>3:23 AM
By now, both of you are struggling to remain awake. Ms. Carte is dozing off as she reads you questions from her index cards. Far from energizing you, Mom's pie -- like all of her desserts -- has the quality of inciting drowsiness.
"What is the..." her head droops to a critical point that causes her to snap awake again. "What is the name of The Beatles' first LP?"
"Please Please Me."
Ms. Carte smiles wanly. "Alabaster... that's a little forward, don't you think?..." Her head starts to droop again.
"No, that's the answer..." You're not doing much better, yourself. A silence settles over the room and you find your head drooping as well. Soon your ears are resting against Ms. Carte's chest -- now shirtless once again.
"Alabaster--" Ms. Carte whines, writhing around and waking you up. "That tickles..."
"Say, why do you have all these notecards full of questions? I've been meaning to ask..."
"I used them when I was in quiz bowl."
Your head starts drooping toward her breasts again. This time you catch yourself. "I need an IV drip of coffee or something."
"Shut up. Now, let's see... okay, what is the strait that separates Istanbul from the rest of Turkey?"
"The Bosphorus... please don't remind me of Turkey, I'd rather not think about it."
Ms. Carte's head falls backward this time, and her whole body follows, slumping to one side. This startles her awake again.
"This is bad," you say. "We need some way of staying awake."
Ms. Carte blinks heavily a few times. "I think I have an idea," she purrs.
>3:45 AM
Ms. Carte leaves the bathroom dressed like an explorer going on a six-month trek to the south pole, complete with the goggles.
"I completely don't understand," you say.
"Lightning round," she says. "For every question you get right, I lose a piece of clothing."
You stare at her, jaw slack.
"You know, I just got done telling my mom you're not a slut trying to lure me into sex."
Ms. Carte walks over to the couch, shimmying her hips -- or at least you think so. It's difficult to tell under all those layers.
"Who led the first European expedition to Florida?"
"Ponce de Leon."
Ms. Carte peels off the goggles and throws them to the side.
It's going to be a long night.
>4:20 AM
Ms. Carte is down to only three parkas and a few pairs of pants. She starts asking you sports related questions. When you get one right, she resorts to taking off a single earring for your reward.
"You're cheating," you complain.
"Cheating would be to make you ditch a piece of clothing every time you get one wrong."
"Hmph."
>4:51 AM
"...diatoms?" you say.
Ms. Carte takes off her last coat. You can actually see her arms now. Her shirt is absolutely drenched in perspiration. You hadn't considered how uncomfortable she must be in all those layers.
>5:13 AM
"Another earring? Seriously? You owe me your pants."
"I owe you nothing!"
>5:15 AM
"Wearing two pairs of earrings was definitely cheating."
"Stop whining."
"Your pants are mine, Ms. Carte. Fucking bank on it."
>5:31 AM
Ms Carte arches her back and lifts her butt off the couch, peeling away her pants. She has nothing left on but her bra and panties. She's a flushed, heaving, overheated mess. Through your exhaustion, your body buzzes with lust. You can feel your eyeballs vibrating. You want to pin her down and lick every square inch of her tired body.
"Congratulations," Ms. Carte says. "You win."
"...what."
"Wasn't that fun?"
"You've still got clothes on."
"What, you expected me to get naked for you? I'm not a slut."
You bow your head and groan with frustration and need. Ms. Carte loops an arm around your shoulder, leaning in close.
"Lightning round part 2," she whispers lowly. Your ear twinges from the tickly heat of her breath. Ms. Carte's hand finds your zipper and pulls it down. "One correct answer... one stroke..."
Ms. Carte pulls you free. Even though the room is overheated, the rush of air around your throbbing cock is refreshingly cool. Ms. Carte gasps, directly into your ear. You shudder.
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's just-- I've nev-- I didn't think..."
Her hand flexes daintily around your shaft. "It's... it's so warm," she breathes.
Ms. Carte pulls your balls out next. She stares at them intently, with the furrowed brow of a scientist at the microscope. She pokes and prods them gently.
"Alabaster, this might sound silly... do you know if yours is larger than average?"
"Huh? I don't know... why wouldn't you? I guess it's about average."
"There's no way... no way..."
She grips you again, tighter, around the base.
"Where was the first manned flight?"
"Kittyhawak," you moan.
Ms. Carte gives you one stroke, just as promised: up and then down. One slow, luxurious stroke. And that's it.
"Fuck," is all you can say, squirming, writhing, every nerve in your body begging for more.
"First moon landing?"
"July 20, 1969."
Up -- then down. A dollop of precum oozes out of your cockhead and over her clenched fingers. You whinny and bury your face in her neck, nuzzling her. "Please..." you say.
"Latinate classification for dogs?"
"Canis familiaris."
Up -- then down. You buck your hips wildly, trying to hump her clenched hand, but she pushes down on you with her other arm, the one wrapped around your shoulder, and keeps you pinned.
"Follow the rules~" she chides.
"Let me cum. Let me cum. Let me cum!!"
"Oh, no. Not until after the competition. Sexual release before a major competition clouds your mind..."
Your blood runs hot and fast with need. Some distant part of your brain says that this is karma for how you treated Rose. Ms. Carte's grip on your tightens. You nip her neck. You can taste the salt of her sweat, feel it on your tongue.
She breathes sharply, and gives you a bonus tug. Your precum leaks in a continuous stream.
It's going to be a long night.
>7:10 AM
You feel your grip on sanity beginning to loosen.
Ms. Carte's hand, not to mention your thighs and crotch, are completely coated in your precum. The whole room smells of sex.
After every few minutes of questions, she stops to give you a few quick bonus strokes -- never more than 9 or 10 -- taking you to the very brink and before abruptly stopping.
"I'm begging you..." you say.
"Begging gets you nowhere." She bites your ear.
>12:01 PM
You're dead. Your body has left the physical realm and is floating in some extra-dimensional space, far away from here. You've become a mindless, question-answering automaton. You're pulling out answers you never had any idea you knew. You're even getting the damn sports questions right. Anything for an extra stroke, one more delicious moment of Ms. Carte's palm sliding up and down your glistening, pulsing shaft, one more electric thrill rushing from your cock up your spine.
"I need to cum," you rasp. "Oh god..."
"After the competition," she says, smiling.
"I can't wait."
"I hope you can. Because I don't want it in my hand."
"...What?"
"I want you inside me, Alabaster."
"Fuck. Oh god."
"I want you to cum in me."
You pant and moan, shifting your head side to side. Ms. Carte grips you hard at the base to keep you from popping off. Your balls and glans both ache sweetly. Your temples throb.
Ms. Carte whispers in your ear seductively. "But only if we win... only if we win, you can fill my womb with seed..."