OVA 2: No Fuck No Life (Part 1)

You are Alabaster Soliloquy, hot-shit destroyer of anime pussy and 422,000,000,000,000,000 time champion of the North High quiz bowl.

"--to their new reality."

You slowly nod as you stroke her cheek. "It's gonna be great. We'll be able to do things right this time... we can finally--"

Rose falls to the side.

She leaves your sight so fast that for a split moment you worry she simply vanished into thin air. The bookbag's buckles, rebounding off her skull, sound literally like a klonk. Rose scuffs her wrists and knees in the little xeriscaped rock garden beside the footpath leading to your door.

"What are you doing at Ally's house!!" roars Whitney. "Get the fuck out of here, President Hitler! No one likes you!"

"Urrrgh..." Rose groans, trying, and failing, to climb to her feet. She props a hand against Whitney's bookbag lying beside her, to give herself some purchase. But she slips, and falls back onto her chin in the rocks. A clean TKO in one hit -- Whitney is once again the undisputed world champion.

"I banish thee!" Whitney says, making the sign of the cross with her forefingers. "Banished!"

She may have just assaulted Rose, but her penchant for assaulting Rose is a known quantity -- in this universe or any other. You're so beyond joyous to see her that you don't even stop to help Rose to her feet -- you just stride towards Whitney, swiftly, and purposefully.

This is something new to her, in this world. She backpedals, one, two, three small steps -- taken literally aback by your forwardness, and the gleam in your eyes. "--Ally--?" Is all she can get out, before you take the sides of her face in your hands, and pull her close, and kiss her. Full on, forcefully, hungrily. You press your mouth to hers, enjoy the sweet taste of her breath and the tang of her sweat, the pliable fullness of her lips and the utterly clueless irresistance of her tongue as you probe her soft, wet mouth. She pulls off you just long enough to choke out a second "Al-ly?" the second syllable catching, lilting upwards, in a mixture of trepidation, surprise, joy and uncertainty. When again you kiss her, this time holding her by the sides of her arms, those lean, toned, tanned, warm arms of hers, you tug her bodily closer to you, as if trying to merge yourself into her. She trembles in your embrace like a starling after a storm, and exhales hard through her nostrils as her eyes go half-lidded. She doesn't know where this is all coming from, but she'll roll with it. She lets you kiss her as you will. You're vaguely aware of Rose, finally on her feet again, behind you, watching, and most probably approving (despite having taken a beating); and of Mom and Cerise, still inside, also watching, and most probably not.

You neck her a little too. Can't help yourself. You trail kisses up and down her slender neck, making her draw a sharp breath through her teeth at this new, even more unexpected, intimacy. She's jelly in your grip. You breathe her scent deeply, that unique earthy smell of Whitney's you've been so long without, and by the time you're done sucking on her skin the hickey is already forming.

"Oh my God, Ally," is all Whitney can say. "You... you..."

"Come with me," you say. You take her by her hand, and lead her past the threshold into your home.

You say to Rose as you pass, "I'll be right out, okay?" -- to which she responds with a knowing nod. She rubs the welt on her chin -- but isn't at all upset at what you're clearly about to do. She knows she'll get her turn, too.

She is, though, as always, a stickler for time:

"But, you know -- we really shouldn't be late on our first day of--" Rose begins.

You ignore her.

"Is this just the harem house now?" Cerise demands, spinning on her heels and following you as you lead Whitney upstairs.

"Yes," you say.

"Where are you taking her?" Mom calls, as you bring a now full-on giggling Whitney upstairs.

"Bed," you say.

"You'll get diseases!" Mom howls. "That girl is a hussy!"

Whitney struggles to keep pace with you as you hurry upwards.

Cerise is following you.

"You're seriously going to have sex with Whitney, out of -- fucking nowhere -- at 8 AM in the goddamn morning, when both of you should be at school--"

"Yes."

"Oh my GOD," Cerise harrumphs. "You've got to be--" But you're not joking, and Cerise realizes this as you pull Whitney past the threshold of your bedroom door, gently close and lock it behind you. Cerise's voice, through the door, is muffled: "Freak!"

You pull Whitney through a 180, and help her sit at the foot of your bed. You stand before her, just enjoying the sight of her -- the Whitney you knew so long ago, who ran around in a tank and spats without a care in the world. That carefree spirit of hers didn't weather her tenure as a high-powered CEO too well, even though she tried to keep it. But here, today, it shines.

She plays at the role of the one with more experience. She attempts to give you a coquettish laugh followed by a sly, "what do you wanna do now?" as she flips her hair. But the laughter comes out as a stuttering forced giggle, and her line comes out: "W-what do you w-wanna -- d-do--" as she tries, and fails, to flip her bangs to one side.

"I want to fuck you," you tell her.

"...Oh. Oh." She blinks rapidly. Her breath is jagged and her voice is pinched.

"Take off your shoes," you command her.

She does the forced laughing thing again. "My shoes. Haha. Yeah. I should... have my shoes off... huh..."

She fumblingly kicks her tennis shoes off, then her socks. "Um..."

You climb into the bed with her, pushing her slowly onto her back, and crawling over her on all fours.

"I..." she gulps. "I knew this pheromone thing was a good shot, you know, working up a sweat on my way over, but..."

"I've always wanted this," you tell her.

She mewls.

"Me... me too..."

You help her from her tanktop. She's such a bundle of nerves that she can barely get the thing over her head even with your patient help. She was wearing no bra beneath it, and her perky little tits shimmer in the light of morning with that sweat she worked up to lure you. You rise to your knees and ditch your shirt, too. She stares up at you, agog, and immobile. As you undo your belt, she starts to shiver. Her teeth chatter audibly.

"What got into you?" She asks. "Why so-- so suddenly--"

"I realized something," you tell her. You pull your pants down, your boxers too, and now you're naked before your teenage lover, cock at full mast.

"Is it... supposed to be that big?" Whitney asks, voice aflutter.

You nod.

She wiggles around a bit, scooching backwards across the mattress until her head finds a pillowtop. "I'll split in fucking two--"

"No you won't," you tell her. "Trust me."

She swallows. "Just... go slow."

"Take off your spats too," you tell her.

"You'll go slow, right?"

You reach down and grab the elastic material of her spandex shorts. The raw heat emanating from her body, ginned up by her morning workout, is divine... her supple skin feels feverish wherever you touch her, so you know that wonderful pussy of hers is doubly hot. You missed sinking your cock into the glove-tight, hot confines of her insides. The spats come down but not without a little tenacity, the material adhering to her skin like tape as you peel the garment back. Slowly her smooth thighs and crotch come into view -- her hairless mound, and the quivering lips of her sopping pussy. She's all wet down there, with both sweat and arousal. She raises her butt just a bit, for you to take the spandex fully off her; her eyes stay glued to your member, her lips parted. You can't resist, as you pull the thing off her, the urge to squeeze her ass. The sudden gentle assault makes her arch both her back and her neck, and close her eyes. Whitney's bubble butt is as fun to grope as always, the muscles well-defined but never sinewy. They give just enough under the pressure you apply, like a peach at the perfect peak of ripeness.

You position yourself above her, on your elbows, so you can look her in the eye as you take her virginity.

"S-slow," she pleads. "I want it, I really do, but... but you're so big--"

"Slow," you finally agree. "...At first."

"A-at f-first?" She stutters.

You line your prick up with the dewy, unspoiled opening of Whitney Price's pussy, and begin to sink in. She's so wet for you that it isn't any trouble at all. The tight ring of muscles down there, even as they spasm and clamp down, cannot keep your thrusting cock out. With a low, guttural moan of sheer pleasure, you feel her inner walls give way and then wrap around your mushroom tip. She grits her teeth, closes her eyes -- as that flash of pain, the pain of being deflowered, rises then subsides. By centimeters you push your cock into her body. There's no hymen to tear -- her toys have seen to that -- but no amount of masturbating on dildos through her teen years could ever have prepared Whitney for the reality of a man on top of her, thrusting himself home, and fucking her at the pace he chooses. Sitting on a piece of rubber is no preparation at all for having a flesh-and-blood cock rut in you. This is evident on her face, as she gasps at the sudden, hot intrusion of prick into her body, a prick she has no control over -- and as she lies there, she can only hope that you'll uphold your vague promise to go slow. You will go slow, until she adjusts, of course -- then you'll fuck her brains out.

Deeper and deeper you sink into her. More and more she gasps and coos, and lets out half-pained "ahhn~" noises. "Shit... oh, god..." she gulps. Her cheek is slick against yours, as she hugs you. She's trying to keep up with you, she really is -- your voracious, and very experienced technique. But she's an amateur. When she kisses you, her teeth knock yours, and when she tries to squeeze your horny cock with her pussy, she has none of that well-honed genital dexterity she developed before.

At last you're up to your nuts inside her. Your entire dick is inside Whitney's pussy, twitching, and leaking precum into her womb. Just where it belongs -- and you yourself shiver with this long-deprived pleasure. You emboss the inside of her cunt with the shape of your dick.

"Ffffuck," Whitney heaves. "How much fucking more of you... is there..."

"That's it," you promise.

"You're in?"

"I'm in."

You punctuate that by jutting your hips forward -- which jabs your prickhead just a tiny bit further into her.

"Ahh--!" she hisses. "Liar!"

But the thrill in her voice is unmistakable.

"I'm gonna start moving," you tell her.

She wrenches her eyes closed, throws her slender arms around your neck, and nods.

As you passionately kiss her, and taste her mouth, your dick tastes her cherry pussy. It's not every day you get to fuck a virginal Whitney, and you'll enjoy it to its fullest extent. The head of your cock scrapes the taut ridges of her messy inner walls, and stirs her up inside. The room stinks of her sweat and her sex. Yours, too.

You gyrate your hips just a little on every instroke, to grind against that spot deep inside her that you know she loves to get grinded. It's her G-spot -- or, as she used to christen it, her cum-button. You mash on her cum-button with your leaky prick over and over and over. You fuck her mercilessly -- even as you keep your guarantee of going slow. Even slow can be brutal. Dazed and confused, she twists her head from side to side. She lets you rain suckling kisses on her, and hardly registers it as you fondle her wonderfully soft tit meat.

She's cumming so much that it feels like you've got your dick beneath a faucet.

"O-- O-- okay--" she pants finally.

"Okay what?" You say gruffly, and never break your languid pace.

"You -- can keep going--"

"I am going."

"F-faster... please... harder..."

You lie fully over her and really begin to screw her. You pound her so hard that the bed's feet seem to lift from the floor with every stroke. The whole Soliloquy household shudders under the brutal force of your union. Whitney has no goddamn idea what is happening right now, but she's a quick study, or maybe driven by primal instinct. She wraps her ankles around your butt, and scrapes your back with her short fingernails. She fucks herself on you about as hard as you fuck into her. The sweetly violent mating session ruins your sheets and turns your brains to mush. Together, you climb that mountain inevitably towards its ultimate apex -- and only when you're teetering on the precipice, when you feel your fuckmeat begin to throb and pulse in the moments before that gloriously wet orgasm you're definitely going to have inside of her -- inside of her and not outside -- does Whitney realize something:

"Wait-- is this safe?"

"No," you grunt.

"Oh fuck, Ally... should we really--"

"Yes," you grunt.

"Okay... okay..."

"Okay what?"

She shrieks, directly into your ear: "Okay!! Cum inside me! Cum inside me, Ally, fuck!"

You hold her face by the jaw, with one strong hand, as you forcefully mash your cock into her. You look deeply into her eyes. "You are mine--" you gasp. "I'm making you mine."

"Do it," she begs.

As the cum races up your tubes, and pours from your swelling penis, you pull her into a bear hug and hiss into her ear: "M-m-mine... you're m-m-m-mine... fuck..."

After that, the only sound is the wet squelch of you fucking your load up into her.

GIRLS FUCKED: 1/?

You roll off Whitney, content. You're not tired, but you need a couple moments to catch your breath. Whitney, legs stippled with your genetic material and equally worn out, crawls over to you and strokes your chest.

"Where... did that come from...?"

You just suck down air.

"You weren't a virgin... were you?" Whitney asks. "Who were you fucking, you dork? It wasn't Rose, was it? Even you wouldn't stoop that low! Who taught you that? I'll thank her and then beat her ass!"

You think about that.

"I guess I was a virgin," you conclude.

"What? How can you guess that you're a virgin--"

You cut her off with a kiss. "I was. Hentai teaches you things, you know?"

She huffs. There's a brief lull, one that grows just a little ruminative.

"What did you mean?" Whitney asks you softly. "A few minutes ago, when you said you realized something... what did you mean?"

"I'm in love with you," you tell her.

The smile flickers on her face like TV static. She isn't sure how to take such a revelation. She seems half-convinced you're joking, or lying, or that she's hearing things. But the happiness refuses to go away.

"Fucking dick munch!" She finally says, punching you in the shoulder.

"Ow," you grunt. "Jesus. Why are you hitting me? I love you."

"Why couldn't you have figured that out sooner!" She shouts. She buries her face in your chest. "I... I love you too, Ally... I always did."

"Let's have the best school year ever," you tell her, ruffling her hair.

Face obscured, she nods. Her nose tickles your nipple.

As you rise to your butt, her eyes follow you. "What was Rose Mallory doing at your front door?" She asks.

You pause. How should you approach this?

"Well... what do you think of her?" you ask.

"Kind of a bitch. Which is why--"

"Do you think she's hot?"

"Well. Yeah. Too bad she's got a stick the size of Texas up her ass."

"Let's fuck her," you say.

This is the moment of truth. Is Whitney going to reject your proposal?

Whitney stares at you. Her eyes glimmer. Slowly, a grin spreads across her lips. "But-- what if she doesn't want to?"

"Oh," you say, "she will. Trust me."

Whitney tosses your jeans at you. "Get dressed, you fuckin' pervert."

---

"So my fucking parental units got Obamacare and-- huh huh huh--" Stackleford gasps to catch his breath as he waddles behind you, Whitney, and Rose. "So these fucking fascist doctors want to tell me I'm like, prediabetic or-- huh huh -- or something? Fucking nignog president, I swear to god..."

"I don't think Barack Obama is the reason you have diabetes," Rose says. Sherlock Holmes over here.

"Pre diabetes," Stackleford is quick to correct.

Rose checks the time on her cell. "We are... so, so late."

Whitney keeps an arm looped around you, and stares at Rose suspiciously the entire way to school, like a fussed mother might eye a pervert lurking near her kid in a park.

It's Stackleford who broaches the most obvious question: "So, uh -- huh, huh -- when did you two become, like, friends? I -- huh -- thought you were enemies or something?"

"It's complicated," Rose says, glancing back his way with a smile. She reaches for Stackleford's greasy forehead, and pulls his pussy deflector off.

"Hey--!"

"StuCo's instituting a new rule," Rose tells him. "No bandanas on school grounds." She tosses the thing down a gutter in the curb as you pass.

"What the fuck!" Stackleford shouts. "Bitch!"

"Do you have to be in cunt-mode all the time?" Whitney glowers.

"Do you really want to defend Boyd over his unfortunate choice of apparel?" Rose retorts. "Choose your battles."

Whitney flips her off.

"If you want to resume your quest to be the next hokage," you tell Stackleford winningly, "then make sure to vote for me this fall. I'll protect your right to free speech and expression."

"--Vote?" Rose says, voice catching.

"Yeah. For president."

She stops dead in her tracks. You stop just a couple paces on, turn.

"You wouldn't," she says.

"Why not?" You say. "Just a friendly competition, right? May the best candidate win."

"You're gonna run for prez?" Whitney says, grinning. "Hell yes. Now that's change we can believe in!"

"My nigga!" Stackleford says, holding his palm up for a hi-five, but you leave him hanging. He awkwardly lets his ham-hand fall to his side.

"No cheating!" Rose warns you, pointing at you.

"Of course not."

"I mean it!"

"We'll cheat our asses off!" Whitney tells her, sticking out her tongue. "Ya done, Rose. Buh-bye!"

"We don't need to cheat," you tell Whitney, turning and resuming your unhurried trot towards the school. "We'll beat her fair and square."

"Heeh. President Soliloquy! So cool."

Rose huffs. But you can tell that, beneath the facade of anger she wears, she's excited for the chance to have it out again.

"Oh," Whitney says, remembering something. "Watch your back today. I've got a stalker."

You frown. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said! This creepy little goth bitch was stalking me on my way to your house today."

This time, Rose isn't the only one stopped dead in her tracks.

"Crazy, right?" Whitney says. "She rolled up in this fancy as shit limousine all decked out like she was on her way to a funeral. Couldn't have been older than like 10. Maybe 11. She was raw-dogging me halfway to your house--"

"Raw dogging?" Rose cuts in.

"--Her car followed behind me for like 10 minutes before I finally yelled at her and scared her off!"

"Did she... say who she was?" You ask.

"No, and I hope I don't ever see that creepy little shit again!" Whitney says.

You're pretty sure she's going to see a whole lot more of her.

Stackleford trudges past. "Speaking of psychos... huh... we really better get going... we're super late, and I've got a psycho for first period computer class... she'll cut my head off or something if I'm much tardier."

"I don't think you could get any tardier, Stacks," Whitney tells him.

You continue walking, Stackleford now in the lead, as he looks back and says: "Well, I don't want to get on Ms. Guiteau's bad side... I'd be a goner for sure."

Rose's breath catches. Yours, too. You give each other a knowing glance.

Now that she's been mentioned, you recall her -- the her of 422, that is -- Ms. Guiteau, the tyrant who teaches programming at North High.

It's going to be an interesting school year.

---

>Some months later.

Ms. Carte sits across the kitchen table from Mr. Carl Price in his ramshackle tin trailer home. On Ms. Carte's left stands David Darkbloom, who despite being nothing but a shady financier in this configuration of the cosmos, still gives you the creeps in a major way. But his creep factor is getting deployed to a worthwhile end this afternoon:

"...and violating the NDA will invite terrible legal consequences that, I assure you, you will not weather."

Sitting beside Ms. Carte is Whitney. Ms. Carte is hugging her tightly to her bosom.

"This what you want?" Carl asks her.

Whitney nods. "She's my mom, right?" She stares at her lap. "And... it's not like you'll miss me."

Carl looks at Darkbloom. "You gonna hold your end of the bargain?"

"I am a man of my word," Darkbloom says. "$2 million wired into your bank account this evening, as soon as you sign away custodian rights."

Charlotte, who is serving as counsel and notary alike, slides the paperwork across the table. "With this, Whitney Price will become Whitney Carte," Charlotte explains. "You will waive all rights to guardianship, visitation, and power of attorney. You will be barred from contacting her unless she seeks out contact with you first. Do you consent to these terms?"

"I don't have a bank account," he tells Darkbloom.

Darkbloom sighs. "I will deliver it in cash on a flatbed truck if that's what needs be done. Just sign the goddamn papers, Carl."

He huffs, even as he takes the pen and signs below the signature of Ms. Carte and above the signature of Charlotte. "Don't think I won't sue if you don't hold up your end."

With the stroke of a pen, Whitney now has the name of the woman who gave birth to her.

"Guess she'll move out tonight?" Carl says.

"That is the intent," Darkbloom says. "She will go and live with her mother."

"Go pack your bags, baby," Ms. Carte tells her. Whitney nods, stands, and goes.

When she's out of sight, only then -- Ms. Carte lunges across the table and grabs Carl by the collar.

"What the--" he gasps.

"Yyyyyou motherfucker!" Ms. Carte screams. "That's all you care about? The money? You raised her for 18 years -- not very fucking well, I might add! -- and you don't give a shit about her?!"

"Renee," Darkbloom says firmly.

Carl struggles against the surprisingly strong grip of the beet-faced Ms. Carte. "What the fuck, lady! You're getting what you want, ain't you?"

"You worthless, sniveling, awful little--"

"RENEE," Darkbloom booms, laying a hand on her shoulder up by her neck. Ms. Carte slowly, and hesitantly, lets Whitney's surrogate father go. She settles back in her chair.

"Mr. Price is correct," Darkbloom says. "He has what he wants, and you and Whitney have what you want. The past is the past. We all can now move on from it like civilized people."

Still, she grumbles.

Vivian deigns to come into the squalid dump that Whitney grew up in. Whitney must have texted her that everything is a go. She strides past the kitchen without even glancing in, straight for Whitney's bedroom, there to help her older sister pack her things. You join the pair.

"I might actually miss this place," Whitney says, scooping a hamper of clothes haphazardly into a duffel.

"Why on Earth would you miss a living situation as... dreary... as this?" Vivian asks. She carefully folds Whitney's bedsheets: first the topsheet, and then, impressively, also the fitted sheet. You didn't expect a girl who relies so much on the help to actually know such difficult domestic chores.

"I 'unno," Whitney admits. "It's how I grew up."

"I can solemnly assure you that you will be happier with Ms. Carte," she says.

"Oh, for sure, I'll be happier at Mom's apartment," she says. You stack her soccer trophies and other meager knick-knacks into a cardboard box, but Whitney apparently doesn't like your packing skills, because she bumps your hip to scooch you aside, and horns in on it.

"Why don't you move in with us too?" Whitney asks her sister.

"I must help father run his company."

Whitney rolls her eyes. "Help father run his company... good Christ, Viv. He doesn't need help from a pint-sized loli who thinks she's queen of the universe."

"Please refrain from using the lurid language of Alabaster's pornographic comic books."

"They're not comics--" you begin.

"Apologies. Manga."

The way she deploys air quotes is downright vicious.

"In any case," Vivian says, "I will still be close to you and Ms. Carte -- every day in point of fact."

"Yeah?" You say. "How?"

"I have applied for and successfully received a zone variance. I will attend North High as a freshman for the balance of this school year."

"What!" Whitney yowls. She drops the geode she was holding, into her box of trinkets, where it clunks against her cherished dildo.

Even in this universe, Vivian's laughter is a haughty "ufufufu."

"You're not old enough, you fucking brat!" Whitney says, grinning with an open mouth.

"Do you truly believe skipping grades is some great object for me?" Vivian asks. "I could be attending college at the moment, should I so choose-- there are many such cases."

"It's true," you agree. "I was just reading the other day, about this 11 year old girl who's at Berkley -- Ebony something --"

Vivian goes red in the face. "Let us not speak of such matters. The point remains that I am more than capable to enter high school now."

Whitney hugs her -- suddenly, and tightly. Vivian lets out a little "hup" of surprise.

"You should join quiz bowl with us!" Whitney says, hopping up and down.

"I intend to. Your team needs the help."

Oh boy.

---

>Wholesome

[ ] Cerise notices her senpai!

[ ] Ms. Guiteau secretly wants to impress Alex?

[x] Ms. Guiteau and Ms. Carte do battle for club members!

[ ] Alabaster and Rose's unique living arrangement causes a stir!

[ ] Your imouto has a buddy! She's really shy!

[ ] Kay is after a scoop! But can she suffer the dorkiness of everyone in your orbit to interview David Darkbloom's bastard daughter?

>Lewd

[ ] Alex forced you. It was practically rape. You're not gay.

[ ] Kay teases Noelle a little too much... and gets a nasty surprise.

[ ] Your imouto is a little too impressionable, isn't she?

[x] Quiz bowl drilling. Quiz bowl drilling never changes. Or... does it?

It's nearing the end of November, and the deadline for club applications is thus also nearing. Normally that deadline would pass completely unnoticed, but this year is different. Because at either end of the school's sciences wing, Sable and Ms. Carte have both set up shop, to pamphleteer and tout the benefits of joining their respective clubs.

They have helper elves, too.

Sable of course is using Alex, now as always her right-hand boy. And she even managed to rope in Cerise, who has an equally strong interest in robotics, and has become an assistant helping program the robots.

Sable, who sagely told you when she hatched her scheme that "sex sells," has decked both of them out in maid uniforms, to patrol the school and hand out the fliers for FIRST Robotics.

Ms. Carte, not to be outdone, has dressed Whitney and Vivian up in bunnygirl outfits. Outfits which are way too risque to be legal -- sending her girls forth to lure in hapless hormone-addled adolescents to the transhumanism club.

Each day before first bell, and again at lunch, and again for a little while after last bell (club times permitting), Sable and Ms. Carte sit at little ad-hoc booths with blank signup sheets, just outside their classrooms, waiting for newcomers.

The bone of contention is this: both clubs have exactly 22 members at the moment, but both women believe their own club should have the greater membership.

Of course, despite the solicitous, verging on pornographic advertising their helpers have conducted across the North High campus, these women are, in the end, chairing a couple of capital-D Dork clubs -- big, big, big time dork clubs (and you say that as a card-carrying member of the quiz team). The school's dorks have already self-selected into one or the other. Since both clubs meet on a Tuesday/Thursday schedule, it's not possible to be a member of both at once -- and so these 44 social pariahs who compose the vast majority of North High students who would be into these sorts of things, are all accounted for.

This means the daily wait for new members these teachers conduct is always fruitless... and always devolves, first from mutual scowling at one another, to occasional hurled insults, and finally, sometimes, into light-to-moderate violence. Foxy boxing, Whitney calls it, as she roots for her mother from the sidelines.

They're trying to woo you, too. In fact, you're the most-coveted catch.

When you get to school in the morning: there's Alex, dressed like the happiest whore to ever live, ready to force another pamphlet into your hands and coo: "robots are cooool, Ally~" He holds his hands up and wiggles all ten fingers in the air. "Joooooinnnn usssss~"

Cerise, hungover and pallid, is less friendly. "Join the club or I'll kick your ass."

"You wish," you tell her.

"Are you gonna join the club?" Alex wants to know. "C'mooon."

"I'll think about it," you say noncommittally.

"Rose?" Alex says. "Rose?" He looks from Rose to Rose.

"If we build a robot, can we send it to the moon?" your little sister wants to know.

"For the last fucking time, there is no space program in FIRST Robotics--" Cerise begins.

"You could put a rocket on it," she counters, trying to be helpful.

Rose gasps and sputters as Cerise grabs her by her candy-pink hair and drags her away, to goodness only knows where, to dole out goodness only knows what punishment.

"I'll come if Alabaster does," the other Rose says, when your sisters are out of sight.

Alex smiles. "Of course. The vice president should always follow her president!"

Rose's face twitches. She balls up the blank application that Alex handed her and throws it at him. He meekly covers her head with both white-gloved hands as she stomps off.

"Did I say something wrong?" He asks you.

"Not at all," you say.

Whitney's advertising tack is more boisterous, as expected. She stands on a cafeteria table during the pre-bell breakfast hour, megaphone in hand, crowing: "Transhumanism!"

And standing on the ground below her, also holding a megaphone, Vivian softly repeats: "Transhumanism."

"Transhumanism!"

"Transhumanism."

"Sign-ups are with Ms. Carte outside her classroom!"

"Please sign up promptly."

"We'll kick your butts if you don't!"

"Your horizons will expand immeasurably if you do."

"Transhumanism!"

When none of the bedraggled, sleep-deprived students milling around seem to care about the pitch -- this being their 7th consecutive schoolday doing it -- Whitney takes to pointing at random people and exhorting them personally:

"You! Yeah you, fag! Join Transhumanism club! ... Don't look at me like that! ... Fucker."

Vivian puts her bullhorn down when she sees you coming in. "Alabaster Soliloquy. Have you reconsidered your terrible mistake of not joining our organization?"

"Organization?" You sputter. "What the fuck is this, the mafia? It's a school club. You -- ow!"

You grunt in pain as a paper airplane sails straight into one of your eyes.

"Heeeh~" Whitney laughs. "Gotcha."

You pick it up and unfold it. It's a signup application for the club.

---

On the last day of November, just after final bell, Vivian sends you a text:

>To Alabaster Soliloquy: Please come at once to Ms. Carte's room. It is a matter of urgent importance. Sincerely, Vivian.

A matter of urgent importance. Yeah, right. You and Rose laugh over it together as you hang out in the StuCo room. How stupid does Vivian think you are? She obviously just wants to make a last-second pitch for her club.

A few minutes later, Alex also texts:

>Ally! You gotta come quick! It's an emergency! AAAAAA!

Rose sighs. "Goodness. He's so good at suckering peop--"

"We should go see what's up," you cut in. "It sounds important."

---

You hurry to the hallway for the school's science classes. The bland beige walls here are lined with informational posters about mitochondria, chemical periodicity, geologic strata, and such. As you round the corner at a jog, your tennis shoes squeak on the tile. Rose hurries after you.

You wonder what the emergency could be. A medical episode? A fight? A horrifying robotics malfunction? You need to protect Alex at all costs!

As you draw nearer to Sable's classroom, Alex steps forth, and stops you with a hand to your chest. He's in his full maid getup; but, alluringly, the hem is cut extra short, and you think that he might not be wearing panties underneath, as he usually does.

Between his hand and your chest, is one of those damned signup sheets. He must be responsible for the death of a thousand redwoods by now with as many of these things as he's forced on you.

"There you are!" He cries. "You just have to join! Right away!"

You snatch the application from him. "This is what you brought me running for? Oh my God."

"OH!" Whitney shouts, from across the hall. She stomps with one of her stilettos. "So you'll come running for the twink, but not for my little sis! That's how it is?"

"I am intolerably offended," Vivian adds.

"Ally!" Alex says, clutching your chest, hopping up and down. Yep, definitely nothing on under that dress. "Please! Pleasepleaseplease!"

"It is the last day," Sable reminds you. "Your skills -- would be such a boon."

"For the last time, Sable--" you begin.

"Stop with that!" Sable shouts. "Show me some respect. I am a faculty member here. Call me Ms. Guiteau."

"Call her bitch!" Ms. Carte shouts. "That's what she is! Come join the transhumanism club already!"

Sable's neck vein twitches, a sign that a freakout is brewing.

"You're not helping, Ms. Carte!" You shout.

"Call me Renee, you stupid pervert!"

Rose, behind you, is nothing but smugness. "I told you," she says. "Never should have come here."

"He got honeydicked! Again!" Whitney says. "Unbelievable! Alex spreads his butt open for you one time and he has you wrapped around his pinky!"

Alex turns crimson.

"Excellent work," Sable tells him.

"I suppose he would rather make love to a fellow homosexual than indulge in two sisters at once," Vivian murmurs.

[ ] Join FIRST.

>[x] Join Transhumanism Club.

[ ] Join neither.

"It is such a sad state of affairs--" Vivian begins, but loses her wind as Whitney hauls her up, onto the little booth Ms. Carte has set up.

"Hey Ally!" Whitney calls. "Viv is right! Get a load of what you're missing in our club, huh?"

She grabs the crotch of Vivian's bunnygirl costume and tugs it to one side -- giving you and everyone else a beautiful view of a pair of your favorite openings.

"W-Whitney--!" Vivian gasps -- too weak to close her thighs, as Whitney holds them apart.

Ms. Carte is scandalized, too, and looks away... but a little hesitantly, it seems.

"Hmmph," Sable sighs. "That undeveloped slut is no match for this, is she?"

She grabs Alex's dress and hikes it up. No more doubt whatsoever: nopan. Alex stands there trembling, knees knocking as his thin legs shake.

As if materializing from nothing, Cerise is in the hallway, there to appreciate the view.

Such a hard decision. Literally, and in more ways than one. But in the end, you've got a bigger weakness for bunnygirls than for maids.

"Sorry," you tell Alex. "You can have this back." You hand him the blank application.

His sniffling, sniveling despair is heartbreaking. But you can soothe that vicarious sadness with some loli pussy, so it's all fine.

It seems that Rose has differing tastes. Or maybe she takes pity on the boy she was just warning you not to get suckered by. "I think I'll sign up for FIRST," she says.

"Really?" Alex says -- still standing there exposed, as Sable's angry eyes follow you down the hall.

Rose slaps his ass.

He jolts, yipping in pain. "Rose--!"

Cerise slaps Rose's hand back -- and swats Alex's ass, too. "Hands off. Gayboy's mine."

"We can fight over him," Rose coos.

"This is no good!" Sable shrieks. "We're just tied again now!"

"Oh, one of us will be tied..." Cerise says, licking her chops.

"This is no time for perversion... a tie is as good as letting that awful old hag win--"

"Fuck you too!" Renee snarls.

"Please unhand me..." Vivian begs her sister, even though her lower half is more honest about how much she likes to be exposed.

But Whitney finally relents as you draw near, letting Vivian cover her shame -- shabbily, since the bunnysuit only barely covered it to begin with.

"Great job, Viv!" Whitney tells her. "You honeycunnied him."

"Never say that again," you tell her.

"You'll have to find some way to shut me up, then~" Whitney says, grinning at you.

As Sable, Rose, and Cerise retreat with Alex back into Sable's classroom; you retreat with your slutty bunnies into Ms. Carte's. Ms. Carte herself stands uncertainly out in the hall. You wag your eyebrows at her.

"Err... have fun, you three," she says meekly. "I, uh... I'll organize the booth a little."

You're sure the noises the three of you make carry well into the hall. And you're sure they ignite some uncomfortable feelings in the good doctor.

---

You've barely settled into your room for some much-needed me-time before you hear an unholy racket from the next bedroom over. It sounds like Cerise is trying to beat her walls to death.

Rose, underneath your desk, looks up at you from between your legs. "Are you gonna go deal with that?"

"I think I should."

---

You barge into Cerise's room without knocking. Her shit's all fucked up; her PC monitor lies on its face, her clothes and circuit bending gear are strewn all around the floor, her bed's mattress is lying diagonally cocked and half pulled off the box-springs. She's even now in the midst of ripping her bedside lamp from the wall by its cord, when you shout:

"Cerise! What the hell!"

She stops, panting, turns and looks at you.

"What?" She says.

"What the fuck do you mean, what? You're in the middle of a tard rage, that's what!"

"...Am I?" She says, as if this is a fact she could have mistaken.

"Yes! You are!"

"I didn't realize," Cerise says. And then, without looking away from you or dropping her pained smile, she punches her wall hard enough to put a hole in the plaster. Arm fully extended, she twists her fist back and forth in the little divot made by the punch, causing dust and crumbs of drywall to waterfall down to her carpet.

"Good lord," you huff. "Talk to me. What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter!" She insists. "Love is blooming in anime club! I'm so happy!"

Though she graduated a couple years ago, Cerise chairs the anime club for want of a real faculty advisor. She just got back from a meeting.

"Love between... who?"

"Connor, gentleman he is, asked Anna to prom! And--" Cerise smiles so hard you think her skin will pull back and reveal her skull. "Anna said yes!"

You swallow hard. Connor, the fedora-wearing, fingerless-glove-donning, trenchcoat-sporting freak? That Connor? No way.

"Oh, she's so excited about it!" Cerise says. "Not. She said yes because -- Get this, Alabaster! -- she said yes, because she didn't know how to say no! That's what she told me!"

She punches her wall again -- still without glancing back at the property damage she wreaks.

You nod. When Cerise turns, and picks up her lamp again, and hefts with obviously violent intent for it -- you gently pry it from her hands.

"M'lady!" Cerise says. "Will you come to prom with me, m'lady? M'lady?"

"Are you jealous?" You ask.

"W-what? Jealous of Anna? Do you really think I'd--"

"No. Are you jealous that he's taking her? Rather than you taking her?"

Cerise laughs. "Don't be crazy. This shit again? I am not in love in Anna, Alabaster. Okay? Get it through your thick skull. This isn't some moeshit yuri anime. She's got the shittiest taste of all of them. And she's half-mute, and she's so fucking clingy, and she... she..."

Tears trickle down Cerise's cheek.

>[x] Get involved. Stop this disastrous prom date from happening.

>[x] Cerise needs to experience this jealousy to come to grips with her feelings for Anna. Don't intervene.

You walk with Anna back from school the following day. Just the two of you: Anna with some of her books clasped in front of her and her bag looped over one shoulder, you with nothing (backpacks are awful to tote around, and it's not like you ever do your homework anyway).

"thanks for helping me Sir"

Anna calls you "Sir" ever since you beat the shit out of an asshole who was harassing her. It's a tic she developed with no prompting from you whatsoever. Guess some things never change.

You invited her over to your house today, on the premise of helping her with her final project in Sable's programming class. But you never had any intention of helping her -- that's going to be Cerise's job, tonight. Neither of them know it yet, though.

"Heard you were going to prom," you say airily.

She nods, huge bespectacled eyes fixed firmly forward. "mm"

"Pretty lucky for a freshman girl to get asked to senior prom," you muse.

"mm"

"But you're going with kind of a weirdo, aren't you?"

Anna stops. You turn and face her.

"i'm sorry Sir... you don't approve"

Is that a question? A statement? Hard to say with that inflection... or lack thereof.

"Well, no, I don't," you admit, in any case. "Connor is... eugh."

She stares at her sneakers.

You scrutinize her. And as you do, it finally dawns on you: "You did it on purpose, didn't you?"

She winces.

"You want to make Cerise jealous, is that it? So you said yes... not because you didn't know how to say no... but because you wanted to get under her skin."

Anna finally meets your eyes. She puts her index finger to her lips in the universal signal of "quiet."

"You little slut!" You laugh.

She grins slyly. Being called degrading names is no deterrent at all for her, you know.

"Well, it worked," you tell her. "She played demolition derby in her room all night last night."

"was it that bad"

"Oh, it's worse than you could imagine. Mom about had a heart attack when she saw the damage."

She grins again. Cheeky bitch.

"For the sake of her sanity," you say, "call it off already. You're going to give her hypertension at the ripe old age of 20."

"i will call it off just as soon she tells me to," Anna says.

You step to her.

"are you going to bully me into changing my mind" she asks, quirking an eyebrow and tilting her head as if daring you to try.

"Whether you change your mind on this or not, I'll definitely bully you."

Right there on the sidewalk, you wrap a hand around her throat. Through the merciless constriction on her airways, she grips your forearm and smiles at you.

---

Whitney took an after-school job at a daycare center. At the time, you'd thought it was a horrible idea to put her in charge of young, rambunctious, and impressionable children -- but Ms. Carte saw something different in her, and encouraged her to do it.

You have to hand it to the old lady... she was right. Whitney has a rapport with these kids that you'd never have suspected. And she barely ever swears around them.

The main room of the daycare center has interlocking foam jigsaw pieces for flooring, and crude artwork by the children papering the walls; it smells like sour milk and poop in here, despite the frequent applications of Febreeze and anti-bacterial wipes. It's noisy, and hectic, and confusing; every time you visit, you leave nursing a nascent migraine. But this is Whitney's element. The caregivers in charge of the place frequently remark that they've never seen these pre-K demons as well-behaved as they are for the few hours a weekday when Whitney is there to assist.

Usually you avoid the place like the plague (and plague hotspot it really is, as Whitney's recent bout of flu attests to). Today, though, you visit for a particular purpose. You missed Whitney during the school day, since she cut out of auto shop early. And doing this conversation over text would be... well, it wouldn't be right. So here you are.

She's at the head of the room, the toddlers sitting criss-cross-applesauce around her in a rough semicircle. She doesn't notice you come in, because she's so involved with the singing game she's playing, a call-and-response number with the children. So you stand there appreciatively and watch her.

She sings, voice a pitch-perfect contralto as she bobs from side to side: "A duck walked up to a lemonade stand, and he said to the man runnin' the stand -- HEY!"

She points at the children, who, off-key and out-of-sync, sing back: "bum-bum-bum!"

She shrugs, both palms held up facing the ceiling. "Got any grapes?" She points at the kids again, who take their cue:

"Bum-bum-bum!"

It's at this point Whitney finally notices you. She turns your way and smiles toothily at you. Looking back towards her charges, and says: "Shoot! My boyfriend's here. Sit tight, okay?"

This draws a sitcom-audience style "oooooohhhhhhh" from the little snots, plus also croons of "Ms. Carte has a boooooyyyyyyfrieeeeennnnnddddd!"

"I do!" She says, unembarrassed. "And he's cute! Cute!"

They giggle derisively at her. It sort of hurts your feelings that calling you cute is a laugh line, to be perfectly frank.

"Let's count, okay?" Whitney tells them. "Gimme to 60 Mississippi! Be right back!"

She steps into the hall with you, just outside the door so she can continually look back into the room through the porthole window and make sure no one's getting into trouble.

"All right," she says. "I have a bunch of brats counting Mississippis for me, so make it quick."

"You're really good with these kids," you tell her.

She sort of half-shrugs. "It's nothing special," she insists.

"Sure it is. You're a natural leader."

"You're misoverexaggerating. It's not like I'm running bio-dad's company or something."

"Maybe one day."

"Yeah right," she laughs. "I'm just a glorified babysitter here. You sing songs and play dinosaurs with them and keep them quiet until their mom and dad come to pick 'em up. Anyone could do it. I don't know why everyone makes such a big deal."

"I'm just surprised at how little you curse around them," you say.

"It's because of that," Whitney tells you, nodding at a jar on top of a cabinet just inside the room. You crane your neck to peer up at it. It's full of quarters.

"Swear jar," she tells you. "Not that money matters to me anymore, since I'm basically a billionaire at this point. I mean, I could give a shit about money these days. But it keeps me on my toes."

You give her a meaningful look.

"What?" She says. Then, blinking: "...Oh. Shit. ... Shit! Fuck! Goddamn -- agghhh! You asshole! Oop-- f-- aghhh!"

She clutches her hair with both hands and shakes her head violently. Without swear words, she's down a good 50% of her vocab.

"Why don't you just empty your pockets on this one," you tell her.

She slugs you in the chest. "What do you want, you effing A?"

"You," you tell her.

"What else is new?" She giggles.

You give her a single curt nod: "You -- at prom."

"...What."

"Go to prom with me."

Whitney swoons -- literally -- and you have to catch her in your arms.

"You're S'ing me," she says. "No effing way."

"Yes effing way." You help her back upright again, and abashedly rub the back of your head. "I... uh... had a sign, and some flowers... but you left school early, so."

From your pocket, you pull a little jewel case, inside of which is a ring. Not the kind of ring a billionaire could buy, but you did go a little beyond your means. The diamond is pretty, anyway.

You slide it onto her finger, despite the leaflike trembling of her hand.

"Ally... I'm... I'm not crying, am I?"

"A little."

She wipes her face with the back of her wrist. "Eff. They're gonna make so much fun of me back in there."

"Let 'em." You kiss her. "So is it a date?"

"Eff yes it's a date."

>Wholesome

[ ] Ms. Guiteau secretly wants to impress Alex?

>[x] Alabaster and Rose's unique living arrangement causes a stir!

>[x] Kay is after a scoop! But can she suffer the dorkiness of everyone in your orbit to interview David Darkbloom's bastard daughter?

[ ] I want to get /fit/ with Saul! I really, really want to!

[ ] Rose needs help with her math homework! And Rose is the perfect person to help!

[ ] The StuCo campaign got kinda heated...

[ ] Is it really a good idea for Mom to bring dessert to a parent-teacher conference?

>Lewd

[ ] Alex forced you. It was practically rape. You're not gay.

>[x] Your imouto is a little too impressionable, isn't she?

>[x] Family movie night Mk.422

[ ] Whatever universe Whitney goes to, she must also rape.

[ ] Seems like Cerise and Anna made up.

>[x] Vivian's evil scheme!

---

The Mindbreakers are going to Boise!

It's an all-star lineup: you and Rose, joined by Vivian, Whitney, and -- after much poking and prodding -- Alex.

In the last universe, when only you and Rose were there to carry the team, even making it out of the state championship was dicey, and you only just eked out victory on the big stage in nationals. This time around, state was a cakewalk -- there were only a few matches where the losing school's score was within 10k points of yours. Many were complete shutouts. You and the team trounced the very best talent that the very best private schools of California had to offer, and so became the Cinderella story of the academic quiz bowl circuit. The plucky public school kids from unassuming Gilroy, kicking ass and taking names -- who doesn't like to root for the underdog?

There's a few weeks yet to go before you all hop aboard a bus destined for Idaho. Although Mr. Langley is still your coach, and a good one at that, his coaching is now supplemented by the extracurricular efforts of Ms. Carte, whose trivia hounding verges on the legendary. Numerous have been the days recently when you and the team decamped from your practice sessions with Mr. Langley only to head directly to Ms. Carte's apartment and drill all night long.

Ms. Carte is a harsh taskmistress. With coffee a-brewing to keep you all alert, and a stack of trivia almanacs to rifle through, she crams factoids at high speed down your caffeine-lubricated noggins:

First appearance of Bugs Bunny? Porky's Hare Hunt, Alex is quick to reply. Smallest prime number larger than 4,228? You're convinced it's just an educated guess, but Rose immediately and correctly replies 4,229. Date of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand? Vivian knows: June 28th, 1914. Fifth man on the moon? Alan Shepard, of course -- you know that one off the top of your head.

The name of the game, on these nights you spend at Ms. Carte's place, is not so much to prepare for your competition -- your competition is fucking doomed -- it's to compete against one another, for bragging rights. To see who among you can accumulate the most points. Ms. Carte keeps track on a big whiteboard. 100 points for correct responses -100 for incorrect responses. It's hot and heavy. First Rose leads, then Alex, then you, then in swoops Vivian. Back and forth and back and forth, you all battle for the crown. A literal crown. A cardboard crown from Burger King, granted. But a crown nonetheless -- and one of the most jealously coveted in all world history, you would hazard to guess, with as desperate as you all get in fighting for the right to wear it.

It's some of the most fun you've ever had that didn't involve getting your dick wet.

But if it sounds like someone's missing out here, it's because they are. Whitney is on the team at your invitation, but she really isn't cut out for it. She never answers questions. Though sometimes she privately tells you: "I knew that one" after someone else answers. You believe her when she says so. It's a lack of self-confidence that prevents her from ever trying to answer herself, even when she thinks she knows. Brash as she is in most things, she feels keenly a sense of limitation and inadequacy here. The more nights like these you all spend at Ms. Carte's flexing your brainiac muscles, the more it seems that Whitney suffers the sting of not fitting in.

As long and as well as you've known her... you don't know how to make her feel any better about it.

Her mother does, though.

It's a night like so many others, all of you crowded around Ms. Carte's minimalistically decorated living room, laughing and joking. Rose is on her knees in front of the coffee table with a scrap of scratch paper for those damn math questions she's so good at, pantyhose-clad toes digging into the shag carpet as she thinks. Alex is next to her on the ground, also with scratch paper, eating Pringles one at a time -- using his superhuman skill of making a can last all night with as slowly as he snacks. Vivian is half-sunk into a beanbag chair, casually reading a brick-thick history of the Eastern Roman Empire as she answers questions. Ms. Carte herself is pouring you all a new round of coffee, much appreciated, it being 12:24 AM on a Friday (well technically Saturday... but... you know.) You sit on the loveseat, wielder of The Crown™ (for now), and Whitney is curled around you, sleepy, morose, and mute, but adoring you nonetheless.

"How long have you had that thing?" Ms. Carte asks you.

You open your mouth to say, but Vivian, turning the page of her Byzantine history book, interjects: "7 hours, 15 minutes, and..." she checks her cell's clock. "...49 seconds."

"We need to strip you of your crown!" Ms. Carte says. "That's way too long."

"I agree. I totally agree," Rose says.

"No one asked you, pig," you say gruffly. From where you sit, you lightly nudge the small of her back with your foot. Face curling in anger, she turns and hurls a pen at you. Whitney's response in defense of you is disproportionate, to say the least: she kicks Rose square in the forehead, knocking her onto her back on the carpet. You can't help laughing, although it looks like it really hurt. Rose is gonna make Whitney pay for that one, you're sure.

Pulling herself back into a sitting position, Rose sighs: "it's because Alex and I keep splitting the vote on these math questions, so to speak... he should make way for me."

"I can't help it if I'm faster at answering than you are!" Alex says, smiling viciously politely. "Haven't you been in last place for a while tonight? Isn't it you who should be making way for me?"

Rose's face turns a shade of red never before documented by Pantone.

Ms. Carte sighs. "It's no use. I'm gonna have to go in."

She picks up her thickest almanac and dumps it in Whitney's lap. The thing lands with an audible slap, the book's paperboard binding colliding hard against the exposed skin left by Whitney's short-cut spats. Whitney unlatches herself from you as she doubles forward, clutching her groin and wheezing in pain.

"Jesus fuck, ma! You hit my coochie!"

"I need your help, baby," Ms. Carte says.

"With what? Calculating how many joules of force you can smack me with before I lose my family jewels?"

(Joules are a unit of energy, not force, but you won't nitpick. It's a witty reference to make on the fly. These nights of drilling are leaving a mark on her brain, whether she thinks so or not.)

Ms. Carte swiftly walks to the whiteboard in front of the coffee table where she's keeping track of the score. She erases Whitney's name, to make way for her own: RENEE - 0. No handicapping here, even though you've all got hours of accumulated points on her.

"Don't test me, old woman," you warn her. "I'll beat your ass too, same as all these other idiots."

She ignores your braggadocio. "I need you to be the quizmaster for a while," she tells her daughter.

"Ooooh, quizmaster," she says sarcastically. "Guess I better put on my robe and wizard hat."

"Do you want me to grab you a robe and wizard hat?" Ms. Carte asks, tone seemingly genuine.

"...Do you actually have a robe and wizard hat?" Whitney asks in return, taken by surprise at this offer.

"...Should I not have a robe and wizard hat?" Ms. Carte asks -- now suddenly uncertain.

"Why on Earth would you own a robe and wizard hat?" Rose demands, aghast.

"I... wore a robe and wizard hat for Halloween the other year..." Ms. Carte meekly explains.

"Well, I for one think it's super cool that you own a robe and wizard hat," Alex says, trying to be supportive.

"Ms. Carte does look quite bewitching in her robe and wizard hat, pardon the pun," Vivian says from over on the beanbag chair. "I am certain that Whitney would look even more fetching in the robe and wizard hat."

"I am going to go literally insane if I hear those words one more time," you half-shout. "Oh my God."

Whitney laughs. "Don't get me wrong -- I agree with Alex. That's super cool, Mom!"

"Really?"

"Hell yes! Go get me your robe and wizard--"

You kick the coffee table, making everyone else in the room startle. Everyone looks at you reproachfully.

"Sorry," you say.

A few moments later, Whitney is wearing a robe and wizard hat.

And like that, she becomes the designated quizzard -- her turn of phrase -- the Merlin to your Burger King Arthur. While meanwhile Ms. Carte joins the others in pursuit of a treacherous usurpation plot. Heavy lies the head that wears The Crown™...

Those dirty bitches try, but they can't strip you of your Crown™, nor your lands and titles. All hail King Soliloquy, first of his name. One by one, down they go, despite being practically wired up to an IV drip of coffee: Alex nods off, head in Rose's lap, enjoying the softness of her meaty thighs for a pillow (face-down, check). Then out goes Rose herself, head resting on her arms atop the coffee table. After her, Vivian, mewling like a tired kitten as she gets onto the loveseat between you and Whitney and literally paws at Whitney's legs, then circles around on all fours, curls up, and finally passes out on her sister in much the same way Alex did on Rose. Finally your quizzard herself flags, the almanac slipping from her limp grip as she trails off mid-sentence trying to read another question. She slumps backward, jaw hanging open, with the brim of her oversized hat covering her eyes, like a magical Mexican taking a siesta. Her snoring sets in double-quick, and has the volume of Leer jet.

It's after 4 AM. You could use a little sleep yourself. But you've got this thing... you hate sleeping in lighted spaces. It's too bright out here in Ms. Carte's living room. "Could you get the lights for me?" You ask her, turning your head on the loveseat's backrest to peer at her where she sits cross-legged on her recliner. "I'm dozing off, too..."

"Weak," Ms. Carte says.

"...What?"

"Pathetic."

"Ms. Carte--"

"I expected better of you, Alabaster!"

"It's 4 in the goddamn morning."

"The night is young!"

"It literally isn't even nighttime anymore. It's morning -- 4 in the morning."

"Semantics. Technicalities. If you go to sleep now, you concede defeat!"

She stands, and reaches for your Crown™. You swat her hand away. She reaches for it again. You swat her hand away again.

"I'm 5,000 points ahead of you," you sneer. "At the current rate, even if it's just the two of us playing, it would take you about 10 hours to catch up--"

"I'm up for the challenge! Guess you aren't."

"No. I'm not. I win, Ms. Carte. Get over it."

"You lose by forfeit!" Ms. Carte says, pounding a palm in her fist.

This time, when she reaches for the Crown™ and you try to swat her hand away, she's ready. She grabs your wrist and pries it back. Thinking quick, you try to gently, but firmly, push her away with one of your knees. But she counters this by tugging on your arm -- wrenching you into an awkward half-standing, half-sitting posture that leaves you unbalanced. She intends to use this to her advantage, but it backfires. Because you topple forward -- and she comes along, stumbling a couple steps backwards before falling to the floor with you. She lands on her back, and you land on top of her.

Your precious Crown™ falls from your head, landing perfectly on her face; you see her features ringed by the cardboard circle, cast in shadow, peering surprisedly back up at you. You peer surprisedly back down at her. She's very soft to lie on.

Her hand shoots up, and grasps the Crown™; your hand grasps the other side. There's a brief tug-o-war, which is spectacularly inadvisable to attempt with a material as flimsy as cardboard. The thing rips in half, leaving each of you holding now just the tatters of the ruined Quiz Kingdom. You lie there together for a brief moment, peering at the destroyed crown in your clutches -- and realizing how silly this all really is. Then Ms. Carte drops the half she's holding, and kisses you.

You roll around on the floor of her living room kissing each other desperately, while her daughter, and her surrogate daughter, and Rose and Alex, all obliviously sleep. This is the first time, at least as far as she knows, that you've crossed this rubicon. But she leaps into this breach of teacher-student propriety joyfully, with both feet.

"Alabaster-- Alabaster--" she whispers between searching kisses. She holds two tufts of your hair down by the roots, and roots her tongue around your mouth.

You gulp for air as best you can. "Ms. Carte -- I really want you... I really, really want you..."

"My room," she pants.

"Right here," you counter, trying to pull her labcoat off.

"No -- my room -- come on--"

She gets you on your back, with her atop -- then helps you unsteadily upright. Holding your hands, walking backwards while stooping, she quickly guides you to her darkened bedroom.

Giggling like an excited schoolgirl, she says: "Let's make it a game..."

"A game?"

"Let's drill, Alabaster~"

>[x] Solo drill.

[ ] It's bound to wake someone up. [1 / 2 / 3 / 4 others (choose who)]

Ms. Carte's bedroom is as sparse as her living room. This obviously isn't a woman who reads a lot of Martha Stewart Living. There's only the dresser, the bookcase, the closet, the TV, and the bed. White covers, white sheets. And oooh, what's this, a little bit bold on the choice of curtains: powder blue. You admire it -- she lives simply.

Fucking Renee D. Carte comes so naturally to you that you forget it isn't so natural to her anymore. When you try to push her back onto her bed, she falters, and refuses to go down. Instead, she lays her palms flat against your chest. Her voice develops a tremor: "You're -- you're so -- Alabaster..."

You kiss her again, and repeat, "I really want you..."

Trying to reclaim the initiative, she guides you to a sitting position on the comforter. She puts a balled fist to her lips, clears her throat. You gaze expectantly up at her.

"You're involved with my daughter," she says, rather obviously. "Both my daughters."

You nod.

"And on top of that, I'm your teacher."

You nod.

"So, then -- sexual contact would be... wildly inappropriate."

"Whitney and Vivian are both fine with it," you offer.

"I know they are!" She says. "They've been telling me for months now-- how they think we'd make a cute couple! I assumed they were just teasing me, but..."

"Do you think we make a cute couple?" You prod.

"That's beside the point!" She says fiercely. She puts her hands on her waist. "I'm not just your teacher, you know -- I'm also your coach. And my primary concern is making sure you attain peak performance in the championship. PEAK performance."

You fall backwards theatrically, splaying your arms, and sinking into the soft mattress.

"Alabaster!!"

"I'm dead," you tell her. "You rejected my advances... and now I lie here, dead of a broken heart..."

She gets onto the mattress too, on her knees, looming over you just beside your head. You open one eye.

She folds her arms just under her massive tits. "Ally, we need to drill!"

"Ally?" You say.

She clasps a hand over her lips. Her eyes widen. You smirk.

She clears her throat again: "Uh. Whitney's verbal tics have a way of rubbing off." And that's true.

She takes one of your hands in both of hers, and forces you to your butt. You really are exhausted, and you'd just as soon have stayed down for the count. Grumpy, you say: "You dragged me here under false pretenses, Ms. Carte... I thought you wanted to do something a lot more interesting than quiz bowl drilling."

Without warning, she straddles you. If you were sleepy before, you suddenly aren't so sleepy now.

Flinging her hair to one side, she grabs your shoulders, and kisses your cheek. The way she nips your earlobe sends a warm chill down your spine.

She whispers: "Drilling can be interesting, too."

"Make up your mind," you whisper back. "Do you want to do this or not? You're gonna drive me crazy like this."

"This isn't sexual contact," she says. "Let's make that clear. This is just performance training. Understand? Completely appropriate and wholesome. Even prescribed by most authorities on training regimens..."

You'll play along with it. "Okay," you say, "so how do we keep my performance at its peak?"

"Training works best when you're working towards an incentive," she tells you. "So every coach finds the best way to incentivize her team. In your case -- you, Alabaster -- I know what your incentives are, all right."

With your hands behind you propping you up, you lean your head forward, and nibble her neck. She lets you do it, giggling huskily.

After that, then, comes a luxurious makeout session that seems to last forever. She sits on top of you, kissing you and writhing against you, grinding her crotch to yours. It has the effect she wants. She brings you to full hardness, your cock flopping over inside your pants and swelling to attention. Then she keeps going -- until you find yourself very close to cumming in your boxers just from dry-humping. She's as good at teasing you as her daughter is. Better, even.

At last, she relents with the kissing. But just long enough to ask: "Alabaster... can you contain yourself if I ask you to do me a favor?"

"Depends," you say, between nips at her delicate neck and collarbone. You run a hand under her shirt. She doesn't stop you. Not even when you begin to paw at her giant breasts.

"Scoot forward... and take off your pants."

Ms. Carte climbs off of you. She sinks to her knees at the foot of the bed. You do as she asks while she positions herself. You tug your jeans off. Boxers, too. You toss them both in the corner. And thus you sit there, nude from the hips down, on Ms. Carte's bed.

"Oh my God," Ms. Carte says with a tone of wonderment. She puts both her soft hands on either of your knees, lightly applying pressure to signal that she wants you to stay spread. She can't stop staring. "It actually is the size of the Oklahoma panhandle..."

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

There's no doubt that it's pretty big, even compared to a taller woman like her. Your member is a thick, veiny fucker longer than her face, and about half as wide. Sitting underneath it, she seems kind of daunted. Second thoughts? Probably she's wondering what it would do to her insides if you put it in her. But there's no going back from this point. She would never admit defeat in such a humiliating fashion. She'll forge ahead.

As if trying to capture a butterfly that would flutter away if she's too sudden, Ms. Carte eases her hands off your knees, and slowly clasps your cock. With your fuckmeat in hand, she tents her fingers over the top of it. The tender sensation of her palms makes a trickle of pre-ejaculate ooze from the cocktip.

"I'm... sorry about this," Ms. Carte says breathily. "This next thing isn't part of the training. But -- I really need to --"

She leans forward and parts her fingers just wide enough to make room for her cute button nose. It looks as if she were holding a tissue to her face. With her nose directly against the tip of your prick, she shakes her head from side to side, smearing your sticky precum all around under he nostrils. A dreamy smile spreads on her face as she inundates herself with your scent. It's a lewd, ticklish feeling. Her efforts are tormenting your prick's most sensitive spots while she gets selfishly high on your smell. Her eyes roll back and her mouth starts to drift open, wetly, the saliva pooling on her tongue... she's like a junkie for you...

When you pet her, she snaps out of it. She leans back again, and once more fully encompasses your dick between her tented fingers. She rubs you the way a cook might roll out strings of dough, but so much more slowly, and gently. She twists the balls of her palms in opposing directions, dragging your foreskin across the slimy head, over, and over, and over again. You moan.

"Did you know, Alabaster..." she says, grinning, "I have very little gag reflex."

"Oh fuck, Ms. Carte..."

"Call me Renee."

You try to jut your hips forward, but she lets go of your dick and firmly presses your thighs down. This isn't for you to play Mr. Quickshot on, is the message she conveys loud and clear. This is for you to teeter on the edge as long as possible while she tests your skills.

"You've got this big, horny thing between your legs," she says. "But what would you do for a little relief, huh?"

"Anything," you plead.

"Here's the game," she says. She holds the edge of the bed between your legs, and rises upwards on her knees a little so that your prick's underside rests across her face. "I'll start sucking you. I'll suck you for a little bit... then I'll ask you a question... if you give the right answer, then I'll suck you just a little deeper... and if you get it all the way inside me... you can have sex with my throat. Sound good?"

"Yes," you heave. "Anything... anything..."

Features half obscured by your dick as you leak precum into her hair, she asks you: "what is the capital of North Dakota?"

"Bismarck," you say. You've never been happier to have memorized all 50 state capitals.

"Good." She lets her jaw drift open, and gets your tip inside her mouth. Her tongue wags back and forth, scraping the frenulum.

As with when she was inhaling your dick scent, her eyes roll back at the unadulterated pleasure of sucking Alabaster Soliloquy's penis. She lets out a long, hot exhalation through her nostrils that tickles your nuts. You're about to blow your load in her, but then she pulls off.

"Who killed McKinley?"

"Czolgosz. Suck me... fuck! Just suck me!"

Her mouth sinks back down on your dick. You scruff her hair. But when you try to press her lower, she punishes you by pulling dislodging you entirely. You hiss in sexual agony.

"Don't stop," you beg.

A little strand of her drool mixed with your precum slides down her chin. "Ship Darwin took his famous voyage in?"

"The Beagle."

This time when Ms. Carte swallows your dick, she's got about a quarter of it inside the lovely, slick and hot interior of her mouth.

She bobs up and down -- gauging the proper depth by the spot around your shaft where she has her thumb, fore- and middle fingers curled. The slllck, sllllck noise of her blowjob is like music.

For the next half hour, whenever you answer a question correctly, those fingers slide a notch further down; and more of your cock disappears down her maw. She isn't fussy about the mess she makes -- she likes to give nice, wet, sloppy blowjobs. Her saliva runs in fat dollops down your manhood, and over your balls.

Her tongue isn't shy, either. The almost snakelike way she flutters it against you is enough to drive you insane all on its own. Whenever you try to break the rules and start humping against her bobbing tongue, she cruelly punishes you by moving that depth gauge back a notch -- leaving just a small fraction of your cock out in the cold. You so desperately want to grab her face and hump yourself stupid, but you can't.

Date of the Trinity test? 7/16/45. Discoverer of oxygen? Lavoisier. Deepest lake on Earth? Baikal. You don't miss a single question, because missing means you get your orgasm delayed... and you really, really need to fucking cum.

As she gets closer to having you fully seated inside her mouth, your cockhead brushes past her uvula... and from then, every subsequent bit of progress she allows seems to be less than the previous. You want to go balls deep in Ms. Carte's skillful gullet. Because she knows it's what you want, she intends to stretch it out... to torment you... and man, are you being tormented.

She was right, too: she has very little gag reflex. The only distress that forcing your humongous dick into her tight esophagus causes is a deep blush in her cheeks. It makes her saliva flow even more freely, also. And her voice is a little hoarse after a while, whenever she gives you another question.

Using her mouth is just like fucking a pussy. Except you don't get to fuck. You just have to sit there, being sucked on, and answer questions for a tiny bit more of that pleasure.

Finally, even Ms. Carte's teasing can't hold off the inevitable. After a question on the author of Portnoy's Complaint -- Roth, naturally -- those fingers she was using to measure the depth leave your shaft entirely. "Good game," she says. "Here's your reward." She sinks the rest of the way down on you. Then she lets you stay inside her -- not moving a muscle at all, except to lovingly knead your testicles. That alone is a sight worth a billion dollars... Ms. Carte with your cock completely embedded in her mouth, playing with your nuts to coax the semen out. With your cock buried down her throat and your pubes mashed up against her nose, it's an obscene view you never want to lose.

After a few moments of this, you lock eyes. The glint in hers indicates: "Well?"

Well, here's what: you take her ears for handles, and start to fuck. You're as gentle as you can be, but that's not very gentle at all. Your butt leaves the mattress on every stroke. Fuck, yes, you're cumming... you're going to cum in your teacher's mouth.

She stops sucking you.

"No--" you groan in despair, when she pulls her mouth from your dick and slinks away from between your legs.

But you should have known better than to think she just wanted to tease you again. Getting your prick in her mouth has left her in need, too. She doesn't just want your sperm in her tummy. She wants it somewhere better.

She gets on her back in the bed. "Fuck me," she pleads. Her voice is tiny, but filled with need.

You rip her clothes from her body like an impatient kid on Christmas morning. Labcoat, pants, panties -- all go sailing over your shoulder as you strip her.

Ms. Carte's fleshy form is as wonderful as you remember. She has a ring of tiny red bite marks left from the elastic of her too-small panties, and her smooth inner thighs are all wet. Her cowlike udders jiggle a little just from her rapid breathing.

"Is this sexual contact?" You ask, as you slide your hand between your bodies and start to finger her. Sticky, moist, and hot -- just perfect weather there.

She shivers. "Yes, yes it is..."

"Is it wildly inappropriate?"

"Yes... yes!"

"What if someone out there heard us... or walked in, and saw? What if Whitney saw?"

She shakes her head emphatically. "I don't care about that!" She screams, as if purposely trying to invite it. "I just want you to fuck me!"

You won't keep her waiting. You line your prick up with her hole, and thrust yourself home.

Her whine of delight could pierce your eardrum. She arches her spine and grips her sheets.

"This is what I needed..." she gulps, as she shudders from the electric thrill of getting nailed.

"To get fucked?" You grunt.

"You," she counters. "I needed you." She holds her arms wide. "Do your thing... do whatever you want... and finish -- inside me..."

You hug her close, and fuck her. It's your reward for perfect performance. Hers, too. Teacher and student, or coach and player -- you both reap your reward for a long, hard night's work. It's a simplistic reward, but such a sweet one. The reward of a careless orgasm inside a raw cunt. There are no more questions to answer. No dithering over how unsafe it is, no hand-wringing about how inappropriate it is. You're both beyond caring, who knows or whether they approve of it. You're fucking -- and that takes precedence. The only thing that matters anymore is getting off together.

You lock lips, and swirl your tongue around with hers as you blow your creamy cock-load. Ms. Carte's mauve pussy gets a gooey explosion deep inside. One of the best internal cumshots you've ever deposited, in your opinion. It didn't take anything more than a bit of teasing and a lot of pent-up need, to give you a climax so powerful that it literally knocks you both out. You actually pass out -- you and Ms. Carte alike -- even as you cum all over each other. You pass out with each other, nuzzling and necking and nutting. Her dopey smirk as you unload is all the thanks you need.

"We do make a cute couple..." she says, just before she passes into the world of dreams.

---

It's not a good idea to fuck someone when you're both exhausted and other people, who you don't want knowing, are in the next room over. Because those other people can tend to wake up before you do, and discover that you've been fucking.

That's what happens that Saturday, when you awaken around 11 AM to the sound of Whitney's voice: "Ally? Mom? Where you guys at? We should shoot up a Denny's!"

(What she means is that you should "hit" up a Denny's, as in eat at one, and this unfortunate verbal flub is one you've had a tough time weaning her of.)

You're up and alert when you hear this clarion call. Unluckily, Ms. Carte isn't. And there's an even bigger issue to contend with: she's on top of you. You're pinned.

This damn nympho. No wonder her daughter is the way she is -- it's inherited. Ms. Carte wanted to fuck you while you were asleep... and so she got you into a reverse missionary and rode you all through the early morning hours as you phased in and out of consciousness. Now, with her weight pressing down on you, it isn't possible to leap from bed and don your clothes, or hide in the closet. You can't even cover your nakedness with the blanket because you're lying on top of it.

Your only real chance is to nudge her and desperately hiss: "Ms. Carte-- Ms. Carte--"

"Mmmm?" She murmurs, body jostling, butt all jiggly, her head resting against your sweat-slick chest. She smacks her lips.

"Wake up."

"Oooh-- ohhhh... you're inside me..."

She starts to ride.

"Wake up!" You whisper. "Whitney--"

Her eyes are still closed, and she's still obviously half-asleep, as she gyrates on your morning wood, and slurs: "She's not here right now... let me take care of you..."

Footsteps approach. "Mom? Where did you go?"

Finally, Ms. Carte snaps out of it. She stops stone-still. Her eyes bulge. She props herself up on her palms, to climb off of you and stop the door from opening -- but it's far too late. She gets no further before Whitney and Vivian step into the bedroom to find her butt-ass naked atop you. They've got the perfect vantage, and receive and eyeful of how your dirty bits are connected, plus the evidence of a long, long, long session pooling around you both.

Whitney gasps; Vivian giggles. Just as quickly as they made their entrance, they take their exit: Whitney slams the door closed, leaving you alone with Ms. Carte again.

Since Ms. Carte had her back to the pair -- or more aptly, had her ass to the pair -- she didn't actually see them come in and go out. She only heard the reaction. So, timidly, she asks: "Did they see?"

You try a white lie -- a white whale of a lie. "No, I don't think they saw."

Ms. Carte falls back against you, and lets out a groan of despair, her voice muzzled by your chest. "They saw," she cries.

You stroke the back of her head in a consoling way, until she can bring herself to look you in the eyes again.

"Guess there's no going back," you tell her.

"I'm so sorry, Alabaster."

"For what?"

She shrugs. She's so embarrassed, and sad, too -- you guess she feels like she's done something awful that will make everyone hate her.

You push your face forward and nuzzle her in a special way. It's something she taught you many trillions of years ago -- but she doesn't know that.

Her face turns pink. Her jaw parts and her eyes glimmer as they turn to saucers. She lets out a choked "--ghh--" of surprise.

But then you feel her erratic pulse go steady again. And at last, understanding the game, she returns the gesture in kind.

Together you lie there for many long minutes, doing just that, bonding in that special way.

You eventually go another round in her -- why not? -- but you never stop rubbing your noses together, and giggling lowly at how tickly it feels, like two little kids who just found out they like-like each other.

Although Ms. Carte takes you all to Denny's, Whitney pouts the entire time. She keeps asking the waitress if Ms. Carte qualifies for the senior discount; and repeatedly calls her mother "Boyfriend Fucker."

Ms. Carte is over her earlier mortification, though. Now she finds her daughter's jealousy quaint. "Your boyfriend fucks a lot of girls," she's quick to point out. (News gets around.)

"But you're my Mom!"

Ms. Carte strikes a cheeky pose, one wrist behind her head, her buxom chest jutting out to show off her assets. "Yep. I'm a bona fide MILF. Sorry, baby."

Whitney throws a piece of sauteed red pepper at her.

Ms. Carte winks. "We can share, you know."

"I agree," Vivian tells her sister. She laboriously finds the straw in her glass of orange juice and sucks down a dainty sip, before adding: "sharing is caring."

"Hmmph."

But it's fine. Whitney is only pretending to be upset. You know what her real beef is: that she didn't get to take part. But there will be time for that, too.

---

You spend a lot of late afternoons at North High with Rose in the StuCo room. The business of running the student council is never one that particularly interested you, and so Rose gets to be the most powerful vice president in the school's history. But at least this time around, you're helping.

Even if planning for festivals and pep rallies is an awful drag, you find ways to keep things entertaining.

On one such late schoolday for example: you're taking a bathroom break when Rose texts you. Standing at the urinal, you read the message. All it says is: "hungry?"

She couldn't have waited two minutes to ask you in person? Oh well. You text back that you are. And she instantly fires back: "I'll get a snack."

When you return to the club room, you understand.

Standing there in the middle of the class, stark naked, her skin seeming to practically glow as she stands with her back to the golden California sunset, is Rose. This in and of itself is hardly any surprise, though. The real surprise is what she does when you enter. She turns, bends over the teacher's desk at the head of the room, and spreads her fat ass for you. Perched about the only place they could be perched down there, are two chocolate bonbons.

"Come get your snack," Rose says over her shoulder.

You go get your snack.

Usually, kneeling beneath Rose is a degradation, but this is way too fun. And you know what, you actually were hungry, and these chocolates are really good. You eat the candy from her cunt and asshole, slowly chewing these liqueur-filled treats that ooze with her arousal. You lick up what melted inside her while she waited, too, doting lover you are. Wouldn't want her to suffer any kind of adverse effects from putting candy where the sun doesn't shine. And you have to make sure you get it all. So you can't be faulted for spending a long time down there. A half hour... more? She keeps a leg helpfully hiked up on the desk, for you to work.

Of course primal need does eventually call, and you get down to the main event. You have sex with her like that, over the desk, doggy style, using her hair for handles. It's going pretty normally, and you make casual conversation while you fuck:

"Are you going home tonight?" You ask.

"I don't know. I -- ohhh -- that's good. Like that. I don't know. Why?"

"You have to pack for Boise, right?"

"We have time."

"Nngh-- oh, shit -- I love your cunt..."

"Do you want to get dinner after this?"

"I already ate... where the hell did you get those chocolates?"

"Ffffuuuuck-- I'm cumming! I'm cummmmmming! Oh -- oh -- whew. ... I got them from Vivian..."

"What."

"She gave them to me. They're amazing, aren't they?"

You stop thrusting.

"What's wrong?" Rose asks.

"Fuck," you say. Not in the fun way.

It's only now that you're starting to realize... you and Rose have both become a little sluggish, haven't you? You're not really standing anymore, you're more just lying on top of her, over the desk...

"This... is bad..." you tell her.

The world throbs around you -- and slowly, fight though you may, you lose consciousness.

---

When you wake up, it's after dark. You're tightly bound, hand and foot.

Groaning, you sit upright. You feel your vision unblur and your pupils adjust to the room's low light. Rose is similarly hogtied, propped naked against the wall on the opposite end of the room.

Vivian stands in front of you, dressed in a ridiculous form-fitting leather costume that leaves her cunt and nipples exposed. She wields a cat-o-nine-tails and a black cat masque.

This is your fault, you're pretty sure. Vivian saw you in one of your... weaker moments... with Rose, and got the wrong idea of the power dynamic here. And since you haven't been fucking her as often in the past couple weeks...

Rose gains consciousness not long after you do. "Oh, what the fuck," she says, looking from you to Vivian and back again. "Seriously?"

You stare up at Vivian. "What are you doing?" you ask.

"B-be quiet!" she commands. "You will s-speak when spoken to!"

You frown. Vivian tied you with red satin rope, but it was a rush job, and she must not have been very good at maneuvering your dead weight while working. You could definitely undo these knots by pulling on them.

"I'm sorry," you say, "but you do know that I could break free from these ropes literally at any time I want, right?"

"I said quiet!" She cracks the whip -- but instead of the sharp snap she's looking for, the tails just flop round uselessly. She tries a second time and gets the same result.

"This can't be real..." Rose says.

"This is what you like," Vivian asserts, although it comes out sounding more like a question. "This is what you want. Isn't that right, you, you, you... p-p-p-pervert?"

"I wish I could hate you to DEATH," Rose says, straining against her bonds. "Both of you! Oh my GOD."

Vivian ignores her. She steps closer, doing her best to loom. But even with you sitting down, she isn't much taller. She arches her back, as if to gain extra height. This pushes her little button of a clit against your nose. Her tummy is taut against the smooth confines of her leather suit. Her delicate skin is flushed darkly red. You watch her with a bemused grin.

"W-worship me, you w-worm..."

>[x] "Submit"

[ ] Enough of this silliness.

Although you enjoy little more than bullying Vivian, especially when she's uppity, you also enjoy little more than having your tongue inside her tiny pussy. Maybe you're just in a pussy-eating mood today. And with Vivian wagging her eager cunt under your nose, filling your head with the clean, sharp scent of her arousal, and tickling your face with her throbbing clit... you can't resist.

You open your mouth, snake out your tongue, and--

Vivian whips you.

Or at least she tries to whip you. As with when she tried to crack the cat o' nine tails in the air, she doesn't produce any force. The leather straps gently fwap against your shoulder.

Trying to get across that this should have hurt, she does the same thing to you again, more pointedly -- but just as forcelessly. You tear your eyes from that beautiful cuntlet, to gaze down at your perfectly unabraded, unbruised shoulder still draped by her whip's tassels like an epaulet.

"Ow," you say.

"H-how dare you--" she begins, then gulps, and continues: "--try to put your DISGUSTING mouth on -- on -- on my cunt without perm-- without permission?"

Her knees are knocking.

"Idiot!" Rose shrieks. "Stupid little brat! You have to use your wrist--"

Vivian goes to where Rose sits and summarily delivers a vicious, open-handed slap. Not to Rose's face, but to her cowtits. Rose gasps through her teeth in sudden excruciating pain.

"Be quiet, Vice President Mallory." No stutter there.

What flickers across Rose's face is fear -- honest fear -- and also recognition. This is more in line with the Vivian she knew before, who could be domineering when she wanted to be. Tonight will be far from the first time that Vivian has victimized her.

Vivian produces a ball gag. Not just any ball gag. The strap for it comes from around her wrist. And the red ball itself comes from out of her asshole. She reaches around her body and pulls it out with a soft plop, then affixes it to the leather. Rose's eyes go wild, and she shakes her head violently no. Vivian won't be deterred. She leans in, cups Rose's chin to keep her face held steady, and forces the thing into Rose's mouth. Circling, she does the buckle up behind Rose's head -- extra tight. Rose will have to suck Vivian's ass off that ball gag, and watch what the two of you do without providing any color commentary. It's gonna drive her bonkers, you know.

Such a contrast. When Vivian returns the way she came, to stand again before you, her bravado evaporates.

"S-see how I -- overpowered your dominatrix--!"

"Let's get one thing straight here," you say. "Rose is not my dominatrix."

Rose tries to shout her own rebuttal, but she's tongue-tied. Vivian squeaks: "P-pathetic! Apologize to your new mistress for... for... trying to sully my h-h-hole with your lips!"

You bow your head, and although you try to stave it off, you begin to snicker.

"What's so funny?" Vivian says. She seems to be trying for derisive but comes across as indecisive.

You'll submit. If it means getting a whiff of that honey-sweet pussy again and having her ride your face for the next hour or so, you can put up with some roleplay. The fact that it's going to drive Rose literally insane is just a bonus.

"What's so funny!" Vivian says. She seems to be trying for threatening but comes across as anxious.

"I submit," you say, in your best impression of a broken slave's soft monotone. You keep your head bowed in a show of deference.

Vivian's reply is slow to come. You resist the urge to look up. One, because it would be against the spirit of the game. Two, because if you glimpse that cunny again, you're liable to leap free from the ties that bind you and rape it into the shape of your cock.

"G-good... good..." Vivian finally drawls between jittery breaths. She seems to be trying for lecherous but comes across as gobsmacked.

She takes your chin in palm just as she did with Rose. But unlike with Rose, Vivian's hand trembles here. Her grip is weak and clammy. At the same time, she lifts a foot into the air, and presses the ball of it to your erection. The soft skin of her sole is nice on your prick, but she isn't putting any pressure on you. In fact she seems to be actively avoiding pressing down on your cock at all. Afraid of actually hurting you?

In any case, it leaves her entire weight supported only by her other foot. And in this pose, she's far off her center of balance. She wobbles as if being battered by invisible gales, using her free hand to keep upright like a tightrope walker.

"M-men are all -- ah--" she teeters dangerously to one side, and takes a moment to right herself. "M-men are all the s-same."

"Punish me, mistress," you tell her.

She gives your member the feeblest and most ineffective nudge ever. Is that what she counts as stepping on your cock? It tickles more than anything. And it nearly tips her balance past the point of no return again: she has to windmill her arms to stay upright.

You play up the pretend agony: "Ow!! I'm sorry, mistress!"

You look her in the eyes. The contours of her face are visible from behind the edges of that ridiculous cat masque. She's blushing bright pink beneath it.

Stepping back from you, she gets her bearings and waggles the cat o' nine tails nonthreateningly at you. "Beg me for the right to, to... to service me!"

What you say is only really half made-up:

"Please, mistress. I need your pussy in my worthless slave face. I want you to torture me with your holes... I want to service you with my tongue. Please... I submit my body to you, mistress."

She's shaking like she's been dunked in icewater.

A few moments of silence pass, punctuated only by Rose angrily mmmf-mmmf-mmmf-ing up a storm on the other side of the room.

"...Mistress," you prompt.

"Gooooood slave," she drawls, snapping out of it -- sort of like speaking to a dog she's trying not to anger.

Was it part of her plan to have you actually consent to this mistreatment? Is she waiting for you to break free of your bonds and take control? Or is she just awkward and unsure of herself?

Either way, it's fun to keep her on pins and needles like this... and she's still aroused, as her drippy little cunt proves. As she steps towards you, you again enjoy its sweet aroma wafting across your face, and can clearly see every little dewy droplet of her juice trickling across every smooth fold and crevice of her labia. Her arousal makes her whole crotch shiny, like something laminated, and from this close up, you can see her clitoris actually throbbing lewdly.

She rests a palm on top of your head. She rises to tiptoes, and then back down, over and again, rubbing her horny slit against your nose, lips, and jaw. Masturbating on you.

"L-l-lick me, s-s-slave," she chokes.

You wouldn't be able to resist even if you tried. Your tongue, when flattened, is wider than her mound. You can lap the cream from the exterior without ever getting it wedged inside her vice-tight fuckhole. So you do just that -- to enjoy her taste -- and also, cruelly, to tease her. As you repeatedly scrape your tongue back and forth across her twat-lips and her clitoral hood, she makes the absolute most adorable little sighs and squeaks of pleasure. Her grip on you tightens, and she clutches a tuft of your hair.

For a few moments, she rubs herself rapidly against your lapping tongue, trying to amplify her carnal pleasure. Her cunt squirts erratic little needles of liquid. She starts to coo, "ahhh, ahhh~" -- But she must think that this enthusiasm is unbecoming of the dour mistress she's trying to portray. She stills her humping, and then yanks you by the hair. You let your head tilt back the way she intends it to. Your chin drips with her cum as you stare back at her.

"How is your mistress's pussy?" She says, managing not to stammer, but gulping hard when she finishes.

"Delicious," you reply. "Thank y--"

"Thank me!"

"Thank you."

She tugs the other way now, trying to tilt your face back towards her waiting cunt. You let it happen, and smother yourself once more in her overheated loli fuckditch. Her milky flesh is so tender against your tongue, and her gash is so delicate-tasting, that you can hardly believe it. You're worshiping her vagina -- not because she commands you to, but because you really do worship it. Vivian deserves to orgasm on your wiggling tongue and reddening face -- deserves the chance to ride your face to a thundering cum, even if it deprives you of a little oxygen. Such a lovely pussy as hers has earned that right, at least.

Vivian puts her second hand on your head and grips a second tuft of hair. Rolling your eyes skyward, you can just barely glimpse the rest of her body from over the hillock of her puffy mons. Her posture is severely hunched, and her eyelids are fluttering at about 300 BPM. At some point in her mounting ecstasy, she inadvertently pushed her cat masque up, so that it lies half on her forehead, and reveals her features. She's chewing her lower lip, still blushing madly. She's drooling, too. Literally drooling -- the little strands oozing from the corners of her lips as she worries them. The leather suit she wears is bunching up around her tummy, and her pale nipples are rock hard.

Her breathing becomes increasingly labored. She supports her entire weight with your head -- her fists and wrists pressing down against the top of your skull, and her wonderfully soft, hot cunt pressing into your face. You dig around inside her with your tongue, making your cunnilingus extra wet for her. She's as smooth on the inside of her body as she is on the outside. And the more she creams up, the sweeter it gets.

She tries, the doll, to degrade you -- but her obscenities dissolve into wanton moans of pleasure:

"W-w-worm-- you dirty, pathetic-- ahhn~ -- nasty -- ahhnn~ -- perverted-- aaaaahhhnn~~"

At last her cunt clenches down hard around your probing tongue. Here cums the big one. You curl your lips into an O and quickly envelop her entire pussy. You suck and blow, in an alternating rhythm, and jab your tongue viciously in and out like a cock. You can't use fingers to please her clitty, so you have to improvise: you use the tip of your nose to jill her off. From deep within her, you hear an echo-y splash, and then she floods you with an eruption of cunt cream so voluminous and so rich and so thick that you'd think she hadn't cum in a year. You legitimately worry about drowning, as you try to keep up and swallow it all down. You hope there's no one else staying late at North High tonight, because the shriek she makes can probably be heard from all four corners of the campus.

Her messy nut lasts for nearly a minute, as she suffers the ruthless pleasure of a rolling orgasm. She just won't stop cumming -- you won't let her stop cumming. It's only because she finds the willpower to dismount you, that her cunt eventually stops ejaculating.

The wood floor before you is swimming in a puddle of her steaming girlcum. You gasp for fresh air, and can feel your hair sticking up at odd angles where she held you. You kind of do feel used. It doesn't feel bad. And only now are you aware, acutely aware, of how much your rigid dick is leaking against your belly. You've been making a mess of your own, haven't you? You're so hard you could fuck a hole in a slab of steel. You aren't the only one paying attention to this: Vivian is staring at it, hungrily and unabashedly.

She sinks to her knees -- dragged down by gravity, and the enervation that attends to busting as hard as she just did. This only gives her and even better vantage on your twitchy penis. She can't stop staring at its angry, red, veiny girth. She actually licks her lips a time or two.

"So be it, s-s-slave," she sputters. "You have permission to-- to fuck me."

You hang your head. "I don't deserve such an honor."

The silent beat that passes is heavy, and expectant. It's perfect. Divine. The main reason you hung your head, was to hide your growing smirk.

"N-no -- you don't -- you don't deserve it," Vivian agrees. "So b-be thankful that I'm letting you ff-fff-fuck me!"

"It isn't my right," you say. "I could never stain your sacred pussy with my dirty semen."

"Mistress is... your mistress is granting you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" She says, somewhat desperately. "Are you too st-stupid to take it?"

"I am stupid, mistress. I'm stupid and worthless--"

"I'm giving you an order! Don't disobey!"

"I couldn't possibly sully your--"

Vivian slaps you across the face. She slaps you hard. You can feel the sharp electric sting of it in your cheek after the fact, the tactile afterimage of her tiny palm and all five of her dainty fingers. You can feel, too, the welt forming. It's such a shocking moment of real, and painful, violence that you don't register her taking the whip up again from the floor where she dropped it. She cracks it in the air, and this time it takes. It makes a sonic snap that causes you to jump, and your pulse to skip a beat.

"Fuck me or I will beat you black and blue," she says, her voice low, and level, and ice cold.

This was all just a game until now. Now you're frightened. You're so frightened that you forget your bindings aren't really effective; you're so frightened that you forget Vivian stands only five foot even in shoes, and that you could easily overpower her. You're afraid -- of her. And so when you say this, you mean it:

"Yes, mistress. I submit."

Vivian keeps the whip in hand -- as a reminder of what she can do -- while she crawls into your lap and wedges her sopping hole over your cock. She's so turned-on -- more than she was before, even -- that despite the crushing tightness of her squishy insides, she sinks straight down. Your entire length slips into her with ease, right up to the nuts, and she rests with her very womb impaled on your prick.

"Fuck," she barks. It's a command -- just one word -- and it's all you need to hear.

Hands still tied behind your back, you begin to gyrate your hips. It's hard to gain a mechanical advantage in a position like this, especially since Vivian refuses to help. She just sits on your cock, expecting you to do all the work. After all, what are slaves for, if not to do the work? You can't pull out of her very far like this, though, and so your thrusts are just short, desperate jabs. It still feels fucking amazing -- Vivian's cunny wrapped around your dick always does -- but she isn't satisfied by only this.

"Fuck harder!" She says.

You do your best.

"I said harder!"

Where did this side of her come from? Well, it was always there, you guess. She loves to dominate the other girls. She's just never turned it towards you. You try to fuck her harder. Without the use of your limbs, it's no small task. Your repeated hip thrusts carry her entire weight up and down, bruising your pelvis, and making your crotches mash loudly together like pieces of meat. Soon, without any voluntary movement of her own, Vivian is bouncing on your dick like a kid on her papa's knee. You fuck yourself into total, oblivious sexual agony, letting her swampy cunt swallow your shaft up. Your abs burn and your legs are getting charley horses, but you wouldn't dream of slowing down. Vivian lightly holds your knees and smiles smugly, even as her eyes roll to the back of her skull. She's getting railed by a cock that's so big it has to rearrange her organs just to fit inside her -- but she's the one in control, and you both know it.

"Beg me to cum," she gulps.

"I--"

"Beg me to cum!"

You aren't too proud. "Please can I cum mistress Vivian, please!" You set your jaw, and your neck muscles go taut. Fiery heat rises from your toes to the top of your head.

"Beg more! Beg for it, you ffffucking worm!"

"Please, please, please! Please let me shoot my cum in you!"

She sways and swoons with the thrill of control, and, unable to stop herself, starts to drift backwards. You can't bear the prospect of your cock leaving the undersized socket that it's connected to. So surging forward, you follow her as she goes down -- like this, you go through a complete 180 degree reversal of position. She's underneath you, and you're atop her. Your hands are still bound, your legs too, but your cock is mated to her pussy, and that's all that matters.

"Fuck me," she chokes, drunk on pleasure. "Fuck me or I'll hurt you..."

Like an inchworm, you repeatedly raise and lower your butt, fucking yourself into her body again and again. This is new, even for you: hands-free missionary. You won't be able to hold out for much longer -- you so desperately need to blow. Even with you on top -- even with you totally pinning her -- you ask to do it:

"Please can I cum please can I cum please can I cum please can--"

"Be quiet, slave!" She takes your cheeks in her palms to silence you. She moans, loud and delirious, and her cunny flutters around you. "Kiss me," she sighs.

You kiss her. And without mistress's permission, you cum. For your transgression, she slaps you -- harder than the first time. Even while you do it. Even while she cums from getting creamed. She hits you. You unleash your torrential geysers of sperm deep within her illegal womb, while she slaps your face and sucks your tongue.

---

Afterwards, Rose, still naked, body criss-crossed by red ropes that bite into her skin so alluringly, scrubs your collective cum from the ground. You watch bemusedly, sitting on a desk. And Vivian, wrapped around you like a toddler cuddling a St. Bernard, hand-feeds you bonbons that she swears aren't laced with anything. (You don't mind one way or the other, even if they are.)

"You're never that good of a slave for me..." Rose mutters, rubbing the scrubbing bristles back and forth.

Vivian laughs haughtily. "Maybe you should be a better mistress. Then again, we are not all born to be superior. The world needs lessers, too."

Rose looks up at the two of you and begins to say something, but Vivian shuts her up by stepping on her face.

"If I want your opinion I will ask for it," Vivian tells her.

---

Rose lives with you. Not officially. But she spends a good 80-90% of her nights sleeping in your bedroom rather than in hers. The proportion of her time spent at your house grew quickly over the course of the school year's first months, while her appearances at her own house became increasingly infrequent and token. She'd already run out of plausible lies and excuses to her parents about her absence by the end of the first week. By the end of the second, she could no longer keep sneaking out without her parents knowing. Groundings didn't work, nor revocations of inessential belongings and privileges, and Saul proved too much of a softie for his little girl to follow through on putting bars over her bedroom windows (although, you heard, Charlotte tried to browbeat him into doing it.)

Since everyone knew what was going on, and no one could put the kibosh on it, the two of you finally forewent all pretense -- you stopped acting like Rose wasn't running for your bed practically every night. And this caused a scandal, of course.

First of all: because it made no sense to anyone. Why would the two of you, who never spoke a word to one another before the start of the school year, suddenly start acting like goddamn Romeo and Juliet? For deflecting those questions, you cleaved to the false supposition Cerise had first made, that you and Rose developed a summertime romance over the internet. It's an alibi that rings hollow. No one believes you. Except what other explanation could there be?

Second of all, and more scandalously: you're just teenagers. You're 17 and Rose is 15. Her becoming a de facto runaway living in your house, looks an awful lot like teenage delinquency driven by puppy love. You will marry her again when you can. But right now, to those watching, it looks like the hormonal irrationality of adolescence has taken the wheel.

Rose is well aware, and you are too, that saying something like -- "but Mom, I love him! We're gonna get married when he turns 18!" -- would sound exactly as lame and unrealistic as it would coming from the mouth of any normal teen girl. You don't bother justifying yourselves. They'll come to accept it with the passage of time.

You might have been willing to wait patiently under a semi-separate living arrangement until the two of you came of age. After all, you also have to put up with not being under the same roof as Whitney, and Vivian, and Ms. Carte, and even Charlotte for that matter. You don't even know where some of them are -- will you ever even see Noelle Keki again, or Samantha Smatters? You miss the Nail House so, so bitterly; both of you do. It stings not having everyone with you on a round-the-clock basis. So what's the problem with suffering a short year or so of living in a different house from Rose too?

There's a reason she stays with you. And not only sex. Well, okay, sex is part of it. It's just that there's something more valuable than that in sharing a bed with her as often as you can.

These are the things you're considering that evening when you leave your room intending to visit the kitchen for a bite to eat and a glass of water. As you approach the head of the staircase, you can discern Charlotte's voice from down in the living room -- she's back again to try and talk some sense into your mother. You stand there, eavesdropping:

"Is Rose here?"

"I believe so," Mom replies.

"Why?"

"They're helping each other study and do homework."

"You know," Charlotte says, "I was just reading about how the average American teenager today has 500% more homework than we did as teenagers. But... somehow... I just can't imagine there's ever been a homework project that takes two months of living in a different house to complete."

"Are you calling your daughter a liar?" Mom asks.

Mom has been condoning your apparent delinquency. Rose, conniver she is, made sure to get on her good side from the very beginning. She portrayed herself as a sweet, earnest, honest, and diligent girl -- one who has an appreciation for baking, to boot. Many of these sleepover nights kick off with Rose retreating into the kitchen, accompanying your mother, to add a new dessert to her growing repertoire. Rose hates cooking, with a passion, but Mom is turning her into a pastry expert nonetheless. And because of that, Mom defends you from her niece.

"Scarlett, I don't want to have to get the police involved in this--"

"Then don't."

"--You do know what they're doing up there, right?"

"Studying and doing homework," Mom repeats, a little wryly.

"For the love of -- and, by the way, let's not forget that they're cousins."

"No they aren't," Mom says. "Cousins would be if you and I were sisters. You're my niece, not my sister."

"One generation of separation hardly makes it any less--" Charlotte begins, then trails off. "Do you have anything to add, Thomas?"

There's a silent turn. If your father says anything at all, it's not audible. Big believer in Teddy Roosevelt's prescription of speaking softly, he is.

"Alabaster and Rose are both mature--" Mom begins.

"They are teenage children, Scarlett! And do you think they're using protection? I would put dollars to donuts they're not! Who's going to support the accident they make? It won't be me, I'll tell you that!"

There's another, longer, and more awkward pause in the conversation down below.

"They're good kids," Mom says at last. "Just look at them. Straight A's, all while heading up so many different extracurriculars -- uh -- n-not that Alabaster isn't an awful brat sometimes, too, but... well, anyway, their little fling isn't hurting their lives. Why not let them have it? You're only young once."

Charlotte lets you be for the night. But she isn't any more enthused than when it began.

---

The reason why, is what happens in the night.

Every once in a while, it happens to Rose, and every once in a while, it happens to you. Tonight it's Rose's turn: she wakes up beside you all clammy, her breaths shallow and rapid, and she's sobbing so hard that it makes her halfway asphyxiate.

Her trembling is full-body and violent as you pull her into an embrace. You lie there in bed on your side with her, half atop her, pressing your body firmly to hers, while you nuzzle her and kiss her face.

"It's okay," you softly repeat, "it's okay," as meanwhile she begs in a voice so choked it's close to unintelligible: "Don't leave me. Don't leave me. Don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving -- it's okay --"

"Oh my god," she gulps. She emphatically shakes her head, rotates in your strong grip to face you, hugs you back. "Don't leave me... don't leave me..." she cries into your chest.

You brush her hair from her eyes and stroke her shoulders, as she sheds the vestiges of her night terror. Her breathing, along with her frayed mind, settle over the course of a long five minutes. She goes still and quiet.

"I'm sorry," she mutters when it's over at last, her customary apology. And this gets your customary response: "don't be."

You wonder what will come of the night when it happens to both of you at once. So far, your cycles have synced well enough. Whenever it's your turn, Rose is always there at your side, awake already and calm, just as you have been for her -- there to hug you, and talk you down. To tell you that she's here to stay -- that everyone is here to stay -- that It's All Okay.

You've debated with each other the pros and cons of telling the others the truth. For now, you agree it's best to shoulder these things yourselves. It would be hard not to sound crazy if you explained it out loud, anyway. Then what do they all do with this knowledge even granting they accept its truth? How does it benefit them to know? It might perversely do harm to them. They might ruin relationships before they can blossom, if they go in knowing they "should" love each other before they've had a chance to grow the love within them. Would there be any worse irony than losing the people you love the most because you know you love them beforehand?

You also sometimes wonder what the you of your high school days in a universe before this would have thought, had he glimpsed a scene like this. Funny world we live in, isn't it?

---

One day not long before you leave for Boise, you and the Mindbreakers receive word that David Darkbloom wants to endow you all with funds from one of his Infinity Grants -- his merit-based scholarship for excelling high school students. Mr. Langley delivers the news after practice.

"Did he use the grants to destroy the grants?" You ask.

"...What?" Alex says.

"You're so weird sometimes these days," Whitney says.

You shake your head. "Guess you're not ready for that. ... But your kids are gonna love it."

"Stop saying that," Whitney tells you.

"It's a reference--"

She sighs in exasperation.

You'll get full-ride scholarships, all. It comes as a surprise even to Vivian and Whitney (who don't need it themselves, since they've got a direct tap into Darkbloom's billions anyway). On the flipside, it's especially fortuitous for Hank, who lives in the same trailer park Whitney once hailed from; and also for Alex, whose living situation is not much better. Hank's tears of joy are few and stoic, Alex's many and effusive.

You and Rose never needed these scholarships yourselves -- you'll have plenty to pick from -- but you'll both take them regardless. Taking money from Darkbloom is always a net good.

The scholarship comes with a totally-optional invitation to dinner at Darkbloom's manor, which of course doesn't feel very optional after the man just paid your entire college tuition for free.

The limousine he sends to North High to pick you all up is driven by a familiar face, too. It's the same chauffeur he had in the world before this one.

Rose holds your hand, squeezing tightly, the entire ride there. You're not sure whether it's to calm you, or to clam herself. You're both freaking out internally. This will be your first ever visit to his home in this timeline.

Darkbloom's home is exactly as you remember it: grimly stately, imposing and gothic. It's hard to wonder where Vivian got her fashion sense considering this is the place she grew up in. Sure, the exterior is nice enough. The emerald green lawn and multi-tiered fountain and Disneyworld-esque cobbled carpath past the brass front gates are as glamorous as can be -- but it's a lie, and it does nothing to ease your mind when you pass through into the dimly lit interior with its mahogany flooring and walls, its ornate candelabras on its long galley tables, its crystal chandeliers and authentic artpieces lining the walls, each worth more than the GDP of a small island nation.

This place is old-hat for Vivian, who lives here, and for Whitney, who has been here several times before. They wander off together to hang out in a gazebo in the backyard, leaving the rest of you to peruse the decadent wealth within. Hank whistles appreciatively as he passes the surround-sound theater system in the living room -- which is the size of a literal theater -- while Alex is much more interested in the working ENIAC replica in one of Darkbloom's showrooms.

Darkbloom, seeing Alex's interest, enters into a long, involved discussion on the history of mechanical programming and the ENIAC's role in the Manhattan Project. You lurk on the conversation's periphery, interjecting yeahs and oh reallys where appropriate. Of course you're not there to have a nerdgasm, you're there to keep a close eye on Alex. To try somehow to keep him out of Darkbloom's clutches. But the trap is sprung: by the end of the conversation, Darkbloom is already speaking of giving Alex an internship at Darkbloom E-Pay when the time for it is right...

The semi-guided tour continues. The Citizen Kane opulence of this mansion has a Citizen Kane tragedy about it, too, you find. Darkbloom has no one, really, to share this with. His only family in the house is Vivian, who will move out in a couple years once she's of age. From then on, he'll have only his maids and servants for company in his house the size of a village. His ingenuity in crossbreeding French maid costumes with bunnysuits deserves unequivocal praise. And judging by the way he gets a little handsy with one when he thinks no one else is watching, his favored employees may even be keeping him warm in bed at night. But they'll never cure the hollowness you know exists inside his heart.

At dinner, Whitney clears her throat and announces to both her sister and her bio-dad: "I've got a joke for you."

"Oh?" Darkbloom says. "Let's hear it."

Her voice is a little trembly as she begins, but picks up a steady confidence as she goes:

"So a businessman is on a business trip to Boston, right? He's big into seafood. Like, big. Always tries the seafood places wherever he goes. And he knows Boston is one of the best places for seafood in the whole country. But he's so busy on his trip, that he doesn't get the chance to find any of the good local restaurants. So when he gets a cab from hotel back to the airport, he asks his cabbie, he asks him -- 'hey buddy... I'm leaving town tonight, but I'll probably be back. Do you know any good places in Boston where I could have gotten scrod?' So then the cabbie turns and says, he says,"

(Here, Whitney shifts perfectly into an exaggerated Boston accent):

"--'buddy... I've heard that question about a billion times over the years, but that's gotta be the first time I ever heard it in the past pluperfect subjunctive!'"

Vivian and her father both stare at her blankly. Whitney begins to wilt, thinking she told a dud -- but then Darkbloom lets out a soft little "--snrrk--" and Vivian's mouth twitches; the pair burst into raucous laughter at the same moment.

"That's awful!" Darkbloom says. "In the very best way. I will need to use that one... how funny."

Whitney beams.

It's not her joke. It's yours. Well... that's not fair -- it isn't "yours," either. You didn't make it up. But you're the one who first told it to her. Or more precisely, you told it to Ms. Carte while in Whitney's vicinity, and it got a huge belly laugh from the former. Whitney, seeing how her mother reacted to the joke, feigned laughter. And she feigned laughter each and every time that she asked you to repeat your "scrod joke" to her in the subsequent few weeks. You had been getting a little exasperated with it, because even though you dissected the frog by explaining to her what makes the joke funny, it obviously wasn't the kind of thing she'd appreciate.

Now you know why she kept having you retell it. She was committing it to memory.

During dessert, Darkbloom asks if he can show you something -- just the two of you. You share a worried look with Rose, but you allow him to spirit you away. It's better to know what he's up to than to get blindsided.

As he leads you down the parqueted halls, he makes idle small-talk with you: "Are you excited for Boise?"

"I guess."

"You only guess? Vivian will not stop talking about it. It will be the highlight of her existence... I hope you make it memorable for her."

"I intend to," you tell him.

He smiles wryly. He stinks of aftershave and cologne -- gussied himself up for you all. "You know, Alabaster... I was more than a little perturbed when I first met you."

You come to a stop together outside a certain door in the hall. "Why?" You ask him.

"A boy like you, dating my eldest daughter? I did not like the idea whatsoever."

You set your jaw. Is this why Darkbloom pulled you away? To talk shit about your relationship with Whitney?

"I had no idea what she saw in you. What Vivian saw, for that matter." He arches his eyebrows, tilts his head just slightly forward. "In case you were unaware -- she is smitten with you, by the way. Vivian, that is."

"I know," you tell him. Boy, do you.

"But I found you to be a brash, overconfident, pompous, mean-spirited and ego-driven know-it-all," Darkbloom helpfully explains.

"Are you for f--" you begin.

"--But as I've gotten to know a little bit more of you... I am starting to realize how much you remind me of myself. The faults I see in you are the faults I see in me. If you had the opportunity... with a little bit of mentorship, you could become a great man."

"Like you?" You say, sarcastically.

"Yes," he replies, unsarcastically.

He leads you into the room beyond the door. It's a little den, with a sturdy oak dining table and chairs, like a cozier version of his main dining hall. At a prominent spot on the wall, far above the fireplace there, is a painting he's shown you before.

"Have you see this piece?" He asks.

You close your eyes. "Yes."

"I think about it so much. Adam's curse... was not knowledge... but incomplete knowledge. He--"

"He knew only enough to know that he knew nothing," you complete.

"Yes!" Darkbloom says, eyes widening. "Yes, Alabaster, precisely. Incomplete knowledge is the unique burden of mankind. Beasts have a blissfully eclipsing ignorance. Gods have omniscience. We, who inhabit the in-between, have neither."

"You want to become a god, Darkbloom?" You spit.

"No." He tears his view from the painting to look at you. "I just want to bring us back their fire."

You shake your head. The bile in your stomach churns like choppy seas. This can't be happening.

"I want to let you in on something I have not told anyone else yet," he says. "I am going to pivot Darkbloom E-Pay away from financial services... towards artificial intelligence. I have a novel concept. A mind-machine interface -- drawing on the awesome power of modern data analytics-- well, I had better not say too much more, but I think it will change the world."

You need to grip the back of a tall chair on your left to keep yourself standing. The world feels like it's going to shatter into a billion pieces. Your searching eyes fall upon a scimitar mounted to a plaque on the wall -- and every atom of your being is screaming, "do it now! Do it now while you have the chance!" But you can't stab David Darkbloom to death in his own home while his daughters eat cake in the dining room. You'd ruin everything like that. But Darkbloom is going to ruin everything if you don't...

He's been droning for some time now. You force yourself to focus. This is important. You need to know what this motherfucker will do. "--which was my initial plan for the company, but... other things... got in the way. Those barriers have been removed now, and now at last I can do with my life's work what I truly want to do."

You swallow hard, and steel yourself. You stand tall, with your chin held up. "Barriers?" You say. "Like your wife?"

Darkbloom gives you a severe frown.

"Or your wife's father?" You add. "He died recently, didn't he? That seems to correspond to all these changes, I'd say... bringing Whitney back into your life, and now making this... pivot."

"There's something you think of me that would be better left unstated," Darkbloom intones.

"'Think' is a soft way of putting it," you tell him. "Do you regret getting into bed with the Kerimovs?"

"You've done your research," Darkbloom says, impressed more than he is frightened or put off.

"I care about Whitney," you tell him. "Vivian now too. And I care about the world you've brought them into. Yeah, I've done my research. I know so much about you that it would make your head spin."

"I had such a strong hunch about you," Darkbloom says, "but in that, I even still underestimated you. You -- are a formidable young man." He goes to a shelf on the wall and begins to pour some brandy. No worrying over the fact that you're well underage -- he gives you a tumbler, too. You sip with him. "This valley is swimming in prodigies," he continues. "Even your high school. Alex, back there, he has a brilliant career ahead of himself... and your teacher, Ms. Guiteau -- oh how Renee despises her -- but do you know she was once one of the most promising young rising stars in AI? Her own erratic mind got the better of her, but I think she has a generational genius to impart. Something I could corral towards blessed ends. And you. If you treat my daughters well, Alabaster... there will be a place in my organization for you as soon as you graduate from college. You'd be on the fast track to the Forbes billionaires list."

"I don't want your fucking money," you tell him, and take a gulp of his thousand dollar a bottle liquor.

"That attitude is precisely why I want you."

"Big Data is a quagmire," you tell him. Here comes your best sales pitch: "People are turning against it. Do you really want to make yourself the face of the new millenium's Big Brother? Stick to what you're best at. Just keep running the world's second-best Paypal, and keep on being one of those billionaires who no one's ever heard of. Your daughters will have much better lives that way, than if you make yourself into a fucking supervillain that everyone slings hatred at."

He sets his empty tumbler down. "This is the ego-driven and overconfident part of your personality shining through. I've just told you some sensitive information and praised your intellect. So now you see fit to give me high-level strategic advice on my business." He tilts his head slightly like a displeased father dressing down a son who failed to do his chores. "I didn't solicit, and won't consider advice from a teenage boy. Even if he's fucking my daughters." (You feel the five-alarm 'oh shit' bell go off in your gut, at the deployment of that plural, there). "When you've been through school and have climbed the ladder at my company and I have given you a merit-based promotion to the board -- which I am sure you will earn in due time -- then, and only then, should you think of telling me how to run my affairs. And only if you ask permission first." His voice goes rougher still: "Never presume to tell me what to do again."

Do it now, Alabaster! Do it now!

---

When you return to dessert with Darkbloom, Rose pulls you aside at an opportune moment.

"What did he do?"

"He offered me a job."

Rose is mute.

"I think I'd better take it," you tell her.

"Why?"

"If I don't, he's going to build Sand Reckoner again."

---

One lazy Saturday, while Cerise is at North High planning the next week's programming schedule for anime club with Anna (meetings that always run really long), and Whitney is visiting with Vivian in Darkbloom's manor (you don't even want to think about it), and Alex is helping Sable paint her tiny apartment (it's a step up from a van, at least), and Rose is spending the day in her ostensible home with her family (she invited you, but the last time you were there, Saul spent a long time cleaning his guns in the dining room, and you felt kind of awkward), and Dr. Carte is catching up on grading papers (and/or performing unethical bunny experiments) -- you have a rare couple hours to yourself.

That is, until Mom's shadow falls across you where you sit on the living room couch.

You look up from your phone. She folds her arms. You don't know why yet, but you know you're about to get your ass reamed. But even knowing she's gonna be pissy, can't prepare you for the absurdity of what she says:

"Why aren't you cleaning your little sister's bedroom?"

You wait for her to say something else. She doesn't.

"Where's the punchline?" You ask.

"Her room is a pigsty, Alabaster!"

You exhale, and sputter wordlessly for a few moments, before gaining rhetorical traction: "It's my fault now that Rose is a lazy pig?" You demand.

"Yes!"

"Still waiting for that punchline," you grouse.

Mom blows a bang from her face. "It's because she's taking after you. She looks to you as her role model -- and you're the laziest pig in the world. You'd think having a live-in bimbo like Rose2 would motivate you to at least pick the laundry up off your floor!"

"That bimbo made the best mille-feuille you ever ate last week. Your words."

"Don't change the subject! What's so much more important than helping your sister, anyway?"

"I'm reading the news. Keeping up on current events is important. You admire that trait in a man, don't you?"

She reaches for your phone and grabs it out of your hands.

"Hey--!" You shout.

Mom reads aloud: "The 25 Most Spooky Amusement Parks on Earth? ... Number 7 Will Scare Your Socks Off?" Mom looks up at you. "This isn't news!"

You snatch your phone back. "Sure it is. It's by one of my favorite reporters."

"Do you think I'm dumb? As if you're hanging off the every word of some hack blogger's listicles! You're just frittering away your time with random garbage on the internet instead of doing something productive! You said you would help Rose spruce up. So go do it!"

"When did I say that?" You demand. "I didn't say that. I would remember saying that, I'm pretty sure."

Her upper lip curls. "Don't try to lie your way out of this one, bucko. She already told me."

You narrow your eyes. "Rose told you that I promised to help her clean her room?"

Mom nods.

"You believed her?"

"Rose is a good girl! Of course I believe her." She shifts her weight, making her mom jeans strain deliciously to constrain her meaty thighs. You hate how her perfume, her voice and her thick body tends to give you an erection -- not because you're ashamed but because for now, it's still awkward. For now. Her body does things to you.

But that weighs on you somewhat less right now than your exasperation... Rose, you fucking cute little liar. She shanghaied you into being her bitchboy today with this shit.

"Help" her clean her room? Yeah right. You know what it'll really be. She intends to loaf around on her tablet while you do all the work.

You toss your book down on the couch cushions and breeze past Mom, on your way upstairs, to lay down the law.

"Don't you bully her!" Mom calls after you.

Rose's room is the sweetest-smelling sty on the planet. You don't know how she does it, but she manages to make her slovenly lifestyle cute. It really pisses you off.

The decor is pink. Not just some of it. All of it. Carnation pink walls. Coral pink carpet. A hairy flamingo pink rug, barely visible beneath heaps of clothes. A shocking pink comforter (belled up near the bed's center, since she never makes her bed) and cotton candy pink sheets (the top sheet missing, the fitted sheet pulled away from one corner to reveal the Chilean pink mattress beneath). An amaranth pink desk, with rose pink bookshelf beside, stocked entirely by manga (her collection is bigger than yours). A Persian pink pencil holder, containing a French pink set of pens (yes, she does her homework in colored gel pen). A China pink garbage bin beneath the desk. A congo pink dispenser for tissues atop it. Her cherished Barbie pink CRT TV, still in use from her youngest days, that she doesn't want to give up for a flatscreen. A stuffed orchid pink bunny, tickle-me-pink bear, and pastel pink unicorn lining a charm pink shelf on the wall. Pink. Pink. Pink.

It would be a pretty charming. Unfortunately, the entire room is choking beneath detritus: her dirty clothes on the ground, her empty soda bottles on the desk, some dirty plates and silverware on her bedside table as well as stacked on the floor next to it. Her garbage bin overfloweth, mostly with wadded-up tissues. A second full bag of trash sits beside it, tied-off. The walk-in closet is open, one of the sliding doors lying partially off its tracks, and the clothes inside are strewn about. Her dresser's drawers are all half-opened too, because they can't be shut, because rather than folding her clean clothes, she just wads them up and stuffs them inside. The ironing board she ostensibly uses to take care of her wrinkled clothes, is lying tipped on its side, and the iron itself is sitting halfway across the room on her bookshelf of all places. She has a vanity along one wall, but its mirror is half-obscured by the mountain of shit on the tabletop: bottles of hairspray, an open kaboodle, a couple stacks of manga and magazines, papers from school, hairbrushes, more soda bottles -- and tubes of lipstick (some without lids), and tubes of mascara (ditto), and bobby pins, and a couple mannequin heads with wigs for her cosplaying, and a pair of socks, and a pair of panties, and a windup cat doll that says "nyan" and etc., etc., etc. But even if the mirror were more accessible, it wouldn't be very helpful, because it's so streaked that your reflection in it is murky. Her window is similarly streaked, her TV is coated in dust, and her carpet is jammed with crumbs.

So it's nasty in here. But it smells like you walked into a candy store.

And rather than loafing around on her tablet, as you prognosticated, Rose is sitting at her PC -- reading a visual novel you recognize.

Rose swivels in her chair, and gives you a salute. "My manservant is here! Let's put you to work!"

You calmly close the door behind you, and approach her chair. She smiles idiotically up at you the whole way.

"We need to get this place clean, pronto!" She chirps. "Okaasan's orders! Glad you could--"

You bring your foot up so that it touches the bottom of the chair's seat -- and then keep bringing it up, so that the chair tips backwards. She flaps her arms wildly and lurches her weight forward to try to prevent the inevitable before she crashes down, and goes "whhooo-ooooo-aahhh!" as gravity overpowers her. She lands among her used clothes with a thud.

"Rude!!" She says, staring up at you reproachfully.

"Serves you right. What's rude is preying on the fact that you're Mom's favorite so that I have to do all your work."

"You totemo promised me that you'd help me clean my room today!" Rose insists. She's lying on her back, limbs entangled with her chair. "Don't you remember?"

"When?"

"I forget."

You nod at her monitor. "Why are you reading this degenerate filth?"

Rose finally wrests herself free from her tipped-over chair, stands and rights it. She smooths out her blouse, then sits again. "You have this game on your computer, too!" She says. "Don't be a hippocrat!"

"I'm older than you."

"By what? A few years? Geez, Ally, that's not--"

"And how do you know I've got this game on my computer?" You add. "Are you spying on me?"

She giggles.

"Are you spying on me?" You repeat.

"This game is a classic," Rose says. "Anyone who considers herself a fan of Japanese culture should read it! It's a modern day Tale of Genji!"

Somehow, you doubt Imouto Paradise will ever rank in the canon of classical literature, even if you love it too. "Do you even know what the Tale of Genji is about?" You ask

She shrugs. "Well, it's what Gal said, anyway."

"Gal--?" Since when did Anna start going by that name again?

"Oh!" Rose pips, and covers her mouth with both hands. Her grin is visible beneath her palms. When she pulls her hands away, she adds: "Oops. I wasn't supposed to use that name with the normies. That's Anna's OC... Galatea!"

Fucking Anna, perverting your little sister with these hentai games. And apparently indulging her chuuni side with quote-unquote OCs. You'll need to punish her.

"I'll shut the VN off if it bothers you so much," Rose says. In the end, she wants to please her onii-chan.

>[x] Don't shut it off. You'd better monitor her VN habits.

>[x] Forget the game. Bully her for lying to get your help today.

You begin with Rose's vanity. You open a garbage bag by fwooping it in the air a few times to expand it. Using your arm like a croupier's rake, you sweep the vast majority of the shit on the tabletop into it.

"Hey!" Rose pouts. "You can't just throw my stuff away!"

"Why not?" you demand. "You're not taking care of it. Why would you mind if I toss it out?"

Rose tries feebly to take the bag from you, but you won't let her.

"Give it!" She demands. "I'm not gonna let you throw my stuff away, Ally!"

The tug-o-war she initiates goes only as far as you let it. With all her might, she brings the half-full bag towards her. But right before your elbow locks, you jerk it easily back towards you. Rinse and repeat.

"Alllyyy!" She cries.

"Fine," you say. "Let's go through it, one by one."

You use your foot to clear a spot on the messy floor, kicking clothes and other junk aside, then upend the bag. The stuff inside waterfalls out amid clattering and thumping.

"You're such a jerk!" Rose pouts. "Why are you being such a jerk about this!"

You pick up one of those topless tubes of lipstick, whose sticky part is partially extended and has left a flamingo smear on some of its neighboring items in the tumult. You pinch the tube between thumb and forefinger. "Do you need this?" You ask her.

"Yeah. A-durr. It's my makeup."

You drag it across her cheek in a swift, wide arc like an impassioned artist at his canvas. It streaks her skin. Her eyes widen, her lips quaver.

"It doesn't match your tone," you announce. "Tossing it."

"Wait--!!"

"How about this one?" You ask. You hold up a little inkwell of eyeliner.

"Yes!" She says sourly. She rubs the spot where you smeared her -- accomplishing nothing but spreading lipstick around and staining her fingertips. "And don't you put it on my face like the last one!"

You unscrew the applicator brush and smear her other cheek.

"Allllyyyy!"

"It's all clumpy." You turn the bottle over in your hand, and glimpse the expiration date on bottom. "No fucking wonder. This stuff expired in January. Tossing it."

"Why are you such a bully?" Rose demands, voice trembling, eyes welling.

"Because you're too fun to bully. Do you need this?" You hold up a half-finished container of pocky.

"Those are my snackies," she says.

You take one of the sticks out of the box, and snap it. Instead of a satisfying crack, it just softly bends in half, then breaks noiselessly. "Completely stale," you announce. "Tossing it. How about this guy?" You hoist a piggy bank in the shape of Pinkie Pie from My Little Pony.

"Yes!" She says. "Pinkie Pie's my favorite pone!"

"Just for using the word 'pone,' I'm tossing it. How about these?" You hold up some busted-ass Sailor Moon pencils.

"Those are my favorites, too--"

"If everything is your favorite, nothing is. You need to get rid of this fucking clutter, Rose. You're gonna end up on an episode of Hoarders at this rate. And not in the good way."

"There's a good way to--?"

"Tossed."

Rose spins on her heels, plops down on her bed, and throws her arms wide. "If you're not gonna listen to a word I say, then just throw all my stuff away and get it over with!"

"Okay."

You begin to toss things back into the bag at random.

"Wait--!!"

She jumps back up and runs to you.

You force a can of furniture polish into her hands, and a rag as well.

"Dust off your bookshelf and your dresser. Then fold your clothes. If you can finish all that before I'm done Windexing your mirror and your window and fixing your fucked-up closet door -- you can help me with picking through the rest of this shit."

It's a perfect motivator. Rose busts her ass to get done before you and thereby save her belongings from the landfill. When you reconvene, you teach her the concept of asking herself whether a given item sparks joy within her. If it does, she can keep it; if it doesn't, it has to be discarded.

Once you tell her This Is How They Do It In Japan, she's all aboard. You actually manage to reduce the ratio of her unneeded things by over half, filling several fullsize garbage bags in the process.

The next couple hours is the tedious work of vacuuming, scrubbing, and doing laundry. Rose's laziness wins over her bashfulness; she doesn't mind at all when you sort her clothes, including her underwear, into piles for her.

She does, however, go into a panic mode when you find her back massager underneath her bed amid the wadded-up clothes. Dragging it out into the light, you sit up on your knees again, and arch an eyebrow at her.

"Ghh--!" She chokes. "That's..."

"Back problems?" You ask her.

She averts her gaze. "Uh... yeah..."

You click it on. She winces when she hears its buzz.

"Pretty nifty," you tell her. "I didn't know you had chronic back pain. Is that why you conned Mom into making me help you? The pain was too much? I hope you wash this thing more than the rest of your stuff."

"It was..." she mutters glumly. "Nevermind."

"It was what?" You prompt.

"I just... I just wanted to spend some time with you today, nii-chan. I'm sorry I lied."

She looks at you with large, sad eyes. You turn the toy back off, and silence fills the room.

"I wanted this to be the best school year ever! But you have so many girls in your life now, and... sometimes it feels like you're forgetting about me." There's another, longer pause. "But I was there the whole time," she says, "way before Viv-tan, and Gal and... that other girl who lives here... and even Whitney."

You sit at the foot of her bed. "I could never forget you," you tell her. "You have no idea how much I could never forget you."

"You've got a real funny way of showing it," Rose says.

"Get up on the bed," you tell her. "Come on -- like that. Lie down. On your belly."

As she does, you clack the toy back on.

"What are you d-doing?" Rose stutters.

"You said you've got some back pain. That's no good. As your big brother, I can't let that stand. So I have to massage your back, okay?"

"Lay out flat," you tell Rose softly as you rise to your knees on the mattress.

"Like this?"

She wiggles a bit, folding her arms beneath her so she can rest a cheek on them.

You lightly run your fingers up and down her body, like an actual masseuse trying to gauge her stress points or latent qi, or whatever is is licensed massage therapists do. Your fingertips trace the contours of her spine, her shoulders, her thighs, her calves, and even the soles of her feet. She's trembling like crazy. Her body is hot to the touch.

Rose's plaid skirt has a frilled hem that ends about 4 inches above her knees. Paired with this, she wears her floofy blouse tucked into the waistband. When you tug it free, and hike it up, so that her lower back is exposed, she shudders. Rose isn't fat, but she's what connoisseurs might call "healthy," and when she lies on her front as now, her waist is extra fleshy and squishy-looking.

"I-is this okay?" She asks.

"Why wouldn't it be okay? I'm just giving you a back massage."

"If this is because of..." Rose begins, and trails off. She tries again: "If this is because of how you saw me playing that game -- I'm not -- I'm n-not a brocon... it's just a game... you know?"

You glance to Rose's PC monitor, where the game is still running, its display asking which of the little sisters you would like to visit with today.

"Kids these days," you say. "Why would you play such a dirty game? Aren't you a bit young for stuff this racy?"

She shrugs. "I'm not a kid. I... have needs too, you know. I can be into ecchi stuff same as you."

You click the toy back on. As before, she winces when she hears it. But this time it's a bit more meaningful: she has no idea what you really intend to do with this thing. Frankly, neither do you. You'll let the feeling of the moment guide you.

The magic wand thrums with vibrational energy. The ridges in its domed end become blurred from motion. You use the heel of your free hand to soothingly rub tiny circles around Rose's back, prepping her. She coos and sighs at the firmness of your brotherly massage. Then you use the toy for its ostensible purpose: you press it against her skin and start to rub it back and forth across her vertebrae.

"That... feels really good..." Rose says. "Thank you, Ally..."

She wiggles some more to increase the pressure of the toy against her body. This has the effect of wagging her ass back and forth too. Is she enticing you on purpose, or is this an accidental side effect?

Rose's room is as clean as you've ever seen it; it's cozy in here. And it smells clean, too, her bubblegum scent now overpowered by the rustic aroma of Pinesol. But as you gently run the pulsing, buzzing sex toy around her spine, another fragrance joins the bouquet, one you know quite well from your time in another world. Rose is getting turned on. Her pussy is juicing up.

Your motions, therefore, become bolder. You add your hand back to the mix, squeezing her in random spots on her waist and hips as you continue to rub the buzzing toy around. Rose grits her teeth. "Alllyyy..." she sighs, not the petulant whine of earlier, but a dreamy one. You're teasing her so awfully. When your fingers slip past the elastic of her skirt, just barely, she jerks like she's been zapped with electricity.

"Are you absolutely sure you're not a brocon?" You ask her.

She's mute, and lost in a sea of conflicting emotions. So you force the issue by grabbing her butt, through her skirt, in the most unbrotherly way possible.

She chokes. "Ally--!! I  -- I'm not a brocon! I swear! Stop!"

You lean way forward, so that you're practically lying on top of her. She makes a great pillow. Still massaging her with the toy, and squeezing her ass lecherously, you put a cheek to hers. You whisper in her ear: "Too late. You might not be a brocon... but I'm a siscon."

She gasps. At that very moment, you nip her ear.

"You say you're not into me that way," you add, breathing hotly against her, and rubbing her sensually, "but you were playing this game about a guy who has sex with his little sisters... while waiting for me to walk in on you doing it. Does the idea of that turn you on, Rose?"

"S-siscon..." she mutters, mind still stuck on the prior revelation.

"It's true." You glide your palm up and down the length of her well-formed thigh. She's so meaty, and rubbery, and thick... "I've always been a siscon, Rose."

"Ally... nii-chan... you're such a pervert..."

Your fingers push past the bottom of her skirt. As expected, she wears nothing beneath.

"Have you been playing with yourself?" You ask her. You poke at her infinitely-pliable butt under her skirt. "While you played that filthy game, were you masturbating?"

She nods timidly.

"That's no good. That means I interrupted you, doesn't it?"

She nods again. You rise back to your knees.

"Don't worry. I'll massage you down here, too."

You flip her skirt up. Her smooth, round ass is out in the open. Although she's shaking worse than ever, she doesn't fight or say no. With either palm, you knead her flesh like a baker kneading dough. That's what it feels like. Your massage grows firmer and more aggressive over time, so that eventually, you're pulling her ass cheeks repeatedly apart by the force of your circular rubbing -- baring her tender holes each time. Just as you remember, they look almost painfully tight, both of them.

You stealthily unzip, and free your own genitals too. From where she lies, she can't see it happen.

"Ally, are you sure this is really okay? Are you sure we should be doing th-- hhhh-- ahhhh~~"

Her indecisive questioning dissolves into high-pitched squeals of pleasure, as you jam the thrumming sex toy in between her legs so that it vibrates against the back of her cunt. In spite of herself and in spite of her remaining qualms over the incest taboo, she bucks repeatedly against the thing, unable to deny the raw erotic thrill of having her pussy played with. You undo the velcro holding her skirt together, and let it fall flat on the bed so that she's fully naked below her blouse.

"Turn around," you instruct.

Hesitantly, she rolls over. As she does, she squeaks: "Oh my gosh!"

Her eyes are peeled on your throbbing dick.

"Look at how much you turned me on," you tell her gently. You give yourself a few long, slow tugs. "See?"

"T-that was me?"

You nod. As much as she can't tear her eyes from your dick, you can't tear your eyes from her perfectly formed pussy. It's baby-smooth, shiny with her cream, with tucked-in lips and a cute pearl-pink clitty atop it. She lies there with balled-up fists to her huge chest, totally at your mercy. So you put the wand against her hole again, this time directly attacking that throbbing pink nub above it. What can you say? You love to bully her.

"Nn-nn-nn-nnnnn," she mutters incoherently. Her eyeballs roll to the back of her skull. She clamps her meaty thighs around the toy for added pressure, but you pry them apart again so you can see her orgasm in all its glory.

"Let your big brother massage you," you say soothingly.

"Y-y-y-y-y-essss..."

"That's my good girl," you say, as she cums herself stupid, and a geyser of her sweet-smelling cum erupts in a high arc. "That's my good little sister."

You pull the toy away for a moment to watch her multiply-spurting orgasm in all its obscene glory, before pressing the thing cruelly back against her cunt and bringing her off a second time. Her second ejaculation is just as forceful as the first; so are the third and fourth. Yeah, her room smells like lemon ramune again, all right. Her bedsheets are inundated with her girlcum. She's half-unconscious, tongue lolling out, and she's got her hands wrapped around your wrist to keep you from pulling the wand off her quivering fuckhole.

When you finally wring as many orgasms as she's good for out of her, and turn the magic wand off, and she gets enough of her braincells back online to form words, she takes some gulping breaths before asking: "Do you want me to... to do you, too?"

"Who's the pervert now?" You ask, as your dick oozes a dollop of precum from the piss slit, to intermingle with her fluids on the mattress.

"We both are," she giggles.

"Which of the little sisters are you romancing?" You ask, nodding at her game.

"...Aya. She's my favorite."

Of course.

"I didn't play Aya's route," you lie. "Want to read it together?"

A few moments later, you're sitting side by side at Rose's PC, reading the VN. This thing is a nukige of the first order -- almost zero plot. There's very little connective tissue between the hardcore sex scenes; and so the two of you are being overwhelmed by scenario after scenario of a slutty little sister with pink hair doing anything she can to please her cherished older brother by servicing his dick.

Rose is only half paying attention, though, because she keeps stealing glances at your cock jutting up in your lap.

"It's... it's so big..." she mutters to herself.

Right now it's wrapped in a lubed-up silicone onahole that has an open end, the outer lip of the dicksleeve clinging to the underside of your mushroom tip. You aren't tugging on it, because you're on a hair trigger. You know that the moment you start masturbating, you'll pop off. So instead you occupy your hands by holding Rose's Hitachi for her, against her slimy pussy. You're both breathing hard through your mouths, and trying to keep yourselves from orgasming. This pleasure is too good to end so soon like that.

"This is lewd... this is too lewd," Rose says. "You're making me lewd, nii-chan..."

"Am I making you lewd?" You retort. "Or are you making yourself lewd? I'm just keeping tabs on you. You're the one who was sitting in here playing with yourself while reading hentai."

"Because... because I learned it from you..." she stammers.

"How did you learn it from me?"

"You were right," she says, her voice nothing but a hoarse and breathy whisper as you strum her clit with the humming toy. "I do spy on you... I peek at you in your room, and look at the things on your computer... I watch you with other girls, Ally..." She throws her head back and moans in her girly way as the pleasure courses through her system.

"See?" You say. "You're lewd. You're a lewd little sister... and that's just how I like it."

She clutches at the arms of her chair, rolling her head side to side, humping the wand's dome.

"Play with me, too," you say. "Do lewd stuff with me."

As if she's reaching for the third rail, she haltingly brings her fingertips towards your waiting prick, and the tube of silicone wrapped around it.

"Just like that," you say encouragingly. "Massage me too."

Together, you and Rose, onii-chan and imouto, masturbate each other.

Her spindly fingers pressing down on your shaft, translated through the synthetic material of your pocket pussy, tease you just perfectly. The way she moves her inexperienced wrists is almost frustrating -- she doesn't maintain an even rhythm at all -- but it still feels great on your member, and brings you some much-needed relief. The vacuumy sluicing of the lube over and across your dick fills the room with indecent sounds, mingling with the wet buzz of the wand on Rose's cunt.

Your toes are curling and your tongue is wagging, but you want to make this orgasm perfect... you want to feel like your dick is really buried in a pussy.

"Rose..." you murmur. "Rose, can you use your mouth on me too?"

This is accelerating to something entirely new. Playing with each other's genitals is one thing... sucking you off, another.

You nod at her.  "It'll feel good," you tell her, swiping a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You can drink onii-chan's cock milk..."

She slinks to her knees before you. "If-- if it's for you... if it's for you, then okay... I'll do my best."

She clasps both hands around the silicone onahole, down at the root of your penis, and wraps her lips around the tip. Staring up at you, her doe eyes are adorable.

Like this, she begins to bob up and down. She said she's been peeking on what you do with the other girls... you can believe it. Or maybe hentai really has made her precocious. Either way, her blowjob technique is strangely excellent. Her tongue swirls in fast circles around the inside rim of the cocksleeve as she jerks the thing up and down on you. She herself, sitting under the desk, has her bare pussy against her vibrating toy, getting herself off while she sucks you. She's gonna get her nut at the same time you do.

If what you have with the other Rose is me-time, then maybe call this one us-time: it's a mutual dive into perversion, each of you assisting the other towards your cum.

You try hard not to blow your load too quickly. You want to savor the sensation of Rose's first-time fellatio. But as you click through the lurid scenes of the hentai game, and stare down at Rose using her lips as an extension of your onahole... it's all too much.

"Rose-- it's coming-- I'm gonna cum--!"

She nods enthusiastically. She never breaks eye contact, either. You pet her, running your hands in random circles around her pink tresses.

"I love you!" You snarl. "Drink my milk!"

She exhales hard through her nostrils and sucks down your spurting seed. The messy orgasm you have inside the onahole leaves Rose perfectly positioned to get every single drop. She scrapes her tongue searchingly all around even as you spew, licking it all up like the obedient sex kitten she is. And when she pulls her mouth free from your dick, lips bridged to it by a mixture of saliva and sperm, she smacks her tongue against her soft palate and says: "please fuck me, onii-chan... take my virginity, okay?"

So you fuck her. You bring her to her feet, turn her towards her bed -- throw her down onto it, and mount her.

"I..." she says, all of a sudden a little unsure as you loom over her. "I -- popped my cherry for you, but--"

"You what? How?"

"Hairbrush..." she says, looking away. "But... I'm still not that stretchy inside... so be careful, please."

You're as careful as can be, as you sink your aching, cummy dick into the soft embrace of Rose's mostly-unspoiled pussy. Just like when you deflowered in her in the last world, it takes no small amount of force to push your cock past the stubborn barrier of her clamping twat lips. She doesn't want to keep you out, but she clamps her muscles down by instinct, and makes it almost hurt to bust her open.

Her irises are dewy, and shimmer with adoration. Those partially parted lips and welling eyes are too much. They fill your heart with glad feelings. As your dick finally pushes through her resistance and robs her virginity, you press your face to hers, and kiss.

From either end, you enjoy your little sister's soft body. The walls of her vagina cling to you with the tenacity of bubblegum and her mouth sucks on your tongue with the same fervor she used on your prick. She's so in love with you... and she's so over the moon to finally have her beloved older brother rutting inside her. She might be a little dim, and more than a little cringey -- and lazy, and weird... but she's your sister, and because of that, you find cuteness even in her faults. And also because of that, your bodies fit almost perfectly together. There's nowhere else, right now, that you would rather deposit a load, than inside your imouto's baby pink cunt. You grunt hard directly into her mouth, hunching your body up as you begin to fuck her hard. Her body acts as a shock absorber, the flesh jiggling wildly and making a thwapping sound as you nail her. The violent, incestuous mating lasts only a few moments, because you're both about to really fucking cum -- really, really fucking cum -- harder than any of the previous times today. You unleash a 100% raw, unsafe creampie into your little sister's body, and she squirts all over you as she receives it.

---

The Pink Ranger, sitting beside Cerise on the bus to Boise, uses her index fingers as drumsticks on the seatback in front of them. "99 bottles of beer on the wall! 99 bottles of beer! You take one down, you pass it around -- 99 bottles of beer on the wall!"

"You forgot to subtract one," Alex tells her.

Does that deter her? No. "99 bottles of beer on the wall! 99 bottles of beer! You take--"

Cerise yanks on one of her ears to shut her up. The force of it makes her list painfully to the side.

"Oof-- ow!! What the heck!"

"Shut the fuck up," Cerise growls.

"Rude."

The Yellow Ranger sits at the very back with you, dozing softly against your shoulder. It would be the perfect place for a little funny stuff -- but Saul has been staring you down the entire way there. The man hasn't blinked in almost 200 miles.

Whitney is with Vivian, doing some last-minute quizzarding:

"What part of the cell is responsible for modifying, sorting and packaging proteins for secretion?"

"The Golgi apparatus," Vivian replies without hesitation.

"Hey, Ally!" Whitney calls over her shoulder. "Gimme some secretions from your Golgi apparatus!"

"Do you have some sort of protein deficiency?" Vivian asks her.

"Right now? Yeah, for sure."

"I'm feeling a little protein-starved, too..." Vivian muses, rubbing her chin.

Ms. Carte snaps her fingers, getting the attention of her daughter and her surrogate daughter. "Quiz now. Dick later."

Charlotte is sitting beside Hank, getting some in-depth tips on fly-fishing. Charlotte, you know, is the exact opposite of outdoorsy, and is getting precisely zilch from these tips. But Hank's parents couldn't afford to miss work to come to Boise with him -- so she's giving him some much-needed company.

It would be a nice little tableau, if not for the disturbing fact that David Darkbloom is aboard the bus, too.

He wears a baseball cap, and totes a little triangular flag, both with North High's bobcat logo on them. He's eating chips and queso dip as he discusses the intricacies of server-side encryption with your mother. How he decided to yammer at her, of all people, is beyond you; but although she's humoring him, she's obviously had it up to here with the conversation by this point, and looks about ready to slit his throat.

But you have to give him credit where it's due. He's probably the most excited person here. He can't wait to see his girls perform on the big stage.

When, a little past 1 AM, you finally arrive at the Boise Ramada Inn -- lap of luxury -- one of you has faltered. Vivian is sound asleep, and will not stir; Darkbloom has to carry her inside.

She isn't the only sleepy one. You have to wake Rose up. And Cerise has to wake Rose up. But at least they can trudge their way into the lobby and up to their rooms on their own two feet, without needing to be carried.

As you help Mr. Langley grab some of the team's bags from the stowage underneath the bus and tote it in, you pass a van in the parking lot you recognize. Depositing the bags in the lobby, you excuse yourself back out into the balmy Idaho night, and knock on the back doors of the van.

"Sable?" You say.

You know for an absolute fact that she's in there, even if she won't answer. You knock again.

"Sable?"

From inside, muffled, comes her voice: "Call me Ms. Guiteau!"

"Open up."

She opens up. She stares at you, squatting, from the homey interior of her van.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You demand.

"I'm on vacation," she says, stone-cold serious.

"In Boise, Idaho."

"Yes."

"You just so happen to have chosen Boise, Idaho for a vacation destination on the same week when our quiz team is at the national championship."

"Yes."

"And you camped out at the same hotel we're staying at, purely by coincidence."

"You are beginning to get on my nerves," Sable tells you.

"You're getting on my nerves. You're here to see Alex. Just admit it."

"I am not here to visit with that horrible boy. That boy, whose name I will not even utter, can go to hell. He's abandoning his vital duties in the robotics club this week to traipse around the country playing Jeopardy. On the eve of our own trip to nationals! It is beyond egregious. In fact, he may no longer deserve his place in the club. I am thinking of erecting him."

"You mean ejecting him?"

"That's what I said."

"How can you be mad at him for not attending the club this week when you're here, too?"

"Hmmph."

She slams the door shut.

Early that morning, you sit around a shitty dining area eating a shitty continental breakfast with the rest of the team while Whitney quizzards you. It's nice and all that she's so enthusiastic about helping, but does she really need to wear her R and WH in public?

"First state to hold a Presidential primary?" She asks, reading from an almanac propped open in her lap.

"Iowa," you say, rubbing sleep from your eyes as you pick at your cold bacon. Can't they at least do a better job keeping the shitty breakfast food a little warmer?

"Wrong!" Whitney says.

"What do you mean, wrong?" You demand. "That's not wrong. It's definitely Iowa--"

"The answer is New Hampshire," Rose says.

"Correctamundo," Whitney says.

"Fuck that," you boom. You're fully awake now. "New Hampshire is second. Your book is wrong."

"It says here that New Hampshire is the first primary," Whitney insists. "Iowa is a cow-cuss."

"Caucus," Vivian says.

"Yeah, Ally," Whitney says, grinning slyly. "Caucus good."

Rose is beaming. She loves getting one over on you.

"Fucking technicalities..." you mutter, and shove a piece of bacon into your mouth.

Alex plops down beside you with a bowl of Froot Loops. The milk sloshes around, but doesn't spill. He begins to voraciously shovel the cereal into his mouth -- he always eats the most at breakfast.

"Sleep well?" Rose asks him.

"Uh huh," he says. "Well rested and ready to go! Let's kick some butt today!"

"Alabaster has some news for you," Rose informs him.

You huff. You told Rose about Sable coming all this way, on the assumption she wouldn't blab. You should have made it explicit. You wanted Alex to see Sable at the first match this morning -- where she'll doubtlessly be in attendance -- so he would be surprised by it.

[ ] Tell Alex now, so he can visit with her prior to the beginning of the tournament.

>[x] Don't tell him.

You have to think quick, since Rose just promised exciting news. What you come up with is lame as hell:

"I'm making the team some uniforms."

"...What?" Rose says. "Aren't you going to tell h--"

You stomp her foot under the table. She lets out a tiny grunt of pain, and stomps you back -- but drops it at that.

"They'll have our team logo on them and everything," you add, as you curl your injured toes in your shoe and resist the urge to give Rose a counter-counter-stomp.

But thankfully, Rose gets the message. She lets your white lie stand.

"Really?" Alex says. "That's so cool!"

"Wait -- we have a logo?" Whitney says, glancing up from her book.

"Bobcats, no?" Vivian says.

"I mean, that's the school's logo, yeah," Whitney says. "But that shit's so lame."

"Can we wear wizard costumes too?" Hank wants to know.

"Our team logo is going to be much cooler," you promise. "Cooler than either bobcats or Rs and WHs."

Although in truth, you have no idea what the fuck you're going to make. You give Rose a sour look. A look that says "you're helping me later."

---

The first match of the day begins less than an hour afterwards. You're up against the Eisenhower Memorial Generals, hailing from picturesque Kansas City, Kansas.

Boise's Morrison Center is packed to the gills, but most of the spectators are other competitors and their families. There isn't much of an audience for this thing outside the insular world of quiz dorks. Peering out at the seats from your buzzer-mounted podium, you spy blocks of people in similarly-colored shirts -- folks repping their high schools' colors. Maybe a uniform isn't such a terrible idea, after all.

At the very front, between the foremost row of seats and the stage, Rosepink sets up shop: she marches back and forth in a cheerleader's outfit that she pilfered from North High, waving pompoms she also stole. The shirt is too large on her frame, but too small for her tits, whereas the skirt is just too small for her fat ass, period. The overall look is a bit ridiculous. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Gimme an M!" She shouts.

"M!" shouts Mom, Charlotte, Ms. Carte, and -- ugh -- Darkbloom.

"Gimme an I!"

"I!"

"Gimme an N!"

"N!"

Even they're beginning to grow tired of this, as they slowly realize that the word "Mindbreakers" has a lot of letters.

"Gimme a D!"

"She wishes," the Rose beside you mutters.

"Only wishes?" You ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"Are you fucking your little sister, Ally?" Whitney wants to know. "Wicked..."

Rose purrs in feigned disgust.

The Rose in the rows below Rose is just finishing up her cheer: "What's that spell?!"

But the game's host is coming to his podium between the two teams, and says into his mic: "Enthusiasm is appreciated, but we ask that the families of the competitors please not make any disturbances or outbursts."

"What's that spell?!" Rose shouts over the man.

Only Darkbloom is bold enough to respond. "Mindbreakers!" he gruffly shouts.

The match is a complete and utter rout, as expected. The final score is North High: 10,500 - Eisenhower Memorial High: 500.

You're all a little disappointed because you didn't beat them by more than 10,000 points. Mr. Langley has been notching his belt for every time you do it; and his belt, by this point in the season, is more notch than leather.

Throughout the entire game... although Mom whoops and hollers for your victory; although Rose continues to dance and sway in her obviously unchoreographed way; although Cerise pretends to be aloof but smiles to herself every time one of you answers a question; although Saul and Charlotte golfclap for Rose every time she gets one right; although Mr. Langley cries with joy and Ms. Carte pumps her fists like a bettor at the prizefight with everything on the line; although Darkbloom watches from behind tented fingers with the severity of a man watching his daughter receive open-hear surgery -- there's a supporter missing. You strain your eyes and scan them about the dim theater, but she isn't anywhere to be seen. Sable is a no-show.

You're gonna have to march right back to her van and ream her ass after the match. She came all this way, and she couldn't bring herself to come see you all play? That shit is not going to fly.

---

Unfortunately, you have something else pressing to attend to after the game. Your next is in two hours, and you've got uniforms to whip up.

Back at the hotel's lobby in the brief interlude you have before heading back to the big stage, you sit in a lounger there, working on your laptop, and Rose sits on one of the armrests, watching over your shoulder. You quickly pull something together in a graphics editing program to use as a logo for the team. Something you know is sure to give Rose conniptions. And it does:

"We are not going to use that--"

"Yes we are."

"Fuck you, Alabaster, you pig. This is the most degrading--"

"It's just a picture of an overtaxed brain!" You insist. "Degrading? Your dirty mind is seeing things that aren't there."

"Don't you fucking gaslight me. I've known you long enough to know what an ahegao looks like."

"A strand of bedhead?" You ask, reaching for a tuft of her hair near her crown, and pulling it ceilingward, to demonstrate.

She swats your hand away. "That's an ahoge--" she begins. Then glimpsing your quivering lips trying to force back your laughter, she screams: "Asshole!"

She shoves you, making both you and the laptop in your lap sway towards the opposite side of the plush lounger.

Mr. Langley, walking through, grabs your attention. "You two lovebirds better hurry up. We have to be back on the bus in less than an hour."

No more time for squabbling. You and Rose rush to the Kinko's across the street.

The methy, underpaid teen burnout at their screen printer needs your help -- both of you -- to do his fucking job and make the shirts you want. But you manage to get it done just in time. The two of you, arms full of freshly printed shirts, rush back to the bus, and dole them out. Everyone gets theirs, not just the team members.

Your rushjob meets with general approbation from most of them, who see nothing untoward in the design. Mom and Charlotte giggle as they pull theirs over their heads, commenting that it's perfect. Darkbloom, after donning his, pulls the fabric away from his chest to peer appreciatively down at it, smiling. "Mindbreakers indeed," he murmurs.

Among the ones who do see something more than an overtaxed brain: Cerise, who flatly refuses to wear it; Whitney, who tells you it's weirdly hot; and Vivian, who -- in a moment of uncharacteristic exuberance, mimics the expression for your enjoyment, cheek-to-cheek with your little sister who mirrors it.

After demolishing a team from New Haven, Connecticut, your matches for the night are through, and you return to the hotel for the last time. But you're far from finished tonight, oh no. Ms. Carte has seen to that. She's going to drill you all, all night long, and not in the fun way. She's got a conference room rented out in the hotel, and wants to make you all stick around until 1 AM for practice.

It's only 6 PM now; and your first game tomorrow is at 7 AM. Absurd... it's absurd, what this woman expects of you.

You dutifully join the team, all the while trying to think of a plausible reason to duck out for a bit. You need to go tear Sable a new asshole, after all. She didn't show to the second match, either.

Hank, who's acutely aware of his status as benchwarmer, excuses himself from the proceedings without needing a real reason:

"Think I'll go find some dinner," he says. "There's a good seafood place up the street. I'll be back in a bit."

He is, after all, a brick shithouse who needs to eat the rations of a small army every day to nourish himself.

"You're excused," Ms. Carte tells him, not looking up from the whiteboard where she's writing.

He leaves. A few silent moments pass as Whitney flips through one of the trivia almanacs and the rest of the team settles in.

You and Rose realize it at the same moment. Your eyes shoot up, bulging, and meet.

---

"Hank!" You wail, running at a full clip down the sidewalk, past confused pedestrians, holding an outstretched arm before you. Rose tries to keep up, but you're majorly outpacing her. "Hank! HAAAAANNNNK!"

You catch up with him at the last possible moment. He's just about to step off the curb as the crosswalk's indicator turns green. But hearing your voice, he stops, and faces you.

"Alabaster?" He says. "What's u--"

A coal-rolling red Trailblazer blazes through the red light, pulling 60, and doesn't slow for even a nanosecond. Hank's clothes billow in the wake it leaves.

Shellshocked, he turns towards the road again, to watch the truck receding. Panting hard, clutching your knees, you draw alongside him.

Hank stands fully a head and half taller than you.

"Holy smokes," he says. "That asshole would have hit me for sure." He holds a palm flat up in front of him: "I'm fricking shaking, man. I could have died."

Rose is several moments delayed, but she catches up, too.

"...So what did you guys want?" Hank asks, already back to normal after his near-maim experience.

"I..." you begin, gulping air. You stretch your back at a sharp angle, gripping your coccyx with both palms, staring at the evening sky. "I forget."

"Yeah," Hank says. "Pretty crazy stuff. I'd forget what I was about to say, too."

Rose begins to tell him something, but can't muster words, either.

"Wanna grab some dinner?" Hank asks.

You do. You and Rose accompany him to the Bonefish Grill. You order the scrod. It's pretty good. More than worth how bad Ms. Carte chews you out when you return to practice two hours later.

A little after 11 PM, Ms. Carte excuses herself for a smoke break. Such a nicotine freak. She demands your presence with her out front -- claiming that she doesn't feel safe by herself after dark in a strange city like this. Boise doesn't strike you as a particularly crime-ridden area, but you don't argue the point. It's a great opportunity to get away.

Ms. Carte leans with the sole of one shoe against the cobbled wall of the hotel, taking long, appreciative drags, her other arm folded beneath her breasts.

"Give me one," you say, motioning for the pack of cigarettes in her coat pocket.

"No," she instantly replies.

"Come on. Geez."

"No," she repeats. "You're underage."

"Doesn't stop you from letting me cum inside you--"

Ms. Carte hits you upside the head. You grimace.

"Cumming inside doesn't cause cancer," she says.

"It's equally as addictive, though," you say.

"Fair point," she admits. "I'm a woman of vice. What can I say. You're still not getting any cigarettes."

She throws the butt onto the concrete and stamps it out. She narrows her eyes at you.

"You're not leading my girls on, are you?" Ms. Carte asks.

"What do you m--"

"Don't play dumb," she snaps. "Some horny teenage boy like you, out to lay as many girls as he can -- I know your type. How many girls are in your little harem, huh?"

"Counting you?"

She swats you upside the head again. You rub the sore spot with both hands, wincing.

"Do you love them?" She asks.

"Yes," you reply, without hesitation.

"Will you love them forever?"

"Yes! The hell is this, Meatloaf?"

She tries to swat you a third time, but you sidestep it.

"I've got my eyes on you," Ms. Carte tells you. "Whitney's had a hard life. And Vivian might be a billionaire, but she hasn't had a much easier time of it. If you break their hearts, I'll never forgive you."

"They mean the world to me," you tell her. "I love them so much that sometimes I feel like my heart's going to burst out of my chest." You sigh, and glance skyward. "Look -- don't tell them I said this -- but sometimes I have nightmares about one of them dying. And when I wake up, I still think it's real for a second, and I..." you trail off, clear your throat. Ms. Carte's expression, when you finally meet it, is slack, surprised. "I love them," you finish.

Ms. Carte nods.

After a lengthy lull, she turns back for the glass doors of the Ramada Inn's lobby.

"Ms. Carte," you call after her.

She looks at you.

"I love you, too," you say.

Her eyelids flutter. "Y-you--"

"Sometimes the future doesn't seem real. But I know I want all three of you in it."

You step to her, and rub noses with her, and then kiss her tenderly. Her breath tastes like menthol, but that's fine.

"Are you coming back to the practice room?" She asks when she reluctantly pulls away. Her voice is like silk.

"Give me a few."

"Okay..." she kisses you again. She doesn't want to stop, or leave you warm embrace. When at last she does, she's wearing a smile that won't go away.

Standing outside the hotel, you watch Ms. Carte's backside through the glass doors as she steps past the reception desk and rounds the corner towards the first floor conference room where the rest of the team is sequestered. You smile to yourself.

"Psst. Hey kid."

You startle at the voice to your left. Wheeling, ready to karate chop the snot out of whoever just accosted you, you discover the source: Kay Vera's bespectacled eyes are peeping at you from between the low hedges of some manicured bushes in a planter beside the entrance.

"...Kay?" You breathe, unable to stop yourself.

She squints at you. Maybe she's trying to gauge whether you really said her name, or just expectantly said, 'kay? A beat passes.

"What are you doing?" You finally ask.

As she rises to her feet, leaves and twigs waterfall off her head and shoulders. Since these hedges lining the building's perimeter are kept in a long cedar chip-filled planter, she now stands several feet taller than you. It's an odd vantage. You graciously offer her a hand to help her step back down to the sidewalk, but she brusquely refuses. Instead she tiptoes to the planter's edge before finally hopping down under her own motive force. She lands flat on her boots, making a little "ope" from the force of the impact.

She dusts the clinging bits of foliage off her pantlegs and peacoat, first the right side, then the left.

"How long were you hiding in there listening in on me?" You ask.

"A while."

"You make it a habit to spy on people?"

She extends a hand to shake. You'd rather ravish her with kisses, but you know the forward method you unleashed on Whitney the first time you saw her isn't the right thing for just everyone. You shake Kay's hand -- politely, but firmly.

"Kay Vera," she says. "You're Alabaster Soliloquy, right? I'm a news reporter for -- well -- it doesn't matter. As for the hiding thing. I've been after some dangerous leads on a couple stories -- so diving headfirst into bushes sort of became my new habit. Maybe I was a bit too gung ho. I don't mean to seem like a creep."

"Way too late," you tell her.

She ignores that. "I'm doing a story about David Darkbloom and his daughters. I take it you know them quite well."

You nod. "And I know you."

"So you did mean to call me by name," she says, trying not to look too fazed. "Does David Darkbloom know I've been researching him?"

"I couldn't say. If he does, he didn't tell me. I just know you by your oeuvre."

"My--"

"Your quiz on which Cowboy Bebop character I am was inspired. I didn't take you for an anime fan."

She turns crimson.

"I'm Faye, by the way, Kay," you tell her. "What's the scoop this time, though? America's top 25 most interesting teens? 10 moments of epic win from the national quiz bowl championship? The top 15 most--"

Kay balls her fists. "I'm not here for some stupid blog post! This is a real news story I'm chasing!"

"I think the bar inside's still open. We should grab a drink."

"Rico Suave here," Kay giggles, sliding you your glass across the short span of bartop between your stools. "How's that Shirley Temple, Rico?"

You stir the syrup up with the swizzle stick and then take a sip. "Very cherry. I love cherries."

"Uh huh." She sips her Jack and Coke. "So what's it like to be screwing a billionaire?"

"Screwing?" You say in faux shock. "Gee willickers, lady. Whitney and I are going steady, but we aren't ready for anything more than that until marriage!"

"Very funny," Kay says.

You drop the wholesome act. "I'm just trying to look nice," you say, shrugging. You lean in, whisper. "I know people of your generation are less open-minded about sex than us younger folks."

"These little jabs aren't going to put me on the back foot," she says (but she's clutching and unclutching that cocktail napkin in her other hand quite ferociously...) She goes for magnanimous: "I know you've got a long practice to get back to, so I'll leave you my card. I'd like to schedule an in-depth session with you."

"Why me? Wouldn't you rather talk to Whitney or Vivian?"

"Maybe soon," she says. "For now, though. You'll do." She leans against the balls of her palms in between her legs on the stool, hunching forward, and invading your personal space. "Quick. In one word -- how would you describe Vivian Darkbloom?"

"Pale."

"Anyone can see that she's pale," Kay grumps. She straightens her posture.

"Isn't it your job to use a bunch of flashy words to describe people? I'm a simple man. I call it like I see it."

"You're simple all right. Try again."

"Eccentric."

"That's better. Eccentric. I like it. Not strange, not weird -- eccentric. Eccentric is strange plus cute, isn't it?"

"Not always," you say. "Tesla was eccentric. Mike Tyson is eccentric. Diogenes of Sinope was eccentric. None of them rank as cute, to me."

"But Vivian Darkbloom does," Kay says.

You shrug. "Sure. She's an idiosyncratic cutie. Is that what you want to hear?"

"How about Whitney Carte -- one word."

"Good."

"I know high schoolers aren't the most eloquent people, but I seriously thought Mr. Mensa, King of the Quiz Nerds would have a bit more loquaciousness in him than your average pizza-faced adolescent."

"No," you say, "I chose exactly the word I wanted to. Whitney's good. She's everything good, and nothing bad. Vivian too -- just in an eccentric way. They're good. I hope you say good things about them." You stand up, and extend your hand to shake one last time. "Thanks for the drink, Kay, I'll be calling you. I should get back--"

"Wait," she says, and rebuffs the proffered handshake. "David Darkbloom. One word."

"Evil," you say without thinking.

Kay grins. "A tale of good and evil. All right. Maybe this is better than I thought."

"Goodnight," you try.

"Just one more thing."

She whisks you to a little alcove just past the hotel bar, where a couple loungers sit facing one another between a small, low, round table. It's not perfectly private, but it affords you some space away from prying ears.

"Why don't you like David Darkbloom?" Kay asks, as she seats herself.

"'Don't like' is a soft way of putting it. I don't like kale. I don't like professional golf. I don't like cleaning. David Darkbloom -- is way beyond 'don't like'."

"Why?" Kay repeats.

"You don't get to know everything," you tell her. "Sorry. I've said too much already. If you publish anything about me calling David Darkbloom evil, I'll wring your neck."

Kay ponders for a moment, the side of her forefinger to her lips.

"I've been watching you all day," she finally says. "And for a while before that. You might not like him, or maybe you even hate him, but the man is just gaga for you. You know that?"

You shrug.

"Maybe you know some things already. I wonder..." She rubs her upper calves as if massaging out a kink. "Full disclosure: I got my sniffer on David Darkbloom because of a different story I was following. Corruption in law enforcement -- that led me to mob elements in silicon valley -- and it seems like all roads lead back to David Darkbloom. Doing a couple soft interest pieces on his daughters is just the in I'm using with my editors so they let me keep working the real story. Now -- you said David Darkbloom is evil. Is there a specific reason for that?"

"I told you I'm not telling you," you insist.

"That's fine. Maybe I'll tell you, and then we can compare notes."

"Have you ever had an X-ray, Alabaster?" Kay asks you.

You shrug. "Yeah. I broke a finger when I was 12. My li

ttle sister accidentally slammed it in a car door."

"Ouch," Kay says, wincing in sympathy. She knocks back a sip of her drink that she stole with her away from the bar. "When you had your X-ray, did you find it at all odd that the technician explained how the device was perfectly safe, then ran and went and hid in a different room before he turned it on?"

"Uh, no," you say. "That's obvious. One small dose of radiation like that is no big deal. But if you're the X-ray tech, doing it every day as your job, you'd get cancer if you didn't shield yourself."

She sets her glass on the table between you. She perches a chin on the back of her palms, across her interlaced fingers. "How precocious. You were a know-it-all even at 12."

"I'm a know-it-all now," you say. "At the time, I wasn't thinking one way or the other about the effects of radiation. I was going back and forth between: 'oh shit this hurts' and: 'I'm gonna kick my little sister's butt.'"

"But you didn't," Kay says with a smirk.

"Kick her butt? How would you know--"

"Big brothers," she snorts. "They're all the same. They talk a big game, but when push comes to shove -- nary an ass kicking in sight. They're too soft to actually do it."

"You have a lot of experience?" You ask.

"Oh, sure. I've got two of my own. They always thought they were bullying me, but in the end, it was always me who was bullying them."

"What's your point?" You ask.

"Right. So you hit the nail on the head with that radiation bit -- or maybe more like the fingernail in the car door?" She waits for your chuckle that doesn't come. "Anyway, do you know very much about David Darkbloom's former wife?"

"No," you lie.

"You know she's dead?" Kay asks.

"Sure," you reply.

"What of?"

"Cancer."

"Correct. But what if I told you that it wasn't just bad luck or genetics? What if I told you David Darkbloom killed his own wife?"

You laugh derisively. "What? How could Darkbloom have killed his wife with cancer? Did he keep her locked up in a tanning booth?"

"Kinda sorta," Kay says cryptically. She's grinning way too hard for a woman who's talking about the wife-murders of the rich and famous. She lays her fingertips on the table and moves them about, like a line coach plotting the defensive line's movements, as she maintains eye contact with you. "He had an X-ray machine installed in secret, in the walls of Mara's office at Darkbloom E-Pay. Every day for ten years, while Mara would check her morning emails, he blasted her with radiation. Pew pew. Ten years. Until, finally, she got sick from it -- and died." She leans back in her seat, one arm's elbow looped over the chairback, and allows you a few moments for this revelation to sink in. Finally, she continues. "David Darkbloom was playing the long game. He wanted his wife gone, at all costs. And David Darkbloom... always gets what David Darkbloom wants."

"Why are you telling me this?" You ask.

"Because I believe you. You want to fuck David David Darkbloom ... over, that is."

"Is that what you think of me?" You ask her. "I know enough about Mara Darkbloom to know that she deserved worse than what she got. She was his mob connection -- but you know that already too."

Kay's eyes glimmer. She likes talking to someone who's got the goods. The more you talk, the more you reveal, despite yourself.

"This is a huge news story, Alabaster, and you could be the pivotal piece I need-- that the world needs-- to see how much of a maniac this man really is. He installed a radiation device in the walls of his own company like a comic book supervillain! But right now, this is all just speculation. No proof. You could break it open. You're David Darkbloom's favorite son... if you asked for a tour of Darkbloom E-Pay, I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige. And if you coincidentally happened to snap a few pictures of Mara Darkbloom's former office in secret while you were there, you could confirm the story. We could put him in prison -- where he belongs."

You lean back, and regard her severely.

This could be a lifeline... for you, for the world. If David Darkbloom goes down in infamy and gets locked up for life before he can even begin his work on Sand Reckoner--

But what about his daughters? Their riches, their legacy, their fragile sense of family?

And what would they think if they ever found out that you were the linchpin of their father's ruin?

"Why should I help you?" You ask her. "It's dangerous -- and maybe illegal, what you're asking... all for what? To put away a man who maybe killed an unrepentant mobster? The father of the girls I'm involved with?"

"It's a sweet deal," Kay says. "Darkbloom E-Pay has a debt-to-equity ratio that would make any investor trip over their dick to fund. Totally amortized and returning consistent year-over-year profits. If David Darkbloom goes to prison, he can't run the place anymore -- but he has secret provisions for that -- key-man clauses in the structure of the company, allowing him to name the next CEO in the advent of his death or incapacitation."

"...Whitney?" You breathe.

"What? Oh, God, no," Kay manages through peals of laughter. "Why on Earth would he name an 18 year old girl with no job experience to head one of the world's most valuable corporations? No, no. That's retarded. In what fucking universe does that make sense?" She points at you. "Her mother, though..."

"He named Ms. Carte his successor?"

"Bingo. Renee Letourneau doesn't know it yet, but she's the next CEO of Darkbloom E-Pay. And since you're so ... chummy ... with her... I'm sure you can see the dollar signs. Plus you'd be doing the world some good. Even his daughters. Do you really want them being raised by an egomaniacal murderer?"

[ ] I'll help you. David Darkbloom has to answer for his crimes.

>[x] I won't help you. David Darkbloom should be free with his family.

What you say surprises even yourself:

"I told you that Whitney and Vivian are everything good and nothing bad, didn't I? Well, they came from David Darkbloom. So if they came from him, he can't be the opposite of that -- he can't be everything bad and nothing good. I don't like him. I despise him. You could not possibly comprehend how much I despise him. But I love his girls, and his girls love him, and if they love him... then maybe whatever's good inside him can come out. I won't help you destroy him. I don't think you should keep trying, either. You'll only ruin a lot of lives like this -- and for what -- a Pulitzer? Leave it alone. Just do your soft interest pieces on Whitney and Vivian. And find the next Watergate somewhere else."

Kay scrunches her lips to one side of her face, and furrows her brow, having a good long think on that.

"You're pretty interesting, yourself," she says at last. "Here you are at age -- 17? And you've got this apparently tortured relationship with one of the world's foremost billionaires." She searches her tumbler for more liquor, but finds only half-melted ice at the bottom. She sets it down again. "I'd like to know you and the Darkbloom sisters a bit better. Can I shadow your team at the quiz bowl?"

"Are you going to drop this murder story angle?" You ask.

"Mara Darkbloom was a cunt who got eaten alive by cancer. Happens to better people every day. Anyway, without proof..." Kay shrugs theatrically. "Like I said. It's just speculation. I'm not in the speculation business."

"I'll have to ask my teammates," you tell her. "They wouldn't be too happy if I showed up unannounced with another girlfriend in tow."

"Girlfriend?" Kay says, arching an eyebrow.

"They know I'm weak for older women, so they'd make the assumption."

"Mmm hmm. Well unfortunately for you, Rico Suave, I'm not weak for younger boys."

"Mmm hmm," you retort.

Kay tells you goodnight, stands, and starts down the hall towards the elevators.

"Hey," you call. Kay turns around. "Do you know a woman by the name of Noelle?"

Kay's face goes slack. She's not used to being on the other side of a person who asks unexpected questions. "Yes..." she murmurs. "What's it to you?"

"Nothing," you say. "Just, when you see her again, could you pass along a message for me?"

She's mute for a brief moment, before finally telling you: "I'm listening."

"Tell her that Lillith is best girl -- a thousand times cuter than Lulu. She'll know what I mean."

Kay frowns. "I know what you mean, too... unfortunately." She turns back around and begins to walk off again, waving at you with the back of her palm. "I'll pass it on for you. Even if you're wrong." She glances over her shoulder, one last time: "Lucy is best girl."

---

"Sable. Open up."

You knock on the van's back doors, for the fourth time.

"Sable!"

You start to pound.

"Sa-- Ms. Guiteau! Open this fucking door!"

You're about to start leaving dents in the bodywork.

"...Alabaster?"

Sable's voice, behind you, catches your attention. You turn around. Gravel crunches under her shoes as she uncertainly walks across the parking lot towards you, a white styrofoam carton of food in one hand. "Why are you banging on my car?"

"I -- thought you were inside," you say.

"I'm not inside."

"Obviously."

"I'm out here."

You rub the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger.

"What do you want?" She asks. At least she's in a courteous mood tonight.

She takes a key fob from her trouser pocket and brushes past you, using it to unlock the van's back doors that you were so recently (and senselessly) assaulting. Standing aside, you watch her for a quiet moment, the way she tilts her chin slightly downwards and focuses on lining up the key with the hole. In her less psychotic moments, she can be quite cute. Finally you answer her: "why haven't you been at our games?"

Sable twists the key and swings the back doors open. "I'm not here for that," she says. She crawls inside, sets her late-night dinner on the futon mattress, turns 180 degrees to face you again. "Goodnight," she says, and starts to close the doors on you. But you hold one of them ajar against her feeble tugging.

"You drove halfway across the country. Don't waste your chance to see us play because you're too proud to admit you care."

A strange look spreads over her features. Her thin lips and darkly bagged eyes twitch. You're not sure whether you're about to witness one of her signature rages or moments of despair. In the end, it turns out to be neither. She only says, at last: "no one cares about me. I've decided not to care about anyone else, either. Now please let me enjoy my enchilada supreme in peace."

"I care about you," you tell her.

"Lies are horrible things," Sable responds.

"And Alex sure as hell cares about you," you add.

Sitting on her knees, hands folded in her lap, Sable considers that.

"Please come inside," she says.

You and Sable take turns using the same plastic spork to take nibbles out of a giant beef enchilada. You sit on her mattress, you with your back against one of the van's interior walls, and Sable with her back against the one opposite, the container of food between you.

"We're supposed to go to St. Louis in a few weeks," Sable tells you. "The team has so much work to do... and honestly, Alex is the only one who can do it."

"Don't you rely on him a little too much?" You ask.

"Who else could I rely on?" Sable says. "Everyone else in the robotics club is completely incompetent. I give them simple tasks and they always find a way to disappoint me. Alex has to come in and clean up their messes. Without him, the team falls apart."

"What about Cerise?" You offer.

"Cerise is a great help, but she isn't a student. There's a limit to what she's allowed to do. Anyway, she's here too. Abandoned me right along with Alex."

"They're here because of me," you tell her, and take a bite. Through a full mouth, pointing at her with the spork, you say: "don't blame them."

Sable takes the spork you're using to point at her from you. She takes a bite of her own. Does it count as an indirect kiss when the flavor is completely masked by cayenne peppers and cumin? "I do blame you," she says, also with a full mouth. "I blame you for not joining FIRST to begin with, too. You could have done so well underneath me."

Phrasing, Sable... phrasing.

"Regardless of any of that," you say, "you're here. So since you're here anyway, why not give us a little bit of support?"

"No," Sable says, "I'm going to drive home tonight."

You sigh. "Okay. I guess I'll have to do that, then."

"...That?" Sable says, cocking her head.

"I'm going to tell Alex you came to see him. Which means if you don't show up--"

"Don't you dare!" Sable shouts.

"--just imagine the pitiful crying, the heartbreak--"

"I don't care if he DOES cry! What difference does that make? Don't you try to guilt me--"

"--the sniveling, the betrayal. For sure he would run into the arms of the first person to give him any sympathy. Who would that be? I bet Ms. Carte would be perfectly happy to let him into her tender embrace..."

Sable kicks you. With the hard rubber heel of her boot, in your shins. You bowl over, almost landing with your forehead in the carton of half-cooled food.

"Fuck!" You snarl. "What the hell was that?"

She kicks you again. This time in your shoulder. You jolt upright, and adopt a defensive stance.

"Go to hell!" Sable shrieks. "I didn't ask you to get involved with my affairs! Alex is an ingrate, you're an obnoxious meddler, and Cerise is a worthless drunk! I don't need any of you!"

You stare at the ceiling and slowly shake your head, your crown rubbing against the cold hard metal of the van's wall. "You don't mean that. You need us."

"No I don't! Idiot! Moron! St--"

"And we need you."

Sable's rage dissolves. You lock eyes.

"We need you in our lives," you repeat. "You're part of what makes North High such an interesting place. When we get back from Boise after winning nationals, we'll work double-time to make sure your team wins the nationals too. It's a group effort. No club left behind."

"You'll help, too?" Sable asks, her voice small, and pinched.

"Of course. I even bet I could drag along most of these other quiz bowl losers. Since our season'll be over, why not?"

Sable crawls towards the front of the van. You're half expecting her to pull a gun out and shoot you. She's calm again, though, with the promise of sticking by her team. What she produces from her glove compartment is something entirely different: a small package wrapped with wrapping paper, and topped by a bow. It has penguins and snowmen on it.

"...You're a little late for Christmas," you tell her, as she settles back down on the mattress across from you, sitting cross-legged again.

"This was all I had in my closet," she says. "But it's not for Christmas... it's for a birthday. Alex's, specifically."

You frown. "You're a little late for that too. Alex's birthday was last month."

"I know. I never gave it to him."

She offers it to you, holding her hand outstretched over the short distance between you.

"Give it to him for me. Tell him I'm sorry I was so late."

"Tell him yourself," you say. You push her hand away. "Give it to him after our games tomorrow."

She nods, but shakily. The idea of gift-giving is foreign to her -- she isn't comfortable doing it, as badly as she wants to.

"It's all right if I show up to the games?" She asks again.

"We'll save a seat for you. And a T-shirt, too. You can show some team spirit."

She nods again. As you make to leave, she calls out, stopping you.

"By the way -- while we're speaking of birthdays. What did you get Whitney for hers?"

Your stomach lurches. In all the hubbub of preparing for the quiz bowl, you neglected to get Whitney anything at all. Now the hour is approaching midnight... which means you're about to miss Whitney's birthday just in time to segue into missing Vivian's birthday too. Fucking fantastic.

"That's... a secret," you tell Sable with an awkward laugh.

"You forgot," Sable says, perceptive as ever.

"I didn't forget. I just -- mentally misplaced it."

"You'd better hurry," Sable says.

"...Yeah."

You hurry out.

---

You return to the quiz bowl drilling already in session. Usually, Ms. Carte would lambaste you for taking so long. Between your little drink date with Kay and your dinner date with Sable, it's been well over an hour since you've left. But your parting love confession has left a sugary warmth in your teacher's heart and a dopey grin on her face -- she can't even pretend to be angry at you right now.

You take a seat beside Vivian, and resume the question-answering marathon. Except you're not invested in it. You need to come up with a birthday gift, and fast -- that's your overriding priority. You whisper so that only Vivian can hear:

"What did you get Whitney for her birthday? Anything?"

"Of course," Vivian whispers back. "I have already informed her that her present is waiting for her back in Gilroy."

"What is it?" You ask. "...Can it be from both of us?"

Vivian gives you a displeased glare. "Do you believe, that Whitney will believe, that we went halvsies on a Camaro?"

She deserves props for using a slangy word like "halvsies," at least. But her refusal to lie about the gift's provenance leaves you in the same position as before. Then another disaster:

"Hold on a moment," Vivian says, "if you have forgotten to get Whitney a present, that means you almost certainly have forgotten to get me a present as well."

"That is a shoddy logical inference," you say, trying to play on her level.

"Not at all. Alabaster Soliloquy, I am beyond hurt. Not so long ago, I gave you the most precious gift of all: my virginity. I allowed the blood of my maidenhood to trickle down your turgid erection, all so that you might have the fleeting joy of a masculine orgasm. And this is how you repay me for breaking my body on your manhood?"

Accusatory words, but she says them with a grin. She was expecting you to forget. And what she's describing turns her on.

"I'll let you do the whole mistress thing, if you tell Whitney the car is from both of us," you promise. "That can be your present."

"You will do the 'whole mistress thing' regardless, as reparation for your horrible mistreatment of me."

Ms. Carte finally notices your back-and-forth whispering session. "Do you two have something you want to share with the rest of us?" She asks, tapping a foot.

"No," Vivian replies curtly. "You may proceed."

Ms. Carte sighs. "Only if we have your permission."

"You do."

"That was sarcasm," Ms. Carte tells her.

"I am well aware. My response was not."

Ms. Carte and the others continue.

"Well," you say sadly, after some moments have passed, "if I can't be the co-joint giver of a brand new car, I'll just have to give Whitney something else."

"Indeed. And it had better be good. I will punish you if you let her down."

"Oh, it will be good," you say, as your loop an arm around Vivian's waist under the table.

"...Alabaster?" Vivian says, voice catching. Not so haughty all of a sudden when you highlight your size discrepancy like this.

"Shhh," you coo. "Don't want anyone to hear, do you?"

Your hand snakes into her skirt, across her soft inner legs, and under her butt.

"What are you d--"

She chokes on her own words as you poke a finger inside -- right into the warm, grippy confines of her anus.

"I didn't buy her anything," you whisper. "So I'll just have to give you to her, instead."

Vivian trembles. Although the two sisters have been in a sexual relationship for some time now, and although it's something of an open secret within the group, Vivian is still hush-hush about it. She won't agree with or argue against your plan, because she doesn't want any of the others overhearing discussion about such a sordid thing.

Which means that you get to finger Vivian Darkbloom's butt in peace.

With your ring finger embedded up to the third knuckle inside her, it's a snug fit. You can hardly wiggle it around at all. The heat emanating from her interior is swampy and fervid. As you toy with her, you feel your palm becoming wet; her pussy is drooling from this gentlest of abuse.

"Jerk me off," you whisper.

She finds your cock inside your pants, and wraps her dainty fingers around you. Now this is the high life: molesting a hot bitchlet like Vivian while she plays with you in return, during a rousing round of trivia. You can still answer the questions coming your way, perfectly fine. But all this unexpected and intense sexual tomfoolery has left Vivian a mush-brained idiot. When Ms. Carte turns to her and poses the question: "who founded the Tokugawa Shogunate?" -- Vivian, face droopy and twitchy, can only mutter: "d-dick..." in response.

"Dick who?" Whitney says, assuming Vivian is right, and that some guy named Dick founded an ancient Japanese kingdom.

But Ms. Carte swiftly moves on, gleaning what her daughter doesn't: that Vivian's mind is completely elsewhere for the moment.

Alex is more perceptive than Whitney, too. He grins at you. "Hee. Ally, you're so dirty."

And Rose, ditto: "Child molester," she says -- half contemptuously, half warmly.

"Vivian is the dirty one here. Dirty bitch..." You use your other hand, briefly, to fishhook her, pulling her cheek away from her teeth even as you ruthlessly fingerblast her asshole. You were hoping the briefness of it would only let Alex and Rose see -- but Ms. Carte's eyes draw up at precisely that moment, and she sees, too.

She's well aware that you've been fucking Vivian. But being confronted by a brazen sexual display such as this is something entirely new. She clears her throat, blushing, and glances away. Whitney, for her part, reads trivia questions, oblivious.

Over the next few minutes, you simply enjoy the naughty pleasure of fondling Vivian in this semi-public space, amid your friends and loved ones. The conference room is windowed, and although the view is only to the first-floor hallway outside, any random hotel guest could definitely walk past and see.

As it turns out, a not-so-random hotel guest walks by -- and into the room. David Darkbloom enters, still wearing his team shirt, carrying a box of donuts.

"How is everyone doing?" He asks, peppy, and apparently oblivious to what's happening under the table. Vivian's eyes are glassy. She looks half-uncomprehendingly up at him as she spreads her legs just a little wider for you to get even better access to her rear hole. She picks up the pace of her wanking, and you feel yourself mounting that apex. She wants you to really get inside her deep while her father's in the room with you.

"I brought donuts!" Darkbloom announces, to general approval. "I wanted to make sure you keep enough glucose in your systems that your brains don't starve -- like this one here." He points at the ahegaoing brain on his shirt, smiling. That thing has become a favorite of his, it seems. He sets the box on the table. "What do you say, Vivian? You're looking a mite tuckered out already."

"Yeshhh father," Vivian says, as underneath the table she gyrates on your invading finger. You add your pinky, spreading her open even wider. The spongy softness of her insides combined with her teasingly light grip around your prick, combine to dunk you into a sea of electric erotic pleasure. Without forewarning, you pop off -- and ejaculate in her rapidly fapping little hand. You mask your guttural grunts of pleasure by pretending to clear your throat.

Vivian has no sooner finished bringing you off than she flicks the lid of the donut box open. She uses the same hand she just used to milk your cock. She selects one of the two dozen enormous donuts inside, a plain glazed, and thankfully no one seems to catch that her hand already had some extra glazing on it before the fact. She begins to eat, with uncharacteristically enormous bites, cooing to herself as she enjoys the delectable mix of sugar and cum.

"Don't be shy," Darkbloom prods the rest of you. "Help yourselves!"

You all dig in, too. And at the same time, you continue to dig into Vivian -- fingering her baby asshole for the rest of the night. By the end of the quiz drilling, Vivian is basically a puddle of goo. She's a swoony, sweaty mess.

You half-lie to Whitney and Ms. Carte as the team clears out, telling them that you'll help Vivian upstairs. It's true that you intend to help her upstairs. But you won't take her to the suite she's sharing with her dad. And you won't bring her up for a little while yet.

Instead, you escort her across the street -- to a local Walgreens. There, you buy some chintzy gold-leaf ribbon and a package of bows.

Enervated from being used for so long, Vivian's mental acuity isn't quite up to snuff, and she doesn't understand what you're doing. "What... is the meaning of this?" She asks as she stands beside you at the checkout, her skirt rumpled, her thighs visibly wet in the bright lighting. You pay up without responding, handing cash to the disinterested cashier, and lead her outside again.

"Strip," you tell her.

She doesn't question you. Doesn't protest or dither. She strips. She undoes her skirt, and pulls it down, then takes her blouse off too. You're glad she wasn't wearing anything particularly elaborate tonight -- and that she she wasn't wearing underwear. She kicks off her flats, too. All of these articles she hands over to you, right there outside the Walgreens. And so she stands stark naked in the middle of a Boise parking lot.

"Happy birthday, by the way," you tell her.

"Thank you." She reaches behind herself and fingers her own little ass -- missing your gentle molestation, you guess.

You set her clothes on top of a nearby concrete post, and begin the work of wrapping Vivian up. You work quickly. Though it's after 1 AM, and though Boise's a sleepy little city, you're standing outside a 24-hour drugstore after all, and someone could easily happen upon the sight of you getting frisky with this young girl.

Your wrap-job covers only what is legally required to be covered in public. A strip of ribbon around her chest, to just barely conceal her nipples. Two more strips of ribbon in a V that extends from her crotch up to her shoulders, meeting again behind her back. A final little spool of ribbon secures her wrists together, behind her back. You put a giant gold bow on her head, and another on her navel. All wrapped up and ready to tear into.

Her discarded clothes hanging off one of your arms, you loop your other arm around her and walk her back to the hotel. She needs the support.

Though sparse, there is some passing traffic -- she gets honks and catcalls aplenty. Rather than make her embarrassed, the attention makes her proud, and her body flushes with excitement. In 421 or 422, it's just the same: Vivian Darkbloom is a pervert, and she likes to flaunt it. Her cunt leaves a snail trail of arousal down her legs... and across the grimy sidewalk on the trip back. She turns the head of the receptionist at the front desk of the Ramada Inn, too, who gasps and covers her mouth as you pass. You just wink at her as you stride towards the elevators. Vivian smirks. Her wet cunt is making the bits of ribbon over her crotch all transparent and sticky -- the folds and crevices perfectly well visible by now, especially in the light.

Upstairs, you fire a quick text to Whitney, asking her to come to your suite. You've got the room to yourself -- kinda -- sharing it only with Alex for the duration of the trip. You know he won't mind letting you have a little fun on the Darkbloom sisters in his vicinity, if he's still awake to witness it. But you find him conked out when you get back.

You figured Whitney would be up. She's always all abuzz with excitement on the night before a big day like the one you've all got coming. Only she doesn't respond to your messages, even when you send her a lewd photo of Vivian on your bed on all fours, face pushed down into the pillows, waiting for her. Time to take matters into your own hands.

You and Vivian go to Whitney's room, the one she's sharing with her mother. Rather than knocking, you let yourself in -- you've got Whitney's spare room key -- and check on the belated birthday girl. She really is asleep, shocker of shockers, and so is her mother. They're curled up with one another, snoozing soundly, wearing nothing but panties. The sight of it makes your cock lurch. But you suppose this was a chaste (albeit kind of strange) sleeping arrangement. They're not bashful around each other, and it doesn't look (or smell) like they've been fucking. They haven't ever fucked -- not yet anyway. You know that they're both horny for it. They just need a little nudge.

Maybe tonight can be that nudge.

"Whitney... hey, Whitney. Wake up."

Groggily, she stirs. She turns in place, still entwined with her mother, and glances up at you -- at Vivian, too.

"Happy birthday," you tell her. You smile winningly. "You're legal now... your sister, not so much."

Her face lights up with unrestrained joy. She rises to her butt. Her little B-cup tits are cast in soft relief by the dim light from the room's entryway, the only illumination. Her plain white panties are soft-looking, too, especially at the dimple left by the cleft of her pussy mound. "Oh my god, Ally," she hisses, glancing her younger sister over, "you wrapped her and everything."

"What are you waiting for?" You ask her. "Open your present."

"Open me," Vivian parrots.

Whitney looks uncertainly back at Ms. Carte's sleeping form. Ms. Carte is a heavy sleeper -- she probably wouldn't come to even if SHE was the one getting fucked, a fact you know quite well. Whitney knows the way Ms. Carte can sleep, too. You've spent many evenings fucking Whitney's brains out, just outside Ms. Carte's bedroom door, and her snoring never faltered.

She's not as confident about doing it in the same room, though. Nor comfortable with the prospect of getting caught with her fingers in the cookie jar of her little sister's pussy. So although her wolfish eyes can't tear themselves away from Vivian's petite, underdeveloped, and underconcealed body, she can't muster courage for the next move.

So you nudge her along.

"You thought I forgot. Didn't you?" You say, as slowly and sensually you stroke Vivian's back. Whitney watches your hand's transit -- up and down, up and down -- up and much, much farther down... your fingertips skirting the edges of the ribbons, then poking underneath, to prod the treasures hardly hidden there...

"Of course I thought you forgot," Whitney says. "You were the only one who didn't say happy birthday to me today--"

"He did forg--" Vivian begins, but you cut her off by sticking two fingers in her mouth, and gagging her. She heaves and sputters, unable to fend you off with her hands still tied behind her back.

"You know I like to keep people in suspense," you say. "How do you like the present, though?"

Whitney grins. "I dunno. I haven't opened it yet."

You pull her slowly from the mattress by her hands. She rises to her feet, taut body flushing with taboo excitement. The taboo of incest -- and this new taboo, of doing it in such close proximity to her mother, too. Whitney takes Vivian's face in her hand. Just one hand, clasped around Vivian's chin, can almost entirely encompass her face. Whitney has to stoop down to kiss her. A kiss Vivian returns with low, whorish giggles. They start to tongue, getting right into it, these perverted sisters. They've been like this for months. They're insatiable for each other. It's adorable, and it's also really fucking hot, too -- both at the same time.

"Open me... open me..." Vivian moans.

Whitney's answer comes between kisses up and down Vivian's face, neck and shoulders. "Hmmm... but it's technically not my birthday anymore... I should wait another year, shouldn't I?"

Vivian's counteroffer comes paired with her trying desperately to rub her body against Whitney's. "If you wait a single second longer... I will be forced to force myself on you..."

But Vivian lacks what is known in the biz as leverage, and Whitney knows it. And Whitney loves to tease. She tickles the little bee stings that Vivian calls breasts, rubbing her fingers against the rough-hewn material of the ribbons. The motion scrapes and irritates Vivian's highly sensitive nipples, making her throw her neck back, and grit her teeth and groan in her adolescent way. Whitney does this until she can see the circular red burn-rashes spreading. By then, Vivian's eyes are streaming joyful tears of masochistic lust. Satisfied with that, Whitney traces her fingers southward now, to join yours. Your digits dance nimbly around together, to rub and titillate and torture Vivian's orifices as a duo. You and Whitney each get an index finger in Vivian's twat, and spread it -- then she goes for Vivian's asshole, while you tickle Vivian's clit -- then you hold Vivian's fuckholes like a bowling ball while Whitney lightly slaps Vivian's totally smooth and hairless labia. With you behind her, and Whitney in front of her, Vivian is pinned; you force her to remain standing against this wanton misuse. She's so fucking wet that you and your partner in crime have no trouble at all getting as deep into her as you please.

You kiss Whitney softly -- you and her have enough height on the brat trapped between you that doing so is no problem.

"Love ya, Ally~" Whitney mewls. "Thanks for the present... so which one of us do you wanna cum inside?"

"I love you too," you tell her. "But Vivian's your toy tonight. I just want to watch for now."

"Perv~" Whitney says, mewling again. "Gonna jerk off while I rape my sister?"

"Of course."

She giggles.

You stand aside and let Whitney guide the young heiress down to the diamond-patterned carpet in front of the bed. She lavishes suckling kisses all over Vivian's tiny body. Watching this toned tomboy looming over her anemic little sister and doing these lewd things is enough of paradise all on its own that you wouldn't ever need anything else. But you've got plenty else -- such as a buxom MILF sleeping close by, who you know will join in with the right incentive.

You strip fully nude, and settle in on the bed. The spot where Whitney was so recently asleep is still warm with her body heat -- and slightly damp with her sweat. You nudge Ms. Carte. She flops from her side onto her back. Her udders shift and then flatten slightly, like beanbags dropped onto concrete from a great height. She, too, is slightly damp, all over -- a night-sweater, if ever there was. All the better for some late-night paizuri, right?

Whitney and Vivian are so enmeshed in their little world of incestuous carnal pleasure that neither notices you mounting Ms. Carte to fuck her tits. You slide your pulsating dick between the meaty crevice of her titmeat and press the two jugs together from either side, using your fists. No synthetic dicksleeve was ever this soft, spongy, smooth and hot. No rubber onahole ever enveloped your dick's every little pumping vein so deliciously. You could fuck Ms. Carte's tits forever. You thrust like a dog on heat, just enjoying this titfuck for its own sake, momentarily forgetting that your object is actually to wake her. If she wakes, she wakes. If not, you can have enough fun just masturbating with her slumbering body. Your prick's mushroom head pistons in and out across the top of her breasts, smearing her chin with cockleak.

Ms. Carte is no Rip van Winkle, after all. She finally does come awake from this act of sexual assault. Her eyelids flutter open. At first confused, then lustily interested, and finally worried -- her face runs through a panoply of emotions as she realizes what's going on, then subsequently realizes it's happening in the hotel room she's sharing with her teen daughter.

"Al-- Alabaster--" she whispers. "You... b-b -- Whitn--"

You put a finger to her lips, as your cock batters her chin. "She won't notice."

Ms. Carte glances to the side, looking for her girl. Nada. You helpfully rise up to your knees, so Ms. Carte can see between your legs, down to the floor, where Whitney and Vivian are even now hungrily sucking on each other's holes like their lives depend on it.

You let her watch for a couple lingering seconds. Then you lower yourself again, and seat your dick in the meaty confines of her wet tits once more.

Ms. Carte is so aghast that she cannot form any words whatsoever -- can only blush, and blink rapidly, and breathe heavily.

"You knew that about them -- didn't you," you prompt, keeping your voice low. You saw your cock in and out of her cleavage with brutal relentlessness.

"I..." Ms. Carte begins, but can't finish, and trails off. Finally she just nods.

You enjoy fucking her massive tits for just a few more moments before moving on to the next thing. Sliding lower, you tug her panties aside and ram your turgid prick into her cunthole. You don't give her any foreplay because you don't need it. Lying atop her in the missionary position, you nuzzle her, and whisper in her ear as you fuck: "you're really wet tonight."

She nods.

It's true that's she's really wet. Well, that's an understatement. She's incredibly, soppingly, oozingly, drippingly wet. Your cock is inundated with her feminine arousal as you fuck on top of her. It spatters and squelches while you hump. Your nostrils fill with her deep, musky and womanly scent. You know this wetness of hers is partially from waking up with your cock in her face. That always gets her dripping. But it's also because she just glimpsed her daughters 69ing. She is, same as Whitney and same as Vivian, and same as always, a complete pervert.

"Do you think about her -- about Whitney?" you ask Ms. Carte.

"Like... like that, you mean...?"

You nod. Ms. Carte's pussy around your dick clamps down, an orgasm rolling through her body. You stroke her fever-hot face with the back of a palm.

"This is wrong..." she says timidly. But merely being accused of thinking sexual thoughts about her biological daughter made her climax. And even now, her surprisingly tight quim is fluttering around your invading fuckpole.

"Then let me be the bad guy," you tell her.

"What?"

You reach for the spool of ribbon and the package of bows you left strategically on top of the bedside table. You hold them up to show her. "It isn't wrong if you're forced into it, right?"

You punctuate your question with a few extra-deep, powerful thrusts into Ms. Carte's cushiony interior. She shivers, and cums again.

---

"Fuck, Viv... fuck, I love your pussy... so cute... so fucking cute..."

Whitney is in that phase of her sexual excitement where she begins to mutter half-incoherent obscenities, more to herself than to her partner. She gulps hard as she licks and sucks her kid sister's cunny. She blows cool little puffs of air on it, then moans and kisses and latches her entire mouth around it -- rinse and repeat. Occasionally she travels a bit lower, too, and sucks on Vivian's asshole just for the the added thrill.

You have to poke her in the head with your toe to grab her attention.

She slowly cranes her neck upwards, her eye-line traveling up your calves, your waists, your hips and torsos. There you are, and there's her mother, too. You remain naked, but Ms. Carte is all wrapped up. Hands behind her back like you did with Vivian's, ribbons biting into her prodigious hips and meaty cunt, two humongous bows over her huge nipples.

"Ally-- oh FUCK--" Whitney begins -- having a hard time processing this new obscenity, given Vivian's busy tongue still working underneath her. Whitney cums hard on her sister's face, practically drowning her with slop, while Ms. Carte stands there watching.

"This one is a present for the both of you," you announce, loud enough for Vivian to hear. But Vivian doesn't register it. She just keeps rooting her tongue around inside Whitney, lapping at Whitney's cream. You clear your throat.

Whitney clambers to her feet, and finally now Vivian, purple-faced and dripping girlcum, can see everything too. Although Vivian still wears some tatters of the bows and ribbons she was wrapped in, her hands are fully free -- cut loose so she could put her fingers to use inside her older sister. With no small difficulty, she props herself up, and stands as well.

"My MOM?" Whitney barks. "Oh my God, Ally... you fucking freak!"

You wouldn't dream of doubting your play here, protest though Whitney may. You know that Whitney and Vivian are both horned-up, and more than willing to add their Mom to the mix if it means the chance to cum even harder. But Ms. Carte remains uncertain. She gazes hard at the floor, shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm.

You sit her down at the foot of the bed facing the two sisters. Standing off to her side, you stroke your dick, rubbing it against Ms. Carte's supple body too -- against her cheeks, her shoulder, her breast, leaving little dribbles of precum all over her left side.

Vivian is the first to jump on board with you. "This gift -- is meant for me, also?" She asks, taking a hard breath in the middle of the sentence. Still worn out from getting her face sat on.

"Happy birthday, Vivian," you tell her. "Fuck this bitch to your heart's content."

Vivian wipes strands of matted, cummy hair from her face. She looks levelly at her surrogate mother. "Do you consent to this?" She asks.

Ms. Carte nods slightly, but can't make eye contact.

"Whitney ejaculated on me -- as you can see. Would you like to kiss me, Ms. Carte?"

Ms. Carte answers by whipping her head up to finally meet Vivian's gaze with wild eyes, and leaning in to the deep tongue kiss Vivian offers. She licks all around inside Vivian's child-sized mouth, sucking her own daughter's cum from out of it.

Whitney is woozy with shock and excitement. "I... oh my gosh, Ally... oh my gosh!" You know she must be truly taken aback, now that her typical profanity has dissipated into goshes. You delight in keeping Whitney on the back heel, sexually... but this takes the cake by far.

You whisper firmly in Whitney's ear: "I know you want to -- so do it."

That's all it takes.

Whitney, as if in a daze, crawls onto the bed beside Ms. Carte. Ms. Carte stares sidelong at her, even throughout Vivian's devouring kissing.

"Ally's such a fucking perv -- isn't he?" Whitney says. She gulps. "Making us -- do this together..."

"Yes," Vivian agrees. She'll play along: "What a nasty man, forcing us into this immoral tryst..."

You'll happily accept the blame. Ms. Carte turns from Vivian's face now, towards Whitney's, and kisses her too. For the first time, their lips meet not as mother and daughter but as lovers. Their tongues dance around and meld, and little strand of their spittle drop over their pressed-together boobs, unheeded. They moan sweetly into each other. All the while, curious and debauched little Vivian pets Ms. Carte's drippy kitty.

"Is it wrong to say..." Ms. Carte begins, her breathing jagged, "that I always wanted this?"

Whitney dispenses with the guilt and shame. "Let's fuck, Mom."

She nudges Ms. Carte onto her back. As if working with one mind, Whitney and Vivian each take one of Ms. Carte's thick thighs, to spread the woman's legs akimbo. Settling down on their tummies, brushing their hair behind their ears, the two teen girls take turns showering Ms. Carte with a lengthy, lewd, and loving oral service that has her screaming in no time. Out of courtesy to the other guests in neighboring suites, you silence Ms. Carte's caterwauling by putting your penis in her mouth. It's the considerate thing to do. Ms. Carte swirls her tongue around your meaty shaft, but for maybe the first time ever, it's not the focal point of her lust. Rather, her precocious little girls are. She watches desperately as they suck the orgasms wetly out of her. When Whitney, chin dripping cream, looks up and says: "Your cunt tastes so good... Mommy..." that cinches it. Ms. Carte gives the last of her resistance away, and starts to buck like a bronco, squirting hard all over the place. Whitney, gulping all the cum up, adds with a dreamy voice: "it smells good, too..."

It becomes a whir after that. Whitney mounts her mother's face and starts to ride -- while meanwhile you fuck Vivian's barely post-pubescent cunt right in front of the pair. Another first for Ms. Carte, then: the first time seeing Vivian get penetrated by a dick. It's so overwhelming to her -- licking Whitney's clitty while watching Vivian get nailed -- that she cums even without anyone giving her swampy pussy attention.

Then another swap: you get Whitney on her belly, with you atop, mounting her well-muscled butt and hugging her slender body for purchase. You fuck her like that, a rough, fast-pounding speed-bump that presses on her cum-button just perfectly. Vivian and the good doctor eat each other for your amusement while you rut.

It's the fulfillment of what you knew already. Once the floodgates are open, there's no closing them. When you finally blow a creamy load inside Whitney's uterus, it doesn't stay there long -- she props herself up on some pillows, spreads her legs wide open, and enjoys mashing Ms. Carte's face into the creampie. Vivian, sitting on Ms. Carte's back like a child on a pony, assists -- clutching Ms. Carte firmly by the hair. And Ms. Carte, without use of her hands -- they're still ribboned-off behind her back -- has no choice other than to suck it all up.

The three, then, take turns fellating you. They kneel in front of the bed as you sit there -- swapping your dick back and forth like the only controller for a video game. You get to enjoy the wonderful experience of comparing and contrasting their blowjob techniques again, at long last. There's Whitney's eager, gagless deepthroat that feels like fucking a pussy; Vivian's tiny, wet, gagging little esophagus that sticks to your cockflesh; Ms. Carte's warm, sloppy, almost motherly tongue-on-dick massage. When and where you cum is immaterial. Whether it's inside Vivian's gullet, or on Ms. Carte's face, or into the bowl of Whitney's tongue -- your next few loads end up getting swapped between them all regardless. And all the while, moaning, they molest each other's holes. And all the while, they tell each other such nice things -- things like -- "I love you so much" and "I love this dick so much" and "make me cum, Mommy, please..." and so on.

When at last you're all cummed-out, all of you -- you collapse. It's past 4 AM and you all need to be awake quite soon for the quiz bowl. Oh well. No rest for the wicked. You know that there's truly no going back from this. This swan dive into utter degeneracy is irrevocable. From now on, Ms. Carte is a woman who fucks her little girls. And her little girls are little girls who fuck their mother back.