken care of..."

You sit beside her. She hugs you around your shoulders, and pulls you right into her buxom bosom. You can feel her tits pressing against you, so soft and pliant. She's focused on her task -- gazing hard at your prong, she slooooowly lowers the onahole towards it, and finally, after a long few moments, lets the tip of your prick kiss the opening. The onahole is so lubed-up that the moment of contact with your cockhead actually makes a smooch-like sound.

"Oh god--" you grunt. You try to buck your hips to seat yourself inside, but she presses down on your shoulders to keep you at bay.

"Shhh. Be quiet, perverted boy... do as I say, understand? Or I won't play with this dirty thing anymore."

"Yes," you agree.

She smiles warmly, hugs you a little tighter, and plunges the toy down around your shaft. You shiver with an exhilarated rush of pleasure, and can't help moaning again: "unghhh... oh fuck..."

"I told you to be quiet..." Cerise says. "Tch. You really do need discipline."

"I'm s--"

Cerise leaves you balls-deep inside the onahole as she takes off her shirt. It's like watching some kind of goddess reveal herself as she luxuriously peels the thin garment from her sweat-damp body. Her spine arches severely, arms raising high above her head, as it comes off. Her wide hips, her enormous tits, her skin that's milky and unblemished and soft-looking all over... and that ass that's so round and squishy looking, even when she's sitting on it. All of it is coated in just a thin layer of perspiration, smelling so womanly that it nearly blows you back. With her arms aloft, you see a few larger droplets of sweat descending from her flawlessly smooth armpits, and across the sides of her tits. Is she wearing Mom's perfume? Just a hint of it... and just a hint of something else, of female arousal, tangy... sweet and dirty, too. She keeps her legs pressed together, and you can see nothing of the cunt she's hiding. 

"Mmmf--!" you grunt in surprise as she takes the back of your head and roughly pulls her towards her rack. 

"It's too hot in here. Cool me off."

As she resumes masturbating you, adopting a pace that's maddeningly teasing -- too slow to make you cum, too fast to relish to eroticism; just a lewd drumbeat rhythm of slick, wet fapping -- you begin to lick her. You swirl your tongue around the salty expanse of her body's flesh -- from her oblong spongy cowtits, to her areolae and nipples, and in between her cleavage. She twists herself lightly this way and that to help you get to every spot. You lick the hollow of her neck, siphoning up a few larger pearls of her sweat, then her shoulder blades, and her upper arms... she doesn't stop you when you go a bit lower, but rather lifts her arms, each in turn, to grant you access to her pits as well. Like a pig, you bury your face in Cerise's fragrant armpits and suck her sweat from there too. As she tugs on your lube-slick cock with the silicone dicksleeve, your entire world becomes nothing more but the squishy crease of flesh there, in between your older sister's arm and torso. It smells like a concentrated version of everything Cerise: girlish but mature, clean but not well-kept, a whiff of probably days-old deodorant overpowered by much more recent daubs of perspiration, and just slightly tainted with the astringent reek of alcohol... it's unmistakably the essence of your sister. The taste matches: you could get addicted to this, you could become an addict of worshiping Cerise's armpits. You moan into her skin and are inwardly thankful the noise is muffled. But she hears it anyway, and tsks at you in her gently chiding way, even as she keeps her hand pressed to your skull and your face pressed to her body, even as she quickens the pace of her indecent cock-strokes.

Just as you feel you'll go blind and pass out, she lets go of you. You pull back and let the cool rush of fresh air into your lungs with a coughing gasp like a victim of drowning resuscitated. 

"Cerise... I-- I'm gonna..." you pant.

"Quickshot."

"Oh, fuck--"

"What a disgusting little brother you are, getting off on sniffing your sister's *armpits*... how indecent... you really are a pervert~"

She lays a hand flat against your chest and forces you to your back. She climbs atop you, adopting the position of a cat about to pounce: spine forming a concave arc, body rearing way back with her butt touching her heels. Her hard nipples tickle your ribcage. She strokes your face. 

"You're so hot," she coos. "You're absolutely *burning* up... did licking me there really turn you on that much?"

You nod yes, desperately.

"I'm all hot too..." she admits with a gentle tone. She slides her body against yours as she rises to a sitting position astride you. Her hands, supporting her weight against your solar plexus, conveniently block your view of her pussy. She looks so large from this angle... larger than you, even. "I'm a pervert, too..." she says, "...and your nasty body really turned me on."

She slowly parts her hands, to reveal behind them the cleft of her sopping pussy, and below that spot, her puckered brown anus. She's sitting on her tailbone, pussy angled up -- but having shown you everything, everything -- she settles her weight forward, and you feel a slick, wet, hot sensation against your groin: her wet cunt making skin-to-skin contact with you. 

"What are you going to do about that?" She asks.

"Let me fuck you--"

She laughs. Husky and sly. "Hmm hmm~ ... no... no. I want to sit on you. I want to feel that tongue of yours down here."

You begin to respond, with what you aren't sure. Cerise cuts it off anyway, by quickly twisting around and doing what she promised. She sits on your face.

Her meaty ass and cunt smother your air supply and completely blot out your vision. This, just as with Cerise's armpit, smells like her concentrated self. It smells so strongly because she's all sweaty here, too, and turned-on. You can feel her secretions making a ruin of your face. Her soft butt presses insistently down on your forehead, both pillowy and oppressive at the same time. Your nose is directly against the entrance of her asshole, and every breath you take is filtered through it. Your lips, puckering, are against the soft folds of her labia, that puffy mound of Cerise's that you're so obsessed over. Her cream is trickling out of her, and you can't help giving her a kiss right on her cunt to sample that ambrosia from its source.

"Good boy," she sighs happily. Her voice becomes harsher, and she grits her teeth: "Kiss my cunt. Kiss it."

You kiss her cunt again, and again. Your hesitant pecks become more forceful until they're full-on, open-mouth French kisses. Soon your tongue is snaking out, without your conscious command, to rub against her genitals and inundate your tastebuds with her flavor. You could lick your older sister's pussy all day and never tire of it. It's not candy-sweet like Rose's, or thick and cloying like your Mom's, but it might taste the best of all. It's like a pussy made specifically for you... even the way your flattened tongue fits so perfectly into her vagina, the way her pink insides clamp around it and keep it rooted there -- it's like your bodies were designed to pleasure one another.

Happy to ride your face, humping her cunt against your tongue and her ass against your nostrils, Cerise uses both hands to masturbate the onahole on your shaft. It sounds as sloppy as it surely is. You can feel the hot, slimy lube, mixed now with your cock's own natural juices, oozing from out of the opening, all around your balls, and down your ass. It seems you're as wet in your dirty places as Cerise is in hers. You're both a mess. You're making each other messy. Cerise's sweat and arousal pour out of her body in equal measure. Between the swampy wetness surrounding you, and the fleshy cling of her impossibly soft, thick butt, every breath has become a desperate struggle not to asphyxiate. You can breathe only shallowly, through Cerise's anus, as she jerks you off. You're making noises like a chronic snorer, or maybe like a hog -- a filthy hog at a trough of slop. Through it all, dutifully, you suck. You suck her soft cunt lips and her pulsing clit. You suck her dewy pussy-slit and the overheated interior of her pussy itself. You cup your mouth over as much of your sister's pussy as you can, and suck up all of her juices, right to the back of your greedy throat. You gulp it all down, throat undulating with the effort. 

Cerise plays with your balls and lightly scrapes the insides of your thighs with her fingernails. She's ranting: "Perverted boy... that's what you are... making me get like this... getting so horny over having your own sister sit on your face... nasty, dirty... drink it!"

You can't dispute the judgment. It makes your cock sing with lusty, masochistic enjoyment.

Without warning, Cerise cums on you. She suddenly bears down even harder than before, cutting off every last molecule of air, and squirts a hot stream of her girlcum into your mouth. Her orgasm voice is an octave lower than her speaking voice, as she sensually sighs: "oooooh... oooooooooohhh~ -- ooooh yesssss... like that... let me cum in you, Alabaster... open wide for mommy Cerise... that's it... suck, suck... suck me..."

She cums such a volume that you feel like you'll drown, as she uses you for a personal cum-toilet. But the flavor is so divine you can't think to complain, the pressure is so soft that it soothes the burning ache in your oxygen-starved lungs. You squeeze either globe of her ass as she rides you through a rolling orgasm, and you feel as if your hands will disappear within their infinite give.

After at last she finishes cumming, she clambers off of you and settles on her butt against the headboard. She sits Indian-style, with some pillows in her lap, and gets your head lying atop them. She slips a pair of her panties over your head, such that the crotch's inseam is directly against your nose -- as if you needed to be further overpowered by her scent.

"Do you like that?" She asks.

You nod up at her. "Yes... I do..."

"Aren't you such a dirty darling..." She lovingly brushes the matted hair from your face, first one side, then the other. She stares down at you like a mother staring at her child, smiling and cooin. "Do you want to cum now, for Mommy Cerise?"

"Yes... god, yes..."

"Shh, now... shh..."

Pulling your mouth towards her nipple, she sets to work on finishing off your orgasm. Your face feels like it's buried in a cloud, as you latch your lips to her and start to suck. Her slippery hand manipulates the slippery toy around your dick. 

She stretches it out, and really makes it last. You lazily nurse on Cerise for minutes stretching into an hour, stretching into two... while she plays with your perverted cock the whole time. She doesn't do more than lightly tsk in motherly exasperation when you start to grope her tits. And as she works on you, she begins to masturbate her own horny pussy, too. 

You and Cerise, in the end, share a sweet and explosive and incredibly messy orgasm together. 

And you swear, although it should be impossible, that as Cerise creams herself, and as you blow a dense wad into the hot wet confines of the toy she uses on you, that you can taste from her nipple a small but definite trickle of mother's milk.

---

This is one for the record books. You're all dressed-up, and Rose is slumming it. Rather than exert the effort of wearing her typical prim pencil skirt + blouse combo, she sits curled up on the living room couch wearing one of your t-shirts (and probably not much else), watching an episode of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives... suitably trashy TV for such a trashy getup. Since she's got no prom date, she has nothing better to do.

(You promised, after much nagging, to take her to prom in her senior year. Purely because she got so het up over it.)

Mom, standing over your shoulder, fusses with the pin on your lapel in front of the mirror in the foyer. Rose (the other one, that is), watches from the dining room table and giggles at the sight.

"Will you stay still-- geez--" Mom says.

"Will you stop manhandling me?--"

"Just be still!-- GEEZ--"

"I thought you didn't even like Whitney -- so why do you care whether I look nice for her?"

She finishes with your pin and guides you through a 180 to face her head-on. She brushes your hair from your face and takes hold of your shoulders. "If you're going to take that lesbian temptress to prom, you'll darn well look nice for her! I didn't raise a boy without the common decency to look good for his prom date!"

"...So do I look good?" You ask.

Mom pouts at you. Then, licking her palm, she tries to flatten your cowlick. It's humiliating, and infantilizing. But she won't take no for an answer.

It's then the doorbell rings. Rose Too leaps from her seat at the dining room table and rushes to answer it.

"Where's Casanova?" You hear Ms. Carte boom. Rose laughs, and points the way. Ms. Carte strides into the Soliloquy household.

You make a halfhearted ta-dah motion at her. Ms. Carte sizes you up like a buyer at a produce stand -- all but squeezing you to test for ripeness.

"You hardly look presentable," she says.

You let your arms fall to your side. "Seriously? What the fuck."

"Didn't you raise a boy with the common decency to look good for his prom date?" Ms. Carte demands of Mom.

"Don't complain to me!" Mom says. "I did my best! You just worry about your daughter. I hope you taught Whitney at least enough to know that she has to wear a bra under her dress!"

"Of course she's wearing a bra!" Ms. Carte snaps.

"Oh? Well that's a world first, then! She never seems to be wearing one when she comes by to steal the food out of my cabinets!"

They growl at each other.

"Where is she, anyway?" Rose Tou asks, from over by the living room couch. "I just have to see this."

Ms. Carte explains: "She's still in the limo. She's got a little bit of stage fright... typical pre-date nervousness, that's all."

You wonder at the kind of mind that can suck your dick in public but gets all antsy over a prom date. That's Whitney for you.

"Of course," Rose says. "I'll go get her." Before anyone can stop her, she strides from the Soliloquy house, towards the car parked outside... barefoot, clad only in a loosely fitting tee.

As Rose passes, Anna pokes her head in.

"Look what the cat dragged in," you say. You wave for her to come fully inside.

"We picked her up on the way over," Ms. Carte says.

Anna timidly steps into the light of the foyer. Her dress is breathtaking. It's a flowing pastel yellow gown studded with many-faceted sequins that turn complexly opalescent when the light refracts through them. Her hair is done up in a complicated Celtic braid-and-bun. Her makeup makes her porcelain skin blush and almost glow.

"Where's your date?" You ask. Though Anna definitely did not go to all this effort for the sake of the boy she's going with tonight.

"he's ... on his way..."

You sigh. This brinkmanship between Cerise and Anna is about to culminate in a nuclear catastrophe of epic prom-portions. Cerise was too proud to ask Anna to call the date with Connor off. And Anna is too proud to fold her bluff.

"Where is my fellow chaperone, anyway?" Ms. Carte asks. "I can't keep a bunch of horny teenagers under control all on my own."

"Tch--" Mom says. "You're such a nasty woman!"

Ms. Carte smirks at her. "Really, lady? I know how you handle the horny teenagers under your roof. Don't get high and mighty on me."

"She's upstairs," you say. "A little bit of pre-date nervousness herself."

"What date?" Ms. Carte laughs.

"Good question ... I'll go get her."

---

Cerise is sitting on her bed, head cradled in her hands. She's equally as breathtaking as Anna. She looks like she's dressed for a wedding, not to chaperone a high school prom.

"Well, Cerise," you say with an air of disappointment. "We're T-minus 10 minutes, give or take, before Connorocalypse 2015. You ready?"

"Fuck off."

"Anna's pussy is dripping at the thought of the fingerless gloves he'll be wearing tonight. Said so herself."

"Sicko! Freak!" Cerise takes a pillow and tosses it at you. You deftly dodge it.

"The truth is that she's almost as miserable as you," you say, sighing.

"Good. She deserves it."

"Fucking hell, Cerise. Are you really going to subject her to this?"

"I'm not subjecting her to anything!"

You stomp. "Goddamn it, you drunk dyke dummy! Yes you are! God you piss me off."

Cerise scowls.

"Did you dress in that outfit because you're super duper excited to be a chaperone?" You demand. "Or because you were hoping that you'd be doing more than chaperoning tonight?"

"I wore it because you made me."

The doorbell rings -- you hear the far-off echo of it through the house. Then come indistinct voices below, one of them male.

"...Fuck," Cerise says, on the verge of hyperventilating.

"You've got about 30 seconds," you warn her. "Make a choice quick. And make it good."

Cerise stares at you with frightened eyes. Only when you nod expectantly at her, arching your brows in a wordless gesture of, "get a move on!" -- does she get a fucking move on.

She jumps to her feet, gathers up the excess of her dress's skirt, and rushes downstairs to avert disaster.

You get downstairs in time for the fireworks.

"Oh -- Cerise-sama," Connor says in his reedy voice, turning away from an obviously-repulsed Anna. Anna is holding a bouquet of lilies up by her chest like it's a shield. Connor bows at Cerise in the pose of a Judo contestant, one flattened palm pressing against a fist. "M'lady. You look positively scrumptious... if I might be so forward... I could almost deign to beckon you on a date as well!"

Cerise punches him.

Right in the kisser -- full force, no warning. Just hauls back and klobbers him one.

The foyer of the Soliloquy household dissolves into confused noise. Your little sister cackles, Mom gasps, Ms. Carte vainly tries to pull Cerise away. Connor, nose bloodied, totters back. The fedora falls from his head as he stumbles, revealing his greasy hair, over-applicated with gel and swooped into a curly-Q.

"Fuck off, Connor!" Cerise shrieks. "She's mine!"

"Wh-whad?" Connor sputters, trying to stem the flow of blood with pinched fingers. The crimson drips from both his nostrils, over his philtrum, and down onto the black t-shirt beneath his cheap blazer. Cerise, stepping to him with menace in her eyes, forces him backwards out of the house, onto the doorstep.

Rose is just coming back with Whitney in tow. In all the hubbub, you've no time to appreciate Whitney's beauty. She sidesteps Connor's backwards-going exit as she enters, keeping both her hands raised in front of her and laughing, "whooaa-oaa-oaaa--" as she passes. Connor looks confusedly first from her, to the half-naked Rose beside her, and then to Cerise. Finally he tries to settle his eyes on Anna, who's still inside the house. But Cerise puts herself between them, blocking his line of sight.

"Anna is mine!" Cerise says. She pounds her chest like the alpha baboon warding off a weak upstart. "She belongs to me. Me! So go fuck your hand tonight and leave her alone!"

"Whad are you dawging abou?" Connor says petulantly. "I -- ghe-- dell her, Annda-- we're on a dayde--"

After a brief silence that seems to stretch far beyond its actual duration, like melted taffy being pulled, Anna finally says: "...date's canceled"

"Bud--" Connor begins.

"You heard the lady," Ms. Carte says. "Date's canceled."

"Bud!"

"Do you have a ride home?" Ms. Carte asks. Mom hands her a tissue, and she hands it off to Connor, for him to plug his freely bleeding nose.

"No I dond," he says glumly, once the reality of rejection settles in. "...I doog a daxi."

"I'll give you a ride back," she says with a sigh. "Sorry for the trouble... you've been used as something of a pawn, I think."

He sniffles as Ms. Carte leads him out. Cerise watches him depart with a grimace.

"i... belong to you..." Anna says, repeating Cerise's words in an obvious daze.

Cerise wheels on her. "Shut the fuck up!" She yells, grabs Anna, and kisses her. Anna's hands drop to the side as Cerise grips her shoulders tight and macks on her. She drops the bouquet of lilies to the floor.

Rose, like a trailer park Vanna White, uses both hands to indicate the splendor of Whitney's dress.

How splendid it really is.

Ms. Carte and Vivian selected only the very best for her. Like Cerise, Whitney looks as if she's dressed for a wedding more than for a prom. It's a gown of pure white, strapless, that shows off her chest without being slutty, and shows off her arms without being classless. The skirt is much longer than she is tall, and lies billowed around her feet in 360 degrees. The whole thing is tied off with an enormous bow in the back, like she's a present wrapped up for you. Her hair is done up with flowers, and she wears a tiara. For one of the only times in history, in this universe or the last, she wears makeup.

Her lips quaver, and she won't look at anyone -- least of all you. Her tan face is blushing darkly red.

"Well?" Rose asks, soliciting your thoughts.

But Rose answers first. "Whitney-chan!" She breathes. "You... you look like a girl! ... Coooool!"

Whitney grunts.

"It's true... you don't look half-bad," Mom allows. "I guess your mother and sister must have helped you quite a bit."

Whitney fiddles with the hem of her dress. She stares at her high-heels.

"Damn," Cerise says. "I thought I had the best dress tonight... oh well. Can't compete with billionaires."

"you're cute whitney" Anna adds.

Whitney huffs and sniffles, and turns her face away.

"What do you think, Alabaster?" Rose asks.

"I think--"

"Shut up," Whitney interjects.

You open your mouth to speak again.

"Shut up!" Whitney repeats, more forcefully. She stomps and looks at you with anger in her eyes. "Don't make fun of me! Okay? I'm not in the mood!"

"You're gorgeous."

She chokes, and draws chin back like you've sprouted a second head. "I... I'm..." She grimaces, and grits her teeth. "Asshole!"

"--What?"

She rubs her shoulders and glances all over her own body like she's just felt a bug crawling on her. "Fuck you. I'm ugly. This dress is itchy. It's too hot. It's gay as shit. I hate it. You're just laughing at me. I can see that smirk! You're fucking laughing! I'll kill you! Shut up. Shut up!"

She's beyond overloaded right now with her own embarrassment. So you do the only thing you can to shut her up: you kiss her. She immediately goes all limp and swoony in your embrace, and you have to support her by holding her around her back, lest she fall to the floor.

"OOOoooOOOoooOOO," your little sister croons, hands clasped over her mouth to amplify it. Whitney, even as she kisses you back, flips her the bird.

"Rude," Rose grumps.

You pull back from the kiss and meet Whitney's limpid eyes. "Let's go to prom, huh?" You say.

"...Yeah," she says with a grin.

A prom is never as interesting as it sounds on paper. Though the planning committee that you helped select, composed of only the best people, tried hard to lend the gymnasium an air of elegance... it is, after all, just a high school gym. The gentle many-colored lights and balloons and bunting and curtains and flower arrangements can only do so much. And the insipid music on tap is far from your style. And having to sway around the dancefloor with a gaggle of other BO-inflicted hormonal teens isn't precisely the cutting image of romance.

But Whitney is smiling, and her arms are warm where you hold her, and that's what matters.

You're a better dancer than Cerise is, at least, that's for sure. Whitney is a better dancer than Anna, too. Neither of you trip. But Cerise and Anna stumble so many times that it becomes almost vaudevillian -- as if they're dancing with four left feet. When they finally almost tip over the punchbowl, they give up the ghost, and resign themselves to being wallflowers for the rest of the night. Whitney chuckles at them, but only a little.

As you and she pass them during one of your revolutions through the gym, you hear them softly speaking.

"Anna... can I tell you something... without you thinking that I'm weird or creepy?"

"of course"

"I think I'm in love with you. Just a little."

Anna hugs her close, wrapping her arms around Cerise's sides, and buries her head in Cerise's bosom. "don't ever stop" Anna says.

Alex is here, too. He was on the planning committee. (See? Only the best people.) And Sable got voluntold to be a chaperone herself. Over the course of the night, they gravitate slowly towards one another. At last, they're standing side by side on the periphery, pretending not to notice each other. Until finally Alex musters up the courage to say: "um... Ms. Guiteau... will you dance with me?"

"...Why would I want to dance with you?" Sable asks.

Alex seems a bit stricken at that.

"Well. Why not?" Is his best argument.

Sable considers it.

Then she takes his hand and goes onto the floor with him. They're weirdly good dancers... and Sable lets Alex guide her without compunction. It's a favorite song of Alex's -- some psychedelic thing entitled Queen. How fitting.

The music towards the end of the night grows slow, and with it your dancing. As always in slow moments, your mind turns to trivia. "Do you know what the word prom is short for?" You ask.

"Promenade?" Whitney answers. She must have seen it written. She says it not how it's supposed to be pronounced, but in a way that rhymes with the word lemonade.

"Promenade," you tell her with the correct pronunciation.

"Oh," Whitney replies, blinking. As you continue to sway with her, she buries her face against your lapel. "I'm so stupid," she says.

"--What?" You reply, taken aback by the sincerity and sadness with which Whitney says it.

She sniffles, and looks up at you, smiling through the tears. "I'm so stupid," she repeats. "That's why you don't love me, right?"

You stop dancing. Though you try to keep her close, she wriggles out of your grip and steps back. In the middle of the crowded dancefloor, among all the noise and bustle of the dance, time nonetheless seems frozen. "What are you talking about? I love you. Of course I love you."

"I get it. It's okay. You love me -- but you don't love me like that. Not the way you love Rose, or Cerise, or Viv, or even Alex... people you can have a conversation with. I can't keep up with you. I never could. I'm so stupid... you can't love me like that because I'm not smart enough for you."

"You're smart," you tell her firmly.

"No I'm not. Don't lie to me, Ally--"

"You're the smartest girl in the universe."

She stomps. "See! You think I'm so stupid that I'll believe you! You're such a liar!"

"You're smarter than me," you tell her.

She shakes her head.

"You're smarter than all of us, really. Ask Rose, she'll tell you the same thing. Ask Alex. Ask your mom and dad. Ask V-- well, uh, ask pretty much anyone."

She wipes her tears with the back of her wrist, but then starts to cry pitifully. "What's gonna happen after school? When you graduate and move away?"

"We'll go to college together. Your dad... wants to hire me... and I know he wants to hire you... it's the family shop, after all. We'll be together."

"Is that what you really want?"

"I can't think of anything I'd want more."

She shakes her head.

You massage the bridge of your nose. "How can I make you understand -- that you're the better part of me? I don't know where I'd be without Whitney Carte. I'd be such a miserable fucking asshole... I mean... I am. But I'd be alone, too. You once told me -- well -- maybe you won't remember. But you said I was your friend when no one else would be. That's wrong, though. You were my friend when no one else would be. You loved me before anyone else. And fuck... I don't deserve it. Not at all. But I'd be the biggest idiot in the universe to turn it down. I love you, Whitney... I really do."

She's a bawling mess now, as you lead her from the floor amid gossipy whispering.

[ ] Tell her you want to start a family with her.
>[x] Tell her you want to start a family with her -- and marry her, too.

Stackleford, who got ditched by Kimberly and now is playing with a fidget spinner in a nearby chair, yelps in surprise when you grab the spinner from him.

"Hey-- what the fuck, nigger?"

You ignore him as you take out your keyring and pry one of the bearings loose from the toy using one of your keys. The bearing is shiny, smooth and chrome, and the exact perfect diameter for Whitney's left ring finger.

You get down on one knee.

"A-Ally--?" Whitney breathes.

You're drawing eyes now, all right. A public marriage proposal in the midst of prom is a somewhat unusual, although not entirely unprecedented event. So non-unprecedented in fact, that a busybody administrator strides over to say: "Uh -- this isn't allowed during school dances--"

"Oh, fuck off," Ms. Carte tells him. She yanks him back by his collar. "She's my daughter. She can get proposed to at prom if she wants!"

"Well that's a fucking curveball," Cerise says, hands on her hips. She glances at Whitney. "What are you waiting for? Say yes before Alabaster gets cold feet."

"Just so you know," Ms. Carte warns Whitney, "if you don't say yes -- I'm gonna take him from you. Don't make me marry a boy 16 years younger than me!"

Whitney covers her mouth with both hands. "Ally... Ally...! No fucking way--"

"Say yes!" Alex tells her, hand on her shoulder. He's beaming.

"marry that sucker" Anna chimes in.

"I mean, you don't have to say yes--" Stackleford begins. But he stops when Sable glowers at him.

Whitney doesn't say yes. She's too choked with tears to do it. But the way she throws her arms around you and happily slips the ad hoc ring onto her hand, is yes enough on its own.

On the ride back to the house in the limo, Whitney lies with her head in your lap, her arm stretched way out in front of her so that her hand is at the level of your face. She stares up at the ring as if in a trance.

"We'll get you a better one," you promise.

"This is the only one I want..."

"I thought you were going to marry Rose," Cerise says, petting a softly dozing Anna -- a girl still at her core an introvert who's sapped after public events like these.

"He obviously came to his senses!" Ms. Carte crows. It's hard to tell whose face is ruddier: hers or her daughter's. They've both been crying nonstop. "And not a moment too soon. He realized that us Carte girls have the goods! Signed, sealed, delivered!"

The truth is that you're going to marry them both.

Not legally, of course. One will have to change their name or be adopted by your Mom, and won't be recognized by the government as your lawfully wedded wife. So while they'll both be Soliloquys, only one of them will have the tax benefits.

Which one? Well, that doesn't matter. Who Uncle Sam thinks is your wife doesn't make any difference at all.

"Whitney Soliloquy..." she murmurs. She looks from the ring, to you. "I always dreamed of this... even on the first day I met you... I walked around all night at home saying, 'Whitney Soliloquy, Whitney Soliloquy' ... so much that I thought Carl would slap me. But even back then I didn't think I'd ever... I didn't think that it would actually be real..."

You kiss her tenderly.

"I love you so fucking much, Ally," she says.

You whisper in Whitney's ear that you want to put the wedding off for a couple more years -- not because of cold feet -- but so that Ms. Carte can enjoy a little bit of time with a girl named Whitney Carte. She deserves that much. And there's all the time in the world for Whitney to be a Soliloquy.

Your entire lives, in fact. And trillions of lives after.

>Sometime in the future.

You find the others waiting in the waiting room. Which makes sense. Does that make sense? Yeah.

...It's been a very long day.

Exhausted, you sit and slump in one of the puke green chairs, the cushion letting out a little wheeze of air as your weight settles upon it.

"How is Rose doing?" Charlotte wants to know.

"Whitney?" Is Renee's concern.

You sigh deeply. "They're both done," you announce.

A ripple of surprise spreads through the room as everyone variously leans in or stands, all eyes on you.

"Good man!" Armstrong bellows. He starts to dole out cigars, despite the disapproving glare of the RN behind the counter at the doors to the delivery ward. Saul takes one, Darkbloom takes one, Nelson takes one -- but you decline with a wave of your hand.

"Come on, now," Darkbloom chides. "Live a little. If not today, then when?"

"I just had Rose shrieking in my left ear and Whitney shrieking in my right ear for the past 10 hours. I'm not in the mood to cough up a lung right now, too."

"Is it our fault that you impregnated two girls at once?" Kay demands. She swipes a cigar for herself, and, winking at the RN, lights it up with a zippo. She blows a ring of smoke, plus a little arrow of smoke to pierce it. "Oh yeah. That's the stuff." She tilts her head. "So? What do we got?"

"Girls."

Her smile disappears. "Girls? Girls as in girls plural? Both girls?"

You nod.

Noelle is at her side immediately -- she makes the international symbol for cash money, rubbing her fingertips together with her thumb. Kay, rolling her eyes, hands over a crisp $50 note. You hadn't known there was a wager.

And it wasn't the only one. Mom hands Charlotte a twenty. Anna hands Cerise a fiver. Nelson, groaning, counts out six Benjamins and hands them to a smug Armstrong.

Renee is beaming -- until suddenly she isn't. A look of horror spreads across her face. "Wait... I'm a grandmother."

"Isn't it wonderful?" Mom says.

"The best!" Charlotte agrees.

"No!" Renee hollers. "I'm too fucking young to be a grandma-- oh Jesus... Alabaster... go put that baby back!"

"You can't put babies back, Renee--"

"Do it!"

You rub your forehead.

"When can we see the little shits?" Cerise asks.

"Cerise..." Alex mutters.

"What? Am I wrong to insinuate that babies are little shits? Because they definitely are."

"I think babies are wonderful," Samantha says, practically swooning. "If you ever need a babysitter, remember me okay!"

You're not sure whether that's the greatest idea.

Vivian smirks at you. "One sister down, and one to go."

"Huh?" You say.

"Do not think I have forgotten all that pillow talk of impregnating me, Alabaster Soliloquy."

Darkbloom takes the cigar from his mouth and awkwardly examines the cherry, pretending he didn't hear what he just heard.

"All right." You stand up. Not like you'll be getting any rest out here anyway. "It's okay to go back there... but only the closest family and friends."

Of course, everyone follows you back.

The girls both had tough labors, but Rose's was probably the tougher of them. The doctor had remarked that if he didn't know any better, he'd swear the baby was deliberately kicking, punching and clawing at Rose's uterine walls on its way out the door.

This kid's gonna be a real pain in the ass, you can tell.

By contrast, Whitney's baby didn't put up too much of a fuss. The labor was hard mostly because of Whitney's own slight hips... and also because she probably wasn't ready to give birth quite yet. When Rose's water unexpectedly broke earlier in the morning (at the worst possible moment, right as she was giving a presentation to shareholders), Whitney decided she had better go into labor, too. Via sheer willpower, Whitney broke her own water, determined to get her baby out into the world first. She wants to be the mother of the older "twin."

Rose, on the left, all bedraggled, hair mussed, face unusually pale from the loss of blood, nonetheless glows. She cradles the little bundle of, uh, joy -- who shrieks and cries so hellishly that you'd think the world was ending.

She's got the reddest fucking hair you've ever seen. You and Rose are both reasonably certain you've settled on a name.

"I love her..." Rose says. "I didn't know a love like this was... even possible..."

You love her, too. Even as horribly and obnoxiously as she wails, you love her unconditionally, in a way that makes your heart swell until it aches and you think it will explode. You can hardly believe you made something so amazing and perfect.

Whitney's child is a little harder to place than Rose's. The baby girl is small even for a newborn, with wispy black hair. Staring back at you, not making a single peep, she's got a strange expression on her face. Like somehow she knows you -- like somehow she's been waiting for you, rather than the other way around.

Whitney may well have just gotten some stiff competition for the title of smartest girl in the universe. She cradles the baby, rocking her back and forth, with pure love in her eyes. "What are we gonna call you?" She wonders.

"...How about Ophelia?" You say.

Whitney laughs. "I love it... Ophelia. Ophelia what, though?"

"Penelope?"

"Done. Perfect."

"Ophelia Penelope Soliloquy," you say, testing out how the full name feels on your tongue. You love it, too. You nod at Whitney, and repeat it: "Ophelia Penelope Soliloquy."

"Heeeh."

The end of Fuck Quest. (For real.)

---

Amber finds Ophelia in the study (of course). She's studying (of course). A big thick tome about the rise and fall of the Roman empire... actually, that's its name. That Ophelia, such a hoot.

Amber slaps her back. Ophelia lets out a tiny "oof."

"Well!" Amber says. "If it ain't my sister from the same damn mister! How the heck are ya?"

"I am fine."

"Fine," Amber repeats. "Fine is fine. But good is better. And great is spectacular! How can we get you from fine to great?"

"By leaving me alone."

"Nope." Amber sits in a chair beside her.

Ophelia sighs.

"I just got back," Amber says. "Guess from where! Wrong! Mom took me shooting. Pew pew." She makes finger guns, which Ophelia, still reading, doesn't even glance at. "Got me all hyped up like I was double-barreling Monster energy drinks... trademark! ... Now I'm in the mood to do something bad!"

"Mm."

"So what'd you do today? You didn't spend all day reading, I hope."

"Aunt Vivian took me to the museum."

Ophelia has such a hard-on for the local nautical museum, and Aunt Vivian, the big old softie, always indulges it. Ophelia's got every famous ship and every famous captain and the location of every famous lighthouse memorized, just about. It's nuts.

"Listen, Ophie -- I need some help. Put down the book once and do something useful, huh?"

Ophelia finally puts the book down. "What do you want to do?"

"The same thing we do every day..." Amber says, and rubs her hands together. "Try to take over the world! Muwahaha!"

"...Do you have anything more specific in mind than that?"

Amber frowns. "Well... we could always prank Aunt Cerise."

Ophelia considers this. "Hmm. I suppose we have not done that in some time, have we... it could generate useful data."

Amber snorts. "Data... well, whatever you gotta tell yourself to justify it."

The two little girls leave the study together, ready to make some mischief.

*********************************

Kay answers so swiftly that you're almost unsure your knock came first. Your hair flutters in the wake that the opening front door creates. She stands at the threshold of her apartment with one hand on her hip and the other on the doorframe, her weight slightly shifted to one foot. Playing at nonchalant, you guess. The living room beyond is only dimly lit -- candles. Kay herself is clad in a silky robe that stops just above her knees, under which (you assume) is nothing at all.

"Great," Kay says, "the bull is here."

"Could you not?" 

"What's the matter?" She says, acting hurt. "Look... if you don't want to be our bull, that's all right. I'm sure I could go online and find another bull who'd be more than happy to knock Noe--"

"Could you seriously fucking not?" You say through gritted teeth. 

Kay titters, but doesn't make way for you.

"Well? Are you gonna let me come in?" You ask.

"Oh, I am definitely going to let you come in," Kay says. "That's the entire point. Isn't it?"

"You've got jokes, huh," you say dryly, as Kay steps aside at last. You enter the apartment. You sniff, and pull a face. "God, it stinks in here... what is that?"

"Sex on the beach," Kay tells you.

You regard her quizzically over your shoulder while she closes the door and latches the deadbolt.

"Incense," she clarifies. "Sets the mood. I thought you really liked incense?" Passing you, she steps out of her robe in a single fluid motion, leaving the lightweight garment draped over the back of the sofa. You were right -- she was nude underneath. In the candlelight, her olive skin is even darker than you're used to. Her cunt is wet.

"Uh huh," you say flatly. "Is 'setting the mood' also why you have 100 candles lit like I just walked in on a fucking seance?" 

"Uh huh," Kay repeats, her tone equally flat. "Christ, Alabaster. Do you want to fuck or not? It's like you're trying to talk me out of letting you fuck my wife."

"Letting me? Oh, I'm gonna fuck Noelle whether you want me to or not, trust me. She's the one who wants it -- and she's a consenting adult, last time I checked. Not your pet bitch to breed out."

"Says you. But if I say no... then she'll say no." She pats her crotch. "Noelle wants this pussy more than she wants that dick." 

"Wanna bet?" You say.

Kay doesn't answer. She steps past you, toward the master bedroom. You follow swiftly. 

"How's Ophie?" Kay asks, dropping the harshness from her voice.

"Better now," you say. "No more quarantine." (Ophelia, now only a few months old, had a scare with chicken pox recently. She was touch-and-go for a little while, but now she's on the mend.)

Kay stops just outside the bedroom door. "That's good. I don't want offspring with a weak immune system." After a beat, she adds: "Does that mean we can come over again sometime soon?" 

"Sure. We'll make spaghetti."

Kay smiles. You're not smiling, though -- more like inwardly cursing yourself for volunteering you and Rose to make homemade spaghetti for guests. Well, Whitney will be happy.

Kay puts a hand on the dooknob, behind her back, but she doesn't open up. Instead she stands there between you and the door, and holds an index finger up to your face. "Now listen," she says. "I want a boy."

"...Okay?" You reply, befuddled. "I can't help it if it's a girl. That's the risk you take for not going the in vitro route here."

"Don't give me that shit," Kay says. "I want a boy. So don't let me down."

You huff. "Fine," you say. "I'll make sure to only shoot boy sperm tonight. I'll keep the girl sperm in my nuts."

Kay stomps.

"Is there some better answer you'd like me to give?" You say. "I'm seriously at a fucking loss."

But she doesn't press the matter any further. Instead, she finally opens the door.

Inside the bedroom Kay shares with Noelle, is the girl in question herself: lying on her back on top of the covers, nude, and a little sweaty, but shivering despite that. As with the apartment's living area, the bedroom's lights are out. Candles provide the only illumination, and in contrast to Kay, the weird light makes Noelle paler than normal. The reek of incense is stronger still. "Here too, huh," you say. "Gonna put on some Enya next?"

"Do you want me to?" Kay asks. "I've got her greatest hits."

"Could you fucking not?" Noelle snarls. You're glad the vote is two against one here. Noelle's on your wavelength, as usual.

You lock eyes with her. A beat passes. "Hi," you say tenderly, by way of breaking the somewhat awkward silence that precedes an act of deliberately babymaking sex.

"Hi," she says back. "...Spaghetti Friday?"

"Uh, sure. You heard me talking out there with Kay?"

"If you're offering... sounds good. I'd love to come see Whitney and your other wife." 

"Already trying to set up a baby shower?" Kay says. 

Noelle rolls her eyes.

Kay, shrugging, takes a remote from the nightstand and clicks a button. "All right. So Enya's out. Music is still a good idea, though." A bluetooth speaker on the dresser comes to life, its gentle turquoise glow adding to the ambiance. It begins to play soothingly plinking string music, backed by a continuous ethereal acoustic thrumming. It's the kind of stuff she does yoga to, you know -- and know all too well. 

Satisfied with the background music, Kay climbs into bed with her wife and resumes the spot you suppose she was occupying before your arrival. She sits on the pillows, with Noelle's head resting in her lap. From this position, her arms are long enough to reach across Noelle's body and freely molest Noelle's pussy. When Kay stuffs Noelle's twat with her fore, middle, and ring fingers -- your eyes, adjusting to the darkness, notice how wet Noelle is already. Her pussy, her inner thighs, her crotch, her butt -- even up to her belly -- and even the sheets below -- are glistening with female arousal. And Noelle's almost pained cooing sigh, contrasting with how easily Kay's fingers slip right inside her body, tell you that Kay has been working her over for quite some time indeed. Your dick lurches in your pants.

"Keeping her warm for me?" You ask.

"Oh yes," Kay says as she sensually works her fingers in and out. "Two birds with one stone... gets her ready for some cock... and gets your cock ready for her..." She nods at you. "Are we making you hard, Alabaster?"

You answer by beginning to disrobe.

Kay watches with a suitably smug grin -- satisfied that all her preparation is coming to its fruition. Noelle is a little more trepidatious. She's still all ashiver, and her eyes dart from you, down to her own soppingly wet genitals, and then up, at her wife. Her breaths are coming fast and shallow. They go faster and shallower when you ditch the last of your clothes -- your boxers -- to stand before her totally naked now yourself, and fully erect.

"So horny," Kay says with a tut. "Don't your wives take care of you?"

"I need a little something extra from time to time," you say.

Kay pulls her dripping fingers from Noelle. Slowly then, Kay parts the labia with a hand on either side of Noelle's thighs, so you can peer directly at Noelle's most intimate parts. "Do you wanna use my wife's pussy, then?" Kay asks you.

You get up on the bed on your knees, crawling between Noelle's legs. Both women watch you intently. As you take your rigid dick in hand by the base, Kay pulls her own hands away to give you clear access. Yet, as badly as you'd like to, you don't just shove it in and bang away. You want to draw this out. It's more fun that way.

"You're fertile today?" You ask.

Noelle nods. "I went off the pill a few weeks ago... I should be right in the middle of my cycle right now... so... yes."

"Kay's such a talker," you tell her. "But this is your body, after all... so here's your last chance." You begin to lightly, but unmistakably, buck your hips -- grinding the underside of your penis against the very swollen, very tender, and very wet outer lips of Noelle's vulva. "If today is your fertile day, and I do this... if you let me cum inside you... you're gonna have a baby. You're gonna get for-real pregnant. We'll have a child together -- we'll have to raise it. Are you 100%, for sure, okay with that?" 

Noelle chews her lip as you rut against the folds of her vagina. Her mind is just about ready to break apart from this new lewd stimulus, the sensation of your velvety hard cockshaft rubbing her already overstimulated clit and twat. She didn't need the hard sell. You've all discussed the logistics of this, at exhausting length. You just want to hear her say it again, right here, right now -- before you give her what you know she wants.

"God, yes!" Is Noelle's plea. "I want it. I want it so bad! Make me pregnant... please!"

"Let's see," you say with a sigh. You're acting unhurried and vaguely disinterested. You jut your hips all the way forward so that your nuts press hard against Noelle's pussy and your prick lies over her belly. In this way, you indicate to her exactly how far inside of her your cock will go whenever you pump her balls-deep. The answer is pretty far. Your cockhead reaches well past her navel, covering it. And your girth makes her slender frame seem impossibly small to fit you. You'll be rearranging her insides, just to inseminate her. 

But one thing you love about Noelle's body is that as small as she is, and as almost-frail as she may look when dressed -- she's far from out of shape. She's a well-toned girl, a real gym bunny, Noelle. Her tummy is taut and tight, and while she doesn't have a six pack, she does have defined abs. Her body can take your cock's most vicious pounding. It'll have to, too, because once you get going inside her pussy, you won't be able to stop until you've sated yourself.

With an index finger, you press down on that deliciously springy stomach of hers -- pushing on a spot just in front of your now leaky dick. "I'll be all the way up here," you say. "This should be about where your uterus is, right? I'm gonna cum inside your uterus." You press down over and again like testing the firmness of ripe fruit, and wryly add: "Squirt, squirt. I'll make a real mess in there. Sound good?"

Noelle exhales hard, and nods vehemently.

"Do you have a marker?" You ask Kay.

"Sure thing," Kay replies, leans way off to her left and fishes through her nightstand, conveniently at arms' length. She produces a little sharpie, green, which she hands to you. You uncap it. With the exactitude of a surgeon, you draw a dashed line across Noelle's belly. It's a visual reminder of how deep inside her body you'll be -- an indicator showing her where she's about to get fertilized. Noelle, chin pressing against her collarbone to watch, goes misty-eyed and slack-jawed as if this thought alone has hypnotized her. Meanwhile, her tummy, already a little sweaty, is becoming slimy from the fluid dripping out of you. The room is beginning to reek like your dick, the scent merging with the flowery musk of Kay and Noelle's cream. When you pull back just a bit to reveal Noelle's belly button, the little innie she has is full of precum that glints in the candlelight.

Kay idly runs her palms up and down Noelle's body, fingertips playing across Noelle's outer thighs, her sides, and her chest -- her nipples (which Kay squeezes a little between her fingernails), her ribs (which Kay tickles), and up to her face (which Kay lovingly pets). Kay, like Noelle, is focused on the lurid sight of your cock, but she has enough bandwidth left in her attention to titillate Noelle with this sensual touching. To tease her pussy. To amp up her loving wife's need for a hot cock. This combination of teasing, yours and Kay's, has exactly the intended effect. It has reduced Noelle to a shivery, impatient, trembling mess. 

When her need and impatience is at its maximum, only then do you relent and push your cock into her waiting cunt. But you act with the same unhurried pace you've kept the whole time, forcing your shaft into her over the course of a cruelly long eight or nine seconds. Gripping her thighs for purchase, and also to keep her legs widely spread, you savor the slimy texture and ridged interior of her pussy half a centimeter at a time. Her insides peel apart so easily to make way for your invading member, dribbling their love juices down your length the whole way. Her body is lubricating you, so that you can go deeper and deeper, and deeper and deeper. This slow-burn penetration is one of the most blissful sensations on the planet -- a sexual agony that feels so sweet and itches so hot. Noelle's breath catches, caught between a sigh of relief and a moan of need. It comes out as a desperate "ahh-hhh-hhh~~" -- this proud cop now reduced to incoherent animal noises. She's itchy, too. Her nasty hole is itching so much, and screaming at her because of it, crying out for her to get herself properly fucked -- begging for you to plunge yourself in all at once and slam-fuck her pregnant. 

But you keep your tortuously slow rhythm. You squeeze the supple flesh of her legs so hard that the dimples your thumbs create begin to bruise. She doesn't even feel it. All she feels is that intensifying itch inside her womb, the one that only the the balm of a hot wad of sperm can scratch. Her egg is primed and waiting, and her pussy is doing its best to milk out the baby batter that will overwhelm it. 

As addicted as you are to sex of any kind... this impossible ecstasy, of deliberately knocking a girl up, takes your pleasure to a realm beyond imagining. It's the ultimate freedom, because that last insistent worry of sex evaporates. That perennial worry of, "what if she gets pregnant?" -- is not the worry anymore at all, but the express purpose. So your head can be truly empty of all thought save how good the fuck feels for your dick. 

You hear buzzing, and glance up to see that Kay is sitting way back on the pillow, pressing an aquamarine vibrator against her dark pussy. Her jaw is hanging open and she's staring transfixed at how you fuck her wife. Noelle notices the sound too, and rolls her eyes back, tilts her head up, to gaze at Kay. Kay smiles down at her. In unison, then, suddenly: Noelle partially raises her head, and Kay hunches over, their faces meet -- Kay gripping both sides of Noelle's face -- so they can kiss. Kay keeps the vibrator between her legs and cums wetly against both the pillow and the top of Noelle's head, while the two of them make out.

Kay's cumming, and her adorable kissing, make Noelle's swampy pussy even wetter. She's really juicing now. And your leaky dick only adds to the growing mess of sticky fuckslop inside Noelle's cunt. As much as you wanted to draw this out, to make this fuck last for hours, your animal instincts are gripping you. Your mind is going blank and your motions become essentially automatic. No conscious input necessary. No higher thought required. No reason, no speech, no trace of what separates the human from the ape are needed any longer. All you need is to thrust your hips back and forth, as fast, and as hard, and as far as your can. All you need is to plunge your achingly horny dick in and out of this lovely, squishy, juicy little hole, until you cum and make it pregnant. 

So that's what you do. You get into an easier position, one that's further forward, so that you lie almost entirely over Noelle's vulnerable body. Propped on your forearms, you can really pound her fertile womb. Your butt and hips are moving back and forth in an almost circular motion as you relentlessly push in and out of her, each pump coming faster than the last. The sound of your mating is nearly deafening. It drowns out Kay's stupid ambient music, and her vibrator too -- even though she has it on its highest setting. 

You're a greedy man, so you pull Noelle's face away from Kay's and plant a hungry kiss on Noelle's lips, your tongue snaking into her mouth. Noelle gladly acquiesces, and lets her drooly tongue entwine with yours. Kay lets it happen. She even tenderly pets Noelle's cum-matted hair while Noelle drinks down your kisses. Soon enough though, gently but insistently, Kay pulls Noelle's face back towards her own, and resumes kissing her right where you left off. 

For the next few minutes, you and Kay trade frequently, sharing Noelle's mouth. Passing her between you like a shared possession. Noelle's eyes, in the brief intervals you glimpse them, are glassy, vacant, and full of love. You're really spoiling her, you and Kay are.

It's too much to endure. The delirious heat and tightness of Noelle's soon-to-be-fertilized womb are driving you to sexual insanity. You're about to lose your nut. You're about to blow your load and make a creamy, drippy, gooey mess inside her -- exactly as promised. She wants to make sure you do, and locks her ankles around your tailbone to prevent any possible last-second cold feet. But you wouldn't pull out for anything. You're going to cum in her if it's the last thing you do. 

You let Kay fully take over kissing duty as you press your chin to your chest, grit your teeth, and focus on giving her the most forceful fuck you ever have. You're grunting like a fucking caveman, and drooling. You're so hot you're shivering, and your cock feels so good it's shuddering as if it's orgasming even before it actually erupts. You try to make the plateau last as long as you can, but it's no use forestalling the inevitable, and at last you have to let it go. You roar, literally like an animal, and collapse against Noelle as your cock spurts a depth charge of semen into her. It is now truly and completely irrevocable, this decision you've made. You couldn't be happier. You hug her, still shivering -- she's shivering, too, as she hugs you back -- and you inseminate her. 

Your orgasm is relentless, so good it's almost painful. It lasts for ten, twenty seconds or more. Whoever says men can't have rolling orgasms hasn't fucked like this before. Just as you think your cock is done burping up its cum, it shudders again and starts to cum anew. Your mind's eye swims with visions of your cockhead completely filling Noelle's tiny little baby room with thick white spunk. It really feels like you are. You're inundating her body with gallons of cum from your horsecock. Noelle is screaming her own climax into her wife's mouth, who's cumming equally as hard against the vibe. You all have a glorious, thundering cum, the three of you, together, as you make a baby.

When, three or four minutes later, you at last pull out -- Noelle's cunt grips you so tightly that it's hard to do -- the veritable waterfall of jism that oozes out of her reddened pussy is a sight to behold. Quickly, Kay grabs a pillow, and props it under Noelle's butt so she doesn't lose the lion's share of it. Even at that, Noelle's twat lips, butt, and asshole -- and the beddings below -- are creamy, smeared with globs of your seed. Well, in simple terms, you came a whole lot inside her. She's definitely pregnant now. You, and Noelle, and Kay, all admire the sight of the bubbly cumload percolating inside of her and overflowing from out of her.

"Wonderful," Kay says, clapping her hands together. She scooches aside and lies down beside her wife. 

"--Kay?" Noelle says.

"Now me," Kay tells you. She gets a pillow below her butt, too, and spreads her legs for you. Her pussy is coated with her cream, just raring to go. 

"You have got to be kidding," you say, still woozy from how hard you came the first time.

"Not at all," Kay says. "You couldn't promise me a boy, so we'll just have to play the odds."

You glance Noelle's way for guidance. 

"You heard the woman," Noelle tells you. "Get to work."

---

Amber bugged you for weeks before you relented and took her on a day trip to the local zoo. She pulled out every stop she had. She left the zoo's fliers in your work things so you would discover them at random through the day. She made a slew of promises, mostly unkeepable, of all the chores she'd do around the house if you took her. She served you and Rose breakfast in bed on Saturday while gratuitously calling you "Daddy" and reminding you that the zoo was opening in an hour. You were never sure what it was about the zoo that had her so obsessed. But now at last you've decided to take her -- and she couldn't be happier. 

It's a date for just the two of you. Which suits you fine. The zoo is such a bothersome, hectic bustle of noise and crowds. Tacking on the need to juggle multiple girls would make it exponentially more tiring. Amber's enough of a handful on her own. 

The Palo Alto Zoo isn't exactly the San Diego Zoo. They have nothing like polar bears, tigers, or rhinos. But for a small zoo in a mid-sized city, it's a nice enough place to stroll through, at least. Clean cobblestone paths wind around little gardens dotted with scatterings of exotic flowers in a rainbow of colors, and acacia trees that shade you. And at regular intervals, of course, are overpriced concession stands. Fuck the people who decided that cotton candy should cost $10. Fuck you for caving in and buying some for Amber.

Amber walks with you, hand-in-hand, skipping, as she snacks on a blueberry-cherry swirl of cotton candy on a stick. She eats disgustingly, manhandling her food like Henry VIII with a turkey drumstick and chomping at the wad of cotton candy like a rabid junkyard dog. You peer at her from the corner of your eye.

"Having fun?" You ask.

"Totes magotes, Daddy," she says.

"Please never say that."

"Pffft. You don't get pissed at Rose when SHE says it."

"I do. But I've accepted that I can't change her behavior. I can still change yours."

"Yeah? How?"

"By spanking you."

"Weakening your case there, Daddy."

You sigh. "Look, you really nee--"

"Oh SHIT," Amber screams. She wrests her hand free of yours and goes running for a set of large cages at a fork in the path. "Monkeys!"

Japanese macaques, specifically. They're variously lounging, wandering around, and tree-climbing within their self-contained arborium. An artificial hotspring in one corner of the habitat seems a particularly popular hangout. A plaque in front of the cages informs visitors that wild specimens live in snowy mountain regions where they've adapted to the cold by seeking out similar natural onsen for comfort and cleanliness. Their cage is made of an extremely thick gauged chain link enclosing them on all sides, including overhead. There are two perimeters of it to keep visitors from directly interacting with the monkeys. Does that stop Amber? Not at all. She pokes her stick of cotton candy through the first perimeter and chucks it like a javelin through the second. When it lands in the dirt, the monkeys go wild, and start to fight over it.

"Amber!" You shout. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She ignores you, transfixed at the spectacle of their fighting. "So like us," she marvels.

"You're not supposed to feed them," You hiss.

"Whatever," she says. "I don't want to hear it from you. I've seen the things you feed our bunny."

"Samantha is a person," you insist. 

Amber spins and points at you. "Yeah, and I have a bridge in China to sell you. Fuck off with that." Her eyes drift down, to the bottle of water in your hand. Before you can stop her, she grabs it from you. 

"Hey--"

She unscrews the cap and begins to guzzle. "Sorry, Daddy. I'm super thirsty." She finishes off the bottle in a couple deep swigs. Then she conscientiously finds a nearby recycling bin and disposes of it. 

"Didn't know you were such an environmentalist," you say.

"I do my part. You know, the only reason I'm here is to scout out weaknesses."

"--Weaknesses?" You say.

Amber points at the macaque cages. "Like right here. A charge of thermite could be rigged to blow a hole in the chain link and let all these poor little monkeys out. You could even do it remotely. Like say... from home, the night after placing the charge. And you know the VERY best part? There aren't even any security cameras to catch you!"

You feel ill. "Oh my god, Amber. You're not serious. ... You're not serious, are you?"

"I'm serious as hell. When am I ever not? Radical animal liberation has always been one of my staunchest beliefs. It's a crime that humans exploit innocent animals for our own--" 

The bell of a passing vendor's cart dings. Amber nods at him to grab his attention, and holds up two fingers. "Yo! Two hotdogs, please! All beef if you got 'em."

The man doles them out. You thought she was ordering for both of you. But she double-barrels it, gnoshing on both hotdogs at once. She washes it all down with about a liter of Sprite. She eats and drinks so quickly that she's done practically before you're done paying. Licking mustard off her fingers, she says: "fuck, I love a good sandwich. Anyway... what was I saying?"

"Animal liberation," you tell her.

"I'm for it. 100%."

"Uh huh."

Amber grins toothily.

She wanders around the monkeys' cage's outer perimeter some more, reading the informational plaques. You keep a close eye on her to ensure she doesn't lay any bombs. Then again, you pretty much always have to stay vigilant on that front, when it comes to Amber. 

She soon gets bored of reading, and bored of how listless the macacques are, too. So she starts making monkeyish poses at them, with monkeyish noises to accompany it. She rubs her scalp and her tits with her knuckles, going "oook-OOOK-oook-OOOK!" She's trying to rile them. It works only a little. The more aggressive males hoot and wag their butts at her to establish dominance. Amber chortles. She jumps, pulling a 180, and wags her butt right back at them. 

Having seen more than enough, you yank her by the wrist and tug her onwards.

She grunts in surprise as the momentum nearly causes her to take a faceplant. "Oook-- watch it! I could have you arrested for abusing me!" 

"You wouldn't dare," you say curtly. 

Amber pouts. 

Struggling to keep up with you, she finally says: "at least give me upsies if you're gonna walk so fast!"

"Upsies?" you reply. "I don't know what's up with you today, Amber, but quit with the little girl schtick. You're way too old to--"

Amber again gets free of you, and freezes in place in the middle of the path. You stop a couple paces on. Her face has gone blank with anger, her body stock-still. She locks eyes with you.

"Give me upsies, you worthless piece of shit," Amber says.

You give Amber upsies.

With Amber now on your shoulders, you wander further along the twisting paths. It's an unseasonably warm day, and both of you are sweating, all over. Amber is wearing one of her too-slight outfits, a breathy tanktop and short-cropped denim shorts that cling tenaciously to her upper legs. That leaves plenty of bare skin: her bare thighs, sticking to your neck; her bare arms and calves, draped over your front. She's dripping on you. And you can feel the intense warmth of her crotch against your nape. 

It has you sweating a bit more heavily, too.

For relief from the heat that mere shade can't provide, you duck into a bird sanctuary. This indoor area is paneled with wood flooring and has low, moody lighting. More crucially, the A/C is a blessed respite for you both. 

There are exotic birds of all sizes here, from finches and fairywrens to macaws and birds of paradise to -- with a wall all to themselves -- a peacock and peahen. The birds are enclosed within individual habitats suiting their individual sizes, with glass walls facing you. The less sizable habitats are stacked. Amber finds herself at eye level with a puffin. She bobs her head at it. It bobs its head back. The two instantly form some sort of deep connection that borders on spiritual as they bob their heads at one another. 

"Oh yeah," Amber says. She bounces on your shoulders in sync with her bobs. "Oh yeah. Oh yeah."

The puffin starts to hop up and down too, to mirror Amber's bouncing on your shoulders. This will continue for as long as you allow it to, you realize. And as you move on, the puffin seems crestfallen. It follows Amber to the edge of its habitat, and cries after her when she disappears from its view: "Aaaa-eeem! Aaaa-eeem!" 

As expected, you weren't the only visitors to seek refuge in here. You have to mill around and between throngs of people to see the various birds on display. Amber, totally unconcerned with dignity, yawns and stretches as she tells you: "thanks for dipping in here, Daddy. I was sweating my balls off."

A woman with her young son overhears this as she passes, and glares at you with wild-eyed indignation. You give her a sympathetic eye roll as if to say -- kids, right? But this busybody mother doesn't seem to appreciate how rambunctious your girl is.

"Watch your mouth," you warn Amber. 

"Put something in it if you want to shut me up," she sneers. You begin to say something, but it's no use. She's too hypnotized all of a sudden by a parrot beating its wings at her. Her face lights up. You stop and let her gawk at it for a few moments. Until she says: "hey Mr. Bird -- repeat after me -- ahem -- 'Hitler did nothing wr--'" 

You whisk her away.

"Asshole!" Amber shouts, and kicks your chest with the heel of her tennis shoe. "You can teach Myrna dirty words, but *I* can't teach these prisoners some history?"

"You're embarrassing us, Amber. Behave yourself."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll have to punish you."

She kicks you again.

That's it. She won't stop being bratty until you make her. You walk her right out the swinging exit doors and into the sunny afternoon again. The rays beat down on you both.  

"We didn't see all the birds!" Amber complains. "Fucking asshole!" She adopts a singsong voice: "Asshole Daddy! Asshole Daddy!" 

You don't respond as you continue a ways down the walkway and then sit at a lone wood bench. You haul her off your shoulders and plop her over your lap. 

"D-Daddy--?" Amber stammers. Not so tough now that reprisal is upon her. She tries to twist around in your grip, but you keep her held fast and prone. 

You sigh. "This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me. Get ready."

"You fucking bastard!" Amber wails, bratty to the last. "We're in public! There's so many people aro--"

You raise your hand, and swat her on the tush. The slap resounds, and echoes -- this park has remarkable acoustics. When you spank her a second time, you can hear the distant retort of hooting animals crying out in reply. 

"Daddyyyy--!" -- THWACK -- "Ow! Ow, ow!" She cries. She raises her head from the benchtop and looks miserably all around. You're not sure whether the worst part for her is the pain of getting spanked or the humiliation of it happening in broad daylight and full view of passersby. You spank her again, and she kicks her legs, but she's powerless to stop it. "Whyyyy..." she snivels. 

"You know why." THWACK. 

People walking past watch the scene somewhat judgmentally, although no one says anything. You don't care either way. Sometimes Amber needs to be spanked. It's your established role: she acts out until she crosses the line, and you show her the consequences of doing so. She wants you to punish her -- right up until the moment it's happening, and then she feels sorry for herself. 

Each time you spank her, you rub your hand in a rough circle on her surprisingly cushy butt, groping it. "Be thankful I didn't pull your shorts down," you growl. You spank her again and again:
 
THWACK -- "owwww! Stop, stop! I'll be goo--" THWACK -- "OWWW! Please! I promise!!"

You relent, and let her clamber to an upright position, in your lap, facing you. Her face is a hot mess of tears, and her skin is flushed red. She's bloodshot. She sniffles. "I'll b-be good, Daddy... I'm sorry."

You grab her by the chin, squishing her cheeks between your fingers. "Yes you fucking will," you inform her. "Or next time I'll really make you regret it."

She nods, unable to speak due to the way you hold her. Her entire body is trembling.

Having extracted her promise to be good, you lean in, and kiss her tenderly. She exhales hard against you, clutches your collar. You make out with her a bit. Her breathing returns to normal and she gets her crying under control, stops trembling. The two of you kiss as you sweat against each other. Your skin is all wet and sticky. You fondle Amber's sore ass some more, and although it makes her squeak with a bit of residual pain, she doesn't resist, just snuggles closer. Your cock is getting hard, swelling and twitching in your jeans. You'd rather not get caught fucking Amber on a public bench. She's thinking the same thing, you'd guess, because she pulls back and says:

"Uhh... Daddy? I gotta go."

You quirk an eyebrow. 

"*Go*," She repeats. She nods slowly at you. "I really, really... gotta."

You glance first one way and then the other down the cobbled paths. There isn't a restroom in sight.

"Can you hold it?" You ask her.

"Um." 

She pushes her chin against her flat chest to glance down at herself. You look, too. There's a small but noticeable wet spot in her shorts. Oh boy.

Amber blushes. "Oh gosh, I'm sorry... I drank too much..." she says.

Behind the bench is a small shrubbery arrangement that forms a circular fork in the zoo's walking paths. The shrubs are a little over five feet tall, and thickly vegetated. At the center of the arrangement stands a sturdy tree. When you lead Amber by the hand through the scratchy branches and leaves, you come out on the other side in a clearing just roomy enough to stand in. 

As Amber brushes the stray leaves and bits of twig from her clothes, she says: "what are you doing? Why did you--"

You squat before her. These bushes are tall enough to hide Amber, but not tall enough to hide you if you're standing up. Of course, passing visitors would be able to see both of you anyway if they were to stray too close and peek over the top. But this will have to do. And the danger is a turn-on all its own. 

"You'll have to go here," you tell her. "There's no time to get you to a bathroom."

"Daddyyy..." she whines. But she puts up no fuss as you unbutton her shorts and undo her zipper. Instead, she only says, smiling warmly: "my Daddy's such a pervert..."

You slowly peel the tiny thing down her spindly legs. The denim clings and pinches and altogether resists being stripped off Amber's body. Even on hips so slight, these shorts are a couple sizes too little. The material especially doesn't want to slip past Amber's awesome bubble butt. But with your firm hands to force them down, finally she's exposed. She wasn't wearing panties -- as expected. 

Her shorts around her calves, you can see Amber's little pussy in all its unblemished glory. Its perfectly in-turned lips, utterly hairless mound, and delicious puffiness. Amber's cuntlet always looks illegal in the extreme, but it looks especially illegal today, in the bright light of the afternoon: so pale, and so sticky with a lewd mixture of sweat and arousal, that it glistens. Her cunny is like a morsel glazed with a thin coat of sugary icing, and it smells just as enticing. 

"I... can't pee with an audience," Amber says.

You stroke her legs and gaze up at her. "Try. We have to be quick or someone will see."

She pulls her tanktop up by the hem so that it's well clear of her crotch. You can see her slight torso and cute navel. She's so smooth and clean, even if she's all sweaty. Standing there, her shirt hiked and her pants pulled down, Amber chews her lower lip and flexes her surprisingly toned tummy. But only a small dribble drools out, and runs down her inner leg, before the flow shuts quickly off.

"I can't," she complains.

"I'll help," you say. 

You latch your lips to her genitals. They taste like salty candy, milky and tangy. Amber, surprised, giggles and clutches your hair. 

"Daddy, stop--"

You don't stop. You lick her all over. You probe your tongue around her wet cunt, rake it across her itty clitoris, flick it against her urethra. You inhale her wonderful scent from directly off her dimpled skin. Amber's writhing becomes a little more insistent, so you wrap an arm around her bare ass to keep her pinned to your mouth. She can't escape. Her voice goes more shrill and staccato: "Daddy -- Daddy, you're really gonna make me pee -- Daddy--! Daddy, stop!"

You hear it before you taste it. The hollow pattering of Amber's urine hitting the back of your mouth. Amber cries out in a mix of embarrassment and relief. The torrent is rushing out of her and impossible to stem. You keep licking as your throat works overtime to swallow. Amber's pee is frothy, a little bitter and sour, but not foul-tasting at all. That's to be expected since she drank nothing but water and Sprite today. Her bladder must have been really full because she goes and goes... it's so hot that it almost burns, and when when you exhale, you glimpse steam coming out. 

At some point, Amber gives in to to the pleasure of this sweet release. She grabs your hair and arches her back so severely that she's almost at 90 degrees. "Daddy, you're -- oh gosh -- are you drinking it? Are you *drinking* my pee?" 

She forces herself to straighten her spine so she can look at you while she pees down your mouth. She keeps tight hold of your hair and watches through half-lidded eyes. You lick her inside and out. She begins to grind her pussy against you while she relieves herself. She giggles devilishly. "Haha... you're really drinking it all up... is it good? Is it? Huh? Drink my pee, Daddy!" She pulls your hair while she pees on you, the brat.

You drink her until she's completely dry. Amber empties the entire contents of her bladder straight into your mouth, and even when she finishes pissing, you keep your lips latched onto her to suck out her cum, too. She hugs herself, letting the tanktop fall loosely over her body again, and mutters: "fuck, fuck, fuck..." But all at once, her eyes shoot open, and she says: "enough -- enough... I can't cum like this." 

"What do you mean?" You ask.

She gulps, and voice going almost an octave deeper she moans: "I need your cock inside me, Daddy."

Amber slumps to her butt and splays her legs. She raises her hips just a bit and wags back and forth. She's presenting. 

You're glad she offered her pussy to you, because otherwise you'd have had take it by force. You tear your jeans off and crawl atop her. Pushing her roughly down, you hold her around her head and back. You trade hot, wet kisses. Right here in the mossy grass, amid the wild calls of animals from around the world, you're about to mate with Amber's tight cunt. Squawking birds and howling monkeys meld with Amber's gasp of pained excitement, as you slip your massive cock into her body. Her lips curl into a broad O, her gasp becomes a silent shriek, but you keep going without mercy. You bite her bottom lip, sigh in pleasure, and start to hump her.

"Daddy's gonna cum inside you," you snarl. "Daddy's gonna fucking cum inside you... beg me for it...!"

"Cum inside me, Daddy! Please! I want it so bad!" She tosses her arms around your neck and hugs you close while you nail her into the dirt. You've completely neglected to stay on the lookout for lookie-loos. For all you know, you could be drawing a crowd. There might be police. You could not care less. You just gaze intently down at Amber's perfect face, framed by her fiery hair splayed on the dirty ground. You relish the sensation of her sticky, gooey, bratty cunt wrapped around your dick. You pump her at such a frenzied pace your skin begins to bruise.

Your wild fucking is alerting the animals, for sure, if not the people here: their calls all around you are increasing in volume, echoing through the whole zoo. Amber will not be the only creature who gets pregnant in the next few moments. The call to mate hangs thick in the air right now.

You too begin to grunt -- fittingly -- like an ape. You can't help yourself. Something primal grips you as you ram this bald cunny with your manly cock. Amber's grunts are more feminine but they also sound so animalistic, unevolved. Right now you're just a couple of monkeys swinging your hips together. Who cares if she calls you Daddy? Incest, real or imagined, is no barrier to mating when you're an animal. You've got a cock, and she's got a warm cunt that she's making available for it. Of course you're going to use it. Of course you're going to cum inside it. You were both in heat. She presented, you mounted her. It was the natural course of things.

The ground below you becomes stained with your commingled juices. Your nasty rutting comes to a crescendo. You rear up onto your haunches and grab her by both her wrists. Thrusting your hips so fast they become a blur, you fuck her with rapid full strokes -- all the way out and all the way in -- extracting your cock completely so the fresh air flows across the head and shaft, then digging it all the way inside again, deep inside, straight to the snug embrace of Amber's quivering womb. It only takes a few seconds. But time is dilated at the moment, and it feels like an eternity of agony on the edge of ecstasy. Your entire body convulses, your abs flex, your butt tightens. And then it's happening. You spew a scalding load of spunk into Amber's fuckhole. 

"Daddy! Oh, fffffuck, that's it! Cum inside me! I want it all! I want all your cum so fucking bad! Thank you Daddy, thank you thank you thank you!!"

After a climax so awesome, you'd usually prefer a few minutes to lie on top of her and recuperate while your still-hard cock twitches inside her cunt. It's such nice sensation to let Amber's messy cunt massage your fuckmeat as the last of your sperm seeps out of the head. But you know you've already risked enough, and need to get yourselves decent again. You pull out, reluctantly, enjoying the wet plop it makes. Your pearly jizz immediately sloshes back out. It pools in a thick puddle beneath her ass. If her pussy looked glazed before, it looks like a frosted donut now. So pretty. You're a bit disappointed that you have to tug her shorts back up and conceal such a sight from view again. 

The crotch of her shorts has a much more noticeable -- and much slimier -- wet spot in the crotch now. That's fine. You give her upsies again and let her ride your shoulders for the rest of the zoo visit, hiding her shame from others. She's a much better behaved and more polite girl with your sperm percolating through her body. She stinks like raw sex, sure, which draws some wary looks from the other zoo-goers. But their suspicion never leads to a confrontation. Hey: it's a zoo. And zoos stink. Amber was right, coming here was a great idea. You buy her some more cotton candy as a reward for her good behavior, and for thanking you when you spunked inside her. You buy her a few more cans of Sprite, too.    

---

You lie with Rose in bed together, on your sides, facing each other. The nights when you fuck other girls are numerous nowadays, but you still usually wind up in your bed with Rose at the end of the night. It shook out like this in the Nail House too, of course. Although in 422 there's an even better reason for it. You never know when one of those nightmares will strike. They're starting to taper off... but only just.

This isn't the time for such a morbid train of thought. You haven't seen Rose since the afternoon, and so as you sweetly kiss, you break the good news. "I saw Samantha today."

Rose's eyes light up in joy. "No! You saw Sam again? Really?"

You nod.

"Oh my goodness." Rose's voice is fluttering with happiness. "I thought for sure we would never find her..."

"Blessed be the Optimizing Parameter, I guess," you say wryly. "Hallowed be her name."

Rose isn't in the mood for jokes. She wants details, quick. "How did you find her? How is she?"

"She's doing really well," you say. "She's working at a bike shop not too far away. It suits her. I didn't expect to see her when I went there... but... there she was."

"Why were you at a bike shop?" Rose asks, confused.

"Long story."

She moves on. There's a lot of long stories in this carefree day and age. "Did you have sex with her?"

"I saw Samantha Smatters for the first time in trillions of years. You do the math, math genius."

She tuts at you. "Prick. You should have called me or something."

"Calm your tits. Fuck. We'll get another crack at her. It's not like she disappeared. And it's not like it's particularly hard to get her to spread her legs, in case you forgot." You turn through a full 180, and reach down over the side of the bed for your backpack. From inside you produce a little something special. "Here. I brought back a souvenir to whet your appetite until we can go back to the shop together."

Rose grabs the G-string from you, pulling it towards herself like a child handed their favorite toy. She presses it to her face and joyfully inhales Samantha's unique scent. You can hear the rush of air past the silky underwear and straight into her lungs.

This isn't her typical brand of fetishism, but when it comes to Samantha, Rose makes an exception... well, pretty much everyone does. The familiar smell of Samantha's pussy is both fruity and musky, sweet and sexy, clean and dirty. It's an intoxicating blend that overwhelms the brain with all its complex notes and undertones. As Rose presses the crotch of the undergarment against her nose, her eyes roll to the back of her skull and she seems to be practically cumming just from that.Still, you can't resist the opportunity to rib her. "You're a real pervert. You know that?"

Rose nods, blushing, and closes her eyes as she huffs and huffs.

"You gonna hog that thing all night?" You ask her.

Eyes still closed, she nods again.

"Selfish slut," you say with a smile.

Through the garment, Rose replies: "You had Sam's actual pussy all to yourself, and didn't even tell me. Don't give me that. Let me have this..."

"I didn't have it all to myself," you grouse. "Alex, Anna, and Sable were all there too. We passed her around."

"Not my problem," is Rose's muffled reply between deep inhales.

"Well, what are you gonna do for me?" You ask.

She starts to knead your manhood with her knee, as she suckles on Samantha's g-string.

"That's a start," you allow, shifting to allow her better access. "But that's not good enough."

Rose sighs in frustration. "You're so demanding. Can't ever let a girl have the fun, huh?"

"I believe in equality, that's all..."

You feel the blankets shift around and hear the smooth noise of Rose's legs moving one over the other, as she gets one foot's toes in the elastic band of her other leg's kneesock. She takes the sock off like that, reaches down under the covers, and pulls it up. "Here," she says.

You snatch it from her. Unfortunately, over the years, the scent of Rose's used socks have gone from being a torture for you to being a perverted pleasure of yours... is this what Stockholm syndrome feels like?

She has your number, anyway. You hate and love her for it. What can you say about this dirty thrill? This girl who has become your wife gets off on taunting you with it: the tart, sweaty, slightly nutty aroma of her socks after a long day spent confined inside her flats. As you press the sole of this strangely alluring, slightly damp thing to your nostrils, your cock get a little harder. And Rose laughs lowly at you, feeling it twitch against her leg. "Who's the pervert?" She asks.

"We both are," you say. It's true. Who else other than a pair of perverts would lie in bed together sniffing underwear? Oh well. You roughly grab her and twist her to her other side.

"Alabaster--!" she grunts, still holding Samantha's underwear to her face.

"Shut up," you tell her, still holding hers to yours.

You enter her. You and Rose fuck like animals, just like that.

Afterwards, lying spent in each other's arms, trading the G-string and the sock between yourselves (Rose is nothing if not vain) -- kissing one another from between them, even -- you mention an idea of yours:

"We've got all the ingredients, you know. Whatever strange pheromone cocktail Samantha has... my Mom's cooking... and whatever the hell it is Vivian likes to drug us with... if any of those work on their own, then..."

"That's dangerous, isn't it?" Rose says, gulping.

"Danger is fun," you say, as your tongues swirl around one another's past cotton soaked variously with sweat and cream.

---

At school, you and Rose find Vivian in the library reading Marx. It's an interesting discovery.

"Know thy enemy," is Vivian's explanation when you ask her about it.

While it's true that politics makes strange bedfellows, maybe one day in the future Vivian will find that bedfellows make strange politics, too.

"I have a question for you," you tell her, settling in across from her at the long study table.

"Out with it, then," Vivian says. "I am deep in contemplation, and would like to return to my research."

"Uh huh. What do you drug me with when you want to get me in the mood?"

Vivian at last puts her book down, and perches her cheek on her fist. "I've no idea what you're talking about. I think you're delusional."

"A spectre is haunting our love life," you tell her. "The spectre of aphrodisiacs."

"Very droll. Consider a career in standup."

"We're asking for a good cause," Rose tells her, standing at your shoulder.

"We want to conduct a... scientific experiment, on my family," you explain.

Vivian smiles with one side of her mouth. "I see. You want to drug your mother and your sisters, then have your rapacious way with them."

"Me too," Rose says.

Vivian nods at her.

"So what do you use?" You ask.

"To reveal that would be to ruin the magic, would it not?" Vivian asks.

"Look -- I can ask you nicely, or I can beat it out of you," you say.

"You are a terrible negotiator, Alabaster. You have just weakened your position by making an even better counteroffer on my behalf."

Rose grins sadistically. "We'll beat you in appreciation, then."

"I expect you to. But I must demand something more than that."

You wait for her to say.

"If I tell you the secrets of how I ply my trade... and provide you with a source for my ingredients... you will promise to use it on me."

"...Promise to use it on you?" You say.

"Mm. You must deploy it against me, without my foreknowledge. Then, at the moment when I am at my weakest and most desperate, take sexual advantage of me. These are my conditions. Do you accede?"

"I accede," you say solemnly.

She nods. "Wonderful. The concoction I use on you is a roughly one-to-one-to-one mixture of heroin, cocaine, and MDMA -- aka ecstasy -- cut with microdoses of PCP, LSD, and methamphetamine."

You feel a sick revulsion in your chest. You push your chair back from the table, jumping to your feet, as if blown back by an invisible force. "Oh my -- oh my god--"

Rose meanwhile has her hands tented across her nose like a person frozen in the moment of sneezing. Her eyes, from either side of her knuckles, are saucers, and she's gone completely pale. "You used -- that on us--? Without our consent--?"

"Consent?" Vivian says, cocking her head. "How quaint."

Revulsion turns to rage. This horrific breach of trust is something you'd never expected. "How could you... how could you do something like that to us! What the fuck, Vivian?!"

"It's not as awful as you make it seem," Vivian says. "The mixture I use carries a quite small risk of fatal overdose... less than 1 in 100, perhaps, if administered with care."

You want to beat her. For real. Rose seems right there with you. And it's made all the worse when Vivian begins to laugh at your sense of betrayal.

"Ufufuf--"

"Fuck you, you horrible... horrible... raper!" you scream. "You raper! You drug dealing raper!"

"Go to hell!" Rose adds. "How on Earth could you do that?"

She wipes mirthful tears from her eyes. "Please... please, sit. I am only joking."

"...Joking?" you sputter, mid-rant, caught off-guard for the second time in as many minutes.

"Yes. I wanted to see your reaction. Of course I would never dream of trafficking in such highly illegal narcotics. To say nothing of the risks and immorality. Pervert I may be, but entirely mad I am not. Sit. You are both making a scene."

Temples throbbing, you grope your way to your seat and practically fall to your butt. "Holy shit," you whisper, as your heart slowly returns to its normal pace.

Rose sits beside you, with equal difficulty, wiping the cold sweat from her brow. "Don't fuck with us like that," she says.

Vivian giggles. "What I really use is a serum of Spanish fly, ground rhinoceros horn -- ethically obtained, never you worry -- bull's testicles -- aka Rocky Mountain oysters -- ambergris, yohimbine, rabbit pheromones--"

"Doubling up a little, then," Rose mutters.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

"--and sildenafil. All of which is legal, nonaddictive, impossible to overdose on, and quite horny-making."

"Horny-making," you repeat flatly.

"Yes. Horny-making." She reaches past the collar of her dress, and produces the pendant of her necklace -- which isn't a pendant at all, but a phial. "1/16th of a teaspoon is enough to drive even the most frigid person to insatiable sexual frenzy."

"You carry it with you?" Rose marvels.

"I am ever prepared." She yanks the phial, snapping her necklace, and hands it to you. "Enjoy, Alabaster. May you think of me when you have a gaggle of overstimulated blood relatives clambering over one other to mount you."

---

In the kitchen that Sunday, when Mom excuses herself to take a restroom break, you quickly swoop into the kitchen. The Soliloquy family kitchen is already awash in the heavenly scent of rendering chocolate and freshly whipped batter. Rose is using a handheld wire whisk to beat that chocolate and that batter together -- creating a finely grainy mixture that will be just perfect as brownies, once baked.

Mom has taught her so well. It's the only reason she was even willing to leave the room for so short a time as to go pee. She trusts the night's main course is safe in Rose's hands.

"Did you do it?" You ask, sidling up to her. You watch while she whisks. The widening gyre of the brownie mix is as hypnotic as a swinging pendulum.

"Mm, not yet," she says. "I was waiting on an opening."

From the pocket of her apron, she produces Vivian's phial.

You go searching through the little fob of measuring spoons sitting on top of the counter. "The smallest they go is 1/8th of a teaspoon," you report, glum.

"Let's eyeball it, then," Rose suggests. "We don't have much time anyway."

She unscrews the black cap. Maybe it's only the placebo effect manifesting itself, but you swear simply being close to the uncorked serum is enough to make your dick lurch.

Rose slowly tips the thing towards the mixing bowl. A tiny droplet the color of bromine comes viscously out, like a drop of melted tar, and lands on top of the batter. You and she eye it.

"Is that enough, do you think?" She asks.

"Try a little more."

She adds another couple droplets.

Then a couple more. And a few more after that.

Then finally, she just upends the entire thing. Glug-glug. Fully a tablespoon or more seeps out before the supply is spent.

You take another pair of Samantha's panties from your back pocket and rinse it a little under the sink's tap. You wring a tiny bit of the water into the bowl, too. You're just putting the panties back into your pocket when Mom returns.

"So you've decided to help after all!" Mom says. "Finally learning that a husband's place is at his wife's side?"

"I think you two have got it from here, actually," you tell her. Rose starts to whisk again.

"Hmmph," she says as you draw past her. "You'd better be thankful for all this hard work!"

You know you will be. You leave the kitchen again.

From the living room couch, your other Rose watches you coming out. She's gripping the headrest, chin resting atop -- obviously sitting on her knees.

"Smells oishii in there," she tells you. "What's good in the neighborhood, Ally?"

"Brownies," you say as you sit beside her.

She twists around and sits on her butt again. "My favorite!" She pips.

"They'll be especially good tonight, I think," you tell her -- just as the doorbell rings.

Rose hops to her feet and runs to answer it. "Tadaaaaaima~!" She shouts, throwing the door open.

"Isn't it okaeri?" You hear from the other side of the threshold. That would be Ms. Carte's voice. She may find weeabooism distasteful, but she's been around it long enough by now to have picked up on some of the stock phrases -- and she finds incorrectness even more distasteful. 

"Oh, yeah," Rose hums. She puts a finger to her chin. "Ummmm...?" 

"Let us in, you fucking bimbo," Whitney shouts -- emphasis on "fucking" -- but she says it somehow lovingly. Whitney doesn't wait before pushing through, though -- and comes followed by her mother, then by her little sister. As Vivian passes the threshold, Rose takes her hand:

"Are you super duper excited for the meet next weekend, or what?" 

"I am on tenterhooks," Vivian says, feigning aloof sarcasm. You just know Vivian is counting the seconds to the upcoming Lolita meet Rose has decided to drag her to, despite the disinterested airs she puts on.

"What's a tenterhook?" Rose asks. She's so concerned. "That's not gonna be a problem, is it? I've been waiting for this meet for so long!"

"She's excited," Ms. Carte tells Rose, having had it up to here with Vivian's shit. Rose claps with happiness. 

Mom is at the entrance to the kitchen, arms folded -- no clapping on her end. "What are you doing here? I don't recall inviting any of you hussies into my home!"

"Blame your son," Ms. Carte says. "He isn't spending enough time with his own girlfriend. That's why we have to track him down like the dog he is."

Ms. Carte might be reproachful on her daughter's behalf, but Whitney herself is as lovey-dovey as can be. She's already in your lap, hugging you around your neck and kissing you sweetly, giggling. 

It's true that ever since Mom banned condoms at the Soliloquy household, you've been venturing out a little less often to sow your wild oats. But you had no idea it was getting on Ms. Carte's nerves. You'll have to make it up to her -- and to Whitney and Vivian, too. You kiss Whitney back. No shame about playing tongue hockey in front of everyone. 

Although this does lead to a bit of jealousy as well. Vivian stands before the two of you and pointedly clears her throat. 

Whitney gets the picture. Smiling wolfishly, she wraps a hand behind Vivian's head and yanks her towards you, getting her into a three-way tongue kiss that grows hot and heavy pretty quick. No one's had a bite to eat yet, but already they're acting like bunnies in estrus. Maybe Rose was right when she said this idea was dangerous... but you're in too deep to call it off. You put the thought aside and enjoy the eager tongues of these two sisters swabbing around with your own. 

"That's what I like to see," Ms. Carte says. "Aren't my girls the best? Don't lie."

Mom retreats to the kitchen with a harrumph. 

"I owe you a finder's fee," you tell Ms. Carte.  

"Oh?" She says. 

You crook your finger, and Ms. Carte approaches. Whitney and Vivian make way. Whitney doesn't leave her spot on your lap, but she does let her mother bend over, lean in, and have unfettered access to your mouth for a little while. You and Ms. Carte make out like you just got married, her moans at once unbelievably dirty and unbearably cute. Whitney swats her ass and wheezes with delight at how it jiggles, but Ms. Carte is undeterred, and keeps macking on you like she doesn't even notice.

The kiss only ends because there's thudding from upstairs that draws your attention towards the foyer just as Cerise -- and behind her, Anna -- arrive into the living room. Ms. Carte straightens her spine and points at Anna: "you!" She booms.

Anna literally hides behind Cerise like a frightened child behind her mother, gripping Cerise's shirtsleeve. 

"Why haven't you been at Transhumanism Club?" Ms. Carte demands.

"She has a big project in Sable's class," Cerise says. "You know that. Cut her some slack."

"A student of Anna's caliber must be able to balance the demands of her curriculars and her extracurriculars!" Ms. Carte says. She narrows her eyes. "I know what the real story is. *You've* been distracting her and eating up her time."

"Renee--" Cerise begins.

"Don't even try!" Ms. Carte says. "Ever since prom it's been like this. I don't care that Anna has final projects coming due. We have a final project coming due in Transhumanism Club, too! She needs to show some energy!" Ms. Carte pauses to lock eyes with the frightened Anna, who's not quite tiny enough to fully shield herself behind Cerise. Anna squeaks and cowers even harder.

"What is your final project, anyway?" You ask. 

Vivian grins. "A concept of Ms. Carte's -- augmenting our pet bunny to control a pellet dispenser using only its brain."

"...Using its brain," you repeat.

"It's suuuuper cool," Whitney affirms. Then she puts on a pouty face. "Which you'd know already, if you actually joined the club. Dick munch."

"We'll be giving it an ocular implant that can control the dispenser," Ms. Carte says. "We perform the surgery next w--"

You stand, all but practically dumping an indignant Whitney on the floor. "Excuse me for a second," you mumble. "I don't feel so good."

As you rush towards the bathroom, you hear Cerise grousing: "the fuck is his problem?"

---

By the time you quell your miniature panic attack and return to the living room, the whole lower level of the Soliloquy household is awash in the scent of Mom's baking brownies. This is a signature dish of hers: a quadruple-double fudge and peanut butter brownie bomb, stuffed with marshmallow fluff and topped with melted white chocolate chips. These things have the density of a collapsed neutron star and the softness of ripe peaches. If they had no taste at all, the sheer tactile joy of eating them would be enough on its own to satisfy. But, oh god, the taste... the taste brings it to a level approaching Nirvana. You chose the right meal to dose with aphrodisiacs, all right. 

There's an electric buzz circulating through the air already, carried on these wafting currents of chocolate scent. The girls sitting around in the living room seem restless and half-agitated -- growing hot under the collar just from the smell. 

Rose and Whitney idle the time away by playing Street Fighter (their button mashing makes the outcomes of matches essentially random, not to mention repellent to watch). When one or the other is losing, they retaliate with thigh-slaps and butt-bumps that don't seem wholly platonic. Meanwhile, Cerise sits cross-legged on the recliner distractedly browsing her laptop. As for Vivian and Anna --

"Girls," Ms. Carte tells them, slipping out of her flats. "Would you massage me? I've been on my feet all day long." She slumps down on the couch and splays her legs out. 

It's hard to say who's more eager to please her. Both Vivian and Anna immediately fall to all fours in front of the couch, each taking one of Ms. Carte's stockinged feet and beginning to softly rub. Ms. Carte sighs in appreciation and wiggles her butt to settle herself a little deeper in the couch. Although you're all pretty close -- sexually as well as romantically -- this sort of spontaneous display is out of the norm. Yet here it is, Ms. Carte making some unchaste little coos and pips as the two underage girls rub the soles of her feet. The way they kneel in front of her is like the pose of admonished slaves: spines curled, faces down, asses up. Your cock is already stirring, just watching. You'd love to get down there and fuck one or both of them, but you'd like to keep your rounds chambered until the real fun begins at dinner. 

"That's nice..." Ms. Carte murmurs. Her voice is dreamy. "You girls are very good to me. You should do this more often."

"yes mist-- ms. carte," Anna says.

Ms. Carte grins. She wriggles her toes a little, causing the semi-opaque material of her socks to bulge and strain in an oddly alluring way. Her toes press against the seam and make the fabric expand in all directions, which in turn makes it easier to see through -- why is your mouth watering...? Must be the smell of dinner, of course.

Before you can get carried away, you go around the recliner to chat with Cerise. As you pass behind, see what's on her screen: right here in front of everyone, Cerise is browsing ex. She's reading a doujin about a futanari girl raping two (2) crossdressing boys. That would explain why she's been blushing and chewing her thumbnail for the past few minutes. You clear your throat, and this startles her from her daydreams of wanton trap abuse. She slams the laptop's screen closed. "What are you doing!" She yells.

You shrug. "Nothin, muffin."

Rose overhears that, and giggles stupidly to herself. 

You lean over Cerise's shoulder, and direct her line of sight by physically turning her head. When she sees how Ms. Carte has turned two of her favorite students into her personal slaves, Cerise's eyes go wide. They go wider still when, unbidden, Anna kisses the ball of Ms. Carte's foot. Not wanting to be outdone, Vivian kisses Ms. Carte there, too -- then starts to lick and suckle and huff her scent without any dignity. You can hardly judge them. You were doing much the same just the other night in bed with Rose, after all...

Ms. Carte just keeps her eyes shut and smiles to herself as she basks in this perverted service. The girls begin to rub her calves too, while they worship her feet with their lips. Arms looped over the back of the couch, Ms. Carte lets them work as they will, without instruction. 

"I... didn't know Anna was into feet," Cerise says.

"You've never stepped on her face?" You say.

Cerise shakes her head.

"You're missing out."

Cerise, with some difficulty, tears her eyes off the sight of Anna kissing all over Ms. Carte's feet, to glance up at you. "You've stepped on her face before, too?"

"I've done everything I can think of to degrade and humiliate her," you say. "It's fun."

"You're such an asshole," Cerise grumps.

"In case you didn't notice? Being mean to her makes her horny." You nod at where she's curled up on the floor. Ms. Carte is pressing her foot against Anna's face with increasing roughness, and Anna is using one hand to touch herself through the nylon crotch of her spats.

"I'm mean to her," Cerise insists. 

"You can be meaner." 

That's you: the devil on Cerise's shoulder, convincing her to do cruel things to her teenage girlfriend. Of course, Cerise is pretty easy to convince. She chews her thumbnail some more.

"Whoa-- Mom!" Whitney says, finally noticing her surroundings. "You pervy bitch! I can't leave you alone for two freakin' seconds..."

Ms. Carte lolls her head and opens just one eye. "I only asked for a foot massage. It's these sluts who decided to take advantage of my body..."

On that cue, Vivian reaches up and paws at the button of Ms. Carte's trousers. Whitney helpfully undoes the button for her little sister, and unzips the zipper too. Vivian reaches into Ms. Carte's pants, starts to grope her panty-clad crotch. Ms. Carte grunts in enjoyment. The whole time, Vivian stays curled on all fours, planting wet kisses on Ms. Carte's sole.

"Your Mom is ecchi-sketchy as heck," Rose says. "Whoaa..."

Whitney spins around in place on the couch. "I am too," she says, aggression dripping from her voice. She holds both hands out as if to pounce -- and Rose can only let out a little "eek--!" of shock before Whitney is on top of her, groping her tits like a subway pervert. In no time at all, Whitney has Rose's boobs out and starts sucking on them like she's trying to draw milk. Rose, ticklish, loving this unprovoked attack, shrieks: "Stop-- stoooop! Yamate! Hahaha!" She wriggles and writhes and tries to break free, but Whitney has her pinned, and won't let up. Cerise, you notice, slowly slides a hand past the waistband of her shorts. 

Clinking glass and silverware from the dining room, then: dinner is being served. Mom and Rose, both flushed and looking a bit worse for the wear, are setting out plates at the table for everyone. They follow this with two enormous baking dishes, piping hot, that they gingerly carry out using oven mitts. Rose is blushing like she just got fucked. Her hair is mussed and she has that dopey post-coital grin she always wears. You're not sure whether it's simply from being in such close proximity to this pheromone laden food, or because she and Mom took a break to get frisky too. Judging by how debauched things in the living room are getting, you wouldn't be surprised. Not that you mind. If they took a few minutes aside to suck on each other's pussies and finger each other's holes, that just means they're already wet and primed to get fucked properly. 

Since you're the only one out here with presence of mind to have noticed dinner is ready, you announce it to the girls in the living room. "Get yourselves decent," you chide. "It's time to eat."

Reluctantly, Whitney pulls her lips off Rose's delicious pink nipples and lets her put her enormous cowtits away; Vivian and Anna give Ms. Carte's feet a parting smooch before standing; Ms. Carte buttons up her pants and slips her shoes back on. Cerise sets her laptop aside. All together, you take your places at the dining room table. 

This'll be a doozy. 

Mom's voice is a little drunk-sounding as she takes a butcher knife and begins to slice the brownies into cubes. "It's a good thing that we-- made enough-- for you ungrateful skanks. I wouldn't be serving you if there wasn't so much!" 

"I told you already, Mrs. Soliloquy," Ms. Carte says, "you can blame your son." She motions at you using her palm. "If he was fucking Whitney the way she deserves to get fucked, we wouldn't be here tonight."

Mom tsks in feigned disgust. Whitney, settling in beside you, elbows you. "Gonna fuck me good tonight, Ally? Mom'll be miffed as fuck if you don't."

"Of course," you say.

"And my little sister, too?" 

You nod.

"And Mom?" 

"I've only got one dick," you say. When Whitney isn't happy with that reply, you promise: "you're all getting fucked. Calm down."

"Rose," Rose tells your little sister. "Why don't you make yourself useful and go get some toys from upstairs."

"Aye aye!" Rose says, saluting. She hops to it, and runs upstairs. If she's intelligent enough to know what kind of toys Rose was requesting, you figure everyone else at the table is too. 

Even as Mom serves Ms. Carte a plate, she's telling her: "if you want my son to fuck your little girl more often, you ought to do more to earn it! It's not my fault that us Soliloquys are better at seducing him."

"Geez Mrs. Soliloquy," Whitney says through a wheezing laugh, "I feel like I'm pretty good at seducing Ally." As she says this, she rubs your thigh -- then she unzips your pants and reaches in. "He's already hard~" she announces to your mother, your older sister, everyone. 

"That's because of us," Mom says. "Alabaster's cock is always hard when he's around his sisters and I." She hands Whitney a plate, and then you too. This unbelievably lewd conversation is progressing as if it's the most casual thing in the world. 

"If he's always hard, that means you're not doing enough to keep him satisfied!" Ms. Carte says. Underneath the table, you feel her foot pressing against your prick, working in tandem with her daughter's slender fingers to please you. Ms. Carte's sock is a little damp with saliva from being kissed all over. "That's why he has to come to the Carte girls for some real relief. That's obvious. That's a given."

Mom's brownie bomb hews the fine line between brownie and cake. The squares she serves out are thick enough to qualify as cake, anyway -- and they're so messy that you really can't eat them by hand the way you would a brownie, especially when she doles out dollops of hand-whipped cream and homemade jam as toppings. 

"None for me, thank you," Vivian says when Mom is about to scoop some of the cream onto her brownie. Mom ignores her and does it anyway. Vivian makes a face. 

"You're gonna make me cum," you whisper to Whitney. 

"Good," Whitney croons. "I could use a little extra cream. Your Mom is so stingy..."

"She's literally the opposite of stingy," you say. "Look at these fucking servings-- ghh-- ungh, seriously, you two--" 

Ms. Carte, across from you, smirks as she lightly rubs your balls with her heel -- just enough to tickle you, while her toes tickle your frenulum. Whitney begins to jerk your cockshaft off.

When you all, at last, begin to eat -- the effect is nearly instant. Cerise, fork to her mouth, her other hand beneath her chin to catch any of the gooey mess that might fall off, groans "oh fuuuck..." a groan met by Whitney's equally sexual "oh shiiit," and Ms. Carte's fluttery "Ooooh... oh, my goodness..." Vivian just makes a pained little whine of decadent enjoyment, and Anna is completely silent -- though her face is so droopy that it looks like it'll melt. 

These brownies could have done with setting a bit more firmly before serving -- their centers gush with white marshmallow fluff that's still fluid and almost scaldingly hot. But you wouldn't have it any other way. You, too, get a sexual thrill from the texture, taste -- and special ingredients -- of this dessert.

This is Ms. Carte's first-ever experience with Mom's desserts fresh from the oven. Any animosity between the two goes by the wayside for now, because she's all praise: "Mrs. Soliloquy... Scarlett... this is-- the best. The absolute-- most... is your cooking always so... so..." she doesn't finish the thought, and begins to shovel more of the morsels into her mouth. She and Whitney even momentarily forget about massaging your prick as they gorge themselves on this drug-tainted treat. That's okay. They'll have time enough to massage your prick with their insides, in just a few moments...

Spontaneously, Cerise and Anna have made a little game out of sharing their food. Anna puts a forkful in her mouth, but doesn't chew -- then Cerise kisses her, and scoops the bite into her mouth. They repeat this back and forth with the same morsel of brownie until it's melted away -- then they repeat it with another. 

"How sweet," Mom says. "They really love each other. Anna's such a nice girl." 

Mom's begun to eat too. And though she's the chef, the extras you laced the food with are having their effect on her. She's pawing at her breasts through her apron and lightly touching the crotch of her jeans. A wet spot there is already visibly spreading. Rose's hand joins hers -- helping her future mother-in-law relieve the ache in her pussy.

Vivian's head is nearly resting on the table, as she eats faster than you've ever seen her eat. The only noises she emits are cute little "unf" sounds. You catch her attention by clearing your throat. Through glazed eyes, she looks up at you. 

"Like the food?" You ask.

"You've... drugged me..." she slurs.

"Did I?" You ask.

"You... awful man..." she says, love in her voice. 

Rose at last returns from the upstairs to find this debauchery well underway. Her assessment is positive: "kakkoi!" In her arms is a bundle of sex toys, just like she delivered on family movie night -- she just loves using these implements with her buddies to get off. Part of her "buddy code," you suppose.

Mom locks eyes with her. "Come here," she says. 

Rose stands before her, sex toys still in hand, awaiting instruction. 

"Say ahhh," Rose tells Rose, holding a forkful of brownie aloft.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh," Rose says stupidly, standing there with her mouth open. 

Mom takes a fork too. Together, she and Rose feed Rose. Rose immediately gets swoony and short-of-breath, her candy pink bangs swaying as she tries to stay upright on legs turned to jelly. Rose smiles sadistically at her. 

"Forgot to give her a plate?" You say.

"No," Mom says. "She doesn't need one. She can eat off mine."

"Mmm hmm!" Your little sister agrees, little mouth chewing.

"Rose, honey," Mom tells her. She clasps Rose's chin as Rose chews. "We're all a little flustered. Why don't you be a good toilet and get underneath the table for us?"

"--Toilet?" Ms. Carte coughs, not too aroused to be beyond shocking.

Rose is already clambering under the table. 

"Yes," Mom tells Ms. Carte, nonchalant and firm. "Rose is the family cum toilet." She stands, pulls her jeans and panties down, then sits again, bare-assed, on her chair. Just the brief glimpse you catch of her wet cunt, the muff matted with her cream, is enough to make your dick twitch.

"Holy," Whitney breathes. She knew you were fucking your little sister, but she didn't know it had gone to this extreme.

You grin, and decide to egg it on: "She's not just our cum toilet. She's our urinal, too."

"Of course," Mom agrees. "Can't forget that."

There's a buzz, and then a squelch, and Mom grins down at her daughter as Rose begins to use one of the vibrating dildos on her. Mom lightly pets her pink hair.

Ms. Carte takes a moment to process this utter depravity, and settles on making it competitive. Everything always is, with her. "Vivian is a much better toilet than Rose," she says. She grabs Vivian's wrist. "Get down under there and show them!"

"Yesh Missh Carte," Vivian says, sluggish but compliant as a lobotomy patient. 

Mom wraps her fingers around the toy Rose is using on her. "I can take it from here," Mom says. "Go serve our other guests, hmm?"

"Okay!" Rose chirps. Her voice from under the table is a little muted. As Rose scoots away, Mom takes the buzzing pink dildo fully, in both hands, and begins to fuck it in and out of her body, openly masturbating right at the dinner table. But the other Rose, always seeking ways to earn the approval of your Mom, stands up and takes over for her. 

"I'll get that for you, Mommy," she says. They make out with lurid tongue kisses while Rose pumps the vibing toy in your Mom's pussy.

At some point, Anna crawled into Cerise's lap, and their cheeks are nuzzling as they kiss and touch each other. "Do you like it when I'm mean to you?" Cerise whispers in Anna's ear, tone cautious and curious, but desperate. 

Anna nods enthusiastically. Cerise slaps her. 

"Bitch," Cerise says, even as Anna is still reeling from the sudden violence. 

"yes," Anna says with a thrill in her voice. The welt in her pale skin is deep and red and ugly. 

Cerise wraps a hand around Anna's throat and snarls: "you're such a fucking nasty whore... I'm gonna fuck you up tonight."

"please," she begs.

You startle when Vivian gets her hands on either of your knees. Whitney smiles down at her. "Trying to keep Ally's cock all to yourself?" She asks.

"Absolutely," Vivian says. She grips your cock in both of her impossibly tiny hands, and rubs your cockleak all over her face. She sniffs your fuckmeat, and soon she begins to trail kisses up and down its length. It makes you shiver hotly.

"You're so greedy," Whitney says.

Ms. Carte shakes her head. "Don't blame her, baby. She's only following my orders. She's doing her best to be a cum toilet, too."

"I thought Ally would want top class pussy like mine instead of getting sucked on by a toilet." She pats her mound through her shorts. "Guess he doesn't have as good of taste as I thought."

"Your sister's a top class toilet," you point out. 

"Yesh," Vivian says. Without anything further, she lets her jaw hang open and swallows your shaft. Her throat has been trained quite well over the past several months -- she can take your entire length down to your nuts without puking. She does gag, deep and heaving "huhhh-- huhhh--" noises that originate from her diaphragm, but she doesn't quit. You can feel her breathing gamely through her little nose: the cool sweep of air as she inhales, then the hot gust as she exhales into your pubes and tickles you. With her nose pressed up against your crotch, all she's getting is your smell. And you're just fine with that. You enjoy the pulsating contractions of her gullet wrapped around you. A top class toilet indeed. Vivian basks in your manly scent while she lets your cock rest just past the hollow of her throat. Your piss slit drools streams of precum straight into her tummy. 

"Hi Ms. Carte!" Rose says as she pops up between her legs under the table. "Want your pussy licked?"

"What else can you do for me?" Ms. Carte asks.

"Uh-- hmmm. I could use a vibrator on you! Or finger your ass... or let you lick me, if you're into it!"

"Make her rim you, Mom," Whitney suggests. "She's super tanoshii at that."

"That's not what that means--" you begin, before you gasp in delight at a new sensation. Vivian is swallowing -- she's swallowing as your cock is nestled in the deepest parts of her mouth. The ripple of her tongue and esophagus is like fucking into a never-ending pussy. You involuntarily buck your hips. Vivian gags even deeper and harder. Your entire crotch is slimy with her saliva. 

Those of you not forced into sexual service are still eating dinner. Whitney is getting her third plate, Ms. Carte her fourth. Mom and Rose are taking turns feeding each other. They do it by hand, sucking the mess from each other's fingers, while Rose continues to masturbate Mom's cunt for her. And you're partaking, too. You're on your second plate. The adrenaline and raw sexual energy coursing through you is overwhelming. Your ears are ringing, your heart is palpitating, your vision is blurring. Every single part of you is over-sensitive and buzzing with pleasure. You have no higher thoughts or reason left, and it seems your entire being is centered on your manhood. Are you overdosing on pheromones? It's possible. If you die like this, you'll die happy. 

Ms. Carte gets naked -- totally naked from head to toe. She tosses her clothes aside without a care and settles back in, spreads her fat thighs. You can just barely glimpse the slightest tone of her muscles underneath the fat. "All right, Rosie. I like the way my daughter thinks. Lick my ass." 

"Hai!" Rose pries Ms. Carte's ass cheeks open and buries her face in between them. Ms. Carte smiles down at her, plays with her clit and fingers herself while she watches.

"What do you think?" Mom asks. 

"You were right..." Ms. Carte says. "She's a fantastic toilet. I might have to come back and use her again sometime."

"Hmph," Mom pouts. "If you do that, I'll have to start charging you."

Ms. Carte laughs. "You'd pimp your daughter out like that?"

"Why not?" Mom says. "If you're going to barge into my home and use her anyway, I might as well profit."

"How much do you think you'd charge for using your daughter's mouth as a cum toilet for an hour?"

Mom thinks. "Does $10 sound fair?"

"$5," Ms. Carte counteroffers.

"All right," Mom agrees. "But -- $10 if you want her pussy."

"Of course," Ms. Carte says. She's very understanding. "Her pussy is worth a little bit more, isn't it."

"Alllyyy," Whitney whines, whispering in your ear. "You let Vivian suck you long enough already. I want your cock..."

You rap your knuckles against the top of Vivian's head. "Go use your mouth on someone else," you command. "I promised Whitney the first load." 

Vivian's face is completely inundated with slobber and mucus, and strings of it hang from her lips and nose. "Mm," she says, placid. "...please save some for my womb."

You nod, and she crawls off. Whitney is the next one, then, to ditch her clothes completely. Her brown, toned body is such a joy to hold, firm and soft at once. Her perky little tits may not be the biggest on Earth, but they're fun to grope anyway, and the tang of her sweat makes them so nice to lick. She's in your lap now, slipping your cock into her twat, her sister's drool providing more than enough lubrication to let you sink completely in. Whitney's teeth chatter like she's got hypothermia. "I-I-I-I- l-ooooove -- your FUCKING cock," she says, half incoherent. You hug her tight around the small of her back and start to screw her. 

"That's it, baby," Ms. Carte encourages. "Show him how a Carte can fuck."

A Carte can fuck like a demon, you're well aware. Whitney proves it again anyway. She bounces up and down on you like she's trying to break your hips. Only because you're holding her firmly by the shoulders, does she not fly into the ceiling on every upstroke. 

Beside you, Cerise and Anna are engaged much the same way. Cerise grabs a dildo and starts to viciously ram-fuck Anna with it. Anna's body is covered in welts from slaps and hickeys. Cerise is jumping feet-first into the "be even meaner to Anna" concept. Anna's flat little chest has scratch marks on it where Cerise clawed at her, her under-nourished legs are bruised. Cerise holds Anna's shoulder steady while Anna wags her hips and lets her tongue loll out. 

"fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me" Anna repeats in her breathy voice.

"Call me Sir," Cerise demands. "Call me Sir, like you call Alabaster."

"fuck me Sir fuck me Sir" Anna begs.

Cerise spits in Anna's face. But she keeps fucking Anna's pussy.

"thank you Sir i love it when you spit on me Sir" 

Cerise cums. Being called "Sir" seems to push her buttons. She throttles Anna without mercy and keeps fucking her, until Anna's "thank you Sir" becomes a slurred, inaudible wheeze. 

"Oh -- oh my--" Rose breathes, stepping back from Mom. You glance over. Vivian is suddenly sitting in Mom's lap.

"What are you doing?" Mom asks, not upset, but confused.

"Barter," Vivian says.

"--Barter?"

"You could charge Ms. Carte money for the use of your daughter, this is true... or, you could trade. A barter system. One daughter's pussy in exchange for another's."

Ms. Carte likes the idea. Her fingers rubbing against her clit quicken, and you hear the sloppy splash of her cumming on Rose's face. Rose makes a delighted little piggy squeal as she rims the older woman out.

Though Mom isn't sold. "What do you have that I can't get from my own children?" She asks.

Vivian answers not with words, but with a gesture. She lets her jaw hang open, and unfurls her tongue like rolling out the red carpet. Meanwhile she fish-hooks both sides of her mouth, pulling her cheeks as wide as they go, to reveal her teeth all the way to the molars. Strands of her spit hang like webbing between her tongue and palate. "Ahhhn~" she coos, cocking her head so that Mom has a completely unobstructed view straight down her throat.

Rose nudges Mom's shoulder. "You should have her nurse on you. She's absolutely wonderful at breast sucking... trust me."

Hesitantly, haltingly, Mom tugs her apron and sweater off. Rose assists, with pleasure. Mom's tits flop free with a meaty fwap, and hang like pendulums in front of Vivian's wan face. As good as Vivian may be at nursing, you know Mom's tits are equally a joy to nurse on -- it's a dangerous combo. "Go on," Mom says, her voice a little pinched, as she cups one of her breasts and presents it for Vivian to suckle.

Vivian reacts right away, and latches her mouth around Mom's nipple. Mom shivers. She throws her head back and groans in enjoyment. Rose pets Mom's pussy for her while Mom pets Vivian's head.

"I'm gonna cum," you announce.

Whitney screams: "Cum inside me, Ally! Fuck!" 

You stand up. The sudden motion startles everyone. You don't care. You drop Whitney on her back on the dining room table, like a lump of meat, making dishes and utensils go clattering, tipping over glasses and getting Whitney's back smeared with chocolate brownie. She grunts in pain and surprise. With Whitney on her back, and you standing over her still connected to her, you begin to pound her with forcefulness you've rarely mustered. You squeeze her tits and fuck her totally. Your cock is sawing in and out of her velvety pussy, past her clamping cervix, and hammering her uterus. "Get pregnant!" Spittle flies from your lips. "Get fucking pregnant, bitch! Take it!"

"Yes! Yes!" Whitney wails. She cums all over you, and this pushes you to climax too. You blast your first load of the night directly into her pussy, raw. Your cock surges and spits its steamy cream into her with the singular goal of making her belly swell up with a baby. You really hope she does get pregnant. You want to make Whitney into your personal baby factory. You want to keep her pregnant for the next 30 years. 

When you're done depositing your semen inside her like an onahole, you pull out with a wet slurp, and let your shiny cock bob in air. The girls gaze at it transfixed, as a little dollop of postcum dribbles out of the head, and descends in a long viscous strand, before it snaps and drips onto Whitney's flat tummy.

"It's... so hot... inside me" Whitney mewls. She pets her pussy as the cum begins to seep out of her, directly onto the plate underneath her butt, where it becomes all mixed up with the remnants of a brownie.

"Who's next?" You ask. "Who wants to get fucked next?"

Ms. Carte is the first to call dibs. She pushes Rose off her ass like discarding a used tissue, pushes her chair away from the table, parts her thick legs a bit wider, and says: "me."

Whitney flips into a prone position so she can watch as you circle the table and get down on your knees in front of Ms. Carte. "You want to get pregnant tonight too?" You demand.

"Hell yes," she says. No hesitation. "Fuck me pregnant, you little shit."

How could you say no? 

Since your dick is already coated in cum, the very moment you plunge your cock into Ms. Carte's waiting snatch is dangerous -- she could be pregnant already, right now. But you're gonna make sure it sticks. You won't pull out until you've deposited another thick and creamy load into Whitney's mother.

"Fuck yes," Whitney breathes. "Let's get knocked up together, Mommy..."

Ms. Carte makes you raise your arms in the air so she can get your shirt off you. She grabs your bare back with two wet slaps and holds onto you for all she's worth. Her nails dig into your flesh. You don't care. In return, you hold her by two tufts of hair, down at the root, using them as handles. You and she fuck like mating dogs. Rough and fast and dirty. She slides a little further in her seat and gets her ankles locked around your butt. This, of course, sucks you even deeper into her hole. What a wonderful, soft and puffy MILFy hole Ms. Carte has, so cushiony and rubbery, perfect for milking cock. You could ejaculate inside her forever.

"Ooooh -- oh, fuck..." you hear Whitney grunt. When you glance over your shoulder, you see why. Rose is on cleaning duty. Having been evicted from sucking on Ms. Carte's asshole, she opted to lick the cum from Whitney's drooling pussy. That's your little sister: she really is a cum-slurping meat toilet. Whitney reaches behind herself and pushes Rose's face deeper into her ass. "Clean me up," she says. "That's it. So good..." Rose makes noises like a pig at a slop bucket while she siphons up the dirty cum and the leftover dessert on the plate underneath Whitney.

Your other Rose meanwhile has helpfully hiked Vivian's skirt and gotten Vivian's panties off. This gives Mom and Rose ample access to play with Vivian's very small and very illegal cunny. The two take turns tickling and teasing it, while all the while Vivian sucks on Mom's nipple. Her lips make a little indentation in the expanse of springy flesh around Mom's areola. Vivian stares deeply into Mom's eyes, and keeps her legs spread for Mom's invading fingers, welcoming the molestation. She wouldn't have it any other way. She adores giving her pussy away.

Every vein and artery in your body throbs with hot need. You're degenerating in real time, becoming ruled entirely by your horny dick. You won't stop until you've rampaged through every hole in this house. You want to knock up every single one of these bitches, you want them all to get pregnant... you really intend to make it happen. 

With that thought circling around your brain, you lean in and kiss Ms. Carte on the lips. She inhales with delight and fucks harder against you. Her nails dig deeper into your skin -- you even feel a trickle of blood. Between your passionate kisses, you moan incoherently and huff and breathe her scent from up close. Ms. Carte smells so good, like earth and menthol and perfume and musk. She's so soft and womanly, thick all over, but not fat. Her full body with its absurdly perfect hourglass shape, squishy belly and thighs, wide hips... her massive breasts that hang just a bit under gravity, with big fat nipples perfect for sucking. Her pretty, pink, mature pussy just begging for virile male cum. She's so fertile and ready for your sperm. What a lewd woman she is, hopping on her own student's cock -- her daughter's boyfriend, no less -- purposely letting you impregnate her in defiance of every ethical standard. For what? All so she can cum -- all so she can selfishly chase her pleasure and make her greedy pussy have an orgasm. She's letting a teenage boy inseminate her just for the sake of cumming.  

This is the thought that makes you ejaculate again. You bury your face in her neck, pump her especially hard and deep -- one, two times -- and then out it pours. A thick gloppy load straight up your teacher's fucking cunt. Ms. Carte's eyes roll to the back of her skull, her neck muscles strain, and she squirts as you force your semen into her. 

"Alabasterrrr...!" She cries. "I can feel it -- oh, god -- you're doing it--"

"That's it!" Whitney says. "Doesn't it feel fucking good?"

"It feels so good, baby!" Ms. Carte agrees through chattering teeth as she hugs you with all four limbs and your orgasm lengthens and intensifies inside her. Cumming at the same time as Ms. Carte is such a rush -- your pulsating genitals are shuddering together in perfect synronicity. You stain every fold and crease of her vagina as deeply as you can, hosing her, splattering her insides with pearly white semen that you can just picture clinging like glue to her womb.

"Are you getting pregnant, Mommy? Are you?" Whitney asks, humping her pussy against Rose's face behind her butt. 

"Yes! He's impregnating me, baby! He's cumming inside me!"

A mother-daughter orgasm induced by reckless mating is one of life's greatest joys. Your load sloshes around inside Ms. Carte's unprotected pussy.

Cerise seems to have gone as insane with lust as you. She gets her lesbian lover onto the table much the same way you did with Whitney. Anna, on her back amid the ruins of dessert-for-dinner, smiles brokenly as Cerise chokes her out. Anna is split-seconds from losing consciousness entirely before Cerise climbs onto the table with her, forces one of Anna's legs skyward, and starts to scissor her. The table rocks beneath them as they hump one another. "Bitch, fucking dirty bitch," Cerise repeats over and over through gritted teeth, mashing her labia against Anna's as if raping her with an invisible cock. The girls cream on each other. You can see their intermingled fluids stipple their legs, run down by gravity, and drip onto the table. Their scissoring becomes wet-sounding, like swishing water around in your mouth.

As much fun as Rose might have fingering Vivian's cunny, she's a little jealous seeing her getting Mommy's milky tits all to herself. So she puts on her best little-girl voice, bats her eyelashes, and says "Mommy... may I?" as she runs a teasing finger around Mom's other nipple. 

"Of course, dear," Mom says warmly. "You can get in my lap, too."

Rose's blonde ringlets flutter as she crawls into Mom's lap. Vivian, pliant, makes way. Scarlett has the girls each on one knee, letting them breastfeed. She gets the dildo in her cunt buried as deep as it will go and buzzing as hard as it will buzz, so that she can keep both her hands busy playing in both their little pussies. 

"May I..." Vivian begins, but stops short, and keeps suckling.

"May you what?" Mom asks. 

"May I... call you Mommy, too?"

It's a good thing Ms. Carte is so dazed from getting spermed that she doesn't seem to hear the request -- she'd get jealous for sure.

"Of course," Scarlett says. "You're Mommy's good little girl tonight... here..." She pulls Vivian's face to her bosom again, reaches down again, and begins to tickle Vivian's cuntlet even more insistently. That's Mom -- a real brood mare, always happy to allow nice little girls into the fold. Vivian sighs happily as Mom gets her fingers deep inside. 

You pull free from Ms. Carte's runny, ruined hole of a cunt, looking for another hole to mess up. Ms. Carte, still aching for more fun with her pussy, finds a suitable replacement. She booms: "Anna -- stop fucking Cerise and get over here and eat me out."

Cerise stops rutting on top of her, displeased. "She's mine right now. Find someone else."

You settle the dispute before it can blow up. You slide a finger between Cerise's choker and her neck, and tug her backwards. The suddenness and force of it makes her gasp for air -- how quickly fortunes change. 

"*You're* mine right now," you tell her. "Let Ms. Carte use Anna."

Cerise turns and faces you, ready to argue -- but when she sees your glistening member, any thought of saying no is forgotten. You rock back and forth a little on your heels, to rub your prickhead against her pale navel and smear her skin with incestuous fuckslop. Cerise's breath hitches.

Meanwhile, Ms. Carte snaps her fingers like beckoning an unruly dog. "Get over here already. Eat me."

Weakly, Anna crawls down from the table, and over to Ms. Carte. Tonight, she's also a cum toilet. But what else is new?

"See how deep it'll go?" You ask your sister. Your mushroom head, lined up with Cerise's body, extends well past the belly button. You'll be rearranging her insides soon, and want her to know it.

Cerise's breathing, through her nostrils, becomes deep and needful. She looks up, from where you're demonstrating how deeply your cock will fuck her, and into your eyes. "Alabaster," she says, gulping, drawing a couple bracing breaths. "I want to do something really nasty tonight."

"What?" You ask.

"I -- want you in my guts. Fuck my ass."

Cerise turns around and bends over the table. Glaring back at you, she spreads her cheeks with both hands, to reveal the soft pucker of her anus. The color of it is darker than the surrounding skin, with an almost bluish tinge. It's colored the same way as the deep-set bags around her eyes -- such a contrast with her pallid paleness. And because she's been cumming nonstop, her rear hole is already slick and wet and inviting-looking. Her anus twitches, over and again, anticipating the moment when you'll plunge yourself inside. The cushion of Cerise's butt and the swampy heat of her asshole are going to be so fucking good, you just know it... you step forward and penetrate her without another second's thought. One thrust, plowing through her puckered hole and getting yourself seated in her with a masculine grunt. 

Cerise's sucking sputter and gasp, through her mouth, sounds like a drowning victim waking up after CPR. She thought she was ready for your massive dick to sodomize her. She wasn't. And you don't care that she wasn't. You grab her choker with both hands, like the reins of a horse, and start to hump away. You pull her against her own weight so that her back arches and her tummy rises off the surface of the table, revealing that her tits are smeared with the leftover chocolate brownie mix. Cerise is in distress at both ends now. Her hands claw at her neck, trying to get herself some airflow, but the cruel strength of your grip makes it useless. You've cut off all oxygen to her brain. She's turning quickly red. God, her ass really is perfect... spongy, springy, and so hot you'd think she has a fever. Past the ring of her anus, this dirty fuckhole offers absolutely zero resistance, just spreads for your violating prong and curls around it like the foam of a masturbation sleeve. That's what it is. Right now, your elder sister's ass is your personal masturbation sleeve. Her asshole is just a thing, for you to rub your cock inside, until you splurt out a creamy load. 

"How do you like getting choked?" You snarl.

Cerise tries to speak, but it comes out sounds like "hhhh-- ghuhiii-- ghhh--" and her complexion goes from red to purple to blue. No one is coming to her aid. Instead, Whitney and Rose are circling like sharks. Rose has had her fill of your spunk out of Whitney's tomboy cunt, and now the two are looking for something else to occupy their mouths. They latch onto each of Cerise's tits. Like mother, like daughter -- Cerise is fun to nurse on. Especially when she's slathered in chocolate. Whitney and Rose, lying on the tabletop, masturbate like fucking pigs while they suck Cerise's jugs. 

"Answer me!" You groan. "Do you like getting choked while I fuck your ass?"

Even though she's still clawing at her neck, she desperately nods, her raven hair swaying. The jiggle of her butt every time you slam balls-deep inside her rectum is almost hypnotic, like the surface of a giant tub of milk being shaken. The audible plap of it sounds like tenderizing meat. Well, you suppose that's what it is: you're tenderizing Cerise's already tender asshole. She wanted you in her guts -- that's what she's getting. Her ass is a form-fitting glove gripping your dick. 

"Hey Anna," you say, "you should choke her like this sometime. She loves it." But when you glance up, you realize Anna is a little occupied. Her face is buried entirely in Ms. Carte's genitals, and Ms. Carte has her thighs pressing down on either side of Anna's neck. The only thing you see of the poor girl is her nude back and her long, now messy ginger hair. Ms. Carte is holding the back of the chair with both hands and humping like she's got a cock to fuck Anna's throat with. 

Ms. Carte laughs. "I'll pass the message on... I wouldn't mind seeing Anna choke Cerise a little..."

Whitney and Rose are making a real mess of Cerise. They're drooling like a pair of broken faucets as they lick up the dessert from her skin. Cerise's entire untoned body -- her swaying tits, plump belly and hips -- are becoming shiny with spit. The unblemished paleness of her skin accentuates the gleam. Meanwhile, the way you choke her is making her cum. Turns out that being strangled and having her ass defiled gets her off like nothing else: she has an anal orgasm on her brother's cock. It's a big one, and it gets you off, too. Cerise's assgasm feels even hotter on your dick than her pussy's orgasm always does. It starts with the muscles inside her contracting with the force of a hydraulic press, squeezing your dick about as cruelly as you're choking her -- this, right at the moment when you're nuts-deep inside her. For ten, fifteen seconds or longer, her ass grips your prick so hard that you cannot pull out. Then all at once her anal muscles loosen and start to flutter, rapidly, as if she's been turned into a human vibrator. Now that you can move again, you begin a jackhammer pace inside her, enjoying her ripply insides. Cerise makes inhuman oinking noises as she cums on you. Her pussy jizzes itself. You hear the patter of her female cum hitting the wood floor, and feel the hot splatters of it against your feet. You tug her collar especially hard a couple times, and pump her ass with the full length of your brotherly cock in tune to it. These deep, deliberate, rough thrusts, combined with the way you yank her body like she's a fuckdoll, only make her cum even harder. She claws at her own neck, trying to pry the choker away, and only succeeds in leaving deep red scratch marks on her throat. You blow a wad up Cerise's ass just as her eyelids flutter and she briefly passes out. Her arms flop to her side, limp, and useless. Cumming into a hole so wet and tight is like squeezing toothpaste through a half-blocked tube, and you let out a long, low, somewhat pained "ooooohhhhhh" as it leaks out of your cockhead in thick glops. You fall against her back, and her against the table, while you finish breeding out her asshole. You let go of the choker. The blue color immediately drains from her face, but she's out cold, and needs Whitney and Rose to lick her face like kittens to rouse her. They lap at her while you pull out and let the incestuous sperm leak from her ass in long thick strands. 

Rose smiles at you. "Me next! Me next!" She rolls fully onto her belly, knocking dishes and food around some more, and holds her fat ass open for her onii-chan. You can see both her orifices framed by her plump upper thighs. If ever the was a girl with a fat pussy, it's Rose. Especially from this angle, with her legs squeezing the labia tightly together, her cunt looks like a huge hillock of flesh with a tiny, tiny slit up the middle. Her tight-looking anus is the pale pink of cotton candy, and just as smooth as her pussy. It makes your mouth water. Rose has a jealous streak, especially when it comes to family fucking. If you do something with Cerise or Mom, she wants you to do it with her as well. She's so needy and greedy like that. But even if you play at stern, you can't help spoiling your little sister. It's what little sisters are for. You'll definitely fuck her ass.

You get onto the table too. At this point the tablecloth is a total write-off, stained all over with cum and chocolate. On scrutiny you notice that Whitney, Cerise, and Rose all have red marks in their skin where the tines of forks and the edges of plates have dug into them. None of them seem to mind. So you won't either. 

To lubricate her for your fuck, you get your face in between her ass and start to eat it. Well -- of course it's also for your own pervy enjoyment, too. You adore little else more than rimming your kid sister. You could eat her bubblegum ass all day. It literally tastes like candy, tart and sugary, but with the feminine musk of her cunt and her sweat. Rose giggles as you lie in front of her and suck on her like a lollipop. The softness of her ass cheeks enveloping your face is enough to die for. It makes your already turgid cock swell and harden even more, getting stiff as steel with the need to fuck her butt. 

Vivian and Rose, with Mom, are getting off too. Mom is knuckle deep up both their cunts. They're squirting all over her. The undulation of their throats, as they suck on her tits, makes it seem like they're actually getting milk out of her. They probably are. When Mom gets especially turned on, she can lactate. 

As with Ms. Carte, Mom has pushed her chair back from the table -- now she sits there like a demented and sadistic queen on a throne, legs spread wide, diddling these girls in tandem, while the dildo buzzes inside her. She watches you rimming your little sister. She watches Whitney making out with the still half-unconscious Cerise. The wet slapping of Ms. Carte's pussy against Anna's face forms pleasant background music to this perverse panorama. 

"Ally-- Ally!! That tickles!" Laughs Rose, as you swab your tongue all around the delicious interior of her pink ass. "Ally-- please! Kudasai! Fuck me already!"

Reluctantly, you pull your face from her backside. Her asshole is shiny with spit, and her pussy is shiny with arousal. Such a fucking pretty sight. It melts your heart. These wet holes just waiting for you to ruin. You climb over Rose and adopt one of your favorite positions: the so-called prone bone, braced on your palms on either side of Rose's head with your elbows locked so that your body forms a 45 degree angle with hers. This gives you maximum leverage to really fucking drill Rose's bubble butt.  

Cerise is finally coming to, so Whitney leaves her be. As you line your prick up with Rose's ass, Whitney rises to a sitting position in front of you and draws you into a kiss. "You just love fucking your sisters, huh," she whispers.

"Of course. You love fucking your sister too, don't you?"

"Uh huhhhh," She drawls, as she swirls her tongue around the inside of your mouth. Her breath is hot and she tastes like tonight's dessert... so rich and gooey. 

You press down on Rose's asshole, and it gives way for you instantly. Rose, unlike Cerise, was prepared for this moment. She's been anally masturbating all the time in preparation for her beloved onii-chan to fuck her there. That's the kind of prep she does as the Soliloquy family cum-gutter: she knows that all of her holes have to be ready for your cock. She has to be ready for any kind of sexual abuse at a moment's notice, really. The number of times you, your older sister, or you mother have have violated her butthole with massive dildos and buttplugs are too numerous to count. You all three adore raping Rose's candy ass with toys. Fitting your cock in there is no big deal. You slip in and enjoy the soft confines of her anus. 

As you establish a steady but brutal pace in Rose's underage asshole, Whitney grips both sides of your face and really sucks your tongue. You love how passionate and messy her kisses get when she's hot for dick.  

Meanwhile, Cerise is on the prowl for someone else to help her orgasm some more. Rose seems a good candidate. She yanks Rose by her blonde hair, off Mom's breasts, and throws her on the ground. 

"Ow!" Rose hollers. "You bitch! What the fuck! I was drinking milk!"

She has little chance to mount a fight before Cerise is climbing on top of her. "Shut the fuck up. Lick my ass. You like eating Alabaster's cum enough."

Rose's eyes bulge as Cerise squats over her and lowers herself. It seems that the idea of drugging everyone at dinner tonight has badly backfired on your future wife -- oh well. Cerise sighs to herself as she mashes her cummy asshole against Rose's lips and button nose. She slides back and forth, rubbing your spunk all over Rose's face, as she grabs hold of some of Rose's blonde hair and forces her to suck. "That's it, cunt. Eat it. Eat it!"

You really love Cerise. She can switch from sub to dom at will. It's an admirable skill.

Vivian, with full access to Mom now, takes advantage. She rises in Mom's lap and peers up at her: "Scarlett... I am so over-stimulated... please... please relieve the ache inside my womb... I will do anything you want, if you help me climax... I am going insane... I cannot relieve this itch inside me on my own..."

Mom smiles warmly. Then, without warning, she purses her lips and spits on Vivian's face. It's not a forceful spit. Rather, she lets the long, bubbly strand of drool descend like drizzled oil, from her lips, down to Vivian's forehead, where it pools, and then begins to run in rivulets across the skin. Mom has understood implicitly how super-subby Vivian truly is, and is more than happy to domineer.  

"Do that again..." Vivian coos, rubbing the sloppy mess all over her face.

Mom does it again. As she fingers Vivian's child-sized pussy, she spits on Vivian repeatedly. She takes a moment to tell Ms. Carte: "I decided something. I like this barter system... let's trade our girls more often..."

Ms. Carte is all for it. "Maybe we can get along after all," she muses, as she plays with her own tits and has a series of wet orgasms on Anna's face.

Despite Rose's extensive preparation to be anally used by her own brother, the roughness of your fuck is still wearing on her delicate body. "Unf... ungfh..." she grunts, as you rut in her. She grips the tablecloth with both balled-up fists. But bullying her asshole is just the same as bullying any other part of her, and you don't let up. Even when she starts to cry a little. It's not such a big deal, anyway -- Whitney quiets her by grabbing her pink hair and shoving her crying face into her twat. "Suck," Whitney growls, a command Rose knows better than to hesitate about. She starts to suck Whitney's engorged clit. Whitney moans and redoubles her tongue's swirling in your mouth. Somehow, it seems that Rose's hot ass gets hotter, and you drill her deeper, trying to use her completely. She's yours to use anyway -- might as well get the maximum possible enjoyment from her battered body. Together, you and Whitney spitroast her. You hump her from both sides as you make out on top of her. 

Cerise is making Rose drink her cum. Rose is supine on the ground, half drowning as she struggles to guzzle down this nasty, frothy mixture of Cerise's cream, your semen -- and maybe something more. Cerise drank several beers before dinner. You wouldn't put it past her to relieve herself in Rose's mouth. Cerise is howling in ecstasy, as she fucks Rose's face, and reaches behind her to slap Rose's twat. Cerise spanks Rose on the pussy like a mother spanking a naughty child's bum: slap, slap, slap -- merciless, meaty thwacks. Why? Because she can. Because Rose's pussy is exposed and it's fun to hit it. You approve. You'd do the same. 

Ms. Carte is making Anna drink her cum as well. She's ejaculating like a geyser straight down Anna's throat. Anna sucks it down like the slut she is. The sound of her swallowing is audible even across the room and even over your crotch slapping loudly against Rose's cushy ass. (Just like Cerise, Rose's cheeks ripple hypnotically every time you slam into her. You're so transfixed.)

Mom seems to be done spitting on Vivian, and is helping her smear it all over her face. With a broad palm, she runs her hand across Vivian's delicate features. At this point Vivian looks blurred and indistinct as if filmed through gauze. The effect is disgusting and alluring at the same time. Just like Vivian herself. Mom is still fingering her viciously, as she says: "You're such a nice little girl once you're all excited... I see why my son likes to fuck you. Does he really fit in here?"

"Yesh," Vivian says. 

"Let's see about that," Mom murmurs. She pulls the still buzzing toy out of her vagina and wags it in front of Vivian's uncomprehending eyes, her slackened face. "This thing is about as large as Alabaster's. I'm going to put it all the way inside you now."

"Pleashe do," Vivian begs. "Rape my womb..."

Mom lightly pushes a palm against Vivian's flat chest, to shift her weight onto her tailbone and gain a better angle on Vivian's raw cunt. With a merciless jab, she shoves the dildo into Vivian. Other than a little squeak of pain, Vivian lets on no distress. Mom watches Vivian's face to gauge the girl's reaction, and, seeing how well Vivian takes the enormous plastic cock, Mom smiles -- then begins to ramfuck her with pitiless force. Vivian swoons, so Mom hugs her around her back and pulls the girl close to her welcoming bosom. Vivian begins again to suckle on Mom's tits, and writhes atop the sex toy Mom is forcing inside her. She wears a dreamy, cum-drunk smile as Mom spreads her hole and feeds her milk. 

"You're so impressive," Mom says. "You opened up so nicely for me... Alabaster must be ejaculating inside you all the time."

Vivian, still sucking, nods. 

"Good girl. I hope you aren't making him use protection--"

Vivian violently shakes her head no. This draws a coo of approval from Mom, and some headpats that would be downright motherly if she weren't masturbating Vivian's pussy with a dildo the size of her forearm. 

Rose is squealing like a pig the more Cerise abuses her exposed cunt. Rose's genitals are turning an angry red under Cerise's slapping, and the sheen of her pussy juice makes her tucked-in labia look like something laminated. Luckily for Rose, Anna intervenes. Anna walks stumblingly towards Cerise, who smiles and greets her while continuing to gyrate atop Rose's face. Anna kneels down in front of Cerise. And without warning, wraps her hands around Cerise's pale neck. Cerise's expression turns immediately from warm to terrified. Anna forces Cerise to scoot backwards so she's straddling Rose's tits rather than Rose face. Rose doesn't get much fresh air at all, because almost immediately, Anna is the one riding her. 

"i heard you like getting choked too" Anna tells Cerise with a sadistic grin.

Cerise gasps as Anna starts to apply some pressure. Meanwhile, Anna grinds her little pussy mound against Rose's face. 

"choke me back" Anna begs. Cerise obliges. They take turns sitting on Rose's face while they strangle each other lovingly. Ms. Carte watches on with approval -- you guess she must have given Anna the order to do it.

You and Whitney are both getting off hard with your little sister's body, so neither of you notice Ms. Carte creeping up on you until she has her hands on your back. She leans over you with her entire body, her naked breasts against you, squishing so softly. She perches her chin on your shoulder. Her whisper in your eardrum is hot and ticklish, and makes your spine tingle. "Buggering your own little sister," she says. "I knew you were a dog, but this is something else. Don't you have any shame?"

Whitney, pulling back from your kiss, a fiery glint in her grey-green eyes, answers on your behalf. "Nope."

Even as Ms. Carte chastises you for committing incest, she braces her palms against the globes of your ass as if to guide your pumping in and out of Rose's anus. With Ms. Carte's tacit encouragement, you pick up the speed of your anal fuck on top of your sister. What a sweet sticky candy hole she's got.

"Do you mind, Alabaster, if I do something especially perverted?" Ms. Carte asks.

"Do it," you say without caring what it is. 

She slides her body down, across yours, until her face is level at the point of union between your dick and Rose's butthole. She kneads your ass for a few moments as if trying to massage you, and the added pressure heightens the erotic pleasure coursing through your rampant fuckmeat. Then, lightly, with just her fingtertips, Ms. Carte teases your balls, and even tickles your own anus. You moan in surprise. A moment later, you feel her thumbs and fingers spreading your ass cheeks open, and all of a sudden a wet slimy protrusion: Ms. Carte is rimming you. 

"Oh, fuck..." you grunt. Whitney peers around you to see what's going on. She giggles in delight. "Mom! You're such a freak!" Whitney locks eyes with you again: "hey, do you mind if I go eat my Mommy out for a few minutes?" And of course, you don't mind at all -- you nod, and she quickly climbs off the table to circle back around and eat her own mother's pussy from behind. It's a hell of a daisy chain: your sister, on her stomach, getting fucked up the ass by her beloved big bro; your teacher, on her stomach behind you, licking your asshole; and your teacher's daughter, standing at the table's edge, bent over, snacking on the cunt she came from.

With her face no longer being shoved into Whitney's dripping cunt, Rose can speak: "Ally -- Ally -- you're making me all tingly... your dick is so squishy inside me... fuck me more..."

You lay more fully over Rose's body, so that you can suck on her neck, grip the tablecloth in both hands and hold the sides of her head in place with your forearms while you mate. Your sister's ass is about to make you blow another thick load. Ms. Carte's searching tongue helps you along. Her hot moans against you, as her little girl services her, tickle your balls. Occasionally Ms. Carte stops sucking your ass for long enough to go lower, and feast on Rose's sugary fuckholes. She laps at Rose's smooth pussy and the rim of her overstretched asshole where your cock is plunging in. But she doesn't ever ignore you. When she licks Rose, Ms. Carte swirls her finger around your drool-coated asshole to tease you just a little bit extra. She's a woman who knows all the best ways to make your knees weak, and glories in it. 

Of course, Whitney knows how to make Ms. Carte's knees weak in turn. She's plunging three fingers in and out of Ms. Carte's orifices, alternating between them at random. Whichever one she doesn't finger, she suckles. Whitney, you know, loves giving her mother lewd oral service more than almost any other sexual game. She's absolutely addicted to Ms. Carte's taste and smell. She grunts in an almost masculine way and plays with herself as she feasts.

Even Rose's neck tastes sweet where you kiss her. You rant incoherently into her ear: "You're mine. I own you. Hold still. Let me fuck you." These short, mean little obscenities eventually dissolve into nothing more than neanderthal grunting as the insistence of Ms. Carte's fingers and tongue, and the wet interior of Rose's thick body, drive you into a frenzy. Finally now you're just a beast fucking on top of Rose, moaning "ungh, oh -- unf, oooh --" just building yourself towards that wonderful moment when her depthless asshole finally succeeds at milking your cock juice out. 

And here it cums. Ms. Carte knows the signs of your orgasm, and so does Rose. They both egg it on. Ms. Carte jabs her long tongue just as deep as she can get it inside you, which is about far enough to lick your prostate -- and holds it there firmly rooted as she gently strokes and kneads your nuts with all ten of her fingers. Rose deliberately massages your prick with her interior walls, sucking you with her ass the way she sucks on lollipops with her mouth. The combination drives you over the edge. You bellow as you unleash yet another torrential outpouring of semen that somehow fails to totally satisfy you. You ejaculate and ejaculate inside your own little sister, the delicious tingle of it spreading from your soles to your scalp, but as nauseatingly amazing as your orgasm feels, it cannot quell the demonic lust that grips you. Yes, you enjoy the sensation of your semen injection filling Rose up like a pastry being injected by a frosting bag; you enjoy the way it flows back, the sperm squelching against your pounding member; you enjoy the sticky slimy mess you make of Rose's teeny ass as Ms. Carte's tongue-tip pokes your prostate with pressure just firm enough to leave you wanting more. But it isn't enough. You need to cum again. And again and again. Even while you cum, you only want to cum some more. Your body is so hot, your cock is so hard, your balls are so heavy -- you need more hole to fuck. You need more cunt to seed.

Mom senses that perfectly well. And she's got the perfect sacrificial lamb to offer you. As you withdraw from Rose's well-used butt, letting loose a frothy outpouring of your spunk onto the table, Mom grins your way and nods at the little girl she's molesting. Vivian is too lost in her own carnal pleasure to notice that Mom is offering the use of her body to you. But she certainly notices when Mom lifts her up and places her on the table.

Vivian makes a somewhat annoyed whine when her lips are forcibly removed from Mom's nipples. But then her unfocused eyes find your twitching prick as you approach her. "Are you... goingh to... fuckh me now?" Vivian slurs.

"I promised to cum inside your uterus, didn't I?" You say. 

"My boy keeps his promises!" Mom says, proud.

Vivian smiles weakly. 

You wipe the smile right off her face by slapping it with your cock. Holding yourself by the root and thwacking the underside against Vivian's delicate features is a joy all its own. Her porcelain skin, wet with a mess of fluids already, feels just great to beat with your horny prick. The sound of your flesh smacking hers, and her little grunts of pain, are like music to your overstimulated brain. Mom 100% condones it: she stokes your back and massages your neck and shoulders as you abuse the little girl. Mom left the dildo lodged inside Vivian's pussy, buzzing at max, and Vivian is leaking a continuous stream of her juices onto the tablecloth as she lies underneath you. Her tongue occasionally darts out and licks your prick when you hit her with it. At other moments she purses her lips and plants a kiss on it. You enjoy the way the thick dollops of your precum ooze out, and run down her rosy cheeks in rivulets. You could stand here masturbating like this, with Vivian's face as your cock's punching bag, until you shoot another wad. But a higher calling bids you: the call to relieve yourself inside her cunny. 

When you take position between Vivian's scrawny legs, Mom leans over the table so her pendulous tits hang over Vivian's face. "My boy is going to rape you now," Mom says. 

"Thankh you for leddingh him," Vivian replies, speaking slowly and with great difficulty. 

You rip the dildo out of her and mount her like a bull. No foreplay and no gentleness. You just pump her full of dick in a single brutal thrust. Vivian may have taken the dildo pretty well, but even at Mom's meanest, it wasn't enough to prepare her for the raw force of a man dosed on a cocktail aphrodisiacs. She cries out, a mixture of agony and exhilaration: "Ahhh--hhhhhhnn~~"

Mom pets her once and shushes her: "hold still, dear. Let it happen. Here..." with that, she leans further over and presses her boobs to Vivian's face. "That's it... much better."

But Vivian is hungry for something more. Through the mass of titmeat half suffocating her, she begs: "Misshesh sholiloquy... pleashe led me lickh your pusshy inshteadd..."

Mom is a bit taken aback, and glances Ms. Carte's way for guidance. Ms. Carte is sitting on a chair off to the side, and Whitney is standing on it -- feet straddling Ms. Carte's thighs -- so Ms. Carte can suck on Whitney's taut tomboy holes. But Ms. Carte pulls herself off her daughter's tan butt just long enough to nod at Mom. "Vivian eats pussy like her life depends on it. Go ahead, try her..."

"It's true!" Whitney affirms. "She's really super good at it! The best!"

That's all the permission Mom needs. She stands tall again, nipples dripping milk, and assesses the geometry of the situation. Seeing you pounding Vivian's itsy bitsy twat with such one-minded determination, she knows she can't possibly ask for you to change position. Nothing to help it, then. She has to hike one leg way up, like a bitch on a leash taking a piss, propping her foot on the opposite side of Vivian's head. This lets her half-squat, half-stoop, and lower her sopping mommyhole onto Vivian's waiting mouth. Vivian doesn't hesitate before beginning to lap at Mom's pussy and ass. Mom is suitably impressed. She moans lowly to herself as she rides out a couple quick, spurting, juicy orgasms. The smell of her cum is overpowering, sweet and dirty at the same time, and goads you to thrust even harder inside Vivian.

Mom startles when, without warning, a visitor arrives. Anna has had her fill of squirting cum down Rose's throat and choking Cerise to a near stupor. Now she grips the side of the table, tilts her head back, and helps Vivian lap at Mom's fuckholes. Mom squeezes her milky tits together, rubbing the nipples excitedly, as she basks in this dual oral service. These two small, skinny, over-pale girls feed on her cream like hungry kittens. Mom loves it. "Eat up, you two... you need to eat more, you know... let mama feed you..." Mom is babbling and gyrating her hips, lost to pleasure. But her eyes are firmly peeled on you: on your straining forearms, pecs, and shoulders, on your wagging hips, and on your thick cock plowing Vivian's unbelievably tight gash. Mom loves nothing more than seeing her baby fuck. She's hooked on watching you sperm fertile cunts with your fertile seed. 

Your Roses occupy themselves with double dildos. That's double dildos, plural: they have one each in all six of their cum-holes. It's a marvel, really: their meaty legs entwined with one another as they sit on the floor, a flamingo pink translucent rubber dick bridging their puffy pussies, a deep purple rubber dick bridging their tender assholes. They hump lightly back and forth on the toys while, up above, bridging their bulging throats, is a flesh-colored rubber dildo that's the longest of all. There's a little bit of residual jealousy between them that fuels them to delight in making the other gag horribly. But, hugging each other, their fat tits mashed together, the only leverage each has to force the ersatz cock down the other's throat is to push their own face further forward -- to gag themselves, as well. It isn't long before they make all three of the double dildos disappear entirely inside their bodies. They lock lips and retch and heave and cum and writhe.

Cerise is at your back. She kisses you from behind, making you twist your head to meet her lips. Meanwhile she frigs herself. "I wanna see it," she begs. "I wanna see you cum inside her..."

"Me too," Mom sighs. By now she's bouncing on Vivian and Anna's faces like a pogo stick. Milk dribbles down her breasts. "Cum inside her... make sure she's pregnant!"

You feel the intense heat of arousal rising within you -- somehow, even by this point, your cock is only getting harder, bigger, and leakier. A man with a mission, bidden on by your mother and sister, you start jackhammering in and out of Vivian. She screams, but the screams disappear into your Mama's cunt and can barely be heard. Anna, underneath Mom too, is absolutely dripping with Mom's sweet-smelling cum. So is the tabletop, and the remnants of dinner. Cerise tickles your balls the way Ms. Carte did, kneading them, trying to coax out another hot load. Vivian's pussy spasms. 

Thrusting in and out of this sloppy little hole has the paradoxical effect of both soothing and frustrating the horny itch in your cock. You swing your hips like an animal but get yourself no closer to real relief -- instead, every pump just impels you to pump a bit harder and faster on the next swing of your hips, trying to get even deeper into Vivian's pussy. Fucking her feels amazing, but only on the outside of your cock: the foreskin and shaft and sensitive head. It cannot scratch the more insistent itch deep inside, the itch in the meaty, spongy tissue of your penis. No amount of pounding can do that, although you try with the frenzy of a man driven insane. You hug her close and fuck on top of her like you're trying to break her to pieces. Your cock twitches in desperate need, pulsing and throbbing and expanding despite the vicelike pressure of Vivian's fuckhole. Still that itch remains. This is pleasure transmuted into pain -- the kind of awesome sexual pain that feels too good to quit. You wouldn't think of quitting. You wouldn't be physically able to quit. Fucking Vivian might feel so good that it literally hurts, but quitting now would be truly horrific agony. Nothing in the world could ever make you stop gyrating on top of this little girl. Not if a bomb went off, not if you had a heart attack, not if she started begging and crying for you to stop. Because you're so close to the one and only thing that will scratch the itch in your cock. The sweet sensation of your muscles finally loosening in orgasm. A mind-melting shudder in your dick that soothes all lust -- beginning with a warning tremor underneath the root, which rapidly intensifies and then ripples through the length of your cockshaft in joyous sinusoidal quivers, as the sperm races up your shaft and deposits itself into Vivian's baby room with a series of wet spurts. 

This ejaculation, the most voluminous of all, sets off a chain reaction. Cerise rubs the cum out of her pussy, behind you, spraying your back with her sisterly fluids. Seeing her children cum so hard, Mom cums on the young girls serving her, wailing incoherently as she nearly drowns them. Similarly, watching Vivian get creamed makes both Whitney and Ms. Carte cum on each other too. Whitney loses her balance on the chair, falls with a soft "oof" into Ms. Carte's lap: they begin to kiss and writhe sweatily against each other as they watch this denouement. 

Rose and Rose pull back from each other's lips, letting the slimy dildo slip from their mouths and plop into their laps between them. Leaning away from each other, bracing themselves on their palms, they start to fuck, and cum wetly on each other's bodies, as if trying to mark territory. 

It's a pretty big mess. 

As the various sweaty pairs dislodge from one another, dripping cum and caked with streaks of chocolate, the realization that the dining room is a disaster area begins to dawn. Chairs are tipped over, dishes are strewn, food is everywhere. Who's going to clean up?

Your little sister is the first to mention it. "We have so much dinner left over..." she mutters. Her voice is raspy from having a dick down her throat for much of the past half hour, and her eyes are red with tears. "We can't really put it in the fridge, either, huh?" She's right about that. What's left of the brownies is smeared and scattered all over the table, mixed up with cum and other bodily fluids. Not exactly the kind of thing you cover with saran wrap and stick in the refrigerator. 

Whitney offers an idea: "let's finish it all up now." 

You quirk an eyebrow at her.

"C'mon, Ally..." she says, "help me get your Mom on the table."

"Now -- wait a second!" Mom sputters. But you and Whitney are simpatico, and make things quick. Together you each get an arm around her and drag her to the table. She kicks and struggles, but no use. You force her onto her back, and the other girls get the idea too: you all begin to lather Mom's body with the remains of the food. Her soft stomach, her softer breasts, her legs and arms -- you smear her all over with the gooey chocolate. Between her thighs, under her tits, even across her pretty face. 

Mom eventually stops fighting, and just lets you animals have your way. Like that, Mom herself has become tonight's dessert. This sugary dessert, tainted with drugs, and commingled with cum and sweat, is a dangerous admixture. If you guys keep eating, it'll set off another round of fucking just as depraved as what came before. You all realize this -- even the ones who didn't know they'd been drugged -- it's easy to deduce that the food had an intimate connection to how you all got horny at the same time. None of you care. Your lips meet Mom's feet, Cerise's meet her mouth; Ms. Carte licks her inner thighs while Whitney nurses on Mom's cunt. Your little sister swabs her tongue across Mom's belly. Anna and Rose lick her tits. Vivian has her face buried in Mom's armpit. It's all mouths on deck, and Mom is moaning deliriously while she gets eaten. The next time you cum, it'll be inside her pussy -- and all your other girls will be watching eagerly.  

---

"Thank you for coming." 

Cerise nods. An awkward beat passes. Rather than stepping aside, Sable just stands there at the threshold, as if waiting for something. 

"...Can I come inside?" Cerise asks.

"Oh. Yes." Sable at last makes way for Cerise to enter the little apartment.

Sable will be going to New York City on a redeye flight tonight, there to interview for a position at a major financial institution as one of their head analysts. She'll be on the east coast for a week, first for a few days in the city, and then a few more to visit her family upstate in Oneida. Thus the reason Cerise is here: Sable wants her to apartment-sit.

As an enticement, not that Cerise needed to be enticed, Sable finally relented to a longstanding offer to appear on the Sakura Dokuhaku livestream. The stream is slated for this evening, and will take place in Sable's bedroom. 

Cerise hopes that Sable's bedroom is more suitable for use as broadcasting set than the living area is. This apartment is a disaster, crammed with random cardboard boxes that bulge with miscellaneous electronics and computer parts. It is a hygienic disaster, in fairness, at least: there are no food containers, dirty dishes, dust, soiled laundry to be spied. Just piles and piles and piles of E-junk, papers, books, wires, tools. Near one wall -- not pushed against it, but at an awkward spot a few feet away -- stand some portable whiteboards that Cerise is reasonably certain have been pilfered from North High. The whiteboards are littered with a panoply of many-colored post-it notes detailing the flitting chaos of Sable's imagination. It's a riot of scrawlings beyond Cerise's ability (or desire) to reckon. Cerise now understands why Sable preferred to live in more mobile environs. Having the space to stretch out only leads to this jumbled mess. Marie Kondo she isn't. 

Alex is kicked back on a chocolate brown leather loveseat, besocked feet resting atop a low coffee table and crossed at the ankles. He's eating chips and reading a book -- a horror manga on loan from Cerise herself. She got him started on the classics, and right now he's working his way through Uzumaki. 

"Hey Cerise," Alex says airily, not even glancing up from the book. 

Cerise lets her duffel gently down in the foyer and glances all about in search of a clock. What she finds, finally, half-obscured by other shit, is an antiquated-looking Nixie tube clock on a mantle above the fireplace. It's 8:44 PM. 

"Should you be going home soon?" Cerise asks.

Alex just kind of shrugs.

More or less, Alex lives at Sable's apartment. He helped her pick it out (read: forced her to move out of her van). He helped her get situated and shop for furniture (read: forced her to furnish her home like a halfway normal human). And now he helps her tidy, as best he can (read: there are some things even Alex can't force Sable to do, and fighting the losing battle against clutter is one). It's become somewhat normalized that Alex spends the majority of his free time here. But Alex is still a student at North High, and a minor to boot, if only for a couple more months. Everyone looks the other way, but Cerise occasionally wonders when -- if? -- Alex's grandparents will raise hackles about this improper student-teacher relationship.  

Sable breezes by. She enters the apartment's kitchen, and now is visible only from the chest up, separated from the living room by a high counter that forms a sort of half-wall. It's then Cerise becomes aware of how muggy it is in the apartment, glances up and sees steam wafting heavily across the ceiling. She surmises that a pot of water is boiling rapidly on the stovetop.

"Ms. Guiteau wanted me to stay for dinner -- and tonight's stream," Alex explains. 

Cerise would usually warm at an offer to have her trusted assistant Besuto along for a night of streaming. Right now, though, she's a little worried about the food: "I thought you were ordering pizza," she tells Sable, a hesitant catch in her voice.

"I decided to cook for you," Sable says. 

Ohhh man. That's what Cerise was worried about. Sable's hands are working on something, but the partition between kitchen and living room obscures what tonight's meal is. So Cerise is forced to find bravery enough and ask: "Oh? What are you cooking?"

"Spaghetti." 

Cerise considers this. Hard to fuck up spaghetti, right? You cook the pasta, you warm the sauce. Simple. Sable can manage that much. 

As Sable busies herself with dinner, Cerise steps to the couch and lightly swats Alex's thigh just below the cuff of his shorts. "Scoot," she commands. Alex scoots. Cerise settles in beside him and asks, "how are you liking Uzumaki?"

"It's so messed up!" Alex says. "I love it!"

"Attaboy," Cerise says. She's not going to fail at instilling good taste in Alex like she did with Alabaster and Rose. As Alex begins again to read, Cerise thinks for a moment or two, and asks: "so are you staying the night here, or...?"

Alex nods. "I was figuring on it, yeah. You okay with that?"

"Does your grandma..." Cerise begins.

"Alex's grandmother is a cunt," Sable says.

Cerise twists and glances over the couch's headrest, towards the kitchen where Sable works with her back to them. "Sable, that's..."

"Did I say that out loud?" Sable says.

"Yes."

Sable doesn't turn around, and doesn't miss a beat with her cooking. "Sorry. What I meant to say is that Alex's grandmother is a *worthless*, **miserable** cunt who doesn't deserve guardianship over him. And that any night Alex spends here is one night fewer for his grandmother to be a worthless, miserable cunt to him. Do you like Parmesan cheese?"

Alex snrks. 

With a confused murmur, Cerise twists herself back into a forward-facing position. If the two of them are agreed on things, it's no use trying to question their arrangement. "Yeah, I like Parmesan cheese," Cerise says.

Alex lays a hand gently on Cerise's leg. Maybe a bit higher than propriety dictates. Cerise's heart thuds harder than normal for one beat. "Don't worry," Alex tells her. "She never cares when I'm away at Ms. Guiteau's for the night. Let's have fun, huh?"


---

Sable fucked up the spaghetti.

What Sable sets before Cerise where she sits at the little square dining table (the one Alex, prior to dinner, so helpfully cleared of hex-head nuts and bits of a deconstructed PC tower from 1997) is a plate of waterlogged noodles, incompletely strained and improperly cooked. Half of it looks so soggy that it's about to disintegrate. The other half looks raw. And bafflingly, bits of it are singed black. But the horror doesn't end there. Sable opens a can of crushed tomatoes, right at the table, using a pair of needle-nosed pliers to stab the top of the can in two locations. The noise of it makes Cerise jump in fright. Sable pours the tomatoes, unheated, unseasoned, over the pasta -- and this, apparently, is her idea of spaghetti sauce. She then upends a bright green container of processed Parmesan cheese onto the slop. 

"Th-thank you," Cerise mumbles.

"Of course."

When Sable has doled out a plate for Alex and herself as well, she sits and waits, hands  neatly folded, for her guests to take the first bites. Cerise is reminded of medieval parleys in which enemies would break bread, but one side would wait for the other to sample the food first and thus confirm there is no poison. 

"This is..." Cerise begins. 

"Go on," Sable says.

Sable, who helped convince Cerise to apply for college and who taught her so much about hardware mods and programming -- and whose temper is, on the best of nights, volatile -- is hard to say no to. Cerise picks up her fork and gamely tries a little nibble of Sable's, uh, cuisine. It tastes like shit, as expected, and the texture is even worse. Cerise visibly struggles to swallow. 

"You don't like it," Sable says.

"I -- nooo," Cerise lies. "It's... it's fiiine."

But Sable's not a dummy. She stands and goes to the kitchen again. A split second later she returns with a salt shaker and a pepper grinder. Though Cerise holds out a hand to deter her, Sable either doesn't notice or doesn't care. She begins shaking salt in copious amounts over the top of the spaghetti and tomato sauce and cheese. "Say when," she says. 

Cerise casts an uncertain glance in Alex's direction. She has no idea how to be a gracious guest here. Alex is obviously concerned himself, and the look he gives Cerise in return inspires zero confidence. The moment lingers -- then, realizing that Sable is still going with the salt, Cerise physically pushes the shaker away from the food. "When."

Sable sets the shaker down and takes the pepper grinder next. 

"Say when," she instructs as she starts to twist the grinder's crank. 

"When," Cerise immediately says. 

Sable sets the grinder down. Nods. "I see. So my mistake was too little salt. There was already enough pepper."

"That's not -- there wasn't any -- I mean --"

"Ms. Guiteau," Alex says. His voice has a firmer tone to it than normal -- with an air to it of, "cut the shit already."

"What?" Sable barks. She sits again, and worries her hands in her lap. She already knows what.

Alex nods at her. "Let's order pizza, huh?"

Rather than explode, Sable is distraught. Her breathing becomes weird, syncopated, and she can't look either Cerise or Alex in the eye.

"We'll make spaghetti together when you come back from New York," Alex tells her.

"I should be able to cook for you," Sable says. "I should be able to do that much. You do so much for me."

"Well, if you want to cook for me... I'll have to teach you how I like to be cooked for!" Alex laughs. 

Sable nods. "That makes sense."

Alex turns Cerise's way. "Do you like white pizza?"

---

Cerise cleans the dishes while they wait for the pizza to arrive. Sable becomes downcast and mopey and quieter than usual, retreating to the living room couch to browse her laptop and make some final updates to her CV. It's Alex who tries to cheer her up: he crawls across the couch on all fours, like a slinking cat, and butts into Sable's personal space. The tip of his nose is practically against her cheek.

"Hey cutie," he says. 

Sable refuses to respond. She turns her body away from him, just slightly, trying to force him out of her bubble.

"What time do we need to go live?" Alex asks. 

Sable again says nothing, so Cerise fills him in. "We're doing a late-night stream," she says as she puts a plate in the drying rack beside the sink. "12 AM start, running until whenever. Sable wants to go straight to the airport after we're finished."

Alex grins at Cerise from over his shoulder. "That means we've got some time to kill." 

---

Alex says it's his favorite movie. It's called Birdemic: Shock and Terror, and it's the worst piece of shit Cerise has ever seen in her life. That's why it's Alex's favorite. His genuine enthusiasm for the movie's wooden acting, inept sound editing, PSX tier CG animation, and meandering story is infectious. Sable herself -- Sable, ice queen of all ice queens -- laughs right along with him, her sadness from dinner totally washed away. Cerise can't but marvel at how skilled Alex is at defusing Sable's moods.

Although it's Cerise's first time watching this garbage movie, it obviously isn't Sable's. Cerise actually begins to feel like a third wheel as Alex and Sable, between bites of pizza, take turns reciting lines of awful dialogue: 

"That is it! I'm getting myself a car that's environmentally friendly!" Alex says, complete with over-the-top hand motions, eliciting peals of delighted laughter from Sable that Cerise had no idea the woman was even physically capable of producing.

"Waoww, congratulatish. I think you'll look great in those lingerie," Sable says in a pitch-perfect impression of the lead actor's mealy-mouthed roboticism, making Alex almost double over. 

Whenever polygonal birds fill the screen, Alex and Sable bat at the air with wire coathangers just like the actors do, jostling and bouncing around beside each other on the loveseat. Cerise wasn't expecting prop comedy to enter the equation tonight, and can't begin to join in their private version of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Not that she isn't enjoying herself. How can she not, watching a film where flocks of birds rendered on an Amiga 3000 divebomb into buildings and explode like dynamite? She giggles like an idiot the whole way through, too. 

When the credits roll and Sable closes her laptop's lid, killing its projection to the TV screen -- there's that typical post-movie moment of awkward silence as everyone wonders what to do now.

"What time is it?" Alex asks.

Sable checks that Nixie tube clock. "10:30." 

There's still time to kill before the stream. Alex seems to have in mind just the way to do it. Sable, who sits in the middle on this loveseat that's cramped with three people, startles when Alex runs a hand along her thigh. He leans in real close, and repeats his cue from earlier: "hey cutie."

Sable averts her gaze: "We should get ready for Cerise's show."

"We have time," he says. He kisses Sable on the cheek and nuzzles her. "You'll be gone for so long... shouldn't we make the most of tonight?" 

Cerise is a willing accomplice. She always is when things turn horny. When Sable tries to stand, Cerise helps Alex force her back down by holding Sable's other thigh. Cerise kisses Sable too, nuzzles her cheek too, and drawls "hey cutie" too.

Sable, being groped and nuzzled from both sides, lets out a distressed murmur. But she puts up no resistance when Cerise unbuttons her trousers, nor when Alex runs a hand underneath her top. She squirms only a little when Cerise kisses her full-on on the lips. When Alex takes over, turning Sable's face towards his, Sable even kisses him back. Alex mauls her little A-cup breasts underneath her shirt while he slides his tongue to the back of her throat. This turn towards the lewd has happened so suddenly that Sable has no choice but surrender to it.

"We'll give you something to remember us by while you're away," Alex promises her between kisses. 

"Ahhn~" is Sable's only intelligible response, as she lifts her tailbone high enough for Cerise to help her out of her pants. They leave them bunched up on the carpet around her ankles. Sable's blue-and-white striped panties are half saturated with arousal already, and are squishy to Cerise's touch. Cerise prods Sable's puffy labia through the fabric, with enough force to produce a slight but noticeable jiggle. Alex laughs girlishly at the sight. Cerise snakes a hand under Sable's waistband next, and Alex is quick to do the same, joining her inside his teacher's underwear. 

This is pretty routine. Cerise is intensely interested in Sable's pretty pussy, its heat and slippery tightness, and never passes up a chance to finger her. But Alex knows what Sable likes best of all, and gets to work dutifully fingering Sable's rear hole. Anal masturbation is the only way Sable got off before meeting Alex. Even now, it's the surest-fire way to get her really juicing. While Cerise takes a turn putting her tongue in the back of Sable's slender throat, Alex hunches over and watches, up-close, how Sable's undies bulge from the presence of two molesting hands. It smells really good down here, with his face right up close to Sable's crotch.

Sable pulls away from Cerise's violating mouth long enough to peer down at where her other two orifices are being violated. "You... animals..." she breathes lovingly. A moment later: "get me naked, spread me open..."

They get her naked and spread her open. Cerise peels away her coat and shirt, Alex peels off her panties. They get her legs akimbo, one in each of their laps, so that Sable sits perched on her coccyx with her holes pointing practically at the ceiling. She holds her fists balled up beneath her chin, trembling and totally at their whim. She's such a slight and frail-looking woman, but her holes are so juicy and succulent. Cerise delights in toying with Sable's unusually fat and dark pink clit, rubbing it in fast rough circles. Alex enjoys corkscrewing his fingers in and out of Sable's spongy asshole. No extra lube is required for Alex to get knuckle-deep up his teacher's ass. The overflow from her needy, spasming pussy is enough. 

"Play with us too, Ms. Guiteau," Alex commands. He takes her thin wrist and directs her hand towards his crotch. Sable needs no further instruction. Of course she doesn't -- she jerks Alex's cock off all the time, after all -- here in her apartment, after school at the robotics club, in her van while they drive around town on a date... Sable loves toying with the velvety hardness and hot heavy heft of Alex's surprisingly meaty and masculine dick. She molests him whenever she has the chance, even at times when it risks her getting caught. She can't help it. She's in love with his cock.

"Me, too... me, too..." Cerise puffs through her increasingly uncontrolled excitement. As Alex did, Cerise guides Sable's hand towards her crotch.

These two students of Sable's now are taking full sexual advantage of her. They finger her together, so viciously that the sound carries through the room. They ravish her thin face and neck with kisses so desperate that Sable begins to get wet with their saliva. And they make Sable masturbate their horny genitals, too. It's a good thing Sable can multitask: she unbuttons and unzips both pairs of shorts, and fishes Alex's already leakingly hard cock out at the same time as she plunges her fingers into Cerise's slimy, puffy hole. "You weren't wearing underwear..." Sable notes, and swallows hard. "Nnn... you two were planning to do this to me all along, weren't you..."

"Hmm, maybe," Alex murmurs with a low laugh. The truth is this attack was spontaneous, but Cerise and Alex like to go without underwear precisely for that reason -- precisely because you never know when you're going to be struck with the irresistible urge to get off. The lack of underwear makes things easy for Sable: she jerks on Alex's cock and slides four of her slender fingers in and out of Cerise's hungry hole. Alex and Cerise encourage her by fingering her own holes even faster. They tweak her nipples with rough pinches and little bites, too. Sable's entire body trembles, from her spindly legs resting in her students' laps, to her torso that's so thin you can see the ribcage, to her jaw that chatters like she's freezing. Her holes tremble, too, and spasm and convulse around these invading fingers, sucking them ever deeper into her welcoming body.

It isn't long like this, before the three of them are cumming wetly all over each other. Alex squirts a hot load of semen into Sable's palm; Cerise sprays the inside of her shorts with cream; and Sable's battered orifices squelch as she sprays an arc of female cum so high and so far that it hits the coffee table in front of the couch. Sable shrieks in delight: "Harder! Harder you stupid fucking whores!" as her orgasm takes an aggressive edge. When Alex tries to kiss her during her cum, Sable slaps him across the face, leaving a smear of Alex's own jizz across his cheek, lips, and chin. This doesn't deter him even a little. He digs his fingers even deeper and even more cruelly into Sable's rear hole, and forces the kiss on her anyway. Sable screams obscenities into his throat while he tongues her, her voice a muffled, spittle-y "mfff-fff-fmfmff" of indecipherable ranting. They swap Alex's genetic material back and forth like this, while Sable's body is wracked with rolling orgasms. 

Cerise rubs her thumb on Sable's throbbing clit, and mashes her fingers against the roof of Sable's cuntal walls, at the place Cerise is well aware functions as Sable's G-spot. Sable squirts so much, so violently, that Cerise is sure the woman is just pissing herself at this point -- but the juice is transparent and fragrant the way a girl's cum should be as it pools on the couch and the ground and the table in deep, messy puddles.

Cerise finishes cumming too, and shimmies her way away free from this masturbation ménage à trois. With a start, she notices the time, and hurries to her duffel to dig out her Sakura Dokuhaku getup. The stream is due to start soon. 

Too bad Alex and Sable are oblivious to time -- they're raring for round two. When Sable unleashes a barrage of further slaps to Alex's face, Alex, his cock still hard and dripping, overpowers her. He forces her onto her back and climbs on top of her. Doubling her torso over itself, he stands barefoot on the couch and gets her into a mating press: using Sable's thighs as handles while he fucks his cock down into her body. He switches at will between Sable's asshole and pussy, enjoying her lower holes to their fullest extent. Sable caterwauls in ecstastic rage: "I LOVE YOU! STUPID FUCKING FAGGOT CUNT! FUCK ME HARDER! AREN'T YOU A MAN? COME CLOSER SO I CAN HIT YOU!"

Cerise lets them fuck while she changes into her costume and sneaks into Sable's bedroom to examine The Setup.

---

Sable's room is a space so clogged with spare parts that it makes the living room look like an experiment in radical minimalism. But a little section in one corner has been specially carved-out, prepared for public presentation: the area on and around a computer desk. Cerise discovers it already cleared of all detritus, and surrounded with a white tarp to shield the eyes of viewers from the chaotic mess beyond. The essentials for Sakura Dokuhaku's first-ever guest-hosted episode are ready and waiting. There are webcams at several angles, to showcase not only their faces but their cruelly nimble hands; there is a small white workbench waiting to accommodate the circuit-bending; and atop it, there is Sable's contribution, a Sony HB-F1XDJ, one of her prized possessions; as well as a Yamaha CX5M and synth keyboard, replete with the necessary cabling to make tonight's demos work. Sable's got the streaming software all set up and ready to go, too. It's as plug-and-play as can be. Cersie smiles, unzips her duffel, and begins to arrange tonight's victims: a couple of highly-prized Era 1 Furbys, specifically a "Dragon" and "Lady Bug" model. 

The rhythmic noise of flesh hitting flesh melded with Sable's howling orgasms come to a sudden halt. But the air is heavy with a sense of tension. Cerise knows that, right at this very instant, Alex is dumping a load inside Sable's pussy. The thought makes her own pussy start to drip again, just a little. That suspended moment of silence also ends all at once, when, a few moments later, a series of satisfied sighs rise from the living room. Alex and Sable are done mating like wild animals. For now.

They cut it pretty close. The show needs to start in just a few minutes. Sable and Alex have just enough time left over from their mating session to get changed. They burst into the bedroom, panicked, tossing clothes this way and that as they race to make the midnight start time. Cerise watches them, bemused.  

"That's the outfit you're going with?" Cerise asks Sable. 

Sable, one arm inside her labcoat and one arm outside it, is a little put off. "...It isn't good," she says, possibly as a question, although the lack of inflection makes it hard to tell.

"It's fine," Cerise says. "But you said you put a lot of thought into it. That's just what you always wear." 

Sable shakes her head, and, as she pulls the labcoat fully on, she taps a little nametag on her chest. It says "Sofia Sant-Elizabeth" in block letters.

"A nametag," Cerise says flatly, eyes narrowing. 

"And" Sable adds, without any further elaboration, before pulling out a mask that covers just one half of her face like the Phantom of the Opera. 

"Now we're getting somewhere," Cerise laughs. Sable is a fan of Cerise's stream after all, and knows quite well the signature gimmick of Cerise's vaunted Furby Organ. 

Alex, for his part, dresses in the Besuto standard, as first conceived by Alabaster. Cerise reckons it's about the only good idea Alabaster has ever or will ever have. Alex looks so good as a slutty succubus that merely looking at him in his costume makes Cerise want to utterly ruin him... get ahold of yourself now, Cerise, she thinks...

Alex adjusts his fishnets and makes sure the straps on his pumps are tight. To do this he bends in half at the waist, poking his ass prominently out into the air. Both women stare at him without any shame. As Alex straightens his spine, he notices the Furbys Cerise set on the workbench, and breathes a sigh of appreciation. "Whoaa, those are cool ones... what're we gonna do to 'em?" 

---

Cerise is solo when she first goes live. She salutes, back of her palm to her brow. "Sakura Dokuhaku here. Wow, we've got a full house already! Look at that view count. Now -- you might notice something slightly amiss about this setup, huh? Where am I? ... Well, those of you who saw the streams on Monday and Wednesday should remember that I was setting up to do a special demo on new hardware for tonight's stream. So tonight, we unveil it! Besuto!"

Alex is always shy about his appearances on stream, and tonight he's especially so. Not only are Cerise and 150-odd viewers watching him, but now also his beloved Ms. Guiteau. He may be bold enough to pin her down and inseminate her, but he wilts at the thought that she might not like his showmanship. He shuffles into frame, wringing the ruffled hem of his black-and-white micro-mini skirt. 

"Back on Wednesday, Besuto helped me make some MSX-compatible sound recordings on the Furby Organ. He burned those audio files to a disk... Besuto, show them."

Alex holds up a disk. 

"You don't see these things much these days," Cerise says, and grabs it from him. Alex's hand stays up and his fingers stay pinched together as if he's still holding it. But Cerise is displaying it to the camera, holding it way up close. "3.5 inch floppy. This is practically an antique!" Cerise tosses the disk onto the desktop and it slides a short distance with a satisfying clack. "Not the only 3.5 inch floppy around here, huh?" Cerise adds with a snicker.

"S-sakura," Alex squeaks. 

"I'm just kidding, Besuto. It's a little bigger than 3.5 inches." She reaches back and gropes him -- just for a split second -- which is enough to make him jump in fright, and try to force her back by grabbing her wrist with both hands. When she backs off, Alex is still covering his crotch as if he's been stripped naked, knees nearly touching. 

"...Pretty floppy, though," Cerise adds, rubbing her chin. She stares at him in silence, just long enough for it to be awkward. "Sit down already. Yeesh."

Alex sits in the chair beside her.

"Do you recognize these Furbys?" Cerise asks.

"I think so," Alex says. His blush is subsiding. "One is a Ladybug, right? And the other... Ocean?"

"Dragon," Cerise corrects. "Show them off, boy."

Cerise switches to a different camera, and Alex shows the Furbys off by pointing to them, each in turn, his slender hands indicating their splendor. He could be a hand model -- Cerise uses him as such quite often.  

"Pick one up," Cerise says. 

Alex picks the Ladybug up, and as he does, the hinged plastic plate on the bottom comes loose and swings open. The thing has no batteries. 

"Oh no," Alex says, although he's in on the gag, and knows this is all a part of the script. He picks the other Furby up to show that it's in the same state. "Our subjects don't have any juice..."

"Too bad," Cerise says, shrugging theatrically. "Guess there's no show tonight, after all--"

Surreptitiously, she triggers a prerecorded sound cue. Thunder claps resound. Sable, from off-screen, flips the bedroom's lightswitch on and off for effect. Following this comes the opening licks from the main theme of The Phantom of the Opera, as rendered by zombified Furbys: "Aaaaaa-chooooooo~! -- CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO!"

Sable enters from stage left. The half of her face not concealed by the mask, she conceals with her splayed-out palm. She definitely practiced her evil cackle beforehand: "Gua-ha-ha-ha-ha!!" She rips her palm away from her face pose with her arm at a 45 degree angle from her body, elbow locked; the swiftness of the motion makes her labcoat audibly rustle. "You've entered the realm of... Sofia Sant-Elizabeth!"

As difficult as it was to get Sable onto the Sakura Dokuhaku livestream -- now that she's here, she's jumped in with both feet. Cerise struggles to remain in character and not start giggling and clapping in childlike delight. Beyond the joy of seeing Sable's debut up-close and personal, Cerise is delighted because she knows that just as soon as Renee gets wind of this little guest episode, she'll finally want to do a guest ep of her own -- those two women can never let the other have a glory to themselves.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" Cerise says. "Sofia Sant-Elizabeth has entered the building!"

Alex is less contained than Cerise is. He does giggle and clap.

But though Sable may have had her entire entrance planned to the minutest detail, she obviously didn't think beyond it. She stands there as if turned to stone, clearly unsure what to do next.

"Come on and sit," Cerise gently suggests.

Sable sits. 

---

While all three of them have their own dramatic flamboyance, they tone things down a bit when it comes to the nitty-gritty of technical discussion.

"Well -- this is your setup," Cerise says. "Tell us a little bit about it. Why MSX?"

"The MSX architecture is extremely versatile," Sable says. "It can be used for... so many different applications... here, for example." She motions at her two different computers on the workbench. "The HB-F1XDJ is just perfect as your daily driver for gaming, programming... it has sequencing capabilities too. But the Yamaha CX5M, which runs on the same architecture, is a purpose-built synthesizer and music editor. Tonight we'll be using b--" 

A short jingle plays from the stream software, followed by a sound cue of a Furby saying, "dah may-may..." Sable, who didn't expect the interruption, startles.

Alex loves to shoutout viewers when he's on the stream, so Cerise lets him take it from there. "Thanks so much, Tom underscore Servo, for the 8 month resub!--"

Another jingle, and a Furby voice saying: "dah dah may-tah..." 

"--And the $20 donation!" Alex adds. His eyes go from squinched nearly shut to almost popping out of his skull. "Wowww! That's awesome!" He leans in and reads the screen. "Servo says, 'your new guest host is so cute! I wish I had a wife like her!'..." 

Sable makes a tiny squeak and turns red.

Alex's Besuto character usually reserves his dark and glowery side for the Furbys. But tonight his face goes frighteningly blank as he stares into the main webcam to address the stream's 200 viewers directly. "Back off, Servo. She's mine."

Sable makes a slightly louder squeak and turns even redder.

Then the bright cheery smile comes back to Alex's lips as if it never left, and he lays his cheek against his clasped-together hands as if pantomiming going to bed: "Terribly sorry that you didn't get to her first! But we really appreciate the dono anyway!"

"For sure," Cerise adds, and does Sakura Dokuhaku's signature salute-and-wink. "How's the sound quality on the MSX?" Cerise asks, turning towards Sable.

Sable clears her throat and takes a moment to compose herself. She takes the floppy disk of Furby noises and puts it in her daily driver, navigates to the first file, then hits the play button. Rather than the devilish crescendo of tortured Furby music, a staticky, garbled mess of noise issues. "Not great," she says.

"What can we do about it?"

"You would need to add a sound card... luckily, I have several to choose from." Sable produces a box and sets it on the bench. "Moonsound is generally a go-to," she says, indicating the deck. But she sets it aside: "today I'd like to try something new." She fishes through and finds what she wants, handing it to Cerise. "This one."

"Hah," Cerise says, reading the deck's name. "That's my little sister's friend." She glances up. "My sister's on study-abroad in Japan right now -- she has a friend with this same name." 

"Mm," Sable says. She motions for Cerise to hand the deck back, and takes it. "I bought this from a hobbyist down in Florida. This will be its inaugural test."

Sable wheels her chair up to the workbench and clacks the deck into the expansion slot. But she pauses for a moment, thinking. She glances over her shoulder, back at Cerise. "The person I bought this from mentioned that he's a fan of the stream. Maybe he's watching tonight."

"Oh man," Alex laughs. "Testing his gear live on stream while he's watching? I'd be sweating bullets!"

"Give it a go," Cerise says.

Sable navigates to the correct file and hits play. This time, rather than sounding like rejected samples from Sinistar, the manifold voices of the zombie slaves Cerise recorded on her Furby Organ back at home are crystal-clear, albeit noticeably MIDI-fied. Having been recorded directly from the Furbys' sound chips to the MSX sound format, they also lack the sometimes-obnoxious mechanical whirr of plastic gears grinding against one another. All that's left is pure, distilled, Furbic agony.

"Oh my god," Cerise breathes. The stream is lighting up with cheers and donations. Alex is clapping. "Folks," Cerise says, "this is coming out of a computer made in the 1980s. This is..." Her eyes light up as she notices that the expansion deck has an onboard volume dial. She extends a white-gloved hand and cranks it up as far as it goes. Worries, achoos and boh-bays wash across the room with the swoopingly thunderous resonance of thrash metal. "Freaking amazing. Hey Florida guy, if you're out there, this one's for you." Another salute and wink, this time with a slightly poked out tongue, and a little adjustment to her black-rimmed glasses.

"But we want to do a live recording," Sable says. "We can, if you hook up your test subjects to my Yamaha, actually capture their cries in realtime... and preserve them for eternity on the MSX."

"Let's fucking go," Cerise says, pumped like nothing else. She and her trusty sidekick Besuto are already wiring the battery-less Furby toys to the CX5M, using the same methods Cerise employed on her full-scale Furby organ. 

A little ad-hoc circuit-bending lets her assign a different noise to every key of the Yamaha's keyboard: the Dragon model to the low octaves, the Ladybug model to the high octaves. From there she can sample their pained noises at will and sequence them into music tracks -- if it can even be called music. She, Alex, and Sable all take turns messing around with improvised creations, sequencing little files of their own. 

Cerise's musical creation is especially elaborate. She plays the Ave Maria in Furbish, her delicate fingers sliding across the Yamaha's keys with a methodical grace and elan, to produce the most fucked-up rendition of Schubert's masterpiece ever recorded by humans.

Alex reads another donor chat. "Benderman1840 wants to know: 'have you always had an interest in music, Sakura?'" 

Cerise shrugs. "I took a couple classes when I was little. My little brother's girlfriend -- recently she wants to start a band, you know... so I've been dabbling a little bit again, since she wants me on the keyboard."

"How exciting," Sable says. "I wonder if--" she stops, thinks, and tries again in her more theatrical Sofia Sant-Elizabeth voice: "any band worth anything needs an audio engineer! What do you say?"

Cerise strikes a chord on the Yamaha: "Worry."

"GraphCrafter wants to know whether Sofia Sant-Elizabeth has any other tricks up her sleeve." Alex glances at his lover/teacher. "Well?"

Sable laughs: "guahahah! Tune in again and find out, why don't you?" She suggestively holds up some spare bits of wire as if to say, guess where these will go next.

---

Sable and Alex shower together after the stream ends. Strange as it is to think, Sable conducted the entire livestream while dripping with Alex's sperm -- and Alex's panties were pretty messy too for that matter. 

Cerise would join the couple in the shower, but thinks better of it. She lets them have a little bit of alone time in there. It's the last bit of togetherness that they'll have for a little while, after all. Sable's imminently upcoming weeklong trip is the longest period of separation the two will have had since they met. Cerise is sure they want to enjoy the moment while they can.

The sounds that emanate leave very little doubt that they're enjoying the moment quite well. There is definitely more than showering going on behind the bathroom door. 

---

Sable is uncertain as she packs the last of her things.

"What did you think? Was it good?" 

"You *have* to come back on the show sometime," Cerise insists. "It was such a great change of pace! You could do all sorts of guest spots."

Sable smiles to herself, and zips up her suitcase. "I guess I make a good mad scientist, huh." 

"The best!" Alex agrees.

Cerise follows Sable towards the front of the apartment, to see her off.

"I stocked the fridge for you," Sable tells her. "Only the finest beer that money can buy." 

Cerise is pleased. That is until she swings the fridge door open and finds a 24-pack of Heineken waiting inside. "...Thanks," she says flatly, but tries not to betray the disappointment. Like Jesus on the cross, she forgives Sable for her transgressions on this front. The poor sinner knows not what she does. 

"Please make sure to check the mail every day--" 

"Of course."

"--and feed the turtle." Sable points at a terrarium in the corner. Cerise hadn't even noticed the little guy. He must be new. 

"What's his name?" Cerise asks.

"Name?" 

"Yeah."

"There's no reason to name something that cannot answer to it."

"Aw, Ms. Guiteau," Alex grumps. "This again?"

"Yes!" Sable says. Cerise realizes she's salting a fresh wound. She walks to the terrarium; Sable and Alex follow. When Cerise leans over to peer in from the top, the anonymous turtle makes a disgruntled "ehhhh" and snaps its jaw at her. 

"It's good to name your pets," Alex says. "It shows you care." 

"How about Grumpy?" Cerise suggests.

"Grumpy!" Sable barks. "Hey, Grumpy. Sit."

Grumpy does nothing.

"See? For what purpose would I ever name a creature that cannot be made to respond to commands? I may as well name my ficus, too."

"I already did!" Alex half-shouts, but regret shadows his face as soon as he does.

"You named my ficus."

"Frank," Alex says, unable to back down now.

"Frank the ficus."

"I'm the only one who waters it anyway," Alex says. "AND I picked it out for you. So really, it's more like it's mine. And I named it Frank. So there."

"Frank, come here," Sable says. Frank does nothing. "Uh huh," Sable murmurs flatly. "Some good a name does."

Alex sighs. He knows as well as anyone that sometimes you cannot win with Sable.

"Cerise," Sable says, "please also make sure you water Fr-- the ficus. Every day."

"Of course," Cerise says.

"I need to be going," Sable says, picking up her luggage again. "Security always takes me aside at random when I fly."

"That doesn't sound very random," Alex muses.

"It's what you get for living in a fucking van for the past five years," Cerise says. "You're on a lot of lists, I bet."

The two women hug. "I return in a week," Sable says. "See you then."

"Be safe!" Alex says. Despite their little spat over naming pets and plants, he's a bit crushed to see her leaving. "I'll call lots!" He hugs her tight. Is he saying goodbye to his girlfriend or his mom? 

---

Sable wanted Cerise to spend the entire week in her apartment -- so paranoid. As if thieves will barge in the second the place is vacant. She frequently phones Cerise to check up on her: 

"Is everything all right over there?"

"Yes, Sable. Just like it was five hours ago."

"Good."

"...Anything else?"

"Did you check the mail?"

"I checked the mail earlier. Remember? Mail only comes once a day."

"Did you water Fr-- the ficus?"

"Frank's been fed."

"Mm."

"So has Grumpy."

"Will you call me if anything happens?"

"I could. Or I could just wait a few minutes for you to call me."

"Don't mock me."

"I will. Uh. Call you, that is. Not mock you."

"Mm."

"But I'll mock you, too."

"Cerise!"

"See you soon, Sable."

"...Take care, Cerise."

(And so forth.)

But Cerise is happy to have the time away from home. Living in a 24/7 cathouse can grow a bit wearisome, even if it's fun. She and Alex take the opportunity to do a little spring cleaning and all. Mostly Alex. But Cerise does help a bit.

---

It's a dog-day Wednesday afternoon. Cerise is lounging in the now much-tidier living room. Alex has just gotten back from school, and today he volunteered to rearrange the cougar's lair that is Sable's closet. Since Cerise is catching up on her backlog this week, for once in her life, she lets Alex have at it. As Alex works and Cerise watches anime on the living room TV, she idly masturbates on Sable's couch. (She's certain Sable wouldn't mind. Sable is pretty lez for Cerise's pussy.) 

Masturbating like this takes no special prep. For most of her time apartment-sitting, Cerise has gone more or less stark naked. Sometimes she throws on a tee -- like the one she wears right now. But tee or no, her pussy is always out and catching some fresh air. It's a way of life becoming increasingly normalized back at home, and she can't help hewing to her semi-nudist ways even while away. It makes her already outsized tendency towards onanism even more pronounced. She plays with herself whenever she gets the chance. And this week she's even hornier than usual, because she's been getting much less sex. Anna's been over a few times to play, sure. And Cerise usually makes Alex eat her out and toss her salad whenever he's over. But Cerise is sorely lacking some dick in her life. Alabaster was over only once, on Sunday, to drop off a plate of Mom's dessert. He bent Cerise over the couch and nailed her raw, then made her drizzle the cum out of her pussy and over her slice chocolate cake before eating it. That was a lot of fun. But it wasn't enough to keep Cerise's hot cunt satiated, not by a long shot.

To put it simply... Cerise is horny. 

Horny as she is, though, Cerise has presence of mind to become concerned when she hears muffled groans from Sable's bedroom. It's definitely Alex's voice, and it sounds like he's in pain. Cerise stops diddling herself to go and investigate. 

Poking her head in, she finds something unexpected but entirely unsurprising. Alex isn't hurt. No. He's being a complete creepo perv, that's all. He's on his knees in the middle of Sable's bedroom, naked, and he's huffing a balled-up pair of Sable's panties. His eyes are tightly shut -- he's lost to the world right now as he breathes deeply of his idolized teacher's musk.

Cerise uses Alex's panty-sniffing-induced distraction to sneak up on him. She's right behind him before he notices her presence.

"Ce-Cerise!" He squeaks, spinning around and falling backwards. He's partially propped up on one hand as Cerise stares reproachfully down at him, arms folded under her breasts.

"You fucking freak," Cerise spits. She knows just the words to turn him on.

"I... I wasn't--"

"Shut the fuck up." Cerise says. Alex shuts the fuck up. Cerise's eyes drift down and, to her delight, she sees something even she was never debauched enough to try on Alex: a chastity device latched around his cock. The little pink cage keeps him from getting hard, but it definitely doesn't stop him from leaking precum. A steady laminar stream of it runs down the length of the cage's hard plastic, across Alex's smooth nuts, and to the carpet below. He really worked himself up sniffing Sable's panties.

"You said you were cleaning up in here," Cerise says.

"I was..."

"Looks like you're making a real fucking mess."

Alex hangs his head.

"Give me those," Cerise says. She snatches the panties from Alex before he can hand them over. These are used, all right -- Cerise can see the outline of a wet spot on the crotch from where Sable wore them. She considers the garment for a moment. Sable is a pretty thin woman. Cerise is... not a size zero, let's say. She can clearly tell these panties wouldn't fit, or at least not comfortably. 

She slips them on anyway. 

Well, it takes some effort. The little blue-and-white striped piece of cotton tenaciously refuses to pull across Cerise's big thighs and even bigger ass. It takes some grunting and squeezing and tugging and pulling. It's a bit mortifying. Cerise sort of regrets even attempting it. But she can't give up, because she's trying to project an intimidating image to Alex, who's still cowering in her shadow. The effort pays off: when at last she manages to don the itty-bitty shimapan, it looks like the bottom of a micobikini on her. It barely covers the cleft of her pussy, and the seat is almost wholly swallowed up by her ass cheeks. She feels fat... but she's certain Alex is in sheer awe. 

"Cerise..." Alex breathes. "What are you d--"

This is all Alex can get out before Cerise steps to him, grabs the back of his head, and forces his face into her crotch. Her hand plays through his fair hair, gripping it cruelly. She grunts: "Smell me. This is what you wanted, isn't it? Come on, freak. Smell me." She mashes Alex's cute little button nose into the crack of her pussy. She can feel his breaths through the thin cotton.

Cerise enjoys riding his face like this, for a little while. She humps him like a bitch on heat, and has a miniature orgasm in Sable's underwear. The more Cerise rides him, the fewer and farther between Alex's whines become, and the deeper he breathes her womanly scent. This really is what he wanted, exactly what he wanted. He balls up his fists and holds them at his chest while Cerise uses his face for a cumrag. But Cerise's pussy is fucking aching after four days of no dick. Even Alex's pitiful little thing, twitching and leaking while she uses him, is tantalizing. She licks her lips and stares at it.

"Here," she pants. She steps off Alex's face like a person dismounting a bicycle's saddle. She peels the underwear off and forces them into Alex's hands. "Put these on. Fucking do it."

Alex's face is ruddy, his hair is mussed, and his eyes are vacant. He's coated in sweat, cunt juice and grime. He hardly seems to comprehend the order -- but he complies with it. He slips the juicy garment on, and it's a much better fit on his ass than it was on Cerise's. His caged cock makes such a cute bulge in the material.

Cerise lays both palms flat on Sable's bed and spreads her legs wide, so that both her holes open up. "Lick my fucking ass."

Like a dog, Alex slobbers all over Cerise's cutely puckered anus. He licks her inside and out without reserve. He licks her pussy, too -- can't help himself -- but he mostly focuses on rimming Cerise, as instructed. 

For Cerise, it's ecstasy. Beyond ecstasy. Using Alex hard like this is always a quick ticket to a nice big cum. Feeling his little pink tongue swab around her insides is just the relief her needy holes have been crying out for. But goddamn it, it isn't quite enough. She's so frustrated by her mounting need that she lets out a low growl. She's too addicted to her brother's dick... too addicted to getting squirted full of cum... it's made her into such a slut. Turning, bracing herself against the bed the other way now, she begins to fuck her ass up and down on Alex's tongue like riding a dildo. She masturbates, with three or four fingers at a time ramming in and out of her pussy. She's squirting all over the place and practically screaming: "Fuck! FUCK! Deeper, you little bitch! Deeper!"

Alex is flopping around like a fish out of water, desperately in need of oxygen. But Cerise is selfish and merciless. She keeps bouncing on top of him. With a pained whine, Alex loses control of himself -- he begins to pee. At first a little squirt, then two.  Soon he's completely unable to stop the steady flow: Alex wets himself inside Sable's panties. The volume of it can't stay contained, and seeps darkly from the cotton, down his thighs, onto the carpet. 

"You disgusting little fucking pervert," Cerise snarls. "Wet little bitch..." She devolves into a series of almost incoherent insults and demeaning phrases as she cums herself stupid and gets off on her own wanton cruelty.

But when she steps off him again, breathing ragged, she still isn't satisfied. It's useless... utterly useless. She needs to climb on top of that pathetic cock of his. 

Alex's head lolls from side to side against the bed. He seems to be seeing stars as he gulps down some much needed air. "Wow... Cerise... I... think I passed out for a second there..." He's got a big goofy grin on.

"I didn't cum."

"...What?" Alex weakly lifts his head and blinks. Little droplets of Cerise's pussy juice fling off his girlish eyelashes. "Do you... want me to lick you some more?"

Cerise uses her toe to nudge his dick through Sable's panties. "Where's the key to that thing?"

"I..." Alex stammers. "Ms. Guiteau has it."

Cerise frowns.

"She made me wear it," Alex says, voice timid. 

"Sable is crazy, but she isn't insane," Cerise says. "She wouldn't have flown across the country with the only key to that thing. What if she got sick and couldn't come back on time? What if she lost it?"

Alex says nothing.

"Where is the fucking key, Alex?" Cerise says. "Don't make me beat you."

"It's... under Frank," he says.

"Frank the ficus?"

Alex nods. Cerise turns, and heads for the living room again. Alex, crawling on all fours like the dog Cerise has been treating him as, follows her. His caged dick waggles underneath him, useless -- for now. "Cerise! Wait! Ms. Guit-- Ms. Guiteau said I couldn't take it off unless it was an absolutely critical emergency!"

"Shut up." Cerise lifts the wicker holder in which Frank sits. Just as promised, inside the circular indent Frank's container has made in the carpet, lies a shiny brass key. 

"Sit up," Cerise commands. 

Alex meekly gets into an upright sitting position. He rests on the balls of his palms, his legs crossed Indian style. His lithe, sweaty chest is heaving. His entire body trembles. He makes little "ah-- ahh--" whines as Cerise gets on her knees in front of him and pulls the panties he's wearing to one side. His puny cock twitches, covered in wetness and obviously begging for release equally as much as Cerise's twat is. Cerise takes a moment to appreciate the beauty of this trap's penis -- locked-up, unusable and inert. This device is the perfect weapon to keep in her back pocket, figuratively and literally, whenever she wants to torment Alex's boypussy extra hard. She wants to see if he can cum while wearing it. She makes a mental note to thank Sable for this evil innovation in methods of sexually bullying the boy. 

But for now... for now, Cerise really needs a cock inside her.

She unlocks the device, and pulls it off. Alex's flaccid dick isn't going to stay that way for long no matter what happens next -- but Cerise helps him along, anyway. She gently tugs on it, manipulating it between her fingers as she forces Alex back and begins to kiss him. Alex, utterly overwhelmed, still kisses her back. Cerise delights at the way Alex's prick gets so meaty as he grows increasingly aroused. When it's half-erect, it becomes heavy and spongy and almost dazzlingly hot to the touch. And as it rises to full mast, it becomes impressively thick, engorged and red and angry-looking. Alex's dick might be the most unfeminine thing about him, when he's hard. After so long caged up, he's extra hard now. Cerise can even feel the throbbing network of veins criss-crossing it. Her cunt muscles flutter in anticipation. 

"Please..." Alex moans. "Ms. Guiteau said... she said I wasn't allowed to cum until she gets back..."

"Then don't cum," Cerise says as she she jerks him off.

"Cerissssse..." Alex groans, neck muscles going taut. 

Cerise nips his earlobe. "Let's get back in bed," she whispers, right into Alex's eardrum, making him shudder.

Alex lies down in bed. His rock-hard cock bobs and bounces the whole way, poking proudly out of Sable's shimpan. He's not going to be able to make it go down without dropping a load. Cerise intends to make him do just that.

Just before joining him, Cerise is struck with another idea. She grabs one of Sable's labcoats from a hanger. Unlike Sable's underwear, these are one-size-fits-all. Although the coat describes Cerise's curves a little more explicitly than it does on Sable, the thing slides easily on. She likes the way it feels. It makes her feel... authoritative. And it goes so well with her baggy black tee, her choker, and her naked pussy.

Alex is agog. His eyes intently follow Cerise's sauntering approach, and although his tiny jaw moves like a rabbit's chewing a leaf, no sound comes out. 

Cerise climbs onto the bed, and over Alex's supine form. Her heavy tits are visible through the sagging collar of her shirt. Alex can't help staring.

"Are you looking at my tits?" Cerise demands.

"I..."

Cerise tugs the bottom of her shirt up, to reveal them in all their glory. They're slick with sweat, bulbous, and her dark pink nipples are hard. 

"Do you like these?" Cerise says.

Alex nods.

"Of course you do. You'll keep this secret from Sable, right? You'll be my good little boy today?"

"But... I'm not supposed to--"

"I told you already," Cerise says. "If she ordered you not to cum... just don't cum. There's no problem."

Cerise reaches down between their bodies and takes that wonderfully hard dick in hand. 

"W-wait," Alex stammers. Only now does he actually comprehend what's about to happen. "Y-you can't--!"

Too late. Cerise lines Alex's dribbling prickhead up with the dribbling entrance of her pussy. And then she slides right down onto it. It's a single, swift motion, that swallows Alex's entire cock into her, all the way to the balls. She does it so quickly and with such force that it makes an audible plap -- the noise of Cerise's thighs colliding with Alex's. 

Cerise, cunt full, momentarily loses her sense of time and space. Her eyes roll to the back of her skull so that Alex sees only the whites, and her jaw hangs open like she's a total idiot. She inhales a giant, gasping, fluttering breath, as the heat of Alex's cock spreads from her crotch throughout her entire body. Alex is no better off: he's never been inside Cerise before, and the velvety interior of Cerise's hole is almost mind-numbingly pleasurable. He nearly loses his nut, right there, before the panic grips him and he holds himself back by sheer force of will.

"Ffffuck," Cerise sighs. She kneads her tits. "Ffffuck. Ffffuckkhh..." A little droplet of spittle flies off her bottom lip. 

Alex shakes his head. "Cerise... we shouldn-- we-- Ms. Guit-- Ally--"

Cerise ignores him. She sits fully upright on top of him. She takes his hands, first one and then the other, directing them up and under her shirt. Despite himself, he feels her up -- starts to squeeze and toy with her breasts. He knows it's what she wants. Cerise rewards his obedience by clamping down on his cock, hugging it with the walls of her leaky pussy. And from the outside, she also hugs his slight waist with her soft plump thighs -- as if trying to draw him even deeper.

"P-please..." Alex whines.

"Oh, be quiet," Cerise says. "You're gonna get fucked. Get over it."

She hunches forward, and begins to bounce up and down.

She takes it slow at first, really savoring the full length of Alex's cock plunging in and out of her body. She was always curious what it would feel like. It has more give than Alabaster's, it's easier to squeeze down on and wring the precum out of. And of course, this cock's owner is more compliant... which is great when she's in an aggressive mood like she is today. Alex is such a small boy, and Cerise feels like she's conquering his body completely while she rides him. Because she is. She's conquering him and making him into a living sex toy for her personal amusement. 

Not that Alex doesn't take liberties. Having given up on stopping her, he molests her tits with abandon -- and begins to run his hands all over her curvy body at will. 

"Pervert," Cerise says. "Touch me more..."

The pace of Cerise's fuck begins to pick up steam. The steady plap-thwack, plap-thwack of her in-and-out gyrations, has a quality to it that completely hypnotizes the overstimulated Alex. Cerise braces herself against his chest, bearing down with all her weight, fucking him harder and faster with every passing moment. His cock is stirring her pussy into a froth, and she's having a series of rolling orgasms on him. She's squirting. On his dick, on the bedsheets, even on Sable's labcoat. The fluttering of the coat's thick fabric while she humps is just another noise in the chorus of slapping flesh and feminine moaning. 

Cerise's voice is husky and silken: "you're such a messy boy, Alex... you're so fucking messy today... you're making a mess in me, you know?" And he is. He's leaking a steady, continuous stream of slimy pre-fuck right into Cerise's deepest parts.

Alex is beet red with embarrassment. He feels awful about his mess. His jaw is hanging open. He's desperately trying not to cum. For so many reasons, he knows it would be such an awful thing to do. But he can't help himself, and Cerise's cruel goading is only bringing him closer to that point of no return.

"You're really throbbing now..." Cerise breathes. "Are you gonna cum, Alex?"

"N-no..."

"You're gonna fucking cum. I can feel it... your cute little cock's gonna blow its load, isn't it?"

"No!"

"You wanna cum inside me? You wanna cum raw inside me?"

Alex, unable to meet Cerise's evil gaze, covers his trembling face with both hands. Plap-thwack, plap-thwack...

"Fuck, Alex... I'm gonna cum, too..." Plap-thwack, plap-thwack... 

Cerise forces Alex's hands away from his face so that she can mash her tits against it. She makes him suck on her nipples, first one and then the other -- makes him nurse on her.

This is what finally sets him off. Alex, his mouth full of Cerise's tit, moans out: "W-wait-- mmmff--!!"

But the delirious joy of orgasm demolishes all of his higher reasoning. His "mmmf" becomes a rapid huffing, puffing, open-mouth panting, as he loses his load. Cerise settles fully atop him, his cockhead kissing her womb, to take it as deep as possible. She even wiggles around a bit to make sure his cum spreads all around as he blasts rope after rope into her. 

Halfway through his orgasm, his eyes go wide and he shouts: "I-- I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" He apologizes over and over in between deep, shuddering breaths. But he cannot possibly stop himself from emptying the entire contents of his balls straight into Cerise's baby room. Cerise, screaming like a banshee, climaxes so hard that her twat becomes a vice, cruelly rippling and wringing Alex utterly dry. 

She starts to bounce on him again, enjoying his prick to the fullest possible extent, mixing his cum all up inside her. As she rises to a cowgirl position again, Alex is still repeating: "Sorry! Sorry!" as he covers his face back up with his hands. 

It's one of the best orgasms either of them has ever had. As the sloppy throbbing of their genitals subsides and Cerise's plapping slows to a halt, the only noise left in the room is Alex's repeated "sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry..."

Cerise tugs the panties off Alex again. This poor pair of underwear has been through a lot already... it's about to go through more. Once again, Cerise forces the too-small garment onto her, trapping Alex's load inside her and making a gooey mess of crotch. Alex, peeking through the cracks of his fingers, glimpses Cerise waddling towards him on her knees. She squats, and sits on his face.

"Well?" Cerise says, staring down at him. "You made a mess. Clean it up."

---

Cerise is the big spoon as they drift in and out of sleep. 

Late into the night, Cerise wakes up to find Alex crying. He's trying to conceal it, making no noise -- but his body is wracked by the sobs nonetheless. Cerise strokes his hair from out of his face and hugs him tighter. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry..." he mutters.

"Alex... you do know I'm okay with what happened, right? I wasn--"

"No -- I know that. I mean I'm sorry for waking you up."

"It's fine. What's the matter?"

She forces him to turn around and face her. He sniffles. "I love you," he finally says.

"I love you too," Cerise says, and kisses him.

"But... I love Ms. Guiteau."

"So?" Cerise says. "We can all love each other."

"That's not it, either. Of course we can. But what I'm saying is -- Ms. Guiteau got the job. She texted me earlier. She's gonna move to New York. And if I go there with her... I can't be with you and Ally and everyone else... but if I stay..."

"Shh," Cerise coos. She holds his face to her bosom. "It'll work out."

---

Unfortunately, Vivian isn't the person who answers Vivian's cell phone:

"Whozzat?"

Cerise sighs. She's standing at the sliding-glass door to Sable's little second-story patio, gazing out at the parking lot as she holds the phone to her ear, the bright street lights casting her pale skin in weird relief. "Is Vivian around?"

"This is her secretary," Whitney says. "How may I direct your call?"

"I wanna talk to Vivian. Where is she?"

"Right now?"

"No, I want to know where she'll be in 2240."

"In the ground, I guess."

Cerise massages the bridge of her nose, praying for strength. "And where is she right now?"

"Heeh. Well, right now, at the current most present moment, my little sister is sucking my boyfriend's cock. So she can't talk."

"Fucking stupendous," Cerise says. "Well, put Alabaster on, then."

Whitney giggles. "Sure thing, toots. Please hold."

There's a slight rustle, and then Alabaster's voice: "What's up?"

"Sable got that job. Or so I hear." 

"Good for her," Alabaster says. Distantly, Cerise hears gagging from the other end of the line. "Yeah," Alabaster grunts. "Like that... oooh."

"Well, if she takes the job," Cerise says, "that means she's gonna move to New York. Alex, too."

"You know my motto," Alabaster says. "It'll all work out. ... Oh fuck, Viv... fucking swallow it, yeah... little cunt..."

"Yeah, yeah," Cerise says. "Everything's fucking magic in--" Cerise glances over her shoulder, to make sure Alex isn't eavesdropping. She turns back towards the patio window. "Everything is fucking hunky-dory in four-two-two. I get it. But how about you take some action on this one?"

"What are you thinking?" Alabaster asks.

"You're buddy-buddy with Darkbloom, right?" Cerise says. "And you said yourself that he wants her at his company."

"That is NOT a good id--" Alabaster begins.

"What happened to 'it all works out'?" Cerise says. "Huh?"

Alabaster sighs. "Could we have this conversation after I cum? Please?"

"Do this for me, Alabaster. You're already planning to join the company too -- to keep the guy out of trouble yourself... and I don't wanna lose Alex and Sable."

"Fuck," Alabaster sighs. There's more rustling from the other end. Vivian's voice rings out, in the background, clearly upset: "What is the meaning of this? Unhand me... let me finish sucking you off, Alabaster-- you demented pervert--"

"Sable got that job in New York," Alabaster says.

"Good for her," Vivian replies.

"That's what I said. But Cerise isn't too happy."

"What do you expect me to do about this?" Vivian demands. 

"Simple," Alabaster says. "If you promise that you'll tell your dad to call Sable up tonight, and hire her for whatever salary she wants... I'll cum down your throat."

There's a long pause.

"This is ridiculous," Vivian says. "I demand that you ejaculate inside m--"

Alabaster's voice is booming and no-nonsense. "I will cum in Whitney and let her swallow it all, Viv, I swear to god. Tell your dad to hire Sable. Tonight."

Whitney's laughter is riotous as Vivian considers this. "Don't take too long to think!" Whitney shouts. "You know I'm always hungry for Ally's sperm!"

Cerise doesn't hear whatever Vivian says, but she does hear the wet squelching of Alabaster fucking her throat. "Ungh, fuck... there we go..." Cerise marvels at how Alabaster can so shamelessly treat such a little hole like it's a plastic pocket pussy.

"Did she say yes?" Cerise asks after a moment.

"What do you fucking think?" Alabaster snarls.

Cerise touches her cummy pussy as she listens to Alabaster's loud, masculine orgasm. She can vividly picture him seeding young Vivian Darkbloom's gullet. She smiles to herself, and hangs up. 

But almost as soon as she disconnects, her phone lights up with a series of angry texts.

>From: Renee C.
>WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS VOD ON YOUR TWITCH, CERISE?
>WHY IS THAT HOOKER ON YOUR SHOW?
>WHY DID YOU LET HER GUEST HOST YOUR SHOW BEFORE ME?
>ARE YOU AT HER HOUSE RIGHT NOW?
>I'M ON MY WAY. GET YOUR STUPID FUCKING STREAM READY FOR ME.

Cerise giggles. It's gonna be another fun night. She heads for Sable's room, to wake Alex up again.

---

You shake your head. "I'm just saying that CalTech isn't the worst option, and she's already been accepted. It's a great fallback school if she doesn't get into MIT." 

"But her heart's so set on it," Whitney says. And we can for surely get her in at MIT if we give them, like... a billion dollars. That's how it works, right?"

"I'm against it," you say.

"Why?" Whitney demands.

"On principle--"

"Oh, PRINCIPLE!" Whitney hisses, still keeping her voice down so that the others in the waiting room don't overhear. "I forgot you were a man of such PRINCIPLE!"

"It's not what Ophie would want," Rose offers.

"No one asked you, moo-cow," Whitney says.

"Well, she's right," you say. "Ophie would want to succeed or fail on her own merits. She doesn't need our help anyway. Do you really think she won't get in, with her scores and extracurriculars?"

"It's just so fucked-up that Amber got into both schools before Ophie did," Whitney says. "No offense to Amber. But Ophie has the better scores. What's up with that?"

You and Rose shrug in a way you hope looks like you're as confused as Whitney is. In fact, you both happen to know that Amber's admissions essays were not essays, but long recitations of the adjuncts' sordid secrets. Her acceptance letters to CalTech and MIT came practically as soon as the essays were postmarked. 

"This is Ophie we're talking about," you say, laying a reassuring hand on Whitney's arm. "You don't have to fight her battles. She'll make her own way."

Whitney sighs, pensive.

A couple moments later, you hear the ICU's doors swinging open. Renee comes out. Vivian is on her feet immediately -- Whitney just glances up from where she sits. Both are tense, and expecting the worst. 

"He'd like to see you, Alabaster," Renee says. Her voice is beleaguered and morose. So not the worst, then -- but the time is coming. You glance Whitney's way. She nods as she lays her palm over your hand on the chair's armrest and pats it. Vivian sits again, and Renee sits at her side, to hug and console her.

---

David Darkbloom was hale and hearty for a 79 year old man. He ate well, had long since given up even occasional smoking, jogged, meditated, watched his cholesterol. Drank only on special occasions. Didn't even listen to music too loudly. But one day he started feeling weak and tired all the time, which progressed to loss of appetite and near-constant nausea. A couple weeks later when he went, at Vivian's stern insistence, to get it checked, he learned that the cancer had metastasized to so many vital organs that he was practically more cancer than man. Less than a month after that, here he is -- on death's doorstep.

You find him sitting partly upright in bed, the upper half of it adjusted to a 60ish degree angle. The sight of him turns your stomach. In such little time, this tall and solid and well-built man has become a skeleton wrapped in brittle gray skin. Even his breaths, shallow though they are, cause him obvious pain. He opted against palliative chemotherapy, so his hair remains, although his signature beard is gone. 

"You wanted to see me?" You ask. 

David nods, with some difficulty, and turns his head your way as far as his aching muscles will allow. "One last meeting, Alabaster, yes," he manages.

You purse your lips. "Is this a business meeting -- or a family meeting?"

David laughs a forceless and rickety laugh. "There is no difference between the two, with us, is there?"

Into the room now comes a man you recognize -- David Darkbloom's personal attorney, a one Mr. Epstein. Although Darkbloom developed a close and abiding friendship with the Mallorys, he never quite trusted them enough to let them represent his personal interests, somehow paranoid that they would execute legal maneuvers favoring their daughter over his. He was probably right. The ties that bind you all are sometimes messy.

"I am going to die soon," Darkbloom says. Never one to mince words. "Very soon," he adds, and swallows hard. He blinks a couple times as if focusing his strength. "Has Ophie gotten her acceptance letter to MIT yet?"

"Any day now," you say. "It could even be in the mailbox right now."

He nods. "I'm running short of time... but I do not want to go until she gets her letter. Will you -- let me know just as soon as she does?"

You promise him you will. 

"There is a matter -- to settle here," Darkbloom says. "My will is in -- need of an update. That is why I've taken the liberty to call on my -- personal attorney."

Other than the pauses in his cadence, he gamely covers the enormous pain that simply speaking causes him.

"What about your will?" You ask.

He nods at Epstein, who does the heavy lifting of explaining on his behalf. "David's fortune is to be divided more or less equally among his daughters and Renee Carte. But his stake in the company and the attending question of a successor remain up in the air. He seeks your input on the matter."

"Your successor is Renee -- right?" You ask Darkbloom.

"You know the funniest things," Darkbloom says. "I have never told you what my will says." 

"It's my job to know things."

"In any case -- she refused me steadfastly," Darkbloom tells you. "Not that she -- has ever gone willingly to my suggestions. She -- would listen to you, I am sure." 

You stride past Darkbloom's bed, to go and stand at the window, your back to him. But Darkbloom's croaking voice follows your transit:

"There are options besides. -- Vivian and Whitney are both fine choices. Or..."

"Uh huh," you say dryly, a revulsion rising in your stomach -- the kind of revulsion that always rises whenever you rise at Darkbloom Enterprises. 

"Alabaster, will you face me, please."

You face him. Darkbloom stares at you for many long moments, considering his words with care. Then he comes out with it: "You came into my life from another world, didn't you?"

You glance sidewise at Darkbloom's lawyer, who nods and steps out of the room.

"Why do you think so?" You ask Darkbloom.

"I would be a fool if I didn't," he says. "There is nothing more -- I can do -- so at least allow me the satisfaction of knowing in my twilight hours -- why precisely you came."

"I wasn't here for you," you say. "I was here for Whitney, and Vivian, and Renee. And everyone else, too. I had to be here, to change the way things went the last time."

"Congratulations," Darkbloom says. "You veered me off whatever -- catastrophic path I was charting. And what was it?"

You shake your head. "It's not worth going over. You don't want to hear it. I've spent a long time trying to forget it myself."

"You passed through the conformal boundary from -- one universe to the next, and -- so resolutely prevented me from developing -- the tools to do it again -- whatever happened, back then, must have been -- truly awful, I surmise..."

You stare hard at a light in the ceiling, and think for a moment. "Whitney would be a good CEO. She was only young when she was CEO the last time. And it was such a terrible burden... it got dumped in her lap by complete surprise at the worst possible moment. She had no experience and no desire to lead your business. She became the least popular and most investigated woman on the planet. I don't think she slept for over a year. But she didn't do half-bad, even then. So I guess what I'm saying is that she'd do an amazing job now, if you gave it to her. Vivian would also be a good pick -- I shouldn't need to explain why. Same with Renee, if she'll take it -- she'd pick up right where you left off and never miss a beat."

"And you?" Darkbloom asks.

You shake your head.

"You've been like a son to me," he says. "This company is yours as much as it is theirs. I would gladly hand it off to you -- if you think -- handing it to them would be unfair. I sense you do."

"Does there even need to be a Darkbloom Enterprises?" You ask.

Darkbloom can't swallow a pill that bitter. "You would ask me to dismantle my girls' legacy?"

"Yours."

"And how would they feel about it?" He asks.

"In the long run? Like a burden had been lifted. I told you how much it weighed on Whitney to have it the first time, didn't I?"

"Circumstances were different, no? -- And how would our competitors fare in the power vacuum? Are you sure you wouldn't -- rather be on the inside -- steering things the way you deem, in your apparent wisdom?"

He's got a point.

"Have you lived your perfect life, Alabaster?" Darkbloom asks.

"Nothing's perfect. But I'm happy. That's as much as I can ask, isn't it? It's not a perfect life, but it's a good one."

"I am glad to hear it. As insistently as you've tried to break the cycle -- it may be your last journey through it. Even the most regular cycles can be suddenly broken -- is that your goal?"

"No. I'm pushing ahead under the assumption that this is my last chance. But the only thing I ever cared to stop was the suffering I saw the last time through. And if I ever live again, I live again. And if I don't, well then... it was fun while it lasted."

Darkbloom nods. "You're performing admirably. Continue doing your best." 

"I'm going to miss you," you admit, through the lump in your throat.

"Don't. We may see each other again after all. Maybe you'll even regret it."

Well, anything's possible.

"I leave it to you, Alabaster. I can't -- see clearly, what is fair, equitable, and wise -- not where my family is concerned. So think about it. I will offer succession to whoever you believe is best."

[ ] Whitney
>[x] Vivian
[ ] Renee
[ ] Alabaster
[ ] Someone else
[ ] No one

---

"Hello Sir," Anna says.

"Geez. You're picking up her phone calls now, too? My sister, the senator, should have aides for this kind of thing."

"I don't think my wife, the senator, wants her aides to waste their time on calls from her grumpy little brother," Anna counters.

Between you and Anna, imperiously appending "the senator" to mentions of Cerise hasn't lost its novelty since her election a few months ago. It drives Cerise bonkers. You hear Cerise now, faintly, crying out from an adjoining room: "stop doing that!"

"My wife, the senator, is mad."

"Does my sister, the senator, have time for chitchat with her grumpy little brother?"

"Maybe not." Anna pauses. Then: "She's getting out her paddle... she's really mad now." 

"If not her grumpy little brother, then how about the grumpy CEO of a Fortune 100 company?" You say.

Anna is mute for a few moments before beginning, "did he..." and trailing off.

"No. David's still hanging on. But it's gonna happen soon." 

You hear rustling, and then Cerise's voice. She's equal parts mad and worried: "He's not giving it to you, is he?"

"He might. What do you think?"

"Fuck that, is what I think. Let someone else have it."

You nod, as if Cerise can see you. "Well. How's the vote looking tomorrow?"

"I've done everything I can. It's gonna pass anyway. I'm sorry, Alabaster..."

You lightly pound the bedspread in frustration. "Maybe I should take the position, then. How else are we gonna stop another -- you know--"

"Another four-two-one?" Cerise finishes. "You're too paranoid. You put the brakes on that shit years ago. Just because Uncle Sam is getting rights over tech that *might* be developed one day -- doesn't mean it will be. Besides, you've got Alex on it, right?"

"Sure," you allow. "But..." you trail off, thinking.

"Do I need to say it? It's your motto, fucker," Cerise reminds you. "Everything works out. Like magic."

"It's not magic," you tell her. "It takes work. But I guess it'll all be fine -- once you get elected President in three years."

"Tch-- don't even start with that shit. Haven't I done enough?"

"When are you forming an exploratory committee?"

"Never! Shut up! I'm not forming a goddamn exploratory committee!"

You hear Anna's voice call out: "December 31st!"

Then Cerise's voice, just a sharp grunt of "You--!!" followed by sounds of rough scuffling, Anna giggling, sharp slaps of wood against flesh. And: "Stop! No, stop!! Stoo-oopp!! Hahah!"

You hang up and leave them to their fun. A few moments later, the en suite bathroom door muffles the squeal of the shower's faucet shutting off. The patter of water dies out, soon to be replaced with the gentle rustling of towels. Then Renee steps forth, from the door and a billowing curtain of steam, all wrapped in terrycloth, both torso and hair. The towel around her body is too small and doesn't conceal her ass. That nice, round, thick ass of hers -- seeing it wagging in front of your face as she walks past, you're just as incorrigible as you were when you were a teenager. You slap it, and enjoy the jiggle of her reddening flesh.

"Hey-- don't start things you can't finish," Renee grumps, wheeling on you.

"Is that a warning or an invitation?" You wonder. 

Renee tugs at her towel and frowns, unamused.

Although she recently crossed another big age milestone, the big ███-oh, her body is blessed with good genetics. She's still firm where she needs to be, soft and smooth in the other spots. Save for a little grey and some laugh lines, you'd think she was 20 years younger. She still fucks like she's 20 years younger, too. And hey -- you're no spring chicken anymore yourself. You've recently gotten to the point where you contemplate the true value of things you drop on the floor, weighing whether they're worth the trouble of picking up again.  

Renee brushes her dripping hair in front of her vanity, and you watch her in silence. When she's satisfied, she crawls back into her bed with you. The two of you adopt the stance of chatty lovers, facing one another on your sides, propped up on elbows.

"Thanks for keeping me company tonight," Renee says.

"Sure. You wanna go grab some subs?"

"...In a bit," she says.

"Round three?" You ask, quirking an eyebrow and glancing at her cleavage.

"As much as I'd love to --" Renee begins. 

You understand. She was barely in the mood the first couple times. Other things are on her mind.

"I shouldn't be sad that that asshole is on his way out," Renee says. 

You lay your hand over hers on the bedspread. "Why don't you want to take over the business?"

Renee rolls her eyes. "Jesus. Because of course he told you."

"I already knew."

"Do I look like a CEO to you?" Renee demands.

You shrug. "Why not?"

Renee shifts onto her back, and stares at the high-flung ceiling. You scoot closer to her, still on your side, gazing down at her. "It belongs to his girls," Renee says.

"Is that really why you don't want it, or is that just a convenient excuse? If you don't take it, he has to choose between Whitney and Vivian. Think about what that says to the one he doesn't choose. They--"

"It has to be Vivian," Renee cuts in.

"Hmm?"

You back off as Renee rises to her butt. Her expression is grim and stony. "Vivian wanted to take over for David from the time she could first talk, and probably before that. Darkbloom Enterprises has defined her entire life. Because it defined David's life. See? It was the only way she ever had to connect with him. It was the only leverage she could use to make him pay attention to her. And Vivian loves David like you can't even imagine. You think you can, but you can't. Of course Whitney loves David too -- in her own way -- but it's a love that comes with a billion caveats and terms and conditions and apprehensions and -- because Whitney expects David to be the asshole he really is. She never cared about his business, his legacy, all the stupid shit he rambles on about... am I getting through? Whitney sees David and his business for what they are. Flawed, burdensome, and probably not worth the trouble. She cares only in spite of her better judgment. She cares the way a daughter has to care. Vivian might be brainier and more analytical but she doesn't see David nearly as realistically. She still has blinkers on for her dad. In Vivian's eyes... David may as well be Superman. And she'd do anything, anything at all to be worthy of the image she has in her head of him. Would Whitney be upset about getting passed over? Yes. But Vivian would be gutted. She'd carry that sadness with her for the rest of her life. David listens to you, not to me, not to his daughters. Not to anyone else the way he listens to you. So if he's trying to pawn the choice off on you -- then make the right choice, Alabaster. Don't give it to me, don't give it to Whitney. Give it to Vivian."

A couple stray tears trickle down her cheeks, and so you kiss them up.

---

"To my youngest daughter, Vivian, my estate at 43819 Poe Road, Palo Alto, California, including the 42-acre parcel of land surrounding it, the house proper, and all furnishings and other items within, save for those otherwise explicitly willed to my other named survivors."

David's attorney Mr. Epstein sits at his hospital bedside, reading the will aloud, as David draws increasingly labored breaths with the help of an oxygen mask. You, Whitney, Vivian, and Renee are gathered round. David has taken the perhaps unusual step of having his will read to his inheritors prior to dying, so that if any dispute should arise, it can be settled amicably via last-moment addendums and edits that he will authorize. Always the rational and analytical one, David.

"...shall go to Renee Carte, including the following vehicles currently in the garage: a 1969 Ford Mustang, a 1983 DMC DeLorean, a 2009 Chevrolet Corvette, and a 2035 Tesla Model A. To Whitney Soliloquy, titles and possession of the remaining cars in the garage not previously enumerated. Sale, maintenance and modification of any vehicles willed to either party must only be done with the express consent, and preferably participation, of both." 

David is pleased at this, and nods along to his attorney's monotne voice. Whitney and Renee smile at one another. But as for you, you're beginning to zone it all out, an hour into the reading. That is, until unexpectedly you hear:

"...and to Alabaster Soliloquy:" (Your heart skips a beat. You fear the worst.) "possession of a life-sized replica of an artwork entitled 'The Expulsion from the Garden of Eden', granted in the hope that it will be neither sold nor destroyed, but displayed prominently in his home and passed down to his daughter Ophelia."

David locks eyes with you, and gives you a meaningful yet boyishly mischievous look. You'd like to tell him "fuck you," in a kidding-on-the-square sort of way, but now isn't the time.

Over the next twenty minutes come some fractions of his fortune apportioned to people outside the family. Such as this:

"...leadership of the new foundation will belong to Sable Best, who, as chair, may disperse up to $100 million per year in scholarships to promising students with an interest in computers and robotics, as she deems. An additional $100 million per year can be dispersed to FIRST robotics programs across the nation, and yet anohter $100 million per year to schools for furthering education in technology. ... Chairing the foundation may require her full focus and energy. Should Mrs. Best wish to step down from her role as CTO, then, pending the assent of the board, I nominate Alex Best to replace her..."

You know there'll be no objections to that. Alex sits in for Sable at most board meetings anyway. 

When out-of-family business and charity is dispensed with -- at last, then, the time has come to name successors. 

"The next item concerns ownership of David's stake in the company," Epstein informs you. "Due to the structure of the board, owning his 50.01% share means--"

David interrupts Epstein, pulling the oxygen mask off with some effort. His voice is whisper-weak and you have to perk your ears up to hear him, even standing so near. His face is as pallid and gray as a corpse's already. 

"This is a family business," he tells you. "One may be CEO in name... but the legacy is all of yours. You must carry it on yourselves, now... I trust that you can."

"Who is it?" Whitney asks.

David nods at Vivian. Vivian, who until now has been solemn and quiet, suddenly goes slack in the face, and her eyes widen. She rises. "No -- you cannot be serious--"

"David has willed his stake in the company to you," Epstein tells her. "That makes you the next CEO."

You expected Whitney to be upset, and Vivian to be happy. This is the exact opposite result. Whitney looks so relieved that she's about to swoon. Vivian balls her fists and locks her elbows, muscles so stiff her shoulders rise.

"Who will be COO in my absence?" Vivian demands.

"That is... for you to decide," David tells her. "I trust you entirely."

"This is completely unacceptable," Vivian barks. "Beyond the pale. You have done nothing to prepare me for this move, father. You surely must realize--"

"I have been preparing you since you were born... have I not?"

"--we have competitors nipping at our heels internationally, a precarious legal situation unfolding domestically, new products in the midst of disastrous launches, a souring public persona--"

David seems hurt at these reprovals, and cannot muster a defense. So Renee steps up:

"There's never a good time to become the leader," she says. "There's always a disaster about to happen. He's giving it to you because you can handle it."

"You'll do great," Whitney insists, her typical to-the-point self, rubbing the small of Vivian's back. 

"No!" Vivian says. She shrugs violently and forces Whitney's hand off of her. "This not acceptable! This is not acceptable! You have not prepared me! You..." A frog develops in her throat. "You are leaving at the worst possible moment!"

You understand, and so does Whitney, and so does Renee. This isn't about how prepared or not she is to step into a new job. Throughout David's sickness, Vivian has been so composed as to be utterly inscrutable. This news is what has finally uncorked the bottle. And now she's on the verge of a panic attack, which manifests as rage: "You horrible -- unbelievable -- what do you expect of me? How could you make me? How could you? You gave me absolutely no time to prepare! Why?"

"Vivian--" David says.

"Why? Why didn't you see a doctor when I told you to?"

She turns away from him, and falls to her knees, sobbing. Renee is the one who tries to comfort her this time. She kneels and pulls her into an enormous hug, pressing Vivian's face to her chest. She whispers something into Vivian's ear only Vivian can hear. It doesn't help. Vivian keeps weeping.

"I can take it," Whitney says. She has a catch in her voice too. She accepted her father's impending death a while ago, but seeing it tear Vivian apart tears her apart, too. 

"What?" You say.

"I can be CEO if you don't want the job, Viv. It's fine."

Vivian replies only by limply pounding Renee's coat with her fist. She does not even turn her face away from Renee's bosom.

"Shall I authorize a change to the will?" Epstein asks.

"It should be Vivian," David says. "Do not change it."

"I don't want it," Vivian says pitifully, body wracked. "I refuse. I won't take it!" 

"You are the one with the skills... the intelligence and acumen... to see it through," David says. "There are trying times ahead... you can steer the company through... such dire straits." 

Whitney slumps. It took no small amount of bravery to offer herself up for the CEO position. She was brushed aside without even getting a direct response. It leaves her deflated. And there's an air about her of quiet despair. She's too selfless to let on, but that hurt. Whitney may be used to people underestimating her, but David's tactless choice of words has been the worst insult of all. It makes it sound as if he doesn't think she can handle things. 

Renee can also tell her daughter is hurt. So she says: "David thought you both would be good CEOs. He asked Alabaster to decide -- and Alabaster came to me. In the end, we thought Vivian should be the one. She's always wanted it--"

"I can't," Vivian sobs, as Renee pets her. "I can't." 

Whitney rubs her forehead with the heel of her palm as if trying to erase a smudge of dirt. You sit beside her and take her hand. "It's fine," she insists. She's waging an internal battle with herself to keep from making this moment all about her. She wants to support Vivian when Vivian needs it most, and ignore the sting of being passed over. But it's obvious she's taking it personally after all, just like you feared. 

David looks as miserable as you've ever seen him.

"Will you help your sister... in her new role, Whitney?" He asks. "She needs it."

"Of course."

"I trust you entirely to do it."

"Of course you do," Whitney says. Her voice is as taut as a new drum. 

Vivian shakes her head violently and grips the lapels of Renee's coat. 

"I..." David begins, but trails off. He never could navigate a fraught interaction with either of his daughters. Dealing with both at once is insurmountable. 

"I get it," Whitney insists, "really. Vivian's smarter -- she'll do better -- that's how it is. I'll help her."

You squeeze her hand. You whisper in her ear: "whatever you're thinking right now is wrong."

"That would be pretty normal," she mutters back. "I'm an idiot. Dad knows it too."

"Ask him," you say.

"Why would I--"

"Ask him what he thinks of you. You should hear it from him while you can."

Whitney takes her hand back. "I already know. Viv doesn't need more stress -- to see me mope --"

"Whitney thinks that you think she's stupid," you tell David. Loud enough for the whole room to hear.

"That is... so far beyond correct..." David says, and trails off. Useless. Goddamn you, David Darkbloom, you think. You needed him to say something much better than that. Whitney's chest shudders as she draws a couple breaths and tries to keep from falling completely apart. 

"This isn't the time," she manages. "You don't have to lie to me. I'm being here for Viv, and for you... isn't that enough?" 

"But you must know--" David says.

"I know!" Whitney cuts in. She's on her feet. "I know I'm not what you wanted! I know I'm a disappointment! So whatever! I'm over it! I don't need you to lie to me on the way out the door so you can feel better! I might be stupid, but I'm not dumb -- we all know what you think of me -- so -- so whatever!"

She presses both hands against her face and stands there, very still, struggling not to cry the way Vivian still is. You stroke Whitney's shoulders, Renee hugs Vivian tight, but you can't console them. 

David clears his throat and makes his voice as loud as it will go, which is not very loud at all: 

"Whitney, you were never... never once, a disappointment. Nor you, Vivian... if I could have molded two daughters myself from the clay like God... I could never have made them as well as you. You... were both the best of me. I have so often thought... in my darkest moments... that I was as consumed by pettiness... as my own father. Maybe I was. But I had you both... and that was worth it all. You have intelligences... of different kinds... Vivian, you are smart... Whitney, you are wise. Both in a measure I could never have achieved... you girls were only the best parts of me... parts within me I let decay in pursuit of... unattainable goals. But you shine. You two... are all my joy... my love and will and vision... with nothing petty or vindictive or malicious... with not an evil atom between you... and together you are greater than me. You may mourn me... for a time... but never mourn for what I think of you. In no corner of my heart... was there ever any disappointment... or desire that you should be some other way... in no part of my mind... did I think you stupid... Whitney... you are the complement Vivian needs. And Vivian... is the complement you need. I give you both my legacy now... it is yours to keep... but promise me, to keep it together. Stay together always."

All Whitney can possibly say to this is a single syllable: "Dad..." But within that single syllable is a lifetime's worth of reconciliation. 

Vivian wriggles free of Renee's grip and looks up at Whitney. "I so desperately do need you," she says. "I make so many mistakes -- the time I nearly forced us to buy that fraudulent genetics company -- the time I tried to charge customers for account deletion. If I am CEO, I will ruin this company."

"You'll do fine," Renee insists. "Especially with Whitney as your COO." 

"What about you, Mom?" Whitney asks.

"I'm an old woman. Retirement sounds pretty great."

"Yeah fucking right," you tell her. "You're sticking around as an adviser."

"Two advisers to the CEO is one too many," Renee says. "I wouldn't want to give conflicting advice. Besides, I know how badly you take disagreements. Such an ego..."

"We'll present a unified front," you tell her. "I'll even let you have half my office."

Renee frowns at you. "Oh God. You're not going to let me retire til I'm 80, are you."

"Nope," Whitney agrees.

"You mustn't," Vivian adds. "We need you, too."

"80 is a pretty long way away, though," you say. "I mean. Can we really make her work here for the next 50 years?"

Renee's frown deepens. "Don't try to flatter me after enslaving me, you little shit."

If Whitney or Vivian have laughed since David got sick, you haven't seen it. But they do it now -- even through the tears.

---

Out in the hallway, cattycorner from David's ward, is a set of three green waiting chairs lined up all in a row. Their armrests are low square hoops made of orange-varnished wood. A small person could lie across the three seats by squeezing under the gaps in the armrests. 

Just such a small person is doing just that. 

Wes lies there, schlubbing it the way she always is. Hoodie and shorts and tennis shoes. She's all entangled with the chairs, body contorted, as if she was flung there from a speeding vehicle. The back of her head rests flat against one of the seats, while her elbows are looped over the armrest to hold her cell phone in front of her face while she browses. One of her legs bends up and over two of the armrests so that her calf rests atop them. Her other leg is dangling over the edge of the seat at a weird angle, the tip of her shoe almost touching the tile floor. She's taking up all three chairs like this.   

You approach. "I'm looking for somewhere to sit."

"Cool," she says, never ripping her eyes away from her phone. The hallway's fluorescent lighting makes her eyebags look even more severe.

You snatch her phone away from her. 

"Hey!" She cries. She tries to sit bolt upright. Unfortunately she didn't think about her body position. She bangs her windpipe against the underside of the armrest at high velocity. "Ghh--!!" She cries, then coughs as she clutches at her neck. She struggles herself into a sitting position in the middle chair, hunched over with her elbows in her lap. She hacks and sputters. She's definitely hamming it up. 

You sit down beside her, and cross your legs, ankle on knee.

"I'm... dying..." she croaks.

"You're not dying."

"I'm dying... my own father killed me..."

"Stop that," you say. "This isn't the time."

Wes realizes the circumstances and quits pretending that she's dying. She gets her breathing back to normal and slumps against the chairback beside you.

"Can I have my phone?" She asks.

"In a second. You need your daily two minutes of human interaction first. Where's your sister?"

Wes blows her unkempt bangs from her face. She lolls her head, cheek resting on her shoulder, to peer at you. "Bathroom. She's got neeeerves."

"Did she get her letter?" You ask.

"Fucked if I know."

"Wes--"

Wes scuffs one of her shoes on the ground. "She doesn't tell me shit."

"Watch your mouth," you warn her.

"Pfft. You think I curse? You should listen to Amber when you're out of earshot. Anyway. No. Ophie didn't tell me what the occasion was. She just wanted me to drive her here." Wes pantomimes using a steering wheel, then sighs pensively. "You know, it's real ducked-up that she's gonna be moving to the east mother-ducking coast and she still doesn't have a ducking driver's license. You gonna fix that, Dad, or what?"

"We're working on it. She's still a little scared of driving."

Wes laughs. "What a baby. You need to stop treating her like she's a little kid. Driving is so *easy*. I've been doing it for years."

"Less than one," you say.

"Nah. K-mom taught me how to drive when I was 12."

"She did what?" You snap.

"Pffthaha. That's exactly how N-mom reacted when she found out about it, too."

"Goddamn it--"

"Watch your mouth," Wes says.

"Why am I just hearing about this now?" You demand.

Wes shrugs. "Because K-mom said, 'don't tell your mom.' And I said, 'does that mean I can tell my dad?' And she said, 'absolutely not.' So I didn't. I'm a good girl."

You shake your head.

"My phone?" Wes asks. "I was watching something."

"What were you watching?"

"Renren-sama."

"Renren is shit," you say. "I'll give you your phone back when you have better taste."

"Basshole!" Wes says. She kicks your foot. "You're just like N-mom! Freaking nazi!"

You click your tongue against your palate. "You'll thank us when you're older. Hey, why were you lying on these chairs like that? It didn't look very comfortable."

"Anti-homeless architecture is real messed-up stuff," Wes says. "I just wanted to rest my eyes for a little bit -- but they build public-use furniture so that you *can't* get comfortable on it."

"These are chairs," you say, rather obviously, "they're not made to lie down on."

Wes sagely pokes an index finger in the air. "Yeah, and they're made that way on purpose. It's the actively hostile design of public spaces. Amber told me all about it."

"Don't listen to what your sister tells you."

"She's right, though."

You shake your head. "You shouldn't need to rest right now anyway. It's 2:00 in the afternoon. Haven't you been sleeping?"

"Sure."

"In bed?"

"At school."

"Wes," you say chidingly. 

"As if you're anyone to even judge. Aunt Whitney already told me alllll about how you were in high school. Apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, huh? Give me my phone back!"

"You need to take better care of yourself. That means sleeping at normal hours."

She flaps her hands like a bird's beak. "Blah blah blah. Do as I say, not as I do. Gotcha."

"And you should dress a little better, too," you add, taking a moment to glance her over from head to toe. "No one likes a schlub."

Wes looks appraisingly down at herself. You can tell that remark landed a little harshly. She sticks her hands in her hoodie's front pocket and jostles her legs. "I'm not a schlub."

"Who's going to want to date you if you don't even brush your hair? Tell me."

She huffs. "Whatever. I stole these shorts from Aunt Whitney. And you're over the moon for the whole tomboy gf chic, so I *know* there are people on this planet who would go for my look too."

"Great," you say. "You can date a guy just like your dad, then."

Wes fakes gagging noises.

"You said it yourself. That's the kind of guy who likes the look."

"Well maybe I'm not looking for guys," Wes says, leaning way around in her seat to defiantly glare at you from head-on, her hands still in her hoodie's pocket. "Maybe I'm a butch lesbian like the moms are." 

"That's fine too," you say, unfazed. "You can date someone just like N-mom, then."

Wes again fakes gagging. She slumps back against her chair again. 

"Did either of your moms come, by the way?"

"No. They're out on a date with Aunt Rose."

"Which one?"

"The one you're married to. Keep better track of your wives, huh?" She kicks her legs straight out, and hops to her feet, hands still in her hoodie's front pocket. She circles around to stand before you.

"If you want to do something nice for your folks," you say, "why don't you head up to Meiji's and grab us some dinner. Your aunts could use something other than hospital food right now. I could too."

Wes holds out a hand, palm up. You open your wallet and drop a credit card in it. But she doesn't retract her hand, and stands there expectantly for what she really wants. After letting her hang for just long enough to make it awkward, you finally give her her phone. 

"Sieg heil," she grouses.

Footsteps catch your attention. You glance down the hall to find an unwelcome visitor has arrived: Chloe. She's in her typical businesswear, and she's being followed closely by her personal bodyguard. She smiles warmly when you lock eyes with her. 

Wes repeats herself -- this time directing it at Chloe. "Sieg heil!" She shouts down the hall, and even gives Chloe a salute to match, stomping one foot for effect. 

"Go get us some food," you whisper. "I'll text you our orders in a few minutes."

Wes snrks. "If that psycho doesn't go full-on stabbedy-stabby first," she says.

You grimace. Wes is only joking. She has no idea how close to home it hits for you. 

Wes spins 180 degrees and goosesteps off. You stand now, too, and watch her until she rounds the corner -- then you go intercept Chloe in the middle of the hall.

"Why are you here?" You say.

Chloe swipes a strand of hair behind her ear. "To pay respects." Further up the hall, you see a group of well-dressed men delivering bouquet after bouquet and fruit basket after fruit basket to the reception desk near the front of the hospice ward. The attending nurses there are bewildered and making confused noises at the Chinese men, trying to bid them to stop, but the men either do not understand or do not care (most likely both). There are enough flowers here to furnish a botanical garden and enough fruit here to feed an island nation for a month. Chloe has always liked being ostentatious. 

"We didn't ask for any respects," you tell her.

"I pay them nevertheless."

"Uh huh. Well the homeless shelters around town will appreciate your donations," you tell her. She doesn't seem to mind being told that none of these gifts will reach David Darkbloom or his family.

"Has David decided on a successor yet?" She asks.

You stare at her as her bodyguard passes you by and sits in the chair you so recently occupied. The silence lingers, and Chloe realizes you're not going to tell her. 

"Well then," she says coolly, as she smooths her skirt, "please pass on to the lucky new CEO my tidings. Broad Dynamics is still amenable to a merger, at your yet-to-be-revealed new leader's earliest convenience."

"How do you know you're not talking to the lucky new CEO right now?” You ask.

"Father thinks it will be you. I said to him: such a move would be far too rational for the likes of David Clay Darkbloom. Paternal love blinds him to the leadership deficiencies of his daughters. He will give it to one of them."

"Help us choose, then. Who do you least want it to be?" 

"You."

"Very funny," you say. "Reverse psychology isn't your strong suit."

"I am being quite honest with you," she says. "If you become CEO at Darkbloom Enterprises, it dashes any possible hope of you crossing the aisle, so to speak. Our board still has a place of honor reserved for you."

"I'm sure it does. It's gonna stay reserved for a pretty long time."

"Forever?" She asks.

"I'm thinking forever, yeah."

"I see," she says with a sad smile. She draws a little breath, fixes the sadness in her smile like adjusting an off-kilter painting, and changes topic: "Tomorrow at lunchtime, all employees at Broad Dynamics will bow their heads in silence for two minutes, out of respect for David Darkbloom, and in mourning of his passing."

"He's not dead yet," you tell her.

"He will be dead by the end of the night," Chloe says. 

"We don't know that. I never said--"

"You did. Your face told me so." She runs her fingertip from the topmost button of your shirt, down, to your belly, and sighs. "You are an easy person to read. I know at once when your 'we don't know' means tomorrow ... and when your 'forever' means maybe sometime sooner." 

Even now, you clam up when Chloe gets too close. Struggling to conceal the catch to your voice, you tell her: "I've never heard you say a single nice thing about David. Why only now that he's dying?"

"Just because we have been adversaries, does not mean I do not respect him. On the contrary. I respect him immensely. You see -- David Darkbloom was a peasant with delusions of grandeur--"

"Some way to respect him."

Chloe is still right up in your personal space, and she refuses to step out of it. You hope she doesn't have anything. "The history of both our nations is rife with great men who were peasants with delusions of grandeur. The Hongwu Emperor was a peasant with delusions of grandeur. Mao Zedong was a peasant with delusions of grandeur. American deity Abraham Lincoln, was a peasant, with delusions of grandeur." She strokes your chest a little. "Do you know, Alabaster, what the difference between a madman and a genius is? The genius is one who through the force of his will makes his delusions into reality." She stops stoking your chest, and smiles up at you. "Or her delusions, as the case may be."

"Papa--"

You and Chloe glance simultaneously sidewise to find Ophie approaching from down the hallway. She draws alongside you, to meet Chloe with a typically stoic curiosity. 

Chloe, bristling, at last quits your bubble of personal space. She regards Ophie like a passerby at the park uncertainly eyeing someone's large dog. She always gets this way. Ophie is some sort of Chloe-warding talisman. The two have, as far as you know, never spoken a single word to each other, but Chloe is clearly frightened of Ophie all the same. And so it is today. Chloe, with only a curt nod in your direction to bid farewell, turns away from the two of you. Over by the wall, her personal guard rises to his feet again. He swoops around to follow behind her, his taller frame obscuring hers, and only her pumps clacking down the sterile tile of the hospital halls tell you that she hasn't just vanished from existence entirely. 

Ophie glances up. "Papa -- look."

She hands you a trifolded letter. You scan it. You laugh.

"And you were worried," you tell her.

Only the almost imperceptible hint of a blush signals her bashfulness. Of course, she doesn't reply. You ruffle her hair. This just brings her blush out a little more strongly. 

"Do you want to show your grandfather?" 

"Is he able to see me?" Ophie asks.

You nod. "I'm sure there's nothing he'd love more."

---

Whitney is all nerves and jitters. When you come back into the room, she's jostling her legs up and down -- when she sees you and Ophie, she immediately stands. You give her a reassuring nod and nudge her back to sitting. You join her with Renee and Vivian at David's bedside. 

Ophie hasn't been by in about a week because she was so consumed with final exams, and neither you nor Whitney wanted to put her through the added stress of hospice visits. But she doesn't blanche to see David in his decrepit state. To her, he's still Pop, and he always will be. She goes to his bed and grips the beige side-rail. Unable to wait, and too excited to explain, she just presses the letter into his hands. He's slow on the uptake to accept it, and fumbles in unfolding it. Craning his neck and blinking repeatedly, unable to focus his dying eyes, he says: "Vivian," at which Vivian immediately retrieves a pair of big round spectacles from a nearby table. She puts them on his face for him. David adjusts them, eyes scanning as he takes in the words. 

It's Ophie's acceptance to MIT. David doesn't need to read very far to understand it. He glances up from the letter with a sort of catlike head-bob and smile, the last ember of his leonine personality coming through unextinguished. It's a broad and genuine smile, not one for only masking pain. For the first time in weeks and for probably the last time ever, you guess he's forgotten what agony he's in right now. He beams.

"What is it?" Whitney wants to know.

Renee folds her arms and answers, having figured it out: "She got in." 

Whitney's smile outmatches her father's. She swoops Ophie into her arms, hoists her, and spins around with her a little. Whitney is strong enough and Ophie small enough for her to do it. Ophie is only a little dizzy when Whitney sets her back on solid ground. You wouldn't be able to tell she's off-kilter at all except for the fact that she lightly braces herself against the bed's rail again. 

Vivian is more subdued than her sister, half from a sadness that won't leave her heart, and half because she had the least doubt of anyone other than you. "Congratulations," she tells her niece. "Although I will remind you that I already congratulated you when you sent in your application. There was never any question."

Ophie nods at Vivian. Then she looks back at David: "I'm so glad you got to see this, Pop." 

There's an actual twinkle in his eyes. He raises his arms. Even Ophie, socially-awkward Ophie, understands what he wants, and has no problem with a hug right now. She hugs him close and tight. His head resting on her shoulder, David says: "you make me proud."

"I will, Pop," Ophie promises.

David pulls back. Holds her shoulders. Shakes his head. "No. I mean that you do already." 

Ophie isn't sure how to respond. She just nods. "Mm."

"All of you," he says, looking from face to face. "I..." there's a lingering pause, before he finishes simply: "Thank you."

Ophie settles in with the rest of you to keep vigil. She sits between you and Whitney. You all talk with David, as much as his condition allows. He hasn't put the breathing mask back on and he hasn't been wired up to the usual battery of IVs. The nurses aren't coming by with the usual regimen of medications. You know there's an order in place not to resuscitate. 

As his strength begins to flag and the final drowsiness encroaches, he asks Ophie to sing for him. The two have always shared a love of The Beatles. Though David used to rib her for having a Ringo Starr song as her favorite -- this is the song he requests. 

Ophie holds his hand in both of hers. Her singing voice is as pretty as her mother's, but in a different kind of way. Ophie's voice is slow and methodically enunciated, whispery almost to the point of ethereal. Despite the low volume, it carries perfectly. You can hear every word she sings: 

I'd like to be 
Under the sea.
In an octopus's garden, in the shade.

He'd let us in.
Knows where we've been.
In his octopus's garden, in the shade.

I'd ask my friends to come and see
An octopus's garden with me.

We would be warm 
Below the storm.
In our little hideaway, beneath the waves.
Resting our head
On the sea bed.
In an octopus's garden, near a cave.

We would sing and dance around.
Because we know, 
We can't be found.

I'd like to be
Under the sea.
In an octopus's garden, in the shade. 
In an octopus's garden, with you.
In an octopus's garden, with you.

By the time Ophie has finished singing, David Darkbloom is dead.